Viserys Targaryen gazed down at the tiny bundle nestled in the ornate cradle, its silver-and-ruby dragons coiling protectively around the velvet cushions. His son—his son—lay sleeping peacefully, tiny fists occasionally twitching as he dreamed whatever dreams visited week-old infants. Even in slumber, Aegon Targaryen looked every inch the prince he was born to be, with wispy strands of silver-blonde hair and eyes that had already revealed themselves to be the deep purple of Old Valyria.
A proper boy at last, Viserys thought, immediately feeling a pang of guilt at the unbidden thought. Rhaenyra is still my firstborn, my heir... but a son. Gods, a son.
"He has your nose," Alicent observed softly from her seat by the window. Sunlight illuminated her features, making her look almost ethereal in her green silk robe. For someone who had given birth merely a week ago, she appeared remarkably recovered—her color good, her movements graceful as she rose to join him at the cradle.
"Do you think so?" Viserys smiled, tilting his head to better examine the sleeping infant. "I rather thought he resembled my brother at this age. Daemon was a handsome babe, before he learned to scowl."
Alicent laid a delicate hand on his arm. "Let's pray he inherits nothing else from your brother."
Viserys chuckled, though it died quickly at the thought of Daemon. How long had it been since they'd spoken without barbs or politics between them? Too long. Far too long.
"He's perfect," Viserys declared, pushing aside thoughts of his fractured family. "A proper Prince of House Targaryen."
From her cushioned chair on the opposite side of the nursery, Queen Alysanne observed the scene with keen eyes that missed nothing despite her advanced years. Though she did not join in the effusive praise, occasional smiles crossed her face when the baby's tiny fingers flexed or his lips pursed in sleep.
"The Citadel predicted a harsh winter," Alysanne remarked, seemingly apropos of nothing. "But this child was born under a summer sky. Perhaps the maesters' predictions are not always to be trusted."
"Summer or winter, he is a dragon," Viserys replied firmly. "Fire made flesh."
Alicent's fingers brushed against the embroidered dragons on Aegon's blanket. "Speaking of dragons, I've been meaning to ask... are the preparations underway for the feast? And the tourney?" Her voice took on a careful neutrality. "Have you sent out the invitations yet?"
"Indeed. The tourney will be the grandest." Viserys replied, his enthusiasm genuine. "Gold cloaks are already clearing the tourney grounds, and I've commissioned new grandstands to be built. The greatest knights in the realm will compete for a prize of ten thousand gold dragons."
Alicent nodded approvingly, but her eyes held a question. "And... you've sent word to Dragonstone?"
Viserys squared his shoulders.
"Yes, I've invited Rhaenyra and the others," he confirmed. "A raven was sent yesterday."
"Others?" Alicent prompted, her voice maintaining its careful composure though her fingers tightened slightly on the cradle's edge. "Does that include Prince Aenar?"
The nursery suddenly felt smaller, the air thicker. Viserys frowned momentarily before nodding.
"It's been thirteen months since Aenar left King's Landing," he said, trying to keep his tone light. "I understand your... reservations. But he is family, Alicent. They all are—Aenar, Daemon, Rhaenyra, the Velaryons. I want my entire family here to celebrate Aegon's birth."
"Family," Alicent repeated, the word tinged with something unreadable. She looked as if she wanted to object further, but instead, her gaze dropped to the sleeping infant. Her expression softened as she reached down to brush a finger against Aegon's cheek, eliciting a small, gurgling noise of contentment.
"Look at him," she cooed, her voice warming. "He knows his mother's touch already."
Viserys watched them, savoring the rare moment of domestic peace. Such moments had been scarce since Aemma's death—first the grief, then the hasty remarriage, then the strained relations with Rhaenyra. Now, with a son in the cradle, perhaps things could finally settle into something resembling normalcy.
But what IS normal for House Targaryen? he wondered. Brother against brother, father against son, dragons burning the world to ash when tempers flare... is that our legacy?
He pushed the dark thoughts away, focusing instead on the perfect picture before him: his beautiful young wife and their healthy son, bathed in golden sunlight filtering through the leaded windows.
Queen Alysanne's voice broke into his reverie. "Viserys, I'd like a word with you outside." Her tone brooked no argument, despite its softness.
