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Chapter Text

They came for him after the fifth day. They bound him in so many chains he could barely walk but needn’t have bothered. He was too tired, too hungry… too numb to everything other than grief.

He couldn’t even feel dread anymore.

She left me to die…

He had not believed it when they had told him. When they had come for him and thrown him in this cell. His mother would not leave him. She would find a way to save him… She was his mother… Five days had done much to dissuade him of that notion.

He was so lost in his grief he did not realise they were not bringing him to the dungeons, as he had expected. They were not even bringing him to the Throne room or the Courtyard where people might see his execution.

No, when he was finally forced to his knees in front of his Uncle, it was in his private rooms. The rooms once occupied by his grandfather. He barely had time to glance at the beautiful woman in the corner or the tall, intimidating figure of King Maegor before his captors threw him to his knees none too gently.

His breath being forced from his lungs was the only sound in the room. He dared not raise his head, dared not do anything to attract his uncle’s ire… it was hard to even breath…

His Uncle’s boot slammed into his stomach a moment later and his face collided with the floor. Pain blossomed across his face and burned in his gut and he whimpered before he could stop himself.

“You should thank your Queen.” The gravelly voice sent thrills of fear down his spine. He did not know why he had to thank Queen Tyanna but he tried to all the same.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” he snivelled, realising his nose was bleeding when he tasted blood. Some part of him that still saw himself as a Prince was screaming at the humiliation. That bit of him could go hang. That bit of him would get him killed. So he lay on the floor and grovelled his thanks for whatever she had done.

A foot colliding with his back silenced him and he groaned without meaning to as his Uncle’s weight pushed the air from his lungs once more.

“My wife, it seems, cares more for you than your own mother.” The statement made him want to start crying again.

“Maegor,” purred Tyanna, finally speaking. He would hear that low, sultry voice with its foriegn inflections in his nightmares. “The poor boy has had a shock. Let him up? You! Get some water so that he may clean himself!”

Her empathy was false, he knew that. Queen Tyanna cared only for herself but he grovelled his thanks once more as his Uncle hauled him to his feet. He very nearly fell again but for the hand that clasped his shoulder tight.

Too tight, he wanted to whimper again.

“Get the shackles off him! Do you think him a threat to me!?” The guards hastened to obey their King. It was clear he was still barely keeping his temper by a hair's breadth and none wanted to be the target once he finally lost it.

His Uncle let him go once his limbs were free. Moments later, a cowed servant brought forth a washbasin of warm water and he cleaned himself as quickly as possible. He did not want to keep the King waiting. He did not know what game was being played.

A delicate hand removed the cloth from his own and he froze, staying as still as he could, not even daring to breathe.

“You have missed a spot,” she told him, breath ghosting over his ear. “Let me help you.”

She was gentle as she cleaned him but he did not let that fool him. He had seen what she did to his Uncle’s enemies… he had seen what was left of them on display as a warning… so had his Mother...

She left me to that fate.... How long could I have lasted under her care? How long would she have kept me in this world?

He tried to swallow back his tears, tried to hide them from the Queen but she clearly saw them because a finger rose to brush them away. He shivered at the contact. It felt wrong that this woman should play at being tender and kind.

“Fear not, little Prince,” she said softly. “You have a new mother now. One who will not sacrifice you for her favoured children.”

“Tyanna.” The tone was full of warning and the woman was quick to drop the washcloth into the basin and go to him. She looked thrilled as he wound his arms about her waist and pulled her close for a most indecent kiss.

He dropped his eyes to his shoes.

“A polite one! You have taught him well, my love!” Tyanna exclaimed after a long moment. His Uncle snorted and he fancied the ground might have shook as the King crossed to him, wrenching his head upward so their eyes could meet.

“Do you know what will happen next?” he asked and he tried to shake his head. Fingers clenching around his jaw painfully prevented him though as those terrible eyes bored into his. “Your whore Mother believes I will kill you. She believes she can push that snivelling child’s claim and take the Throne once more. Baratheon will ride with her… what’s left of the Faith too.”

The grip his Uncle had on his face was painful and brought more tears. Then, abruptly, he was released. His Uncle began pacing the rooms, building up that terrible rage once more.

“My Mother died! Died! She sheltered them, it was her mercy that sees you all still drawing breath!” He paused to take a gulp of air. “Yet my Mother, her saviour, was not even on her pyre before the whore stole my sword and fled to raise rebellion! I was merciful and this is how she repays me!?”

“T- Thank you for your mercy, Uncle,” he managed to say, voice stuttering only once. His Uncle stopped dead, breathing heavily.

From her perch by the bed, where he’d left her, Tyanna watched the King with a soft smile on her face. His Uncle gave him no time to wonder at what had just passed between them because he turned slowly to face him, his face an inscrutable mask.

He could not tell if he had done something wrong or not.

“Viserys,” came Tyanna’s voice, soft once again. “You must understand your Uncle’s anger. Alyssa Velaryon betrayed the mercy he showed her after your brother, Prince Aegon, rebelled.”

After Maegor had usurped his throne and then murdered him above the Gods Eye. He did not say that though, to say that was to invite punishment, to invite death… or worse. Instead, he nodded furiously, stamping down on the shame that brought.

“Aegon was a traitor.” Those were the words he’d been taught to say by his Mother back when she still cared for him. When had she decided she could sacrifice him? When had she decided Jae and Aly were more important?

“He was,” said his Uncle. “But he fought well. He wasn’t like his Father. Aenys would have pissed himself and hidden like the craven he was.”

He stared at his shoes, cursing his need to weep for his Father, Mother and Brother once more. His Uncle took his shoulder and forced him to look up once more. No anger, he thanked the Seven for that.

“You will return to your duties as my squire,” he said after a beat of silence had passed.

“Than-”

“I was not finished, boy!” barked his Uncle and fear strangled the rest of the platitude. “You will have new duties as well. You, boy, will be worthy of being my heir or you will die in the process.”

He couldn’t hide his shock and Tyanna collapsed into giggles at the sight of him. His Uncle’s face twisted in annoyance and the grip on his shoulder became ever tighter.

“You are five and ten. I was wedded and bedded by your age! A warrior in truth!” he sneered. “You have had an easy life! No more, I will not have a weakling like Aenys as my heir!”

“We will find you an adequate bride, do not worry,” said Tyanna and he did not like her cruel smile. “But you must become a warrior worthy of succeeding the King.”

“I will, I swear,” he said and meant it. To fail was to die. He did not want to die.

“Good,” said his Uncle. “Go.”

“Viserys?” He stopped dead as Tyanna called him. She was smiling that cruel smile again and he swallowed thickly at the sight of it.

“Yes, Your Grace?”

“Instruct the Castellan to prepare rooms for Princess Rhaena and her children.” His eyes widened in terror for his oldest sibling. Tyanna frowned and he bowed low to hide his feelings.

“Yes, Your Grace,” He left on trembling legs although he did not know if it was relief for himself or fear for his sister that had him so shaky.

Chapter Text

The impact of the practice blade on his shield made him stagger and before he could regain his footing to strike back a second impact hit him just behind the knee causing it to buckle. Instinct made him raise his shield and it served him true as a blow that had been intended for his head cracked into the rim.

He could not save himself from the blow to the ribs. He crumpled with the force of it, wanting nothing more than to remain motionless on the floor of the yard as exhaustion, pain and fear weighed him down.

Get up, he is watching…

He knew well the price of failure. It was hard to roll away from his attackers but he did so, scrambling to his feet, completely lacking all grace. The four squires, all older boys, were already moving to surround him again. He didn’t look up, he didn’t dare, he did not want to see what he knew was there…

His Uncle’s disappointment could be deadly.

The first squire attacked again. He was the biggest and the worst of the bunch. He relied on brute strength rather than any skill. He had to admit, the ache in his ribs and face could attest to the fact that brute strength was enough.

Too late he realised his mistake as another blade cracked into his back and sent him careening forward. The first squire dropped back and settled for a brutal punch to the guts that drove the air from his body and sent him to the ground choking.

Get up!

He needed to do something. Anything. The squires were not eager to give him time to think things through as one attempted to land a kick he was forced to roll away from. His body ached fiercely at the movement but he got to his feet again only for another squire to disarm him.

He clutched his shield close as they moved in for the kill. The inevitable beating he was to receive for his failure. He still did not glance up although he could predict what was to happen. His Uncle would leave him to his fate.

He did not want a weakling as his heir.

It had been the same every day since his Mother had abandoned him. His mother…

The shield warded off the first few strikes but the squires pushed him hard. He could see their delight, see their amusement. It was all a game to them. A fucking game. They didn’t care that he would be punished, they didn’t care his own mother would see him dead, they didn’t care he was forced to call his own beloved siblings traitors…

Monsters…

He hit the first squire with the edge of the shield, some terrible anger filling him. The boy collapsed backwards and he wrenched the practice blade from his hands with a scream. The show of defiance was enough to send the other boys scattering momentarily.

At least until the boy whose nose he had just broken pulled him to the floor. He swung the practice blade into his face and screamed in his hate again. Yet it had cost him and one of the others was quick to pull him off of their compatriot and throw him to the ground.

“ENOUGH!” The King’s bellow rang out and he heard, rather than felt, the squires back off and fall into bows. He pushed himself up, cursing the pain rushing back into his muscles after being banished ever so briefly by his rage.

He’d managed to get to his knees by the time his Uncle reached him.

“You still have some fight in you then, boy,” his Uncle spat. He lowered his head. Defiance was all well and good but to direct it at the King was death.

“Yes, Your Grace,” he mumbled through a rapidly swelling lip. A massive hand caught him about the collar and wrenched him none too gently to his feet. He wobbled for a moment but managed to keep his balance.

“Good. Clean yourself up and attend to me in the Council chamber.” He bowed low as the King strode from the room. Behind him, his four opponents quit the yard in the opposite direction. He did not miss the hateful look the first squire sent him as he cupped his bleeding and likely broken nose.

He would have trouble from him before he was through. A beating probably. Maegor may turn a blind eye to petty rivalries but he would draw the line at anything that might allow his Mother to declare Jaehaerys’ claim.

He pulled his thoughts away from that, it led to rage or grief and neither were helpful in his current predicament. He wanted to survive, to protect his siblings… he could not afford anything that made him stupid or dull.

Rage, sorrow, grief… those would be luxuries for when this nightmare was over.

His rooms were sumptuous and he hated them. When his Father had been King of Westeros they belonged to Aegon and Rhaena. The servants had drawn him a bath at least. His stomach turned when he saw what else they’d laid out for him.

The tea steamed, freshly brewed, and the scent of it filled the air. It was fruity and pleasant yet he couldn’t help but imagine that it was rotten really. He poured a cup and stared at the dark liquid.

Queen Tyanna had sent this. Of the three Queens of Westeros, Tyanna seemed most invested in him. She spoke on his behalf to the King, sent along the teas and soaps that soothed the aches in his body after training and she… she was the one that sought Rhaena for his bride, not Maegor’s as many would suggest.

For some reason, the witch wanted him alive and as Maegor’s undisputed heir.

He drank the tea and the clambered into the bath, uncapping the strange powder she had sent and poured into the water. It sent the bath fizzing around around him and that, and the tea, saw the pain leech from his limbs.

He would still be bruised tomorrow but he would be able to move with only minor discomfort. Then his Uncle would drill him with the blade and set the squires on him all over again. He would not stop until he won.

Did Maegor expect him to fight Jae? Jae had a dragon… Maegor had yet to decide he was worthy of one… He brought his knees to his chest as pain panged in his heart. Rhaena had placed an egg in his cradle as a child. It had never hatched…

Now Rhaena was being hunted, her and her children in danger. Aegon’s children…

A knock on the door made him jump and he realised he had tarried too long in his thoughts. Stupid… Maegor would punish him if he was late. He did not like being disobeyed.

“Moment!” he called and desperately hoped it was salvagble. He had endured one beating today, he did not want another.

“Your Grace, the King summons you to the Throne Room.” He froze halfway through scrubbing a washcloth over himself. The Throne Room…

“I will attend to him as soon as I am able,” he called, nearly falling as he hauled himself over the side. A strange panic was welling up inside of him. His Uncle had said the Council room, why had he changed location?

An execution perhaps? Had someone displeased him?

He snorted as he pulled on a clean shirt. Not a day went by that Maegor did not send some poor soul to the Black Cells. Servants, smallfolk or even lords… The doublet took more time than usual and he realised his hands were shaking.

He forced himself to stop and take a deep breath. He had done nothing wrong. He had even won some respite, an unheard of thing before today. His Uncle would not direct that killing rage at him, not yet. He had to believe that.

His hands shook less after that and he was soon trailing after one of the many servants that occupied the still unfinished Keep. Nobody had said anything about his damp hair or the obvious haste in which he dressed. Father would have cared. He would have sent him back until he was presentable.

Father was a craven… Father killed Aegon as surely as Maegor did…

The resentment was not new. It had boiled in him since Aegon’s death. His Father had practically crowned Maegor himself with his weakness. He had damned Aegon with his actions…

The Throne Room was not crowded when he entered but he recognised Maegor’s supporters there. None of those with questionable loyalties had been invited.

Breathe… breathe… You will be fine. You have not disappointed him.

He passed a multitude of faces, all turned towards him in curiosity. No doubt they were looking at the bruises. Fierce anger beat in his breast at that thought. Let them see the monster they support, that he would beat and threaten his own kin! Let them know they are monsters in turn!

He could not say it out loud but he thought it. One day he would be able to look his Mother in the eye and ask her why… but he would also thank her for the lessons she had taught him. He would survive Maegor with those lessons.

He bowed low to the King and received a nod of his head and a grunt in turn.

“Come, Prince Viserys, stand with us as part of our family!” Tyanna’s voice had him trooping over the three Queen’s. He misliked all of them, in truth. Ceryse was high strung and arrogant. She considered herself Maegor’s first and true wife and only the threat of losing her tongue kept her from calling the other two whores to their faces.

Of all of them, he would begrudgingly admit he liked Alys most though. Alys Harroway was… not a clever woman. She was pretty and only somewhat petty in contrast to the nastiness Ceryse and Tyanna could bring to bear. She seemed almost baffled by his presence most of the time. She was also heavily pregnant.

