In the Hand of the King's Tower, Cersei sat by the window in a listless daze, staring at a tiny nameless purple flower that had sprouted from a crack between the stones. Her exquisitely beautiful face was clouded with irritation— the ball had been canceled, the tourney postponed indefinitely, all because Prince Viserys had suddenly been injured and fallen unconscious. The day he was carried back by the Crown Prince, the atmosphere of the Red Keep had flipped from festive joy to frantic panic—forget dancing, no one even dared to smile in front of the king.
If I'd known, I would've stayed in the Westerlands.
Cersei idly toyed with the emerald-and-gold bracelet on her wrist. Only when she heard a familiar sound did her face light up with genuine joy. She turned her head. "Jaime!"
The young heir of the Westerlands strode into the room, his face dark with anger. Jaime unclasped the emerald gold lion brooch and shrugged off his squire's cloak. Flames burned in his sapphire-blue eyes.
"What is it, my dear brother?" Cersei asked softly.
"Those people—how dare they slander His Highness the Crown Prince like that! And His Majesty the king—" Jaime said furiously. He was indignant on the Crown Prince's behalf. Those vicious rumors claimed that it was Rhaegar, driven by jealousy, who had injured Viserys! When Jaime heard them, he had drawn his sword on the spot, ready to teach the slanderer a lesson.
At the mention of Rhaegar's name, Cersei felt a stab of pain. The Crown Prince would never belong to her now! Yet she had no fondness for the substitute, Viserys—Father still wanted her to get close to him? Her heart remained utterly unmoved. The aura and charm of the two brothers were worlds apart. Of course, only twins were truly alike and perfectly matched…
Cersei took Jaime's sword hand and placed it against her chest, soothing him with practiced ease. "The truth will come out eventually, my dear Jaime. Don't be so hasty." As she spoke, she kissed the messy golden hair at her twin brother's temple, her pale, delicate hand sliding up to caress his cheek.
The young, handsome Jaime flushed slightly, but he did not pull away.
A pair of robins fluttered onto the Hand's Tower windowsill, preening each other's feathers. They chirped cheerfully, courting and nesting in the right season, at the right place. Only the small animals of the godswood seemed untouched by the panic and gloom that hung over the royal court.
No one had witnessed Viserys's injury firsthand. Tyrion had arrived only afterward and was questioned again and again by his father, his brother, and the king. In his heart, Tyrion thought it was probably because Viserys had been too eager to see his brother and taken a fall—but before the many eyes in the Throne Room, he chose his words carefully. He simply recounted what he had seen that day, adding a cautious, subjective note in Rhaegar's defense: the Crown Prince and the prince were deeply close; this was an accident.
King Aerys's fingernails, long and filthy like rusted files, dug into the armrests of the Iron Throne as if they might snap them apart. The gold-threaded embroidery on his sleeves was tangled like a mass of seaweed, and his violet eyes were wild with madness. "It was Rhaegar! He murdered his brother! He intended to commit kinslaying!!"
To the clique of nobles who obeyed the king's will without question, "evidence" of the Crown Prince's guilt was easily unearthed. Prince Viserys had just achieved brilliant military merit—how could he possibly fall from his horse? It must have been the Crown Prince who caused him to fall, plunging him into a coma.
"Hey, I remember the armor taken off Prince Viserys—it was the same black armor as the Crown Prince's," the Master of Coin, Colton, murmured to the Velaryon Master of Ships beside him, lace spilling from his sleeves. "The Crown Prince couldn't tolerate the prince imitating him, so he taught him a lesson."
"Exactly. Wearing the same armor implies that the prince also wanted to become—"
"Shh. But now I'm sure His Majesty thinks the same—choosing another heir…"
"As long as the prince wakes up… and testifies against the Crown Prince…"
Beneath the Targaryen dragon skulls of the Throne Room, they exchanged glances and whispered, buzzing like flies—just as Viserys had once described them. Rhaegar had never paid them much mind before, but now his ivory-pale face was completely drained of color, his heart filled with regret and anguish. Viserys had yearned for their reunion, spurring his horse toward him—and yet Rhaegar had failed to remain vigilant, failed to rein in his mount in time, failed to protect his brother.
The Crown Prince knelt on one knee, enduring the verbal storm unleashed by his deranged father upon the throne. Aerys spared no venomous insult in humiliating his eldest son. Rhaegar accepted each blow as if being whipped. His lips were pressed tight, his eyes lowered. His brother was still unconscious. The mere thought of Viserys lying motionless behind the curtains felt like knives carving into his heart.
"You must wish you were the only one who could inherit the throne! Viserys threatened you! I forbid you from putting on that false act of visiting him again—you'd seize the chance to smother him with a pillow! Now, get out!!" Aerys roared.
Rhaegar did not argue. It would have been useless. Exhausted in both body and spirit, his face deathly pale, the black armor he had yet to remove made him look like a bow drawn taut to its limit. He silently bowed to the throne and turned to leave—
"Stop." Aerys barked again.