Viserys nodded, recognizing that the Queen of Dragons—as some courtiers called her behind her back—rarely requested private conversations without good reason.
"Of course, Grandmother." He bent to place a gentle kiss on Aegon's forehead before straightening. "I won't be long," he assured Alicent, who merely nodded, her attention already returned to the baby.
As he followed Alysanne toward the chamber doors, he couldn't help but marvel at how everything had changed in just a year's time. A new wife, a new son, a fractured relationship with his daughter... and now, whatever news Alysanne bore that couldn't be spoken in front of Alicent.
The gods give with one hand and take with the other, Viserys thought as he cast one last glance at the peaceful nursery scene. Let us pray they're feeling generous toward House Targaryen in the days to come.
The door to Alicent's chambers closed with a soft click, leaving Viserys and Alysanne alone in the corridor. His grandmother led him toward a stone bench set beneath a narrow window. Morning light spilled across the polished floor, creating a pool of warmth amid the Red Keep's perpetual chill.
"Well?" Viserys asked once they were seated. "What news is so sensitive it couldn't be shared in front of my wife?"
Alysanne's lips twitched with amusement. "Several matters, in fact. First, has Lord Jasper made any progress with Larys Strong?"
Viserys shook his head grimly. "Nothing of substance. The man might be a cripple, but he is not weak. Three days of questioning, and he's revealed nothing about his involvement in that scheme against you."
"Some men are strengthened by their afflictions rather than diminished," Alysanne observed. "But that's not what I wished to discuss." She withdrew a small scroll from her sleeve. "I've received word from Tyrosh."
Viserys blinked in confusion. "Tyrosh? Why would they send ravens to King's Landing? Our trade agreements are handled through Lord Celtigar's office."
"According to the raven I received four days ago," Alysanne replied, her voice carrying a hint of pride. "Prince Aenar's strategy led the Velaryon fleet to victory. Princess Rhaenys was injured during the assault, but I'm told she'll recover fully."
The news struck Viserys like a physical blow. "Four days? You've known this for four days and said nothing?"
"Because," Alysanne said firmly, "you were preoccupied with Alicent's labor and Aegon's birth. I saw no reason to burden you with distant concerns while joyous events unfolded here." She patted his hand. "The report indicates her injuries were not life-threatening."
Viserys exhaled slowly, trying to process this unexpected news. Conquest of a Free City was no small matter—it would shift the balance of power across the Narrow Sea, potentially drawing responses from Lys, Myr, perhaps even Volantis.
"Is there anything else I should know about?" he asked warily.
Alysanne's expression remained carefully neutral. "Prince Aenar has been crowned as King of the Stepstones and Tyrosh."
Viserys's jaw dropped, the words taking several seconds to penetrate. "What?!" he finally sputtered, voice echoing down the corridor.
Alysanne raised a silencing finger to her lips, glancing meaningfully at Alicent's door. "Someone must rule those territories now that they belong to House Targaryen," she said reasonably. "Lord Corlys performed the coronation himself, by all accounts."
Viserys ran a hand through his hair, disturbing the slender gold circlet he wore. "I understand the need for governance, Grandmother, but surely you see the problem. Two Targaryen kings existing simultaneously? One of them my own nephew?" He shook his head. "It will not look good when they arrive for the celebration. The realm barely respects my authority as it is; how will it appear when another crowned Targaryen walks into my court?"
"Aenar is no fool," Alysanne countered. "He will not undermine you. I expect he'll hand over the crown once he returns to King's Landing, making a public show of fealty."
"If he returns at all," Viserys muttered darkly. "Do you truly believe they'll come? Any of them?" He slumped against the wall, suddenly feeling the weight of every mistake he'd made over the past year. "The last time I saw Rhaenyra before Laenor's funeral, she told me she hated me—her exact words. That was nine months ago, and at Laenor's funeral five months past, she barely spoke three sentences to me." A bitter laugh escaped him. "And Aenar? I tried to force him to marry Alicent. He has every reason to despise me."
Alysanne reached out, patting his arm as though he were still a small boy learning to swing a wooden sword in the practice yard. "Family is important, Viserys. More important than pride or old grievances." Her eyes, sharp despite their many years, met his directly. "Rhaenyra and Aenar might not love you as they once did, but bonds can be repaired. If you truly wish it."
