89 AC, The Red Keep
POV: Viserra Targaryen
The sunlight filtering through the high, narrow windows of the Red Keep's Throne Room fell upon the stone floor in long, golden ribbons where dust motes danced in a slow, silent waltz. In such moments, the castle felt like a living creature holding its breath. Today, that breath was particularly heavy, laden with the scents of incense, fine wine, and the restless anticipation of hundreds of courtiers.
I stood just apart from the foot of the Iron Throne, striving to maintain the flawless posture drilled into me by years of septas' tutelage. My gown of the finest silk, a pale lilac embroidered with silver thread, felt as light as a cloud today. Perhaps it was because the weight that had nearly crushed me had finally been lifted from my shoulders.
Manderly. That single name had made my insides twist with icy dread only two months ago.
I closed my eyes for a moment, allowing myself to recall the evening Queen Alysanne, my mother, summoned me to her chambers. I had expected a sentence. I knew my father, King Jaehaerys, had been weighing a match with White Harbor. Lord Theomore Manderly was a man of honor and loyalty... and he was insufferably old. In my nightmares, I saw his wheezing breath, his many chins vanishing into furs, and I imagined spending the rest of my days in the frozen North, smelling of fish and salt, warming the bed of a man who could have been my father.
I was not vain or foolish, despite the whispers of jealous handmaidens. I valued books, the history of our blood, and long hours in the library studying scrolls of Old Valyria. I knew the price of duty. But the prospect of a Manderly match felt not like political necessity, but a slow wilting in a gilded cage amidst the northern snows.
"You shall not marry him, Viserra," Mother had said then, her hand soft upon mine. "Your father and I have found another path. You will remain in King's Landing."
In that moment, I nearly swooned with relief. The world, once gray and bleak, bloomed with color again. I knew not what they had planned—perhaps a match with a lesser lord of the Vale or the Reach, or perhaps staying at court indefinitely—but I cared not. Anything but the North. Anything but Manderly.
"Drifting in the clouds again," came a quiet, mocking voice I would know anywhere.
I turned my head and smiled. Rhaenys stood beside me. My niece by blood, but my true sister in spirit. Though four years my junior, her gaze held a wisdom and a steel I sometimes envied. Rhaenys, daughter of Aemon, was everything a father could wish for in a daughter—and in his case, an heir.
"I am simply savoring the quiet before the storm," I whispered, touching her elbow. "Look at them. The whole court is hushed, awaiting the arrival of the one they all undoubtedly envy."
Rhaenys gave a faint smirk, adjusting her raven hair—a striking contrast to the brilliance of her violet eyes, the legacy of her Baratheon mother and Targaryen father.
"They wait for the man who brought enough gold and spice to Westeros that it could fill the Blackwater," she noted. "I admit, Corlys Velaryon has set every tongue at court wagging. Even my father and Uncle Baelon look uncommonly grave today."
I glanced toward the dais. My father, the Old King, Jaehaerys, sat upon the Iron Throne. His silver beard was impeccably groomed, his gaze fixed on the great doors, inscrutable. To his right stood Aemon, Prince of Dragonstone and heir to the throne. To his left was Baelon, whose laughter usually filled these halls, but today he was poised and somber.
Family. We seemed an unshakeable pillar, yet I knew the cracks beneath the facade of familial idyll. I remembered Alyssa. My dear sister, whose spirit was a wildfire. Her death five years ago left a hole in Baelon's heart that nothing could mend. Little Aegon, for whom she gave her life, did not long outlive her, leaving us all in mourning.
And then there was Saera. My sister, whose name is now forbidden in Father's presence. Her flight in '84 AC became a scar on the crown's honor. She was wild, untameable, and truth be told, she frightened me. Now she is somewhere across the Narrow Sea, in Lys or Volantis, mired in things no princess should name. Father has disowned her and stripped her of her name. Maegelle has gone to the Silent Sisters, and Vaegon... my scholarly brother Vaegon preferred the Citadel to his own kin. We are the few who remain in this nest of snakes we call home.
"Are you thinking of Corlys Velaryon? The famous Sea Snake?" Rhaenys interrupted.
"It is hard not to think of him," I admitted honestly. "Five great voyages, and now a sixth, even more storied. He has seen the shores of Asshai and Yi Ti, he has walked where others have perished. I have read the maesters' accounts. He is more than a sailor, he is a cartographer, a seeker of new horizons. I respect that. Those who widen the world rather than squander what their sires hoarded."