Rhaegar paused. He heard the screeching scrape of his father's long nails against the Iron Throne—Aerys wished he could dig those sharp fingertips into Rhaegar, leave bloody marks upon the son who never once acted according to his wishes, even though this was his only healthy, legitimate heir.
"You should repent for your wicked heart! Pray devoutly for your brother—I command you: fast and bathe, walk barefoot to the Great Sept! Beg the Seven for forgiveness!"
Rhaegar lowered his head. "Yes."
Aerys added cruelly, "I'll have broken glass and tiles scattered along the road, so you can atone more thoroughly!"
Rhaegar paid it no mind. If this could wake his brother, he would welcome it gladly. He would pray with all his heart—to the Seven, to the Old Gods, to any god at all. The Lord of Light, even the Night King—he didn't care.
In truth, ever since the famous Queen Baelor, acts like barefoot penitential pilgrimages were things Aerys himself had done. In the Mad King's mind, Viserys's very birth was proof of their efficacy—after Rhaegar, royal newborns had died one after another. Aerys had killed everyone he deemed suspicious, then fasted, bathed, and walked barefoot to the Great Sept to repent, swearing never again to take a mistress and to sleep only with Queen Rhaella. Only then had the Seven granted him another healthy prince. And the series of achievements Viserys later won only further convinced the Mad King that his youngest son was a divine gift to House Targaryen.
From the moment Rhaegar left the Throne Room, he neither ate nor drank. Every member of the Crown Prince's faction—Jon Connington and Arthur Dayne included—was deeply worried, but none could persuade him otherwise. Jon gazed at the Silver Prince, his heart aching unbearably. He loved him deeply, unable to endure any injustice done to him—and his resentment toward Viserys grew even stronger. In Jon's view, if Viserys had truly cared for Rhaegar, he would have declined the Crown Prince's welcome procession, an honor far beyond his station. Then Rhaegar would not have been tormented by the king!
The hem of a silver-gray velvet gown swayed as the Crown Princess entered the Crown Prince's apartments. Rhaegar sprang up from the window and went to meet her.
Lyanna had just returned from visiting Viserys. She looked at her husband with a heavy heart and shook her head. "I'm sorry, Your Highness. Barristan and Jon Darry were guarding the door as Kingsguard, and by the king's order they wouldn't let me in. Tyrion came out and told me—there's no good news."
His brother was still not awake. The light faded from Rhaegar's violet eyes. He pressed his dry lips together and looked out the window—far away, atop the Rhaenys Hills, the seven crystal towers of the Great Sept gleamed harshly. Lyanna read pain and resolute determination in his expression. She thought fiercely: whoever dares to spread those horrible rumors again, attacking such sincere, deep brotherly affection, I'll draw my sword and teach them a lesson myself!
"Lyanna," she suddenly heard Rhaegar call her name.
"Yes?"
Rhaegar turned to her, looking at her gently. "I want to tell you my decision. Since the physicians are all at a loss, then even after reaching the Great Sept, I will continue my penance there—until the gods show mercy and my brother wakes."
Lyanna, who worshiped the Old Gods, didn't truly understand what such penance entailed—but it was clearly nothing good. She listened as Rhaegar solemnly entrusted her with matters: acting as Crown Princess and his proxy to discuss the situation with Jon and the others; riding, training with the sword—she would directly take part in these 'men's' activities; and, as the second-highest-ranking woman in court, maneuvering within the Red Keep and keeping Queen Rhaella company.
The little she-wolf, burdened with such responsibility, felt even heavier-hearted. She truly didn't know what would happen to Rhaegar if Viserys never woke… After some thought, she decided that everyone should still hold onto hope. She needed to do more, at the very least to offer Rhaegar some comfort. "Your Highness, no matter what, you must take care of yourself. I'll send a raven to my father and ask him to pray before the heart tree. Viserys—he's strong. I believe he'll wake up!"
"Thank you." Rhaegar gave his wife a brief smile, speaking from the heart.
So—surrounded by the blessings of both Old Gods and New, standing at the very center of the storm in the Red Keep—what was Viserys's condition now?
In a tower room directly opposite the Crown Prince's chambers, he lay quietly on a bed of purple silk. The violet-and-gold velvet curtains were drawn tight, the room dimly lit. Only a select few were allowed to see the prince under the watchful eyes of the Kingsguard—and Tyrion was one of them.
Early that morning, he came again. With a troubled sigh, he saw that Viserys was exactly the same as yesterday, unmoving.
The little demon grabbed at his tangled blond hair and paced back and forth. Hearing the bells of the Red Keep toll, he opened the window, climbed onto a chest, and stood on tiptoe to look down. —Sigh. Rhaegar had set out.
The Crown Prince, having neither eaten nor drunk for two days, was pale, yet he still stood like a warrior. His long silver hair fell loose and smooth—there was no point in using dragonbone clasps now, since it would be cut during penance anyway. Barefoot, wearing only a simple linen robe, he departed from the King's Gate of the Red Keep, calmly stepping onto the sun-warmed cobblestones, walking one step at a time toward the Great Sept.