He did not know what his Uncle would do if she birthed a boy.

He flinched when Tyanna laid her hand on his shoulder but he did not have time to think about the motive behind the action because moments later, a group of knights entered the room.

“Welcome, niece, you have been quite the hard woman to find!” boomed Maegor. He wanted to cry as the knights fanned out, revealing a woman he had not seen in two years. She was tired, thinner than she should be and dressed in clothes more fit for a peasant but it was undeniably her.

Rhaena.

Chapter Text

His quarters felt even more like a mockery now than they had before his sister had been dragged into the castle by Maegor’s knights.

“Your sister is everything a Queen should be.” The voice made him jump and he was glad he had not given in to the tears he had wanted to let fall. Tyanna would tell his Uncle and the news would not please him.

Maegor would already be riled. Rhaena had danced the line of defiance in a way that would have had him squirming had Tyanna not been gripping his shoulder with such force. In truth, he would have expected Maegor to strike her, hurt her, for the words she had flung at him. His amusement at her anger was borne from knowing what she did not. Rhaena had believed it was just her life she imperilled.

Her defiance had died the moment Ser Maladon Moore had appeared with her children. With Aegon’s children...

“Aegon was never King.” Oh how he hated that the words, the denials, were second nature now. It was a betrayal. He knew it. In his dreams, his brother was disappointed in him. He could barely forget those accusing eyes.

You do not understand, Aeg, he’ll kill me. Please understand! Please! I am not you… Who would support me?

He turned to face the Queen standing just beyond the threshold of his rooms. Tyanna smiled and leaned against the doorway, studying him. He could see the figure of Ser Owen Bush behind her and swallowed thickly. Before Queen Visenya’s death, Ser Owen had followed his every move about the castle. He had never spoken but the threat had been obvious.

“But she will be your Queen,” Tyanna replied, tilting her head. He ignored the mockery and nodded once, not trusting his voice. She smiled in satisfaction. “I have put a great amount of trust in you, Viserys.”

“I am thankful for your mercy, Your Grace,” he said, unsure what was happening. Was he now to be drawn into whatever game she was playing with his Uncle? He hoped he could avoid it. She pushed away from the door frame and stepped into the room proper. Behind her, Ser Owen pushed the door to and he swallowed again.

“In truth, Prince Viserys, it is less a mercy and more a concession,” she told him, seating herself before his fire and gesturing for him to sit as well. When fear routed him to the floor momentarily, Ser Owen shoved him forward. When he sat, she met his eyes and there was no mocking glint there only sharp intelligence. “Do you know why I work to give you everything you need to be a true Prince worthy of my husband?”

He shook his head, mutely. A troubled look flickered over her features briefly. Then she rearranged her face into one of solemnity.

“Do you recall the events of two years ago? When your Uncle took back King’s Landing from the rebels that had seized it?” The question took him by surprise. He did, of course. He had been on Driftmark with his Mother but they had been close enough that they had known the fate of the Sept of Remembrance and the men that had taken shelter in it.

“Your Uncle came so close to dying,” said Tyanna in a whisper. “So close. In truth, the Maesters that kept him alive are a credit to the Citadel and their Chains. Yet he paid a terrible price, Viserys. A terrible price.”

His Uncle had lain in a coma for twenty nine days before awaking on the thirtieth. The Maesters had cared for him for twenty eight of those days. Tyanna for the last and final day before he awoke. Sorcery, his mother had whispered, like the magic Visenya had used to kill his Father. He did not know if it was the truth or not. To ask was to invite a painful and drawn out fate.

Maegor did not like questions that portrayed his mother as a witch, even less as a kinslayer and a kingslayer. Even thinking such thoughts were dangerous in King’s Landing.

“A price, Your Grace?” he repeated, hoping she did not decide the question was impertinent. Behind them, Ser Owen shifted slightly and the reminder of the Kinght’s presence sent shivers down his spine.

“Can you keep a secret, my Prince?” The way she asked it…Panic twisted in his gut. There was something threatening about her in the half-light of his rooms.

“I swear it, Your Grace. I swear by the Seven I shall keep any secret you give me.” The overly flowery language seemed to amuse her if the slight smile he saw was any indication.

“Good boy,” she purred. “The potions and poultices they used to keep him alive… truly, Westeros has not seen such skill at healing before. No blame can fall on the Maesters, they merely wished to save their King. Yet they damaged him.”

He swallowed at that pronouncement. She must be here on Maegor’s orders if she were willing to make that claim. Ser Owen would take her head off for disloyalty otherwise.

“He will not produce a living Heir, my Prince. The child that grows in Alys Harroway’s belly is already dead.” He stared at her and she nodded, seemingly grieving the fact, or acting well enough he could not tell. “You will always be your Uncle’s Heir, Viserys, no child of his will take that from you.”

Her cold hand rested on his cheek briefly as his thoughts were a storm inside him. His Uncle unable to produce an heir of his own body? When people realised the eyes of the realm would turn to him, to little Aerea… to Jae…

He had to live, even moreso than before. If he lived, Mother couldn’t put Jae in danger. If he lived, people would not seek to take the twins from Rhaena. If he lived… if he lived, he could make sure they were all safe. He could make sure no one used them as they had used his Father!

“I trust I do not need to tell you why you are so important to me now? To your Uncle?” He shook his head. She smiled at that, then her expression darkened. “Yet even with you as Heir, there are those who would support a rebellion, even if it means supporting a third son before a second.”

He knew that although his status as Heir and Jae’s older brother would do much to dissuade Aegon’s loyalists there were still those loyal to the Faith. They would throw their support behind Jae when they found out he was to marry Rhaena.

Maegor will kill him if Mother pushes his claim. He will die just like Aegon did… He’s only ten…

“Your Mother was quick to send news of Queen Visenya’s death to the Lords of Westeros. To tell them all of her flight and that little Prince Jaehaerys and Princess Alysanne were safely with her.” She had been betting on him not surviving the fallout of her flight. He knew that. Yet every time he was told, it hurt a little bit more. He hated hating his mother and yet he could not stop. She had left him…

“Let me write to Storm’s End. I can reason with her-” Tyanna laughed, the sound rich and joyful and at odds with her usual malevolent chuckle. He waited in silence as she dabbed at her eyes and calmed down.

“You are a sweet boy, Viserys. I shall relay your offer to the Small Council but I truly doubt it will make much difference.” She placed a cold hand over his and leaned forward in her chair. “Your Mother wants a King she can control like she did Aenys. You have too much steel in you. So did your Brother. Why do you think she did not aid him? She had allies even then yet not even her family bestirred themselves to fight with Aegon.”

He remembered hearing that Aegon had gathered a great host to challenge Maegor. That he was marching on King’s Landing. Mother had been beside herself with nervous energy when she assumed Tyanna could not see them. Yet she had led no challenge against Maegor in the city itself.

She was keeping us safe. Aegon lost, had we raised rebellion in the city itself, Maegor would have killed us on his return…

“She was in talks with Rogar Baratheon even then. The Eyrie, Winterfell, Casterly Rock… yet none but the Lannister’s truly came to Aegon’s aid. Baratheon shelters her in his own walls, defiant now when he was so meek during Aegon’s Rebellion. Curious, do you not think?” He felt sick. It wasn’t true! His Mother would not have held back armies that were able to aid Aegon.

“I know what you are thinking, my Prince. That she loves her children, that she loves you. She would not sacrifice Aegon for her own ambition. That she would not sacrifice you…” Her voice was full of sorrow and her eyes seem to glitter with unshed tears. “But she plots rebellion in Storm’s End even now. She wants Maegor to execute you. Your Uncle will not, you are his Heir, so what do you think she’ll do if she is victorious?”

His Mother wouldn’t kill him. Not even to put Jae on the Throne. He flinched when the Queen wiped a tear from his face and he realised, to his shame, that he must have been crying for some time.

“You will not survive the war, I think,” Tyanna told him, solemn expression back in place. “Think on all I have told you this night. Now! I think best you go to bed early. You have training tomorrow!”

Chapter Text

He sat on the hard wooden bench and stared at his hands, turning them over and over. The King was running late. He did not know why. He could not even summon the energy to speculate on what had delayed him. He certainly would not ask. His Uncle was not fond of questions, especially if someone was incautious enough to make them sound like accusations.

Why was it so hard to summon any kind of emotion? He had not even felt this way after they had first imprisoned him. After he had first realised what fate his mother had left him to. Did she think about him? Did she pray for his safety? Or was it as Tyanna said, that she saw him as a problem to be solved with a blade; an accident during a siege or an unsanctioned murder after the fighting was done.

He focused on the ragged nail of his thumb.

Father would have chastised me for biting it…

Two of the squires had found him yesterday, had bowed and scraped and issued their apologies. They’d come to warn him, they had said, the bigger squire, whose nose he had broken, had decided to pay him back for the indignity. It felt like an age had passed since he had done so yet it had only been a week. A beating, they told him, a brutal one at that. He could not even muster up fear. He felt curiously like apart from himself, like he were in some kind of terrible nightmare and none of this was real.

It seemed natural, then, that this nightmare would only get worse. The King would see such a beating as a sign of his weakness. He would drill him ever harder. His days would be filled with ever more pain.

Heavy footfalls had him up on his feet as Maegor stalked down the hallway. He was annoyed. He would have to be careful today. No doubt he had recieved bad news, he knew well that his Uncle would be looking to take it out on somebody. He bowed low as Maegor reached him.

“Enough of that,” he growled. He nodded and followed his Uncle obediently. Quietly.

Like the good little prince you are…

Yet he could not even summon his usual self-loathing. Instead, he fell into his usual stance and waited. It would not be long before they would begin. Maegor turned and examined him. At least his hands no longer shook when he gripped the blade. Then, faster than he would have believed his Uncle could move, he thrust the practice blade at his chest. There was no real skill in the thrust, just speed and savagery.

He hit the ground barely a few moments later, his leg stinging in pain. When he climbed to his feet he did not make his usual effort to avoid looking at his Uncle’s face. The disappointment he caught sight of was enough to banish the numbness with fear, if only for a moment. His moves had been sloppy and his Uncle, the most talented fighter in all the Seven Kingdoms, had most assuredly realised that.

He took a deep breath and faced Maegor once more, bringing the practice blade up and into position. Aegon had always been the best with swords. Even when he had been as young as him he’d been better. It had been something the old master-at-arms had been eager to point out. Before his Father had died… he had never seen the point in swords. He’d preferred to spend his days amongst his friends, drinking wine and courting ladies.

When Maegor struck again, he lasted a little longer this time but he still lost quickly, his sword flying out of suddenly numb fingers. He stilled as Maegor bought the blunt blade to tickle under his chin.

“You disappoint me, boy. Even your sister has more fire,” he growled. He had not been allowed to see Rhaena. Maegor had hidden her away somewhere. Another strike against him then, that he had not even tried to seek her out. He stared at his Uncle, even his self-loathing seemed more routine than genuine now.

“I’m sorry,” he finally whispered, realising his Uncle was waiting for an answer. A beat of silence passed and then Maegor sneered.

“You are sorry,” he repeated, disgust evident in his voice. “Aenys was always sorry. Always whimpering apologies to someone.”

When he did not answer, or even react, Maegor removed the blunt edge from his throat and snorted.

“Your enemies will not be as merciful as I am,” he growled. “They will not care for your apologies. They will not stop and let you pick up your fallen blade!”

The King’s voice rose to a shout but for the first time, he did not feel fear. Perhaps there was something wrong with him. Perhaps he had finally broken. Perhaps all his emotion had burned out of him the night Tyanna had told him of what his mother had done. He’d laid awake for hours, thoughts and emotions churning within him. He’d only slept because he had been exhausted.

“I will be better,” he said finally, wrenching his mind back into the present. It took more effort than it ever had. “I will be a worthy heir, I swear.”

“Do not swear to me, boy. I want to see action.” He nodded and bent down to pick up the blade Maegor had knocked form his hands. His fingers stung as he grasped the hilt. When he went to move into his stance, Maegor shook his head. “I won’t waste my time on you if you aren’t willing to learn.”

A moment later, his usual squires were making their way across to them. No doubt they had been eager waiting for his Uncle’s signal. He forced himself to not tense up as he caught sight of the cruel smile that graced the biggest boy’s face. He had promised a beating. At least his Uncle was unlikely to remain to watch his humiliation. He would hear of it later, of course, but at least he would not see it.

It was almost without thought that he took up his position in front of them and dropped into his stance. He could hear Maegor’s heavy footfalls growing more and more distant. The moment they faded entirely, the mood seemed to shift. He could almost taste the deadly intent behind the two squires that had not sought him out. They meant to cause him harm.

“You can not cower in King Maegor’s shadow now,” growled the first boy, shifting on his feet. “I’m going to teach you your place.”

“Should we really be doing this Amos?” asked one of the boys who had sought him out. “He is the Prince? What if-”

“He’s only the heir ‘til Queen Alys births her child,” sneered Amos. “Then he’ll be nothing more than the son of a traitor and the brother of a traitor.”

That would not happen, if Tyanna had told him the truth. The babe was already dead, not that he could say without breaking his oath. He would still be hus Uncle’s Heir, always would be unless he failed. Amos stepped forward, no doubt hoping his height and bulk would make him seem more imposing. He loomed over him, smiling that cruel smile again.

“And do you know what we do to traitors in King Maegor’s court?” Silence stretched on for a moment. He could hear the nervous shuffling of the squires behind Amos. “We kill them.”

His silence was annoying Amos, he could tell. He could see it in the boy’s frown, in the way the other boys were peering at one another. They had expected a tantrum from him. Something to make the humiliation they intended all the sweeter.

“When the King has his Heir, you’ll be food for the crows, like all those fools on the battlements now. Then we’ll drag your whore mother out of Storm’s End. Her traitor spawn as well-”

“We, Amos? I thought they only kept you around to empty their chamberpots. It’s the only thing you’re good for.” It was if his mouth had said the words without his permission. He hadn’t expected the vitriol and neither had Amos, if the dumbstruck expression was any clue.

The mention of Jae and Aly… There was a rage rising in him. It twisted in his stomach and burned in his veins. He wanted to scream, to shout, to hit and throw. His breath picked up as he raised his eyes to Amos’ muddy brown ones. He did none of that. Instead he poured all of that rage into one strike and hit Amos in the head with his practice blade, wanting nothing more than to smash the stupid expression off of his face. The boy staggered back, caught entirely by surprise.