"You speak of him with more than a little admiration," Rhaenys winked at me.
"It is not the fancy of a flighty girl, sweetling," I said, flicking her nose lightly. "It is recognition. He has done more for Westeros in these years than any other lord."
I looked toward my nephews. Viserys was twelve, a soft-hearted, gentle boy. Daemon was eight, and even then he carried a sharp, jagged energy that hinted at a troubled youth. They watched the heavy doors with wide-eyed curiosity.
The hall grew stifling. The sea of lords and ladies in heavy velvet was like a vibrant carpet. I felt the eyes of many men upon me—I knew I was fair. My hair, molten gold and platinum, and my eyes as violet as the Queen's, were both my burden and my boon. But today, I was glad those eyes did not belong to old Manderly.
Suddenly, the din faded. A wave of whispers swept the hall: "He has made port... The Sea Snake has docked... They are at the gates."
I felt a shiver of anticipation run down my spine. The steel-clad doors began to groan open. First came Ser Harrold Westerling, tasked with receiving our guests. The Kingsguard, in his gleaming white plate and mantle, looked the very image of chivalry.
"Lord Corlys of House Velaryon, Lord of the Tides and Master of Driftmark!" the herald's voice thundered. "And his brother, Ser Daeron Velaryon!"
The procession entered.
Behind Ser Harrold followed Corlys himself. Behind him came his younger brother, Daeron, and then several captains of the Velaryon fleet—richly dressed, but with the faces of men accustomed to salt wind rather than palace intrigue. Closing the procession were four Velaryon guards in armor the color of the sea.
I could not look away. My imagination, fueled by tales, had conjured a hero, but the truth was far more striking. He bore the classic Valyrian look of our blood. Tall, commanding, with silver-gold hair bound back. His skin was bronzed by southern suns—the mark of a man of action, a stark contrast to the pale peacocks of the court.
His face was a marvel of sharp, strong lines and eyes of deep purple. He was handsome, possessing a mature, masculine grace that rivaled even Aemon and Baelon. But there was a wildness in him, an untameable power. He moved with a grace so effortless it seemed the Iron Throne might belong to him by birth. His doublet of sea-green, stitched with the silver seahorse, only heightened the sense of his inner strength.
I felt my heart beat a little faster. This was no fanatical trembling, but a warm, sincere affinity for a man who embodied the heroes of old.
Reaching the dais, Corlys stopped. He looked up at my father—the King and his most powerful vassal meeting eye to eye. Then, with perfect dignity, Corlys sank to one knee.
"Your Majesty," he said, his voice deep and resonant.
Following him, Daeron, the captains, and the guards all knelt. The hum in the hall fell completely silent. My father leaned forward slightly, a flicker of approval in his eyes. He appreciated the strength in his vassal.
"Rise, Lord Corlys," said the calm, commanding voice of King Jaehaerys. "And you, Ser Daeron. We are pleased to welcome you to King's Landing. Your voyages have brought renown not only to your House, but to the entire Realm."
Corlys rose, and again, that calm confidence permeated every movement. He stood at his full height, and I noted how harmoniously he looked in this hall, among the dragon skulls and the royal family.
"Westeros owes you much, Lord Corlys," Jaehaerys began, gesturing to the hall. "But the crown requires your strength at the Council table as well as the sea. Lord Grafton, the former Master of Ships, has passed—may the Father judge him justly. I see none more fit to take his place than you. Lord Corlys, I offer you a place on my Small Council. Will you accept this burden?"
A silence so heavy fell that I could hear the rustle of silk. Corlys was but four-and-twenty, yet he possessed experience the graybeards lacked. There was no fawning joy on his face, only the weight of the task.
"My ships have always belonged to the Crown, Your Grace," he said firmly. "But if you deem that my experience and my voice shall serve the Realm at the Council table, I accept this honor. I swear to serve you and Westeros faithfully, guarding our waters as zealously as I have guarded my own decks in the Narrow Sea."
"So shall it be," my father proclaimed. "Henceforth, you are Master of Ships, Lord Corlys."
I kept my face a mask of royal composure, but my heart fluttered. I looked at Rhaenys and saw the same spark in her eyes. Yes, Manderly was a ghost of the past. Looking upon the Sea Snake, I knew the future would be far more vibrant than I had ever dared to dream.
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A/N
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