"I do," Viserys said softly, thinking of his daughter's smile—a smile he hadn't seen directed at him in too long. "I want to make things right. I want my daughter back."
"And how will you accomplish this miracle?" Alysanne prompted, her tone suggesting she already had thoughts on the matter.
Viserys sighed, looking out the narrow window at the sprawling city below. "I'm not entirely certain, but I know Rhaenyra wishes to marry Aenar. I denied them before, but... I will allow it now."
Approval flickered across Alysanne's features. "A wise decision. Perhaps the only one that might heal this rift." She paused, then smoothly changed subjects. "And what of Lady Maria and the Red Faith spreading through King's Landing? The High Septon grows more insistent by the day."
Viserys's expression hardened. "I cannot allow a second faith to take root in Westeros. Such divisions only lead to war, and the smallfolk always pay the price." He gestured toward the window, to the city beyond. "Yet this Lady Maria has helped many people. I'd be a poor king to repay charity with execution."
"What do you propose, then?"
"A compromise. She may remain in King's Landing but must cease spreading knowledge of the Red Faith. Her followers who return to the Faith of the Seven will be pardoned in full. She will be permitted to stay if she wishes, practicing her healing arts, but as a private citizen, not a priestess."
Alysanne's eyebrows rose. "The High Septon will never agree to such terms. Need I remind you that several Holy Brothers have died in their attempts to capture her?"
"The High Septon serves the realm, just as I do," Viserys replied, steel entering his voice. "He's forgotten that of late, but I intend to remind him."
A gleam of something like pride appeared in Alysanne's eyes. "Well, well. Perhaps there's more of Jaehaerys in you than I thought." She rose, smoothing her skirts. "Best prepare yourself for that conversation, then. The High Septon wants an audience with you in the Throne Room, with quite the complement of armed brothers."
Viserys blinked in surprise. "You might have mentioned that earlier."
Alysanne's smile was Valyrian-sharp. "And miss seeing that spark of decision in your eyes? Never." She gestured down the corridor. "Go, King Viserys. Show your realm that dragons still have teeth."
As he strode toward the Throne Room, Viserys found himself wondering how much of this situation Alysanne had orchestrated. The timing seemed too perfect—the news of Aenar's conquest, the High Septon's arrival, all while he was flush with the confidence of new fatherhood.
Grandmother has always played the game better than the rest of us, he thought with grudging admiration. Perhaps it's time I learned a few of her strategies.
.
.
Viserys Targaryen sat upon the Iron Throne, feeling each of its thousand blades against his back. He had deliberately chosen to hold this audience in full regalia—crown upon his head, the Conqueror's sword Blackfyre across his lap—rather than the more intimate setting of the small council chamber. If the High Septon wished to challenge royal authority, let him do so before the physical manifestation of Targaryen rule.
The great doors of the throne room swung open with a ponderous groan. The High Septon entered, his crystal crown on his head. But it wasn't the man's ostentatious headpiece that made Viserys straighten in his uncomfortable seat—it was the ten armed Faith militants who followed in the High Septon's wake, each bearing a seven-pointed star etched into his forehead and clutching weapons that ranged from simple clubs to gleaming maces.
Armed men in the throne room. Before their king.
A murmur rippled through the assembled courtiers. Ser Otto Hightower, Hand of the King and father to Queen Alicent, remained pointedly silent, his expression carefully neutral.
"Your Holiness," Viserys called out, his voice pitched to carry across the cavernous chamber. "I don't recall inviting an armed escort to this audience."
The High Septon inclined his head in what might have been mistaken for deference, had his eyes not remained coldly fixed on the king. "These are dangerous times, Your Grace. The Warrior teaches us to maintain vigilance when confronting evil."
"Evil?" Viserys repeated mildly. "I was not aware we were discussing such matters today."
"What else would you call this Red Witch who corrupts your subjects?" The High Septon's voice rose, clearly playing to the gallery of nobles lining the walls. "This foreign sorceress who turns the faithful away from the Seven? Who performs blasphemous rites in the very shadow of the Great Sept?"
Viserys leaned forward slightly, choosing his words with care. "I would call her Lady Maria, a healer who has aided many of my subjects when they found no comfort elsewhere." He paused, letting his gaze sweep over the armed militants. "Before we continue this discussion, I must insist your... companions... surrender their weapons. The Kingsguard is more than sufficient to protect both of us within these walls."
