Viserys Targaryen POV
TThe Red Keep had never felt so hollow.
Viserys stood beside the high-backed chair of the King, just one step below the Iron Throne, holding a silver-gilt goblet filled with rich, spiced wine in both hands. He was not yet a man grown, but he was tall for his age, his Targaryen pale hair cascading around his shoulders, and his thoughtful eyes reflecting the weight of his lineage. To most who saw him, he was still merely the King's grandson—Baelon's boy, Alysanne's pride, and Daemon's quieter shadow, often overlooked in the thrumming life of the court.
However, over the past year, they had started to call him the cupbearer to the King's council. Although the title held little real power and was mostly ceremonial, Viserys understood the importance of the role. He listened carefully, allowing the discussions to wash over him, taking in the various opinions and strategies being shared. "A dragon learns in silence before it roars," his grandmother had once advised him, a lesson echoing in his mind as he observed the unfolding events.
The Small Council chamber was cool this morning, a refreshing contrast to the vibrant spring sun that shone brightly outside, highlighting the greenery of the gardens. The great wooden table was lined with lords and maesters, their heads bowed in intense debate, the air heavy with the weight of decisions being made. Lord Lyonel Strong leaned forward, his brow furrowed, to whisper something urgent to the Grand Maester, who listened with a thoughtful expression. Meanwhile, Ser Ryam Redwyne stood poised by the window, arms folded across his chest, his white cloak billowing softly behind him like a fresh fall of snow, as he gauged the mood of the chamber through the glass, lost for the moment in thought.
Viserys's gaze drifted to the Iron Throne, visible just beyond the heavy council doors. A twisted mountain of melted swords, it loomed ominously even from a distance, as if poised to pass judgment on the discussions unfolding in its shadow.
At the head of the long, oak table, King Jaehaerys I, known as the Conciliator, sat with an air of weary patience that spoke of countless burdens. The lines etched on his face seemed deeper today, as if each one carried the weight of his responsibilities. He hadn't uttered a word in several minutes, merely nodding or shaking his head in response to the monotonous litany of coin, grain, and border disputes. Viserys understood the silence that enveloped the room; he discerned the matters left unsaid.
The councilors were doing their utmost to suppress it, yet the whispers traveled faster than wildfire, sparking hushed conversations that darted between the members like unseen flames licking at dry wood.
Lady Rhea is pregnant.
Daemon claims he's touched her just once.
They say the babe is no true Targaryen…
Viserys held his expression steady, portraying the calm of a king, though inside, his thoughts raged like a storm. He couldn't shake the image of Daemon's disdainful sneer that had haunted him since his brother's return from the Vale. Just months ago, Daemon had strolled back into the realm, mocking the bronze armor and the sheep-flecked hills of his wife's home, deriding the very idea that Runestone could ever be his rightful claim. He had unleashed a torrent of insults towards Rhea, using every name that skirted the line between jest and offense, reckless enough to risk banishment yet too embittered to care. Meanwhile, he drowned his frustrations in drink, as if trying to wash away the memory of a marriage he wished he could forget.
And now she was with child—twins, as the raven had reported that morning.
The Grand Maester's voice cut through his rising thoughts, pulling him back to the pressing moment.
"If it please Your Grace," said Mellos, his demeanor cautious, "there are whispers suggesting we must prepare for a formal inquiry should any claims of bastardy arise. The intricacies of the Royce inheritance are particularly delicate, and House Royce is not known for its soft tempers…"
Viserys caught a flicker of discontent in his grandfather's eyes. The old man chose to remain fixated on the table, yet his voice was like iron: "There will be no inquiry. Not until my Queen gives her word otherwise."
The air thickened, and several lords fell into an uneasy silence. The Grand Maester bowed slightly, understanding the gravity of the King's declaration.
Viserys set down the goblet he had been nervously holding, placing it gently atop the table near the King's hand, as if it could soothe the tension brewing within the room.
"Alysanne is in Runestone now," the King continued, his tone grave and resolute. "She has taken Baelon with her. If there is any deceit to be found, she will uncover it. If the blood is true, she will name it without hesitation."
Daring a glance at Lord Corbray, seated two chairs down, Viserys noted the tension in the Vale lord's posture—his jaw was tightly clenched, betraying his concern.