He did not wait for him to recover. Instead he brought the blade down again, this time into his knee and the boy screamed and dropped his blade. It was a rule of the yard that you stopped the moment your opponent dropped his blade but something pushed him on. Amos didn’t care about him, Jae or Aly. He didn’t care whether Maegor would kill them. He didn’t care if he took Rhaena as a wife against her will. All he cared about was his petty pride.

He expected the other squires to interfere but they didn’t. He did not look up to check why. Instead he bought the blade down again. And again. And again. He poured everything into those strikes. The pain, the fear, the grief… Amos’ cries of pain fell into sobs as his face became a ruin. He could taste hate and blood on his tongue as the boy stopped trying to shield himself and curled into a ball on the floor.

When he was finally done, he felt empty.

A sudden exhaustion hit him and he dropped the blade and staggered back. His arms and shoulders felt as if someone had set them aflame. His legs felt as if they would collapse underneath him at any moment. The only sounds were Amos’ pained sobs and his own desperate panting for breath. It was if he could not get enough, no matter he greedily he sucked at the air. Even the other three had been shocked into silence, were staring at him in horror, as if he were some sort of monster.

Shame hit him then, filling up that emptiness, and leaving him cold and shivering. He had beaten Amos without giving the older boy a chance to fight back. He took a few steps back and the noise of his movements sent the boys huddling together as if they expected to be next. He swallowed his shame and turned.

Ah. Of course. The nightmare always gets worse.

For standing there, looking horrified and disgusted, was his sister.

Chapter Text

He stared at his reflection in the mirror. It was blurred, making his features indistinct, but he could still see the blood. Flecks of it covered his face and gambeson. Behind him, Rhaena stepped into the room. As the door swung shut in Ser Olyvar Bracken’s face, the room snapped back into focus and he realised he was shivering. Sore and swollen hands struggled at the laces as the need to free himself from the soiled clothing rose in him.

He needed to be clean. The blood was even in his hair.

“Vis,” said Rhaena, voice unsure and her face troubled. He ignored her in favour of fighting against the laces on the gambeson. His fingers refused to co-operate and the more he fought to be free, the less progress he seemed to make. He only realised he was crying, and gasping for breath again, when Rhaena pushed his hands away and attended to the laces herself. He stared at his boots as she worked.

When was finally free, he pulled the rest of his garments off with as much haste as he could and practically leapt into the steaming water that the servants had left. He did not calm until the water had turned slightly pink around him and he felt clean and warm. He was crying again. He should not cry. If Maegor found out, he would be punished. His Uncle detested tears. Had told him, in those first few days, that you shouldn’t cry about your problems. You should do something about them.

Action, not words.

Yet he could not stop the tears from falling or his sniffling and sobs from filling the room. He flinched when Rhaena crouched down and placed a hand on his shoulder. The touch was light, as if she were unsure how he’d react, and shame filled him again.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered and his voice was cracked and painful. His throat felt raw. He must have been screaming although he could not remember when he had. It was strange, he reflected, had his sister walked in on him bathing two years ago he’d have been embarrassed beyond measure. He would have screamed for her to leave. Now all he could think was that he was grateful she had not removed her hand from his shoulder. That she could still touch him after what he had done.

“Vis, what happened to you?” Her voice was filled with horror. He glanced at her, unsure what she meant, and found her eyes roaming across the bruises on his body. The ones that ranged from deep blues and purples to the sickly yellows that made his skin look sallow and unhealthy. He brought his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them. “Vis, please answer me. Whatever… that was, whatever he has done to you, we can fix this but we must be allies. You must trust me.”

He turned to examine her. She looked tired, was his first thought. Her features held no disgust now, instead radiating honest concern, but she was tired. He had never seen her eyes so dark or her cheeks so sunken. He’d always know her as cheerful girl, given to adventuring on Dreamfyre, too much like the woman she was named for Father had always said, refusing t stop her. She was one and twenty now. She had children yet he could still picture her at six and ten, laughing in delight at some prank he had played.

More tears.

“Vis-”

“Training,” he answered her. Her mouth twisted and set into an unhappy grimace.

“No training should be as harsh as that. He is a grown man beating a child!” she exclaimed, moving her hand so that her arm now rested over his shoulder.

“He doesn’t beat me! The squires did. Amos-” He couldn’t continue. Shame still burned in him and he lowered his eyes.

“No mere squire would have dared lay hands on you whilst Father lived. Maegor should have their hands for this!” she exclaimed, clearly angry, and he wanted to laugh. What Court had she grown up in? Father would not have punished any who struck them without leave. He had been too concerned about pleasing his Lords to punish one of their number.

“The King believes I should solve my own problems. That it would encourage weakness should he interfere on my behalf,” he told her, voice bitter. Her beautiful face scrunched up in an expression he could not understand.

“Is that what happened today?” she asked, letting her arm fall from his back. He wanted to cry at the loss of contact as she rocked back on her heels and rearranged her dress around her. “You were solving your problems.”

“You don’t understand,” he whispered and she frowned.

“Then talk to me, Vis! You didn’t give that boy any chance to yield… you could have killed him!” He might yet do if Amos’ injuries were too great. Strikes to the face and head were not encouraged for a reason. Even a light knock to the wrong place could kill. What would Maegor do if he had killed Amos? Punish him or reward him? Why did both of those ideas fill him with dread?

“He…” His words died in his throat and he raised his eyes to hers. “He said… he said that they would kill Jae and Aly…”

She rearranged her self onto her knees and placed both her hand on his his cheeks. He leaned into the touch. She was warm and he was cold, despite the heat of the water.

“Oh Vis…” she murmured, tears in her eyes. “Vis, Jae and Aly are safe. Maegor can not touch them. They are safe.”

“Safe with Mother.” The bitterness in his tone horrified him. When Rhaena didn’t reply, he elaborated. “Mother left me to Maegor. She knew her fleeing so soon after Visenya dying would make him angry. She took Dark Sister as well!”

“She fled to keep Jae and Aly safe! You beat that boy half to death because he threatened them today. Would you begrudge them safety with Mother?” He glared at his reflection in the water.

“I know that,” he whispered. “But she left me to die.”

Gentle fingers wiped away his tears and he sniffled.

“You did not die, Vis. You are alive. He did not kill you, he made you his Heir. He did so because if you die, Jae is a threat to him,” she whispered.

“But if I am not good enough as his heir, he will kill me. Then he’ll want Jae… or Aerea.” He saw her pause at that, her lips thinning. When Maegor’s summons had come, she had sent the twins away, ensuring that not even she knew where they had gone. The effort was doomed from the start, Tyanna had found them within a month.

“He’ll have a new heir soon enough,” she whispered. “His whore is pregnant. You can’t let him break you, Vis.”

Something must have shown on his face because she frowned when he didn’t answer. He could not tell her of Maegor’s infertility. He had sworn an oath to Tyanna and he had no doubt that if the Gods did not strike him down for breaking it, she would.

“What?” she asked a moment later. “What is it Vis?”

“You shouldn’t call her a whore,” he said finally. “Tyanna will find out. She will make sure you’re punished.”

Rhaena snorted in amusement at that and settled down so that her face was barely visible over the rim of the tub.

“Tyanna doesn’t give two shits about Alys Harroway. She wants Maegor for herself,” she announced. He had no answer for that. It was rumoured that Tyanna was Alys’ lover as much as she was Maegor’s but he had never seen any proof of that during the private dinner’s he had attended with Maegor’s Queens.

“Maybe,” he said finally.

“There is something else you aren’t telling me,” she said, tone accusing. He stared at his knees again.

“I can’t,” he told her. “I can’t tell you. I swore an oath.”

Silence stretched on after that. The water was cool now, unpleasant to be sat in, so he stood up and clambered out. His limbs were stiff and ached fiercely as he dried himself. He hadn’t used Tyanna’s powder today. He’d merely wanted to be clean and dry. A glance across to her usual tea told him it was as cold as his bath. He was fumbling with his shirt laces when another thought struck him.

“Did you ever speak with Mother after… after Aegon… after Crakehall?” Rhaena, who had risen from the floor to seat herself in one of the chairs by the fire, frowned.

“Some letters got through,” she finally said. “Not much.”

“They say… they say she was speaking with Winterfell, the Eyrie, Casterly Rock and Storm’s End even then.” He should not push this, he knew from the way her face had gone carefully blank but he needed to know if Tyanna had spoke the truth or if it were a lie.

“Who is asking Vis? You or Tyanna?” she asked coldly. He forced himself to stay calm, to meet her eyes.

“Did our Mother delay Aegon’s allies so that a future rebellion with Jae and Aly would have more supporters.” He had not known that his voice could be so stern and unyielding. Even Rhaena was shocked because she did not bother to hide it.

“Is this what she claims!?” His sister stood. “That… No! No, Vis, our Mother did no such thing! Those she were in talks with desired a victory, something to show that Aegon could be a credible threat to Maegor.”

That made sense. It explained why Maegor had taken the field personally against him. He sighed in relief and Rhaena’s anger drained away from her. Instead, he saw pity on her face.

“She told you that?” she said gently. He nodded, running his hands through his hair. It was growing long. He would need to cut it soon.

“She said it was suspicious that Lord Rogar would shelter them now when he had done nothing to help Aegon. Especially since Aegon had allies then and Lord Rogar does not now. She said… she said that the Lords would want to crown Jae to oppose Maegor.” Rhaena hummed at that.

“They can not raise a third son over a second. Mother knows that. She will deal with Lord Rogar. None shall crown Jae whilst you live.” She sounded so certain. He wanted to believe her but Tyanna’s venom had been given too much time to fester in his mind.

“She said that they would do so anyway. That I would not survive the rebellion,” he whispered.

“Listen to what you are saying, Vis! You think our Mother would kill you? She loves you!” She looked as frustrated as he felt. “If Lord Rogar does rebel it will not be to crown Jae. There are too many in the succession ahead of him for his claim to be taken seriously.”

The twins. Him.

“And if she courts the Faith?” he asked. “The Red Dog still has men he can call on. Jae and Aly aren’t… tainted like you and I. Like the twins are. She could promise them to the Eyrie and Casterly Rock. Half the Realm would rise-”

“Prince Viserys, Princess Rhaena.” They both froze as the door swung open and one of the servants stepped through. “You are summoned to attend a private meal in His Grace’s quarters.”

Chapter Text

They didn’t speak as they made their way to Maegor’s quarters. He doubted he could have summoned anything beyond dread at what Maegor might do to him for what he’d done to Amos. He did not know what plagued Rhaena but her features were troubled. A frown marred her looks. Despite not speaking, she still looped her arm through his. He was thankful for that. She was his sister, she was here for him. Her arm through his was enough to stop the shaking.

Perhaps it was silly to assume she could protect him but the idea comforted him all the same.

Maegor’s three Queens had also been invited to this meal it would seem yet he could only see Maegor. Maegor who sat the head of the table, wine clutched in one hand, watching him with an inscrutable expression. He swallowed, feeling as if he might shuck himself free of his skin at any moment. When would he make his judgement? Would he make him wait through dinner itself?

Tyanna and the rest were not unreadable at least. When she saw their linked arms, Tyanna smiled warmly. Alys looked pleasantly surprised and offered him a small smile. Ceryse merely sneered, her default look of faint disgust at everything somehow magnified in the slight gloom of Maegor’s quarters.

“Prince Viserys, Princess Rhaena,” said Tyanna, sounding like she was actually happy they were here. Rhaena’s hand tightened on his arm for a moment. Then she took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He hoped he was the only one who had heard it but judging by Tyanna’s look of amusement as they took their seats, he wasn’t. Maegor barely reacted, swirling his wine in his hand and keeping those terrible eyes on him.

“Princess, I see you found your brother at the training yards today?” Tyanna phrased it as a question but he knew it was not. He watched as his sister’s lips thinned in annoyance. He tried not to hold his breath or squirm on her behalf, not with his Uncle so intent on him.

“Yes,” said his sister and he knew from years of growing up at her side that the politeness of her tone was strained. “Yes, I found him well enough.”

“Good,” purred Tyanna. “Tell me Alys, how are you faring dear?”

Alys brightened under her attention.

“Oh, it’s such a pain being pregnant Tyanna but it will all be worth it for the babe!” Ceryse snorted at that, pouring herself the rich red wine she so favoured. Rumour suggested Maegor’s first Queen was barren. That even if Maegor could get a woman with living child, Ceryse would never give him one.

“Indeed. I can not wait to have a child of my husband’s in the world.” He forced himself to smile at that, to not look at Maegor to see how his Uncle had reacted to the statement.

“Enough,” said Maegor finally, placing his wine on the table with a gentleness he had not expected his Uncle to be capable of. “I did not bring you here to speak of Alys and the child.”

“Of course, husband,” tittered Tyanna, smiling broadly at him. He tried his best to keep his smile in place as Maegor caught his eye finally but he had a feeling the effect was somewhat strained.

“Viserys.” He straightened in his chair and tried to pretend he didn’t feel sick to his stomach. “I have heard an interesting tale from the master-at-arms.”

“Your Grace,” he said, proud he hadn’t stammered from the fear he was feeling. Maegor smiled and he didn’t know what that meant for him. He wanted him to just pronounce his fate, to not keep him waiting like this. He forced himself to remain still and not fidget. Next to him, Rhaena was tense as well. What would she do if Maegor decided on punishment?

“Well done, Viserys,” Maegor said finally. He tried not choke on his relief and instead nodded, realising he’d been holding his breath only when the room tilted a little around him. “You showed that boy what happens to those who defy a dragon.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” he managed to say and Maegor frowned. No doubt he had noticed how breathless the acknowledgement was. Rhaena raised her hand and curled it around his, giving it a reassuring squeeze and Maegor’s frown cleared into something approaching cheer.

“I see you have re-thought our agreement.” He glanced at his sister in surprise but she would not look at him. Instead, she seemed intent on everything but the other occupants of the room.