The High Septon's jowls quivered with barely suppressed indignation. "These are Holy Brothers, sworn defenders of the Faith. They go nowhere without their blessed armaments."
"Then they go nowhere inside my throne room," Viserys replied, steel entering his voice.
A tense silence fell. The Holy Brothers shifted uneasily, glancing toward their leader for direction. For a moment, Viserys wondered if he'd miscalculated—if the High Septon would actually choose confrontation over compliance.
Let him try, Viserys thought with surprising vehemence. I've spent too long seeking compromise at every turn. Some matters require a firm hand.
After a painfully long pause, the High Septon made a curt gesture. The militants reluctantly placed their weapons on the floor before backing away several paces.
"A wise choice," Viserys acknowledged, nodding to Ser Arryk, who directed several gold cloaks to collect the surrendered arms. "Now, let us speak plainly about Lady Maria and her followers."
"There is nothing to discuss," the High Septon declared, his voice echoing off the vaulted ceiling. "This woman blasphemes against the Seven. She has corrupted the weak-minded among your subjects. She must be brought to justice—to cleansing fire."
"Cleansing fire?" Viserys repeated, unable to keep the edge from his voice. "An interesting choice of words from a faith that claims to embody mercy."
"Mercy for the repentant, Your Grace. The Red Witch shows no remorse for her heresy."
Viserys shifted on the throne, feeling a particularly sharp blade press against his thigh. The discomfort only fueled his growing irritation.
"Let us see the facts, Your Holiness. Since Lady Maria arrived in King's Landing, she has healed the sick, fed the hungry, and comforted the desperate. What crimes has she committed beyond offering a different interpretation of divinity?"
The High Septon's face flushed crimson. "She worships a demon god! She performs blood magic! She—"
"Has any victim of this alleged blood magic come forward?" Viserys interrupted. "Has anyone been harmed by her rites? Because I have spoken with dozens who claim she saved their lives when the Sept's healers could not—or would not—help them."
A murmur of agreement rippled through some of the assembled courtiers, particularly those representing districts within Flea Bottom where Lady Maria's influence was strongest.
"The damage she does is to souls, not bodies," the High Septon insisted. "Each person she turns from the Seven faces eternal damnation."
"I was not aware the Faith had authority to determine who is damned," Viserys remarked dryly. "I thought the Seven themselves made such judgments."
The High Septon's mouth opened and closed several times before he found his reply. "You mock our sacred beliefs, Your Grace?"
"I question your certainty," Viserys corrected. "And your methods. Three smallfolk have died during your searches for Lady Maria. Shops have been destroyed, homes invaded. Is this the justice of the Seven?"
"Regrettable necessities in the battle against heresy," the High Septon replied, though he had the grace to look somewhat discomfited. "These Holy Brothers have sworn their lives to protecting the Faith."
"And I have sworn my life to protecting the realm," Viserys countered, rising from the Iron Throne. He descended the steps slowly, Blackfyre still in hand—not threatening, but present. "Which includes all my subjects, regardless of which gods they pray to."
The High Septon took an involuntary step backward as Viserys approached, stopping just out of arm's reach.
"Here is what will happen," Viserys continued, his voice carrying clearly through the hushed throne room. "The Faith will cease its hunt for Lady Maria immediately. There will be no more raids, no more violence in the name of religious purity."
"You cannot—" the High Septon began, but Viserys cut him off with a sharp gesture.
"I can and I will. In return, I will meet with Lady Maria myself and secure her agreement to cease actively proselytizing for R'hllor. Those who have already turned to the Red God will be converted back to the Faith of the Seven and will not be harmed. Lady Maria herself is allowed to perform her miracles, but she will not preach about her Red Faith ever again, if she tries again. I will execute her for disobeying the King."
The High Septon's eyes bulged. "You would permit the Red Witch to live in King's Landing, for the heresy to continue under your very nose? After we armed ourselves on your authority to stamp out such abominations?"
"I authorized the Faith to bear arms to protect the innocent during difficult times," Viserys replied coolly. "Not to terrorize my subjects over matters of personal conscience."