This is more than just a scandal, Viserys realized, a sudden and chilling awareness settling over him. This is about bloodlines, inheritances, and legitimacy. House Royce is situated close to the Eyrie, which in turn holds strong ties to the Vale's loyalty. If Daemon is indeed the father of a trueborn heir, it would bind the Crown irrevocably to the Vale. But if he is not—
"There could be war," Ser Ryam said aloud, his voice slicing through the stillness.
All eyes turned to him, the weight of his words hanging heavy in the air. "Not of swords," the Lord Commander added, foreboding in his tone, "but of allegiances. Runestone holds significant influence, and if the wrong boy inherits, half the Vale may turn against the Throne's favor."
Viserys felt a chill crawl down his spine. For the first time, he truly grasped how fragile peace could be.
The Red Keep was stirred awake by the soft glow of early morning light when the raven arrived.
The bird touched down just moments before the Small Council was set to convene, its sleek black feathers glistening with morning dew. The seal, unbroken, bore the unmistakable sigil of Queen Alysanne, pressed into gold wax with precision.
By the time Viserys entered the council chamber, a palpable tension hung in the air. The scroll was already clasped in the hands of the Grand Maester, and every lord seated around the long, polished table turned their heads, their curiosity barely concealed behind serious expressions. Even King Jaehaerys, a figure of authority, looked up from his contemplative thoughts, straightening slightly in his ornate chair as Maester Mellos meticulously unrolled the parchment, the sound of crinkling paper breaking the tension in the room.
Viserys took his customary position—beside his grandfather, just behind the King's chair—his hands resting calmly in his lap, fingers interlaced. Yet beneath this composed facade, his heart raced, beating faster with each passing moment.
This was it. A moment shaped by the weight of his thoughts: word from Runestone, news of Rhea's labor, the potential fate of Daemon's scandal-ridden marriage, a web of intrigue that could shift the tides of family and loyalty forever.
The Maester cleared his throat, signaling the importance of what was to come. "Your Grace. Lords of the Council. A letter from Her Grace, Queen Alysanne, from Runestone… sent with great urgency and joy."
He began to read aloud, and the chamber fell utterly still: "To His Grace, King Jaehaerys of House Targaryen, First of His Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men…" The formalities were lengthy yet imbued with a deep respect—Alysanne remained his queen, after all, even as her influence gradually diminished with the passage of time.
Then came the words that tightened Viserys's chest with a mix of anxiety and anticipation. "…It is with pride and great relief that I inform you that Lady Rhea Royce has delivered twin sons—both healthy and strong, of undeniable bloodline. The elder bears the noble features of House Royce, with a countenance that is both regal and proud, reminiscent of his grandsire Yobart. The younger…"
The Maester paused for just the briefest moment, weighing the weight of the announcement.
"…the younger is unmistakably Targaryen. With silver hair cascading like moonlight and violet eyes that seem to hold ancient secrets, he is a striking figure. Daemon has named him Aerion Targaryen, with my full consent. The elder has been given the name Robar Royce. Both are thriving, and Lady Rhea is recovering well from the trials of childbirth."
A low hum of murmurs rippled through the chamber, the weight of the news palpable in the air.
"Twin boys," Lord Corbray muttered, his brow furrowed as he processed the implications.
"And trueborn, by the Queen's own witness," added Ser Ryam, his voice steady yet laced with solemnity.
King Jaehaerys let out a long breath, almost a sigh of relief. He reached slowly for the goblet that Viserys had placed near his hand, nodding once as he took a measured sip, savoring the moment.
"Then the matter is settled," the King proclaimed, his voice calm but authoritative. "No inquiry, no challenge. Let the lords of the Vale reconcile with what is."
Viserys remained silent. Inside, however, his thoughts churned like a storm at sea.
Daemon had twin sons—his first attempt at fatherhood realized. The news struck him like a physical blow, one he had not anticipated feeling so profoundly. It was not anger that twisted in his chest, nor was it bitterness that clouded his mind. Instead, it was a quiet ache that bloomed beneath his ribs, an unwelcome sensation that brought with it a profound sense of loss.