“I have. My brother needs me.” He wanted to cry at the statement. Maegor smiled broadly and scooped up his wine again. He had never seen his Uncle so happy…

“Excellent news! Bring more wine! We have a betrothal to celebrate!” As the servants hastened to obey, Tyanna caught Rhaena’s eye and smiled her usual, cruel smile. He shivered, feeling as if both of them had walked into some trap she had laid long ago.

“My Queen, might I speak with you later?” Rhaena was frowning when she said the words but it did not seem to bother Tyanna. The woman merely raised a mock toast to his sister before sipping at her wine.

That dinner was the oddest dinner he had ever experienced during his time as his Uncle’s squire. Maegor laughed and drank as if he were not the monster that had condemned thousands to death. As if he had not slain their brother after usurping his rightful place. As if… as if he thought this were some happy family and he the jolly patriarch.

For his part, he focused on avoiding his Uncle’s entreaties to drink more and feigning merriment. He wasn’t sure that he did a good job but Rhaena’s acting was just as miserable as his. Maegor was too happy to bring the matter to everyone’s attention. Even Ceryse was moved to say a toast for their impending nuptials. He banished his misgivings on the matter. He did not want to marry Rhaena and he was fairly certain, given Rhaena’s usual favourites, that she did not wish to marry him.

Yet she had decided too. Was it to save her children?

My brother needs me…

Was it to save him? Had what she seen him do moved her to… what? Save him from himself? Make him more like the boy Father and Mother had wanted him to be? The thought sent him to his feet and Maegor pause halfway through a bawdy joke to stare at him.

“My apologies Uncle,” he said into the silence that fell. “I fear training exhausted me. Might I retire?”

Annoyance flashed across Maegor’s face but Tyanna once again came to his rescue.

“Ah, the nerves of the young.” Maegor’s annoyance became amusement. “I will escort our young husband-to-be to his chambers.”

“Go with them, Rhaena. Your brother needs you after all.” Rhaena rose as he did but they were delayed by Maegor catching Tyanna in a deep kiss that had them, and Ceryse, seeking to look anywhere else but at the two of them. Rhaena took his hand as they made their way to his quarters. He wanted to be alone with her, he wanted to ask her what deal she had struck with their Uncle. They were halfway back when Tyanna stopped and pushed open a door that led to an empty room.

“You asked to speak with me, Princess Rhaena,” Tyanna purred, gesturing inside. Rhaena tensed and then nodded, giving his hand a small squeeze before she stepped past Tyanna. The Queen gave him a smile before stepping in herself and closing the door. He waited in the corridor for an agonisingly long minute before giving in and creeping closer, pressing his ear to door.

“…lies!” That was Rhaena. Her voice was muffled but he could still hear what she was saying.

“Your Uncle may find your disrespect amusing but I do not, Princess.” He blinked in surprise at that. Tyanna sounded different. Colder, more hostile. He pressed a little closer.

“I will not be threatened. Not here and not by you.” He had never heard Rhaena so angry. “I will not let you turn my brother into your own twisted puppet. I will not lose him to Maegor.”

“Like you lost Aegon?” The next sounds were indistinct. He could not make out what had happened but when they spoke again, they sounded breathless.

“You will not say his name! He was my husband. My brother. The father of my children.” He hated the grief evident in her voice. He mourned Aegon but Rhaena… Rhaena had lost far more than him.

“I believe you loved him more than you will love any man again, Princess.” Tyanna’s voice was more in line with what he remembered now. Soft, vaguely sorrowful. “Yet I told your brother the truth. I would not lie to him.”

“You lie so much you can not even tell the truth to yourself,” sneered Rhaena. “You told Maegor he needed to kill Aegon. The Realm would have risen for him if he had even one victory to his name.”

“Yes. Aegon was dangerous.” There was silence in the aftermath of that pronouncement and his heart ached for Rhaena again. “He was dangerous to your mother as well.”

“Cease this… this clear manipulation! Our mother loves us! I will not turn against her!” Tyanna’s words about Aegon had clearly upset Rhaena, he could hear the grief and anger in her voice. He had not heard her like this since Larissa had been sent away. “You may have my brother half convinced she betrayed him but I am a woman grown and not susceptible to your lies!”

“Your brother is a young man. He was hurt grievously by your mother’s flight. It is a choice I hope I will never face, truly. A choice between condemning one sibling to save two-”

“She did not condemn him! She acted to save Jae and Alys, he knows that! Just by taking Jae she ensured Vis would be safe!” He found himself nodding slightly as Tyanna’s voice was silenced.

“Then why take Dark Sister?”

“What? What does Visenya’s blade have to do with Mother condemning Vis?” His own thoughts echoed Rhaena’s evident confusion. He could still hear the grief in her voice, like she was fighting tears even as she stood her ground in the face of Tyanna.

“Everything,” replied Tyanna. “It has everything to do with her condemning Prince Viserys. My husband loved that blade as much as he loved his mother. A reminder of better days spent training with her on Dragonstone, I think. But it is not just a fond memory… it is legitimacy.”

“I’m not quite certain I understand your insinuation.” Rhaena’s voice was filled with cold fury but he did not understand why. What had she understood from Tyanna’s words that he had not?

“Then let me be clear. Why take the sword from Visenya’s rooms? Why not simply flee into the night? Why risk everything for that blade? The boy certainly can not wield it.” Rhaena was silent and he willed her to say something, to come up with some sort of reason that his Mother had done such a thing. “I can only think of two reasons. The first is that from the moment she fled, she intended to crown the boy and needed every scrap of legitimacy she could get. The second is that she wished to spite Maegor, to pour salt into the wound of his Mother’s death by taking the blade she gave him all those years ago. Both would get your brother killed.”

“You are wrong,” said Rhaena, stubbornly. Her anger was gone though, only grief remained, he realised with a sinking stomach. He’d thought Rhaena had all the answers and yet… what explanation could there be for her taking the sword? Put into words like that… it was not about Jae and Aly’s safety, was it? He pulled back from the door and fell back into the wall opposite the door.

Moments later, it was opened by Tyanna. She paused, taking in his expression and the way the wound caused by his Mother’s betrayel had been reopened once more. Why was it every time some reason was given, Tyanna was there to make her a monster again?

“How rude, Prince Viserys,” she admonished. “It is not polite to eavesdrop. Perhaps it is for the best though. Your sister is in some distress.”

He could not see past her to see Rhaena and he felt guilty she had not been his first thought. Tyanna smiled, cruel and harsh.

“Go to her. She will need you in the coming months.”

Chapter Text

He gazed, horrified, at the fresh heads that decorated the walls. There were far, far, far more fresh ones than old.

“Gods be good,” whispered Rhaena from her mount next to him. He swallowed, unable to say anything. How many had Maegor condemned? Why these men? Their Uncle hadn’t even looked at them once as they made their way past them towards the docks. “All so we could leave the city? Who are they?”

He didn’t know. He sensed Rhaena’s question was more rhetorical anyway. She did not truly wish to know the names and stories of the men Maegor had murdered. He doubted they were all traitors though. As like as not, the biggest part of them had been in the wrong place at the wrong time and had caught Tyanna’s eye. He was happy beyond measure that Maegor was leaving her here.

He wished he could refuse to go to Dragonstone. Yet Maegor had made it clear. He would tame a dragon before his wedding or he would die trying. He didn’t have a problem with taming a dragon in theory yet it was the dragon Maegor had chosen for him that had him squirming.

Vhagar, the dragon of Queen Visenya.

After her death it had made it’s lair on the Dragonmont, he had been told. Maegor wanted it to have a rider once more, he wanted Vhagar and Balerion to fly together again. Another test to see if he were worthy, he suspected. If he could ride Visenya’s dragon as well as being named for her then it was just more proof he was worthy of being Maegor’s heir.

Just like beating Amos was proof.

The boy had been sent home in disgrace after he had recovered well enough. Maegor had proudly informed him that he had been blinded the boy in one eye, broken more than a few of his bones and relieved him of a good few teeth. His Uncle was proud of the damage he had done to a defenceless boy… and a savage part of him wondered why he should be so ashamed? Amos had been a brute, happy to beat him and, he had no doubt, happy to kill him if the order was given.

He glanced at Rhaena and then back at his horse. He could not tell her that. She still did not understand the realities of Maegor’s Court. That to speak in the wrong way could mean your death if Maegor was in one of his moods. As their column wound their way towards the docks, he risked one backwards glance at the heads. Too many dead so that Maegor felt safe leaving King’s Landing.

Around them, the city was nearly silent. It seemed wrong. During his Father’s rule the streets would have been bustling with activity, men and women going about their daily routines. They should be hawking their wares, haggling with one another, gossiping about recent events or toasting each other at the cities many taverns. There should be bright colours whichever way you turned as merchants from far flung lands brought exotic goods…

This King’s Landing felt like a city of ghosts. Like some ancient ruin inhabited only by the dead than the city he had grown up in. What people did brave the streets kept their heads down, hurrying away when they saw Maegor coming. They wore dull clothing, browns and greys as if they were in mourning. Or maybe, he realised, they couldn’t afford the dyes or the cloth to be more colourful.

King’s Landing was supposed to be rivalled only by Oldtown, how could it’s residents be so poor?

Occasionally, they caught sight of Maegor’s Watch. When Tyanna produced her lists, the Watch would be quick to launch their dawn raids to seize those who were named, regardless of innocence or guilt. He had no doubt that they had bought the victims of this latest massacre to the Red Keep. They were probably the only reason that Maegor’s executions had not caused riots yet. They enforced the King’s Peace in King’s Landing and, if the rumours were to be believed, shook down more than a few shopkeepers for protection money.

He forced himself to focus on the back of Maegor’s head as they rode on. He could no longer bear the wrongness of the dead city.

“How much more of him can they take?” Rhaena murmured.

“You shouldn’t say such things,” he whispered back. “If he hears you-”

“Let him. I am not afraid of him.” He stared at her, struggling to find a way to convince her. How could the heads not have already done so? How could the brutality she’d already witnessed not make his point for him? How could she not see when Tyanna had - of course.

“Then who will be here for Aerea and Rhaella? They need their mother. They have already lost their Father to Maegor.” She clenched her jaw at that and sat straighter in the saddle but did not look at him. They continued on in silence. He could not help but feel as if they were being watched, as if unfriendly eyes were following them the entire way. At one point he realised he’d laid his hand on the hilt of his blade… and so had half Maegor’s guard, including the three Kingsguard that would be accompanying them

“You feel it too?” asked the white knight nearest to him, Ser Symond Crayne. He’d never spoken much with the man before now. He nodded and the knight grimaced. “It’s like travelling the High Road and knowing the Mountain Clans are watching you, waiting for any sign of weakness.”

“Is it truly?” That was not particularly reassuring. He scanned the buildings around them. Perhaps it was his imagination that made them seem more malevolent as they leaned over the cobble road.

“Aye. There will be trouble once word gets around the King has left the City.” Neither he or Ser Symond removed their hands from their swords until they had passed through the River Gate and the atmosphere seemed to ease.

“You have good instincts, my Prince, use them often,” said Ser Symond, relief evident on his boyish face. “Don’t let time dull them, they may save your life one day. Now if you’ll excuse me, I must speak with the King.”

He watched as the knight urged his horse on to reach Maegor. The King was forced the lean down to hear what Ser Symond had to say. Whatever it was, it was brief and his Uncle was not happy afterwards. Two knights were dispatched from their party a moment later, riding back towards the Keep. There was no further incident as the boarded the ship that would take them to Dragonstone.

“We should have taken Dreamfyre,” said Rhaena as the docks fell away. “It would have been faster than a ship.”

“Eager to ride her again?” They both jumped as Maegor loomed suddenly behind them. He had not expected his Uncle, normally given to stomping, to be so quiet and light on his feet. “You have not had the pleasure in some time. I will arrange for one of the Kingsguard to go riding with you when we return.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” said Rhaena and it was only a brother’s instinct that could discern the fact that it was said through half gritted teeth. If Maegor had detected the hostility, he didn’t show it. “You are too kind.”

“Come, I have another lesson for you.” Maegor’s hand fell onto his shoulder and his Uncle half-dragged him away. He did not miss Rhaena’s worried look, as if she were debating objecting. He tried to tell her with his eyes to stay quiet, to go along with it all. It was safer that way.

“Ser Symond spoke well of you. He says you went through the city with your hand on your blade,” said Maegor as they came a halt beside the three knights of Kingsguard. Ser Symond gave him a pleased smile. Ser Jon Tollet and Ser Raymund Mallery seemed less pleased and more ambiguous to his presence. He still preferred them to Ser Maladon and Ser Owen, those knights were Maegor’s through and through. They had been left in King’s Landing, alongside Ser Olyvar Bracken and the ancient Ser Harrold Langward, to guard Maegor’s Queens.

“Yes, Your Grace. The city felt… wrong,” he said, hoping that there was no implication there that said it was Maegor’s fault. Ser Symond nodded.

“Yes. A man should know when unfriendly eyes are on him but that’s not the lesson you will learn as we travel to Dragonstone.” He tried not to feel dread at the word ‘lesson’. It often indicated he was about to be in pain. “Fetch the boy.”

At that barked order, Ser Jon left without complaint. He waited in silence. Maegor was not a fan of idle conversation. Even in his good moods, he believed everything must have a purpose. Speaking for the sake of it did not have a purpose in Maegor’s mind. It wasn’t long before Ser Jon returned leading one of the crew. They were about the same age, if he had to guess.

“Take off your sword, your doublet and your shirt.” His hands were obeying before his mind could process the order. Why would his Uncle want him half stripped? Ser Raymund whistled in surprise as he pulled his shirt over his head.

“Heard you were working him hard,” he observed when Maegor shot him a look. His Uncle chuckled darkly.

“He needed it. His skill was atrocious.” Ser Raymund nodded. He tried not to give any sign he’d even noticed them talking about him as if he wasn’t there. “You ever fight with your bare knuckles boy?”

“No, Your Grace,” he replied, shaking his head. Maegor smiled. It was not a nice smile.

“Well, today you will learn.”

Chapter Text

The mist was heavy on the Dragonmont as the sun began to rise. He had been told to make himself ready to leave at dawn. He had the servants awaken him early. He did not want to risk being late. Not today. The heavy footsteps of his Uncle had him sit up a little straighter and pull his pack closer. When he saw him waiting, Maegor smiled although it was not his cruel, joyless smile but the genuine one he showed only to those closest to him.