The Holy Brothers exchanged uneasy glances, several of them shifting their weight as if contemplating movement toward their discarded weapons. Instantly, the Kingsguard closed ranks, hands on sword hilts, eyes fixed on the potential threat.
"Consider carefully," Viserys warned, his gaze sweeping over the militants. "Even unarmed, you might kill one or two of my Kingsguard. But not before the rest cut you down where you stand. And striking at the king's sworn shields is no different than striking at the king himself."
The tension in the room was thick enough to cut with a blade. Viserys could feel sweat beading at his hairline beneath his crown, but he kept his expression impassive, his grip on Blackfyre steady.
Let them see that dragons still have teeth, he thought. Even dragons who prefer peace.
One of the Holy Brothers—a burly man with a face like crudely worked stone—took a half-step forward before the High Septon raised a restraining hand.
"Your Grace," the religious leader said, his voice strained with the effort of maintaining composure, "the Faith cannot stand idle while false gods are worshipped in the Seven Kingdoms."
"The Faith will do as its king commands," Viserys replied firmly, "or find itself in need of a new High Septon."
A shocked silence fell over the throne room, broken only by a few hastily stifled gasps from the onlookers. For generations, the crown and the Faith had maintained a careful balance of power. Viserys had just threatened to shatter that arrangement entirely.
The High Septon's face drained of color. "You would depose me? On the word of a foreign witch?"
"On my word as your king," Viserys corrected. "The Iron Throne permitted the Faith to arm itself as a gesture of trust and cooperation. That trust has been abused. Now you have a choice: accept my terms and maintain peace in the realm, or reject them and face the consequences."
For several heartbeats, the only sound was the distant cry of gulls over Blackwater Bay. Viserys watched the calculation play out across the High Septon's face—pride warring with pragmatism, religious fervor with political reality.
Finally, the crystal crown dipped in grudging acquiescence. "As Your Grace commands. The Faith will... suspend its search for the Red Priestess."
"Not suspend," Viserys clarified. "End it. Permanently."
A muscle twitched in the High Septon's jaw. "As you say. Permanently."
Viserys nodded, satisfied with the concession, though he harbored no illusions about the High Septon's sincerity. This battle was won, but the war would continue in whispers and sermons throughout the realm.
"Thank you for your understanding, Your Holiness," Viserys said. "The crown has always valued its relationship with the Faith. I'm pleased we could resolve this matter without further unpleasantness." From the corner of his eye, he noted Ser Otto's stiff posture and the subtle flush of anger coloring his Hand's face.
The High Septon offered a stiff bow before turning to his Holy Brothers. "Collect your weapons and depart," he instructed. "We have heard the king's will."
As the militants retrieved their arms under the watchful eyes of the Kingsguard and filed out of the throne room, Viserys returned to the Iron Throne, careful not to let his relief show until he was seated once more.
Perhaps I'm not such a weak king after all, he thought, watching the great doors close behind the High Septon's party. When it truly matters, I can still find my dragon's voice.
He caught Ser Otto's disapproving gaze from below the dais and met it steadily, fully aware of his Hand's loyalty to the Faith. Even this small defiance felt significant.
Yes, something had changed today.
.
.
Viserys sat alone in his private solar, the setting sun casting long shadows across the scattered parchments that littered his writing desk. Three crumpled attempts at a letter to Daemon lay discarded on the floor, while no fewer than seven failed drafts addressed to Rhaenyra had been balled up and tossed aside with increasing frustration.
How had it come to this? Writing to his own daughter felt like composing a diplomatic missive to a hostile foreign power.
He dipped his quill again and stared at the fresh parchment before him. The royal seal sat ready beside a pot of red wax, waiting to give formal weight to words he couldn't seem to find.
"To Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen, Heir to the Iron Throne..." he began again, the scratching of his quill unnaturally loud in the quiet chamber.
No, too formal. She's my daughter, not some distant cousin.
He crumpled the parchment and reached for another.
"My beloved daughter..."
Too familiar. She made it clear at our last meeting that I've forfeited the right to such endearments.
Viserys groaned and pushed back from the desk, rising to pace the length of the solar. Outside, King's Landing was bathed in the golden glow of sunset, the city's sounds muted by distance and the thick stone walls of the Red Keep. The same walls that had witnessed generations of Targaryen family strife before him.