He had fought valiantly against these feelings, convincing himself time and again that his brother's fate was his own to shape and determine. Yet, as the room around him filled with soft conversation and contented murmurs, Viserys's thoughts began to drift elsewhere, far from the joyous celebration.
He thought of Aemma, her presence a soothing balm in his life. He envisioned the bedchambers they had shared, filled with the scents of herbs and an all-encompassing silence that sometimes felt heavier than the weight of sorrow itself.
His mind wandered back to the five miscarriages—the losses that had stolen away the fragments of joy each time, with each passing an even quieter sorrow than the last. In the midst of this heartache, there remained one glimmer of light: the single, successful birth that had blessed them with Rhaenyra, his beloved daughter. She was the darling of the court, the radiant light that filled their home with laughter and hope, the precious embodiment of their love.
But no sons. Not yet. Maybe never.
And now, Daemon, who had once scoffed at the very idea of marriage, who had mocked the Vale and its traditions, who had treated Rhea with open disdain… Daemon, it seemed, had twin sons. Trueborn. Glorious. Claimed.
Viserys swallowed hard, a mix of emotions swirling within him. He didn't hate Daemon—far from it, in fact. Their bond had once been the envy of the entire court. As boys, they had been nearly inseparable—Viserys, with his quiet intellect and contemplative nature, and Daemon, with his boisterous courage and flair for the dramatic. Together, they had roamed the winding corridors of Dragonstone, a pair of princes chasing shadows and dreams of dragons amid the castle's towering spires.
But as the years passed, they began to diverge. Viserys discovered joy in the pages of books, in the intricate details of maps, and in the meticulous art of statecraft. He took pleasure in listening to his grandfather regale tales of taxes and treaties, finding a profound sense of purpose in the idea of rule—not as a mere manifestation of power, but as a deeply rooted duty to his people and lineage.
In stark contrast, Daemon thrived in the embrace of chaos. He reveled in the clash of swords, the freedom of flight, and the consuming power of fire. He was a dragon in every sense of the word—the kind that could not be tamed or confined, embodying a spirit both wild and exhilarating.
Sometimes, Daemon made him feel insignificant.
Whispers filled the air, suggesting that Daemon was Baelon reborn, destined to be the next great warrior prince. They spoke of Viserys as if he were too soft, too patient, contrasting him with his brother's fiery spirit. They claimed Viserys had inherited his mother's calm temperament rather than his father's fierce ambition.
For a while, Viserys had allowed those murmurs to seep into his heart, nurturing a quiet resentment that shadowed his mind.
It wasn't until the day his grandsire, Jaehaerys, drew him aside on the serene balcony of the library tower that clarity broke through the haze of envy. In the warm sunlight, with the gardens sprawling below, Jaehaerys had offered him wisdom that resonated deeply. "A king does not need to be the sharpest sword, Viserys," he said gently. "He needs to be the hand that holds the sword steady. Let Daemon be the fire; you must be the stone it burns around."
Those words struck a chord, and in that moment, the sharp edges of envy began to dull, replaced by a sense of purpose.
Mostly.
Yet now, within him, that old feeling smoldered anew—quiet, shameful, yet undeniable.
Twin sons. A vision of legacy danced tantalizingly at the edges of his thoughts.
And what do I have? A daughter I cherish beyond measure, yes. A wife who bears her burdens quietly, yes. But… I am left without an heir. No guarantee of a future lineage to carry on the bloodline.
Viserys blinked, jolted from his thoughts as he realized the council had shifted to another topic—shipping levies in Blackwater Bay. The talk of trade routes and tariffs floated around him, but he remained lost in his musings.
No one noticed his silence, nor the subtle tension in his frame. His hands, clasped tightly behind his back, betrayed a slight tremor, a physical manifestation of the turmoil brewing within him.
Let Daemon have his sons, he consoled himself, allowing the words to echo in his mind like a mantra. Let the realm gaze in wonder at their prowess. I will be King one day, he vowed, determination steeling his resolve. Let him wield his sword and command his flames. I will create something enduring, something that will outlast us all.
Yet, beneath the surface of his thoughts, a single, weighty question clung to him, heavy and hollow, refusing to be dismissed: What if I never have a son?
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