“Eager, aren’t you boy?” he chuckled. He nodded, standing up and swinging the pack over his shoulders.

“Yes, Your Grace, it is a great honour-”

“Enough of that. Come, we have a lot of ground to cover today.” He followed obediently, as Maegor began walking. There would be no horses on the trip, he had been informed the night before, horses would only become a liability as they went further up the Dragonmont. The castle town was waking up around them, many of it’s people stopping to stare at the King and the Prince, but Maegor paid them little attention. It mattered little as soon enough they were through the gates and in the shadow of the Dragonmont proper.

“Have you ever ridden a dragon, boy?” asked Maegor.

“Yes, Your Grace, Rhaena sometimes took me on Dreamfyre and-” He choked on the words, sudden grief cloying in his throat at the memory. Aenys had not been a good King, but he had been a good Father. He imagined that if he closed his eyes he could almost feel the wind on his face as Quicksilver darted back and forth through the clouds as his Father wrapped his arms around him, laughing along with his joy.

“And?” asked Maegor. He did not think that his Uncle had looked back. He hoped he hadn’t. He would not approve of grief or the fact he was fighting tears on the day Maegor was letting him attempt to tame his Mother’s dragon.

“Father took me.” Silence met that revelation. “On… on Quicksilver. He was the first dragon I ever rode.”

And you killed him… Tore him to burning chunks above the God’s Eye when you killed Aegon…

They trudged on in silence and he stared at everything but his Uncle. The terrain at this point of the Dragonmont was forgiving, a gentle grass slope. He knew it would rapidly become quite unforgiving very soon. That the trek would not be easy, no matter how much he might wish it was.

“Vhagar was the first one I ever rode,” Maegor said, breaking the silence. “Mother took me flying when I was barely a babe out of my swaddling clothes.”

He didn’t know what to say to that. Luckily for him, Maegor did not want him to say anything. He had never quite heard the tone of voice that Maegor was using now. His words were slow and measured, as if he were half lost in memory. He supposed that made sense.

“She raised me, not my Father.” He detected bitterness in Maegor’s tone. “Here on Dragonstone! She was a good Mother. She was the first to put a blade in my hand, the first to give me my purpose!”

He glanced back then, violet eyes shining. He swallowed at the thought that Maegor, the Uncle who had usurped the Throne and… and killed Aegon… was close to tears…

“She would tell me stories about my Father,” he finally said, turning back. “I wonder what kind of man I would have been had I been raised by him like Aenys was.”

He was breathing heavily as he processed that. There was a longing in his voice that he suspected his Uncle did not realise was there. What did Maegor want to hear from him? What was the right thing to say?

“Father was… he let too many Lords have their way.” Maegor didn’t turn around at the statement and he felt relief. He had not earned his Uncles ire. Here, trekking up the side of the Dragonmont, there was only him to be the outlet for his rage. They walked on a little longer, grass giving way to rock and a steeper incline.

“Aye. Diplomacy.” Maegor spat the word as if it were some kind of curse. “I am a warrior. Put a blade in my hand and I can fell any man or beast. But when it comes to words… Aenys was always better at words. Mother said that it was the same with she and Rhaenys. She lost something the day Rhaenys died and I lost something the day Aenys died. We should have been united but he let that woman come between us!”

“That woman, Your Grace?” he asked, before he realised how much of a bad idea that was. Maegor just snorted.

“Alyssa Velaryon. Simpering…” His Uncle seemed to struggle with his words for a moment as he wrestled with his surprise. He had never seen this level of dislike for his Mother from his Uncle before. “She is your Mother but I wish she had never married Aenys. She ruined him. He was a Son of the Dragon!”

Maegor’s bellow seemed to echo about them as he stopped dead, fists clenched. His first instinct was to step backwards when Maegor whirled suddenly, crossing the gap between them and dropped to one knee in front of them. A large hand on the back of his head forced their eyes to meet and he struggled not to tremble.

“Your Mother ruined Aenys. He was raised by Aegon the Conqueror himself! I had a plan to fix everything. I was going to come back, I was going to save him. Mother agreed to help! It was Alyssa Velaryon that killed your Father, boy, not my Mother.” The look on his Uncle’s face… his agreement was important to him.

He is not sane… He is not…

“I did not think- I would never accuse-” Maegor just smiled in response to his stammering. There was no cruelty in it and he relaxed for a moment. In truth, he did not know if Visenya had killed his Father or if the the strain of Kingship had. His Mother has whispered that it was suspicious how quickly Visenya had bought Maegor home but she had Vhagar and he Balerion. And why should he believe her words? Tyanna had made it clear that his Mother wanted him dead. She clearly had no problems with kinslaying in that regard.

“Good boy! You know your true fam-” Maegor’s smile died and dread went through him. Nothing good ever came from Maegor’s smile falling like that. When he focused, truly focused, it was not anger his Uncle was feeling. Nor was it he Maegor was watching. He was focused on something just over his left shoulder, focused in the way a cat focuses on a mouse. He took a deep breath and turned.

Seven men on horseback were riding towards them. At speed too, they clearly did not care about their horses. Their rainbow cloaks stood out garishly against the rocky backdrop, the small cloud of gravel and dust their horses were kicking up making them visible from even a great distance. A chill went through him. The Faith Militant. The Warrior’s Sons.

“Throw the packs down there and get behind me,” said Maegor, voice cool, throwing his pack at him without looking. He obeyed as quickly as possible, throwing his cloak down too. If they were to fight, it would only get in the way. Maegor’s pack and cloak soon joined it and he took up his position just behind his Uncle. They waited in silence as the knights grew ever closer.

They were not the splendid knights that he remembered from his childhood. They still wore the silver armour and the rainbow cloaks but they were ragged somehow. The cloaks dirtier than they should be and their armour showed signs of hasty repair or outright damage. The seven men dismounted, fanning out behind the man that was clearly their leader. Maegor didn’t move as they began to stride forward but he knew enough to sense his Uncle was looking forward to the fight.

Some of the knights towards the back had their hands on their blades, clearly nervous. He could see it in their stances and the way they glanced, moving their entire heads to accommodate for helms they were clearly not used too, as if they were expecting Balerion himself to swoop in and roast them all alive. The leader was different though. He strode forward as if he had an army behind him.

“Maegor! Bastard abomination born of incest!” His voice seemed to ring, the helmet distorting it. “I denounce you as a traitor and a murderer! You are no King of mine!”

He thought he heard Maegor chuckle.

“Another trial of the Seven? I seem to remember winning the last one.” At his voice, the knights shuffled, glancing around one another again. “I’m pretty sure I’ve already proved my innocence and right to the Throne.”

The lead knight drew his sword and the rest followed his lead. Only four of them even had shields, he noted, letting his hand fall to his own blade. If they killed Maegor here, he had no doubt he would be next.

And then Mother will have everything she needs to crown Jae…

He swallowed at the thought. The Faith Militant were not his Mother’s personal assassins. He could not see her in every shadow and every plot. As like as not half of these men weren’t even knights. More likely poor village men that the actual knight had dressed up in dead men’s armour. His heart feeling like it might beat out of his chest and cold sweat breaking out across his body, he drew his sword at the same time Maegor did and his Uncle glanced back in surprise before nodding solemnly at him.

Then the knights charged.

What happened next felt like an age. An age frantically stabbing and slashing at his opponents as Maegor tore through the them, wrenching a shield from one and using to cave in the helmet of another. Seizing one man’s sword arm and kicking him so viciously that he fell with a scream. One man was thrown down the incline, tumbling uncontrollably as his cloak was used as leverage.

He killed one himself. He hadn’t armoured himself properly. He saw the opening and went for it with barely a thought to what it would mean. There had been to little resistance and the sight of his enemies blood made him freeze as the man choked for air through the gash he had opened in his neck. He glanced up in time to see his Uncle kick the legs from underneath one man and drive Blackfyre through his chest, pinning him to the floor.

“Monster,” said the voice of the knight that had brought his men here to die. “You are no man! Demon!”

He turned to run but Maegor was not done with him. His Uncle pulled him back by his cloak before wrenching the helmet from his face. He did not recognise the knight beneath and he was grateful for that. What would he have done if Maegor had revealed one of his Mother’s men? He looked more like bandit than an actual knight anway. Long, greasy hair and sallow skin over gaunt features.

“Viserys! Hand me a blade.” He rushed to hand Maegor his own. His Uncle held it up to the light, still holding his prisoner in place. “Now, I could question you. Make you tell me how you got here. Who sent you.”

The knight swallowed at that, trying to pull at Maegor’s hold on him but his Uncle merely smiled his nasty smile and lifted the blade higher.

“Mother have mercy, Father guide me, Warrior give me stre-” Maegor killed him. He wanted to look away as the blade was pushed through the knight’s mouth, ending his prayer. The knight’s body hit the ground and everything that had happened welled up within him and he found himself vomiting into the gravel.

“Hah! First kill? It always takes you that way,” laughed Maegor. “I saw the blade. There was blood on it. You have done well today!”

Chapter Text

He remained still as Maegor’s hands slammed into the great wooden table that dominated the Small Council Chamber. His Uncle was red with anger as he leaned forward to look all his advisers in the eye.

He had been ordered to attend them from now on. His taming of Vhagar had done much to increase his Uncle’s trust in him. He was permitted to call him Uncle Maegor now and his training sessions had been cut back to twice a week to allow him to study under a range of tutors from Benifer to Tyanna herself. Soon, his Uncle promised, he would begin training to ride Vhagar as a true Valyrian Dragonlord should ride. Rhaena was to join them too as according to Maegor, she rode Dreamfyre like she would ride a horse.

Yet that was the future, now he had to survive his first meeting.

“I was attacked!” Maegor bellowed and he saw at least Lord Alton Butterwell and Grand Maester Benifer flinch at the volume. Even Lord Lucas Horroway looked uneasy and he was Maegor’s Hand. “I was attacked on Dragonstone! My wives attacked here! And you tell me none of you know where those responsible hide!? Since when was my Small Council made up of cowards and incompetents!?”

He swallowed hard. Tyanna had reported the men had been sent by Ser Joffrey Doggett who was, somehow, getting information from within the city despite her best efforts. Worse still, Ser Symond had been right about there being trouble brewing on the streets of King’s Landing. Almost a hundred Watchmen had been slain in the riots that had begun after they had left the city.

Queen Alys had ‘lost’ her babe in the attack. Although only Maegor, Tyanna and he knew that she had no chance of bearing a living child, the riots were an easy scapegoat.

It would not be hard for others to deduce the mastermind behind the attacks either. Ser Joffrey Dogget, the Red Dog of the Hills, Tyanna had chosen the leader of the Warrior’s Sons and these days, the leader of what was left of the Faith Militant too, as the ultimate ‘killer’ of the babe. Yet he couldn’t help but think something was strange… Ser Joffrey lurked in the wilds, far from cities, little better than a bandit. He struck at Lords loyal to Maegor the moment they showed weakness and so far he had been little more than an irritant but… this was different, somehow. He had never been so bold.

When he said so, Tyanna smiled at him. It was a smile full of pride, rather than the cruelty that was her usual fare.

“The Prince has the right of it, my husband,” she said. He did not miss the unhappiness on the other men’s faces as she spoke. It seemed Tyanna was not popular on the Small Council. “The Red Dog changes his tactics for a reason.”

“And that reason is?” asked Lord Daemon Velaryon, tapping his fingers on the table in an annoyed manner. Lord Daemon was technically his Uncle as well, although the man had not acknowledged him as such after his Mother had fled, leaving him a prisoner living on-

No. He could not keep coming back to that.

“Jaehaerys Targaryen,” said Tyanna, followed by her usual throaty chuckle. Daemon scowled and stopped his tapping. The Small Council Chamber was silent as nervous eyes flickered to Maegor… and him, he was surprised to note. “News of the Prince’s intended betrothal travelled faster than I would have liked. The former Queen was somehow informed days after Princess Rhaena arrived at Court.”

“I have spies in my Court,” growled Maegor, voice low and dangerous. “What do I employ you for if not to ensure I do not have spies in my Court!?”

Tyanna’s smile did not flicker but around her, the others looked smug at the fact she had incurred his Uncle’s anger.

“Regardless of spies, my King, the former Queen has put word about that she would be open to entreating with the Faith. I have no doubt Ser Joffrey is trying to boast his reputation in order to earn a meeting.” Maegor pushed himself off of the table and stalked towards the window.

“The bitch gathers allies to overthrow me even now and yet you council me to not engage her? To not fly straight to Storm's End and burn it as Rhaenys should have burned it!” The yell seemed to echo as the lords glanced at one another, wondering what could be said to ease Maegor’s rage without becoming the focus of it yourself.

“Your Grace, the Prince and Princess yet reside there!” squeaked Lord Alton.

“And should you burn Storms End, it will only drive the Great Lords further from your cause,” said Lord Daemon. “They will begin to wonder if they are next. They would expect a fair trial.”

“Not to mention it is defended by two dragons!” said Lord Lucas, adding his objection slow enough that it was not lost in the general disagreement. Maegor was swift in his punishment, moving across the Council Chamber with near inhuman speed and lifting his goodfather clean out of his chair and slamming him across the table. The only noise was the distant sounds of the city and Lord Lucas’ whimpering.

“Do you think me a coward, Lucas?” he growled into the hapless Hand’s ear. Lord Harroway, whose breath was coming in short pants, shook his head, unable to form the word ‘no’ so great was his fear. He gripped the arms of his seat and swallowed, forcing himself not to react to the scene playing out in front of him. If someone noticed his discomfort and it got back to Maegor… he may ride Vhagar now but he was still no match for his Uncle.

Not yet, anyway. Even if the thought made him feel vaguely disloyal.

“Do you think me so incompetent that I would be killed by two children who have never been taught to properly ride! Two children who wouldn’t know a fight if it bit them on the arse!?” screamed Maegor, directly into Lord Lucas’ ear. The man seemed to be on the verge of crying and he was somewhat relieved to see Lord Alton and Benifer squirming slightly in their seats.