Perhaps that's our curse, he thought morosely. To conquer together but fracture from within.
He returned to his desk and pulled a fresh sheet of parchment, forcing himself to begin once more. This time, he would finish it, imperfect as it might be.
"Rhaenyra,
I write to invite you to King's Landing for a tourney celebrating the birth of Prince Aegon. I understand this invitation may not be welcome, but I ask you to consider it nonetheless.
The last time we spoke, you made your feelings toward me abundantly clear. I do not blame you for your anger. The haste of my marriage to Alicent after your mother's passing was a mistake born of grief and poor counsel, not a deliberate slight to Aemma's memory or to you.
I hope you might find it in your heart to attend, not for my sake, but for the realm's. The people need to see the royal family united, even if that unity is merely a pretense for public consumption.
Prince Aenar is also invited, as are Lord Corlys and Princess Rhaenys. I understand congratulations are in order for recent victories across the Narrow Sea.
Your Father, Viserys Targaryen, First of His Name"
He read it over twice, grimacing at certain phrases but deciding it would have to suffice. Honesty, however awkward, seemed preferable to empty platitudes.
The letter to Daemon proved somewhat easier, though no less fraught with potential missteps:
"Brother,
A tourney to celebrate the birth of Prince Aegon will be held in King's Landing three weeks hence. Your presence would honor both the occasion and your son.
I understand from reports that significant developments have occurred in the Stepstones. While we have much to discuss regarding these matters, I hope we might first break bread as family before addressing affairs of state.
Rhaenyra has also been invited. It would mean much to see House Targaryen gathered once more, however briefly.
Your brother, Visy"
He sealed both letters with hot wax and the dragon sigil of House Targaryen, then sat back, staring at them with a mixture of hope and trepidation. Would they come? Or would his invitations be met with stony silence—or worse, outright rejection?
A third letter remained to be written—to Lord Corlys and Princess Rhaenys. This one presented its own challenges, given the reports of Rhaenys's injuries during the Tyrosh campaign. Viserys chose his words carefully, expressing concern for her recovery while avoiding any implication that he doubted her strength or resilience.
Once complete, he arranged all three sealed messages in a neat stack. Typically, he would have summoned Grand Maester Orwyle to dispatch them, but tonight, Viserys felt an inexplicable need to deliver them personally to the rookery. Perhaps the brisk walk through the castle would clear his head, or perhaps he simply wanted to ensure these critical communications left without delay.
He rose, tucking the letters inside his doublet, and had just reached for the door when it swung open unexpectedly. Grand Maester Orwyle stood on the threshold, his expression suggesting urgency. In his gnarled hand, he clutched a scroll bearing a seal—a sun pierced by a spear.
"Your Grace," the maester said, his chain links clinking softly as he offered a shallow bow. "Forgive the interruption, but a raven has arrived from Sunspear. From House Martell."
Viserys blinked in surprise, automatically accepting the scroll. "Martell? What business would Dorne have with us now?" he asked with heat in his voice. House Martell was resposible for Lord Laenor's death.
The question wasn't directed at Orwyle, but the maester answered nonetheless. "I don't know your grace. I didn't read it myself."
Of course. Viserys unrolled the message, his brow furrowing as he read its contents.
His eyes widened slightly as he read further. This was not the communication he had expected.
"Grand Maester," Viserys said, his voice betraying none of the turmoil the message had stirred within him, "I need these letters sent immediately." He produced the invitations from inside his doublet. "Especially this one, to Dragonstone. Use our fastest ravens."
Orwyle accepted the sealed messages with a bow. "At once, Your Grace."
"And prepare the small council chamber. We will need to convene first thing tomorrow morning."
As the maester departed with his bundle of correspondence, Viserys sank back into his chair, the Martell scroll still clutched in his hand. He read it once more, hoping its contents might somehow have changed in the intervening moments. They had not.
Princess Aliandra Martell, is she really willing to give up everything?
He set the scroll aside and rubbed his temples, where a headache was beginning to form. The impending tourney suddenly seemed like the least of his concerns. If the situation with Martell developed as he feared, they might soon be celebrating a royal birth against the backdrop of impending war.
Fire and blood, he thought darkly. Always, in the end, it comes back to fire and blood.