The streets were packed with people. Rhaegar was beloved by the masses, and even when the gold cloaks tried to hold them back, the crowd still gathered and followed him of their own accord. Many reached out, hoping to touch him, to carry their own prayers along with his.
Tyrion watched for a while, then turned back toward the man on the bed. "Hey! Your most beloved brother is fasting, bathing, and walking barefoot to the Great Sept—and he'll be doing penance there too! Can you bear that? Hurry up and wake already!"
—Viserys, deep in unconsciousness, was actually not badly hurt at all. But why did the little prince lie there as if utterly unaware?
That story began with being knocked out.
Before he fell into darkness, Viserys had still been thrilled that his brother had finally hugged him again! When he realized everything around him was pitch-black, he wasn't panicked at all. This wasn't his first time—whenever the Three-Eyed Crow descended in dreams, or when some black-tech roulette spun up, it was always like this. I'll just wait calmly, he thought. If I'm unconscious, my brother will hold me a bit longer.
In the chaos, a colossal crystal wall—vast as the Wall at the edge of the world—materialized before him, enclosing him in a full three hundred and sixty degrees. Words appeared upon its surface: Want to see what would happen if you broke your neck and died?
What?! Viserys jumped up instantly, shouting in protest. I didn't break my neck! I'm not dead! At worst it's a mild concussion!! Let me go back!!
A soothing reply appeared on the screen: Just a hypothetical scenario. Want to see it? A rare opportunity—once you regain consciousness, you won't be able to see any of this.
Viserys thought for a moment. Curious and big-hearted as ever, he nodded.
The wall projected scene after scene, like a film. He stared blankly as he watched his brother, haggard and hollow-eyed, keeping vigil beside his corpse without eating or sleeping. In the end, the Crown Prince endured his grief and cremated him according to custom—his ashes taken to Dragonstone. King Aerys, upon hearing of his death, plunged into a new madness! A sword hilt smashed heavily into his brother's head—Rhaegar's blood and tears streamed down his face!
Viserys screamed, losing his mind. I don't want this! This is too cruel! I don't want to die! I don't want to watch such a tragic story! I want to wake up!! I want my brother!!!
In reality, this was the very day he had been brought back to the Red Keep. The royal physicians surrounded him, Rhaegar still in armor, anxiously guarding the bedside. Viserys's eyelids trembled; his violet pupils were about to open— then, nothing.
Because after the consciousness world went black, the little prince read another line: There is also a story where you marry your brother, available for viewing.
Hey—!! The leg he'd just stepped toward wakefulness snapped right back.
The screen shifted at once to a brighter scene.
Viserys stared straight ahead: the familiar stained-glass corridor of the Great Sept! His brother, draped in a purple cloak embroidered with dragons, approached with a composed smile, a laurel crown upon his head, radiant as he stood upon the steps. And he himself—wearing a matching Targaryen wedding robe, a violet diamond gleaming at his brow—looked up at his brother with shining eyes.
They exchanged seven gifts, swore seven vows. His brother placed the cloak upon his shoulders, and he did the same in return—his trembling fingers, quivering with happiness, tying the knot beneath his brother's ivory-carved chin. The wedding was complete!
They kissed fiercely. They kissed fiercely. Just like the Young Lion and his Queen in their youth—inseparable, utterly entwined.
Viserys watched, face burning, heart pounding like a startled deer, endlessly delighted—so this was what life with his brother as spouses would be like! How wonderful!
He forgot all about waking up. He stood there, completely immersed before the crystal wall, greedily indulging in a dream that could never truly be realized—
Until Tyrion's blunt voice cut through the crystal wall and reached him, making Viserys rub his eyes and finally listen.
"Do you know what penance means, Viserys?! Your brother Rhaegar—his molten-silver hair will be hacked to pieces! He'll be locked in a tiny room in the crystal towers! Wearing nothing but ragged robes! One chunk of black bread and cold fruit a day! He'll have to kneel before the statues and confess—His Majesty plans to pin the crime of harming you on him! I know it's not true! But you have to wake up and prove your beloved brother's innocence!"
Tyrion shouted beside Viserys's pillow.
And then—just how important was Rhaegar to him?
In the next instant, Barristan, the Kingsguard stationed outside the prince's chambers, widened his eyes as the silver-haired young prince burst past him like a gust of wind.
"Brother!! Brother!!"
He screamed himself hoarse.
—Overwhelmed with regret, Viserys remembered the High Sparrow's treatment of the Knight of Flowers. Religion— the Faith truly dared to punish his brother!!
Furious and frantic, like a madman, hair loose and feet bare, he clutched the sword Dark Sister and charged wildly down the corridors. Amid gasps and cries, he sprinted toward the King's Gate of the Red Keep.
...
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(End Chapter)