Unable to get an answer, Maegor wrenched the man upright before making a sound of disgust and throwing him across the floor. Then he turned, unsheathed Blackfyre and laid it on the table, meeting every single one of their gazes once more. He did not know if Maegor wanted him to look away first or not. He was clearly in one of his moods and such moods could be deadly… something that amused him normally could earn a trip to the Black Cells if one were not careful.

Maegor looked away before he could finish panicking about it and no blow came. He was not ripped from his seat as Lord Lucas had been and he allowed himself to breath a little in relief.

I would never have dreamed of doing such a thing before I rode Vhagar…

“Here is what I’m going to do,” said Maegor, voice oddly calm. “I am going to fly to the nearest Sept and I’m going to burn it down. Then I’ll burn the next and the next and the next… until Joffrey Doggett shows himself to face me like a man. Not the coward he has shown himself to be. Do I hear any objections?”

The silence was deafening. He wanted to vomit, he wanted to object… the Septs would be full of innocents yet… yet he could not bring himself to move until his Uncle had scooped up Blackfyre once more and stalked from the room. Then he found himself breathing heavily in his seat, as if he had just run some kind of footrace. He barely even noticed Tyanna sweeping after her husband or Lord Daemon approaching him.

“You did well for your first meeting, Your Grace.” He stared at the man who had once sheltered them, his Mother’s brother… “Or might I call you Viserys? I do believe we have much to discuss, as Uncle and Nephew…”

Chapter Text

“The man is a snake,” said Rhaena after Daemon had departed. “You must not trust him, Vis. He only wants to use you to his own ends.”

He had known that, of course. Lord Daemon had only deigned to acknowledge him as kin at a time when doing so would not hurt his political standing. Yet he also knew that if denying him once again was prudent, Daemon would do so in a heartbeat.

“He wishes for me to speak favourably to Maegor about him,” he told her. “He wishes to be more than Master of Ships.”

Rhaena snorted and rose from the table. He followed her to his feet.

“Has our Queen heard anything of our dear Uncle?” she asked with a sneer as made her way to the window, throwing it open and allowing a refreshing gust of evening air to enter the room.

“Not since her last report,” he told his sister. She tilted her head and said nothing. Tyanna had been more than a little gleeful when she had proudly reported to the Small Council that Joffrey Doggett had accepted Maegor’s challenge. The Red Dog of the Hills would face Maegor in single combat soon, if he had not already, as long as Maegor did not burn a single Sept more.

“I do not see a way out of this, Vis.” Rhaena sounded tired. “Someone will kill him before long… how long could we truly last as rulers?”

He had been trying not to think on the matter. The North could not care less as to who ruled them, so long as they were left alone. The Iron Islands probably cheered on Maegor’s humbling of the Faith, the rule of those strong enough to seize power was something they already practised. The Vale respected Maegor, many of his supporters were Vale Lords that remembered it was the then Prince who had avenged Ronnel Arryn.

Those were the only regions Maegor could count on not to rebel, he doubted any but the Vale would send men to aid him. The Riverlands and the Westerlands had risen for Aegon, once upon a time, and suffered for it in turn. The Stormlands were rebelling in all but name by harbouring three enemies of the King and openly seeking allies for armed conflict. The less said about the Reach the better… out of all of the Seven Kingdoms, it was the Reach that suffered at the hands of the Faith Militant the most.

Should Maegor die tomorrow, what would happen?

“Would the Lannisters still listen to you?” he asked and Rhaena tilted her head before smiling, clearly amused.

“If they thought they could gain something from doing so, yes,” she replied.

“And we would have Lord Daemon’s support should we make him Hand,” he told her and her amusement vanished.

“You speak as if you intend to hold the Throne after our Uncle’s death,” she said, coolly. “We would do well to give it to Jaehaerys. A young King untainted by accusations of incest or associations with Maegor… he could heal these shattered realms.”

“And why should we let Mother win?” he asked, his voice harsher than he had intended. “She decided to crown Jae, she gave up on me… you heard what Tyanna said.”

“You would do well to forget the witch’s words, Vis. Our mother loves us, she will not betray us,” said Rhaena, after a while. Then she shook her head. “Holding the Throne is a dream, Vis. We’d have the same problems Maegor does and I do not have the stomach to burn Septs and innocent men. I am no Tyanna.”

Servants came a cleared their plates away as they remained in silence. He staring into the fire and she staring out of the window, both lost in their own thoughts. Did he even want the Throne? He had always thought of it as Aegon’s, even after his brother had died. Yet he seemed doomed to be given everything that should have been his brothers; his quarters, his wife - why not his Throne as well?

The only others who could claim it were Aerea, who was still a babe in her swaddling clothes and a girl besides, and Jae. If Jae were crowned, his mother’s scheme would have come to fruition and the more he thought on that, the more he decided he did not want that. Yet if even Rhaena did not support him…

“I will depart, Vis,” said Rhaena, pulling him from his angry musings. She dropped a kiss to his cheek. “Please remember we are allies in this. We will only survive if we stay together. All the words and violence that Maegor and Tyanna bring against us is but naught as long as we are one.”

He nodded, slightly sulking slightly over her earlier words.

“Allies,” he said solemnly and she smiled. “Good night, sister.”

He did not remain awake for long himself, settling into the bed with no small amount of relief, yet his thoughts still churned with possibilities. He had been his Uncle’s heir for sometime, why now did the true possibilities of that position haunt him so? Was it Lord Daemon’s subtle advances? Was it spite directed at his Mother? Or was it desire to be better than Maegor?

He thought back to the city as it had been the day they had ridden through it, empty and dead. No markets, no peddlers, barely any shops… could he breath life into it once more? Could he end the rebellion of the Faith Militant? What sort of King would he even be? His sleep was fitful, punctuated by dreams of himself in a gold crown as Aegon looked on with accusing eyes. When Balerion’s fearsome roar woke him, he half thought it was Aegon on Quicksilver, come to slay him for stealing everything he was and should have been.

He was not surprised when, despite it being the Hour of Ghosts, Ser Owen Bush appeared at his door, summoning him to a Small Council meeting. He was, however, surprised when he arrived and found Rhaena already present, stiff backed and looking uncomfortable with only Tyanna for company. The other lords seemed to be doing their best to ignore both women. Although, as he fixed them all with glares, he couldn’t help but notice Lord Lucas’ absence although Lord Celtigar had made it to this meeting. The Master of Laws had claimed illness for the last. He took Rhaena’s other side and she gave him a grateful smile before examining his rumpled tunic with a judgemental eye.

“You must dress more appropriately,” she chided him and he fought the urge to scowl like some sort of child.

“Father cared about looks,” he told her and her usual frown deepened. He was saved from questions though by Maegor’s arrival. His Uncle was scowling fiercely, favouring his left leg as he walked. When he stood at the end of the table he bought forth a bloody bag and tipped it open. A head rolled out and he fought the urge to vomit at the sight.

“Ser Joffrey Doggett,” said Lord Daemon, his violet eyes fixed on the sight. “A fine prize indeed.”

The others, apart from Tyanna, seemed less impressed by the head. Grand Maester Benifer seemed horrified by it, Lord Alton looked a little ill, Lord Edwell looked to be biting his tongue and Rhaena… Rhaena looked utterly disgusted. He slipped his hand in hers, telling himself it was to comfort her and not him. If Maegor noticed their collective horror, he did not care.

“His little bandit army is in full retreat. Lord Alton! I want a fitting reward sent to Lord Meadows. As loyal as his Father was, it was he that turned Ser Joffrey’s trap back on itself.” He stared at the head. So the Red Dog had sought to ambush him with numbers rather than play fair? Had he become so desperate that he was willing to sink to such trickery? Was the Faith Militant little more than bandits in truth now?

Lord Alton was nodding, his wide eyes still fixed on the head when Maegor gestured again and Ser Maladon Moore entered, dragging a chained and gagged man. When she saw him, Tyanna’s eyes lit up in glee.

“This one was one of Doggett’s seconds,” growled Maegor, staring at his wife. He saw the moment Tyanna properly grasped Maegor’s mood. She became more solemn, nodding seriously, her previous glee forgotten. “I want everything he knows and I want it by sundown tomorrow. I will extinguish these troublesome Septons in armour for good. And someone put that head where it can be seen by all!”

He strode out to a palpable air of relief. His Uncle was riled, he was injured, already angry at the riots… he swallowed thickly. It would be a tense few days within the Keep until Maegor’s mood left him. Perhaps longer if his leg continued to pain him. The others filtered away soon enough, Ser Maladon collecting the head, but Rhaena stayed, her face pale.

“We must stop him,” she whispered finally. “Should he end the Faith Militant he will focus on Jaehaerys. On Mother.”

That sent his blood cold. He did not want Jae and Aly to be Maegor’s only focus. Not now and not ever.

“What do you suggest we do?” he hissed furiously. “Tyanna will hardly hide what she learns from the knight!”

Rhaena closed her eyes in thought for a moment before nodding to herself. His eyes met hers.

“You must distract Tyanna for me. Somehow… I have poison given to me by a friend. I will give it to the knight just… keep her from me.”

Chapter Text

It was mid-morning, the sun still making it’s ponderous climb, when Rhaena decided to put her plan into action. He waited until she had departed, cowled and dressed like a servant with her hair hidden, before he made his way to Tyanna’s rooms. He had thought long and hard about how to trick Tyanna into meeting with him and staying with him long enough that Rhaena could somehow gain access to the Knight’s cell. In the end he had realised it did not matter. He could not trick her. So he simply decided not to. He would tell her the truth and nothing but.

She was not there when he arrived but he had not expected differently. It did not take long for a servant to be dispatched with his message and for him to be sat in an antechamber with fruit tea in front of him. He found himself fiddling with the handle and forced himself to stop. It had to be good. Not for the first time it crossed his mind how mad Rhaena’s plan was and questioned why he was even going through with it.

And then the faces of Jae and Aly would appear, little Aerea and Rhaella too. He had held them for the first time not a few weeks ago. Rhaena hovering nervously at his elbow, correcting his every mistake and ensuring their heads were supported. She wanted them all to live. She did not think that would happen if they took the Throne. She had begged him to see her side. That it was borne of love for him, for her children and for their siblings.

He had questioned his sister on the poison, how she would even reach the knight… she had assured him she could with such conviction he already half believed her despite the madness of the idea. The poison had been another topic entirely. She had refused to tell him who had given it to her save that it had been meant as a last resort should Maegor decide his niece would better serve him as Tyanna’s plaything.

That brought bile to his throat again. To imagine Rhaena so afraid she would be tortured that she had seen fit to bring poison with her, to ensure Tyanna would never have the satis-

“Viserys,” came Tyanna’s warm voice. He stood hastily and bowed, prompting a chuckle that sounded almost strange to his ears. When he sat once more and she took her place opposite him, he took the opportunity to study her. Her eyes were too bright and filled with some manic energy. Her usual smirk curved just a little widely and she seemed almost out of breath and unable to stay still.

Do not lie. She will know.

“My Queen,” he said quietly, birds in his belly and nearly shaking with nerves. “I apologise- That is- The knight, I wanted to ask-”

“If he had broken yet?” she asked and he swallowed as her attention fixed entirely on him, bright eyes full of a suspicion. “And why does the little Prince care for such a man or the information he carries?”

“You said Joffrey Doggett wanted to meet with my mother,” he managed to say, words rushed and full of fear. Why had he agreed to this? Why? She would know the moment the man died! She would have power over him! Over Rhaena! His breath was hard to draw suddenly. This was all a mistake. An awful, awful mistake. Why had he not stopped Rhaena? Why had he let her talk him into this? He jumped as the Queen laid a cool hand over his, the one that gripped the tea so tightly his knuckles were turning white with the force of it.

“Calm yourself, Viserys,” she said, voice almost stern but with a trace of that almost certainly false softness she often reserved just for him. “You maybe assured I will find out the details of your mother’s agreement.”

She saw his panic as related to his mother?

“She- She met with him then?” he asked, world growing fuzzy at the edge of his vision. Still playing the role. Maybe if he played it well enough she would doubt. Oh what a foolish mistake! A stupid plan! She would know!

Keep playing the role. All is not lost. Play the lost Prince. She may suspect. She can not prove.

Although it was almost painful to breath, he forced himself to take a few deep lungfuls of air. Tyanna watched, trying in vain to hide her amusement. He had never seen her so lax in playing the role of kindly mother before.

“You fear her.” Not a question, a statement. One that bought fear of it’s own.

“Do not tell my uncle,” he begged, only partially acting.

“Your secret is safe with me, Viserys. Never fear.” He watched as her eyes drifted to the open window. Did she suspect he was trying to play her? No, he had to recapture her attention.

“She- She was not behind the Faith Militant attack?” he asked, words coming to fast again, making him sound like a stuttering fool. Her dark eyebrows shot up and she leaned back in her chair. “O- on Dragonstone.”

“It is possible I suppose,” she mused as if the ideas had not occurred to her before. “Do you think she would be so drastic? Do you think your mother would send assassins after you?”

He turned that thought over in his mind and found that the answer was no. Not if what Tyanna had told him was true so far. When he said as much, her smile became predatory.

“What have I said that makes you think this?” she asked.

“She wants Maegor to kill me,” he said finally. “She wants her hands clean of my blood so she may hold Jae and Aly up as pure in comparison to a kinslayer. An opportunistic band of knights or knife in the dark is not as effective.”

The soft, slow clap from Tyanna surprised him.

“You have been paying attention in our lessons. I commend you Prince Viserys.” Her eyes went to the window again and she looked torn for a moment and he wondered why.

“Alas, as much as I would like an impromptu lesson now, my husband demands results. A small break is acceptable but one of several hours…” Her tone was regretful, as if she genuinely wished to stay and teach. He did not think it was truly genuine though if only because nothing she ever did was genuine. Perhaps she simply wished to see what he truly suspected his mother capable of.

How best to manipulate you further using your fear of her…

“My apologies for taking up so much of your time,” he said, the realisation startling him. He stood so fast he almost knocked his now cold tea all over. He had drank none of it. He had been too nervous, too busy conjuring all the ways this could go wrong. He hoped and prayed Rhaena had gotten in and gotten out. That she hadn’t been caught or worse, killed.

“Nonsense,” breathed Tyanna, something of her old self returning. “The knight will break, we shall all have our answers and if I can offer comfort to the boy I see as a son, all the better.”

The boy I see as a son… It seems I am cursed with untrustworthy mothers.

“I- I hope you find the truth,” he said lamely and she smiled that predatory smile again.

“The knight will break,” she repeated. “I do not fail.”

All he managed was a nod in return to that.

“Goodnight, Viserys. Pass my greetings on to Rhaena for me.” His heart nearly left his chest when she said his sister’s name but he had a feeling she was much to distracted, not even looking at him and she strode through the door, leaving him alone in her quarters with two cold cups of fruit tea and his gut churning in terror. There was no way she would not suspect. That she would not know.

He forced himself to keep playing his role and made his way at a sedate pace back to his rooms, making sure he stopped to chat with Lord Daemon, much to the man’s evident surprise. Let all who met him see that he was behaving perfectly normally and not like the terrified mouse he wished to act like. Tyanna had taught him that. Another thing she would recognise, he realised with a terrified lurch of his heart.

Tyanna will not be your killer.

That was right, he grasped that thought with something akin to relief. The suddenness of it almost made him physically stagger. Maegor would be. He was his heir, the rider of his mother’s dragon. It had to count for something. Surely Maegor would not simply accept the word of Tyanna against Rhaena and himself. As far the castle knew, Rhaena was still in his rooms, sleeping off her shock at last night’s events. As far as the castle knew, he had behaved normally, sought Tyanna out for reassurance-

His thoughts cut off as he reached his room. A moment of truth. If Rhaena were within and safe then their deed had a greater chance of remaining undiscovered. If she were not- He did not want to think of the consequences. He placed his hand against the oak door and let his forehead lean against it, fear making him breathless once more. It felt like some heroic effort to push the door open.

His sister sat inside, watching the fire dance in the grate. Yet his sigh of relief lasted as long as it took to notice her state. As pale as snow, her jaw clenched so hard that a muscle umped back and forth. He could see her pulse pounding in her throat and the glisten of unshed tears in her eyes.

“What happened?” he asked. He wanted this dread to leave him. Were they caught? Were they doomed? What?

“The knight is dead,” she said finally and her tone was flat, emotionless. No, not emotionless. There was something there she could not hide. Not anger or grief or- “None saw my face, none saw me. I offered him a way out, a way to spite Tyanna and Maegor. The man took it gratefully. The poison was potent. He died before I left his cell.”

“Then why-” His question was cut off as his sister stood, clutching at her arm suddenly.

“He did not drink straight away. He did not know me- He mistook me for a true believer risking everything for him. He sought to reward me.” She was trembling. He glanced back to the door. No shouts, no calls for their head. What did she mean by reward? “He said such… terrible things and I find myself believing them.”

“What?” he asked, finally moving to her side and reaching out to touch her. She flinched and he let his hand drop.

“Did I ever tell you mother did not wish for me to marry Aegon?” At his sister’s mention of his mother, his stomach dropped. This threat was not from Maegor then. Not from discovery of their crime. He dropped heavily into a nearby chair and Rhaena did not react at all. “She came to me before the wedding. She begged me- She even went as far as to suggest travel with Mel- Melony.”

His sister swallowed thickly at the memory of the Piper girl. He only had vague memories of her. A lively girl able to outfight half the boys of the Red Keep with that spear of hers. He remembered Aegon laughing and sparring with her and how she had graciously taken her defeat at his hands. How after, in private, Rhaena had bestowed a kiss on both of them then how Aegon had chased him when he had caught him spying on the three.

That had been a few days before they had left on their progress.

“Mother has an agreement with the Faith.” She was close to losing control, whether to spiral into anger or grief he did not know. Was it wrong to feel such satisfaction at such proof their mother had betrayed them. He had known. Rhaena had never believed but he had known. “I never told anyone that but that knight knew. Mother told the Faith… that’s how he knew. I never even told Mel…”

Tears trickled down her face then and he reached out again.

“She wants Jae to be king,” he told her, strange morbid curiosity to know what his mother had done outstripping even his fear of the consequences of today. “What else… what else has she told the Faith?”

Chapter Text

Rhaena did not answer him straight away, instead lowering herself into her chair once more and clutching so violently at her arms he feared she would bruise herself. He rubbed his hand across her shoulder and she gave him a pained smile, one that promised the tears that fell would likely only be worse, soon enough. After a quiet few moments of watching the fire dance in the grate, Rhaena took a shuddering breath once more and dabbed at her eyes.

Tyanna will know by now. The guards have not come for us. We have not been called… Perhaps she fears Maegor will think it her failure. That he died under torture.

The thought did little to distract him from the morbid need to know how bad the betrayal was this time. Yet he said nothing, he did not push, as Rhaena dried her eyes. He might have once. Might have played the annoying brother until she gave in or chased him off like the pest he was being. They were not those people anymore, so he did not.

“She intends to sell the twins to the Faith,” said Rhaena, slowly. “He was so happy about it…so happy that I thought he could not be mistaken. He told me that our mother… our mother promised them to the Motherhouse in Oldtown. He was very specific about it. I thought for sure… that he was lying. So I asked for proof-”

“And he told you about mother-” She cut him off with a nod and another choked sob. He swallowed thickly. Satisfaction at being right, grief at the conformation and fear for the twins all fighting for dominance in his gut. He sat there, an unmoving lump, with his hand on Rhaena’s shoulder as fresh tears spilt down her face. “And what of our fates.”

“Confinement,” she replied, voice watery. “Under guard on Dragonstone.”

Perhaps he had spent too long as Maegor’s squire, as his heir and pupil, because all he thought of that was that they were welcome to try. He rode Vhagar, Rhaena rode Dreamfyre. Both were more powerful than Vermithor and Silverwing. That arrogance… it made him shiver that it came so easily. Then another thought set him shivering again. She knew she could not. She knew it was impossible. No doubt she expected Rhaena and he to die then, as Tyanna had said.

“Why?” asked Rhaena. “Why? We are her children.”

He recalled one of the many conversation’s he’d had with Tyanna in those early days when she had often been by his side, comforting him in his grief and confusion. He knew why, with cold certainty, in his gut.

“A regency,” he said finally and Rhaena’s startled violet eyes swung towards him. “Father cared little for ruling. Mother had all the power, her and Daemon both. They pushed everyone else out. If I am crowned, I require no one to rule for me and even if I did, you would be the one. Jae though…”

She shook her head but there was no stubbornness there. She had been so sure she knew better than him when it came to their mother’s actions. So sure it was all for their safety, that she would not hurt them in the way she had. Yet all it had taken was one knight’s testimony. One knight who had nothing to lose by lying, who knew things he shouldn’t, to convince her otherwise.

Perhaps Tyanna had more of an effect with her whispers than even she had known.

“Mother…” she began. Then she stopped and slumped in her chair. “I know not what to think anymore. She wrote to me on Fair Isle after she fled. She begged me to understand…”

He said nothing, bile rising to his throat again. His sister had not mentioned Fair Isle before. The Farmans ruled there, their fleet the second largest in the Westerlands with only the protection of the mainland from Ironborn raiding their goal. Was Rhaena’s favourite on Fair Isle even now? He rubbed at his arm, suddenly anxious and needing to move. He stood, aware of his sister’s startled gaze swinging towards him.

“I am sorry I did not tell you,” she whispered. “I thought… I was so sure… that it was all her… that she was lying.”

“Tyanna lies and tells the truth as and when it suits her,” he mumbled, feeling foolish to be standing suddenly. With little else to do, he strode to his window and peered out into the afternoon light.

Why have they not come for us yet?

“We could run,” she said and when he turned, he found her staring listlessly into the fire, still clutching herself. “We could take the girls and run. Volantis… maybe even further. We could make a new hom-”

“Westeros is our home,” he said, the thought of fleeing, of playing the coward, filling him with disgust. Father had talked of fleeing in those final, dreadful days. Had he been strong enough to rise from his bed, would he have gone through with it? Fled and left Aegon and Rhaena to their fates? “Would you leave Jae and Aly?”

At that question, she laughed bitterly. “It was my intention once. Leave them the crown and the throne and take you away. Take us all away.”

She leaned forward suddenly and sighed, her eyes flickering closed doing nothing to stop the tears coming again.

“Look at us,” she whispered. “We speak of our own mother betraying us. Of fleeing and offering our siblings as sacrifice. Is it craven to leave them what should be ours?”

He moved to her side and wrapped his arms about her, feeling somewhat pleased when she leaned into his embrace and laid her head awkwardly against his shoulder. She wept then, sobs wracking her body, and it was not long before his own tears fell.

How twisted and broken we both are… can we even survive Maegor to take his Throne?

The fire was burning low and the room had grown chilly when both of them had calmed down enough to think once more. He did not understand why Tyanna had not sent her men for them, why Maegor had not yet been told of their betrayal, but he could only spend so long on the brink of terror and he’d already received too many blows today. The foolishness of Rhaena’s plan, the certainty Tyanna would know who had carried it out and finally his mother’s newest betrayal.

His tears were spilt now and he had to play his role, else Tyanna would have more to use against them when she inevitably accused them. He rose, forcing himself to walk to the bell pull. His legs felt wooden and his arms felt as if they were made of lead. He was tired. He and Rhaena had barely slept the night before. A servant appeared quickly and promptly, attentive but not quite hiding her nerves.

“My sister is still tired,” he told her, doing his best to play the concerned brother. “Please have our meals sent here.”

“I can not eat,” Rhaena told him as he sat back down. “Not now. Not after what I have learnt.”

“We have to,” he urged. “Tyanna will know if we act out of character. It will be proof against us.”

She stared at him in surprise, the first bit of emotion he’d seen there in a while and then laughed.

“I’m not sure I care.” The statement brought sudden frustration and he twisted his hands together, bowing his head with the force of it. He only realised his jaw was clenched tight when it began to ache.

“I care!” he said, the volume of his voice taking him by surprise. “Even if you do not. I care about you and the girls and Jae and Aly! You are welcome to fly away and hide or starve yourself and die here!”

She flinched and stared up at him. When had he gotten to his feet? When had he clenched his hands so hard that the nails were in danger of drawing blood? Why was he shaking? Shame hit him then, as he stared at his sister’s shocked face, even paler than before at his words.

He had gone through this, hadn’t he? This terrible void of emotion. He had felt it for days on end when he’d first truly understood the truth. The realisation was enough to shake some of the tiredness from him. He needed some topic… something to pull Rhaena from this before her mood made it clear to the entire castle what had happened. He knelt before her, pulling cold hands into his.

“You have the twins,” he murmured, mentally begging her to see what he did. “You have me, Jae and Aly… you have your girl on Fair Isle.”

She didn’t smile but her eyes softened a little. One day, he would need to browbeat her into speaking about whoever waited for her in the Westerlands. He would not deny her her favourites. He could not. Aegon had not. Melony… Melony had died for her… died for Aegon. Who was he but a poor imitation?

Her hands, almost verging on freezing, framed his face and she smiled, as if she could read his thoughts. Her eyes showed nothing but pain though as she rested her forehead against his.

“Thank you, Vis,” she whispered, her breath hot on his cheek and he let his eyes flutter closed as he listened to her breaths, a strange pride welling up inside him.

Chapter Text

Rhaena ate in the end, if only half the plate. Then the need to sleep had caught up with her and he had opened his bed to her. She had smiled gratefully and kissed him on the cheek before leaving him alone with his thoughts. Now that she wasn’t there, emotions whirled inside of him as he thought over all he had found out today and all his sister had told him.

What was he feeling? Anger, certainly. It burned in his breast and made him want to leap to his feet, to saddle Vhagar and fly to his mother. To confront her… but he had long known her true colours. Was the anger he felt what Rhaena should feel then, she who had been so sure their mother was not the monster he believed her to be? Or was it anger directed at Rhaena, who had spoken to their mother as recently as Fair Isle and had not told him? Did she not trust him?

Perhaps it is all of that and I am becoming what she feared, Maegor in miniature…

But there was also grief once more, and he could not understand it. His mother had betrayed him long ago, Tyanna for all her lies had spoken only the truth regarding his mother, simply because her actions were so damning in the cold light of day. He fidgeted with his fingers, examining his hands and the callouses they had gained these past few months. Maegor had trained him hard. Could he blame the man? It was not too different as to how he had learnt from his mother, brutal lessons carried out behind the walls of Dragonstone whilst Viserys’ own father was at grandfather’s side.

What would Visenya say now?

The thought struck him out of nowhere and bemused him. The Dowager Queen had been a fierce woman and the only person Maegor had ever bowed to. He could not deny that he had become more brutal after her death. Perhaps that was not the correct way to think of it, though. Maegor was as brutal as ever, tactics learnt at his mother’s feet employed to drive the Faith and his enemies into hiding, yet when Visenya had lived, he had applied them with a strategic mind. Now, Maegor punished all with that brutality, regardless of how minor the crime.

And you are avoiding dealing with your own feelings on the matter.

He had become good at that. The thought was bitter again. Sink into the anger and ignore anything else. Focus on surviving and damn those who can not survive by themselves. Sulk about mother’s betrayals whilst living in the pit of vipers King’s Landing had become as every lordling and knight sought his uncle’s favour by ever more dishonourable means.

He pinched the flesh of his fingers and rolled it. If he were to bring Rhaena to his side, if he were to dedicate himself to becoming the perfect prince… no, the perfect King… if he actually dealt with these feelings of anger and betrayal instead of pulling them about himself like some comforting blanket… perhaps then he could be worthy of being heir to his grandfather’s legacy. He blinked as pain sparked through his hand and he realised he had pinched too tightly. Had he not bitten his nails down, he might have drawn blood.

Mother intended to crown Jae. He had no doubt about that anymore. Perhaps he had never doubted it. Jae would become a target, a plaything of lords eager to pick the realm apart. His mother would likely promise his siblings to the high lords of the realm, only furthering the danger they were in. Tyanna had said that his mother was Rogar’s lover. Perhaps then she would buy Baratheon loyalty with her own marriage. Then Jae or Aly would be promised to the Tyrells… no, not them. He recalled his lessons at Tyanna’s feet. The Hightowers. Queen Ceryse may bind them to Maegor but that binding was as fragile as gossamer without a babe of both of their blood. The remaining one would be promised to the Lannisters. They had fought for Aegon, likely for a royal match with one of the twins.

He could not see his mother trying to court the Eyrie, they had reaffirmed their loyalty in the aftermath of Aegon’s death with many respecting Maegor’s swift response to their own civil war long ago. The Riverlands barely deserved the name, the lords there cared little for outsiders, seeing only their own century long struggles against their neighbours. The North cared little for southern politics and southern politics cared little for them. The Starks would not bleed for Jae or him. Neither would the Ironborn. They had their prize, won from father’s stupidity.

Mayhaps the Ironborn would fight for him with the promise of gold and plunder. Father gave them freedom from Septons and the Faith but a Faith-backed Jae would almost certainly quash that freedom and the islands would be awash with preachers again. Did he dare unleash them on his own people?

He stood, unable to stay still and agitated beyond measure. He had options. He could show his mother he was fit to be King. Fit to be heir to Maegor and Aenys. Fit to be heir to Aegon. He could rule with Aenys’ words and Maegor’s fist. Tyanna had taught him about the web of politics and how to use it. He just needed the chance! He needed Rhaena and allies… but mother would get to them long before he did. She had two betrothals to make…

He froze as his eyes travelled to his bedroom where Rhaena slept. He may not have leverage to forge marriage ties but Rhaena did. She had the twins. If he could bring her to his way of thinking… No, no, he had to think about this carefully. It could not be done in haste. They were Aegon’s children and he could not, would not, condemn them to a life less than that of what they deserved.

A knock on the door ended all his thoughts and sent his heart pounding once more. He stood up, forcing himself to breathe. He had a role to play. Be the concerned brother. Be the fearful prince. If the servant at the door would report that he had been nervous, it would be more ammunition for Tyanna. Solid proof instead of suspicion.

It is Maegor we must both convince. I am his heir and she is his Queen.

“Come!” he called, sitting down and trying to look as if he had merely been relaxing post-dinner. The man, one of Tyanna’s, bowed low upon entry, his face a mask of politeness and little else.

“My lady invites Princess Rhaena and yourself to attend on her,” he said, smoothly. Fear ran through him like ice water. So she did know. She did and she had not sent guards but a single servant. Did she expect him to do something to reveal his own guilt? To try and run? He forced a smile onto his face as the servant watched him with a dispassionate gaze. There was no hint of disapproval or disrespect. Prudent for one of her creatures.

What do I do?

Tyanna knew. He did not doubt that. She wielded great power in the Keep and he knew, without having proof, that she would not take well to something like this. To a mere plaything in her game doing something she did not wish it to. He took a deep breath, managing to make it sound like a sigh of discontent at the last moment.

“Can this not wait?” His voice sounded weak and reedy even to him. “My sister is already abed and I intend to follow her soon.”

“It can not, Your Grace,” said the servant. “My lady was most insistent.”

Fear coiled in his belly again, making him want to shiver with the force of it. Would he be able to keep to his role a second time? He may have fooled Tyanna before but that was when she had wanted to be fooled, wanted to believe he wavered on the subject of his mother so greatly.

“Very well,” he said, voice cracking slightly. “But Rhaena will remain here.”

She was in no state to face Tyanna. At best, she would slip up or act overly suspicious, and at worst, she would break and confess… or Tyanna would see her grief and know. The woman would use it to twist Rhaena further…

As she twisted you.

He had to pull Maegor’s dubious protection around him as if it were the finest armour. Neither his mother nor Tyanna could be trusted - each worked for their own agenda. Tyanna favoured Maegor and his mother clearly favoured Jae.

“My lady calls for the both of you,” said the man, trying to sound firm. She could not be allowed to face Tyanna. She simply could not. He was her brother. Just as he had a duty to protect Jae and Aly, he also had a duty to protect Rhaena.

“She is asleep,” he said, trying for stern and failing miserably. The man looked unconvinced but nodded.

“Very well,” he said. He wondered if Tyanna would punish the man for failing to bring Rhaena as well? Then he cast the question from his mind. If he survived this misstep, he could begin to plan his way as Maegor’s heir in earnest. He could not stand idly by and merely survive anymore. Maegor’s death would be the most potent time to crown Jae and if he was seen as Maegor’s puppet, merely his shadow, even Maegor’s allies would defect in time.

He followed the man, forcing himself to remain passive despite his heart hammering away in his chest. Yet it was not to Tyanna’s private rooms he was led, nor even his uncle’s, but to Rhaena’s. Why? And then he knew with cold certainty before the door had even been opened and his presence announced.

It had been a long time indeed since he had last set foot in his sister’s rooms. They were her private sanctum when they were children, barred to all but her closest friends and favourites. Yet he still remembered books and maps strewn about, Melony’s spear propped up in places it absolutely should not have been… the clothes thrown over any surface they would fit and the maids that inevitably fretted over them being ruined.

They were transformed now, almost bare in comparison but for the toys littering the floor and the two small children that played with them. It hurt his heart to look upon them finally. He had not sought them out, had not asked Rhaena if he could see them. They were Aegon’s children and he had already stolen enough of Aegon’s life from him. He swallowed as one turned to look at him - was it Aerea? Rhaella? He did not know.

“Prince Viserys,” purred Tyanna and he forced himself to look away from his nieces to the Queen. She was sat in a chair upholstered in a rich scarlet as if it were the Iron Throne itself and she was presiding over Court. His heart felt as if it would beat from his chest at her cool gaze, colder than any he had received from her before. The smile was brittle too. “I summoned Princess Rhaena as well, I believe?”

“She is abed,” he replied, weakly. Her smile became cruel as she made a show of peering through the drapes that surrounded Rhaena’s bed.

“Truly?” she asked.

“Last night disturbed her,” he lied, unsure of where to direct his gaze and feeling as if he might come right out of his skin. “She fell asleep in my room.”

“I see,” she replied, her eyes like ice. “She would not have been wandering about the southern passage then?”

He frowned. The southern passage? Was that how she had reached Tyanna’s man? Tyanna studied him, waiting for his reaction. Whatever she saw, she did not like.

“Be sure to tell her that passage will be sealed in future. I would not wish for any accidents to occur in the unfinished parts of the Keep.” The venom surprised him and he found himself nodding by sheer instinct. She shifted in her seat and watched him, even as he watched her.

“Why did you bring me here?” he finally asked, eyes flicking to the twins again. “Where is the twin’s minder?”

Tyanna smiled thinly.

“You are getting to be a fine liar, my little prince, but you can not beat me yet,” she replied. “I know well what you did. What your sister did. I am most… annoyed.”

She was keeping her temper by a hair’s breadth, he realised. Could she see the way his legs felt unsteady? The way sweat prickled at his skin? Could she see the guilt and fear writ large across every part of his body?

“The king will be most displeased with the delay in destroying the Faith Militant. They may well regroup soon enough. I have no doubt they will rally to your brother’s banner if only for vengeance.” He swallowed painfully, unable to reply. She was playing to his fears, he knew. “A boon to your mother. If he should grow any stronger, gain any more support, the king may need to move to deal with the budding rebellion at Storm’s End.”

Why has he not already?

The thought made him wonder but he put it aside, easy when the rest of him quivered in fear. He had to navigate Tyanna’s anger, discover what punishment she intended…

“Your Grace?” he said, trying to make his shaky voice sound questioning. She nodded, to herself more than to him, he thought.

“You have taken my lessons to heart then. I suppose I should feel a mother’s pride in you. Tell me, did you at least learn anything interesting from the knight?” Too much, he thought, and realised she must have seen it on his face because her smirk returned a moment later. “Well, I suppose all is not lost then.”

The comment was cruel and he found himself staring at his boots. He did not move, even when he heard her get up, stepping past the twins who played heedless of the adults around them. He flinched when her cold hand wrenched his head up to meet her eyes. He could pull away, he was strong enough now that she could not hold him… but he did not. After a moment, she smiled that cruel smile once more.

“I will have to take drastic measures to fix this little mess,” she told him, voice barely above a whisper. “You will know them when you see them. You will know it is your doing.”

She let him go and he staggered, much to his own humiliation. Her nails had left painful grooves along the side of his face and he winced as he rubbed at them. She made a show of inspecting the hand she had gripped him with before directing a final sharp glance at him.

“I find myself tiring of these children. Take them to their mother and tell her to keep a closer eye on them in future.”

Chapter Text

They said that Maegor had found Alys Harroway abed with another man. That he had strangled her in his rage and then in that same rage slain her father too. Tyanna had done the rest. She had overseen the slaughter of House Harroway in its entirety. Every man, woman and child that bore Harroway blood had been dragged into what the men of the Keep were calling the Black Cells.

The Queen’s domain.

I will have to take drastic measures to fix this little mess. You will know them when you see them. You will know it is your doing.

Rhaena was beside herself in fear. Gone was his defiant sister, unyielding in the face of even Maegor. Now she clutched the twins close, refusing to leave his rooms and refusing to let her girls out of her sight. He thought of Alys Harroway - dim but kind. He thought of Jeyne and Hanna, gossipy maids devoted to their elder sister. He even thought of Lord Lucas, a man who had supported Maegor from the beginning, even against Aegon. And then he thought of the rest of them.

Lady Bethany, Ser Hugh, Ser Merrett… who was his squire?

He did not believe Alys had been stupid enough to lie with a another man. She had been devoted to Maegor in a way even Tyanna was not. It was hard to think that she genuinely loved him, but he believed she did. That she had loved him for him and not for his crown or blood or the power he could bring her.

And she’s dead.

He wondered why it had happened. How it had happened. Maegor would have been in a rage after learning his knight died… had Tyanna blamed Alys for something in that moment? Had she goaded the woman into angering him further so as to redirect the whole tidal wave of hate? He rubbed at his face, wondering why tears pricked at his eyes. Maegor’s whore… she had burned half her life down for him and his uncle had rewarded her with death.

“Vis,” came a weak voice. His head snapped up and he found Rhaena staring at him from his bed. The two twins curled close to her. He offered her a weak smile and she returned it, but he thought it was obvious neither really felt much comfort. “You must sleep.”

“My thoughts are troubled,” he told her. “I’ll only end up waking the girls.”

As if they sensed attention, Aerea shifted in her sleep, curling closer to her mother, which sent Rhaella shifting in turn. He held his breath until they settled before scrubbing at his face with his hands. He had not been so tired since the ordeal began. He felt as if his eyes might burn right out of his head. Turn to ash… perhaps he might stop seeing Alys Harroway’s face if that happened.

“It wasn’t our fault,” murmured Rhaena. More to herself, he thought uncharitably. It had been her idea, her plan. Maegor had not ridden to Storm’s End yet, why would he if he killed the Faith Militant? Why? Why had he gone along with it? It was stupid-

“It was her.” Rhaena’s voice carried bitter hatred. “She killed Alys Harroway. Not us.”

“She only did it because we forced her to,” he argued, keeping his voice low. Rhaena fell back against the pillows, her silver hair fanning out around her like a halo and he forced himself to look away, to stare into the flames in the grate. He thought of Aegon again and yet more guilt surged up his throat. Had his brother ever struggled with things like this? No easy way out whichever way he turned? No honourable path forward?

“She would have done it eventually,” Rhaena argued and he could picture her face. The self-righteous anger- he wanted to argue, to interrupt and shout her down, but this was the most emotion she’d shown in days. Since the full extent of their mother’s betrayal had been laid bare to her and she could no longer deny how they’d been thrown to their uncle as a sacrifice to shield their mother’s chosen children.

I love Jae and Aly. I’d die for them… how is this any different? How can I begrudge them the safety mother won them that I could not? What kind of brother am I?

“She hated Alys. You only had to look at how she acted around her,” Rhaena was continuing. She sounded almost breathless and he looked back at her before he could stop himself. Her cheeks were red with anger and her brow furrowed - he remembered that well from his childhood as well. When his pranks had gotten out of hand and she had given him a scolding.

Aegon always found it funny. So did she, when she unwound enough to admit it.

“But she did it using our actions,” he told her sadly and the fire died, as if his words were water dousing it thoroughly. In the silence that followed, only the soft snores of the girls and the crackling of the fire could be heard. He wanted to kick himself as he watched her stare at the ceiling. He should be helping her climb from the darkness that had taken her. He had felt it himself, knew how terrible it was. Yet he had shattered the first bit of emotion he’d seen in her in days because of his own bitterness.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered a moment later. She gave him a pained smile and brought her hand up to stroke at Aerea’s hair. The twins were so small, especially when they were sleeping. It was hard to think Rhaella could ever be that small. The girl refused to let court bring her down, she was loud and wanted to play and she was unapologetic about all of it. Aerea was the quiet one, the one that flinched whenever voices were raised and who had hid from him for nearly an entire day when their toys had first been moved here from Rhaena’s rooms. She was the one that clung to her mother almost desperately…

“You’re right,” she admitted softly after a moment or two. “You’re right. I was scared. I was scared of the knight, of Maegor and of her and I…”

She trailed off into a choked sob and he wanted to rise, to cross to her and comfort her. A few tears escaped her and his heart clenched painfully. His sister should be laughing, not weeping. She was adventurous and bold… she should be…

“We were both foolish,” he said firmly and louder than intended. Aerea’s eyes flickered open, tired and confused at first, and then scared. She burrowed into her mother’s embrace even as she stared unblinkingly at him, as if she expected him to leap at her, to bellow or attack. He wondered why she was so afraid when her twin was so bold? He gave her a smile and she wriggled even further into Rhaena’s arms until he could only see the top of her head, her silver hair splashed out across the coverlet. He smiled again as Rhaena managed a weak chuckle.

“Go to sleep, little one,” she said tenderly. “You will be tired in the morning.”

Aerea moved once more until she was wedged close to her mother again. He waited in silence, his gaze drifting to the window. No doubt the moon would be high in the sky now. In his father’s time, the Keep would have still been alive with music and with song. It was not so now, especially after… after today. There was no revelry in the wake of a murdered Queen, no revelry when King Maegor was in residence.

“There,” murmured Rhaena. “She’s gone again.”

He recalled his plan to marry them off for support in that moment and guilt took him again. Aerea would not do well married to some stranger. To some man who would see her only as a path to power.

Some say she’s Aegon’s heir, not me. They would use her…

“What is wrong?” asked Rhaena softly. “You have gone quiet once more?”

“It’s nothing,” he lied and then winced as her face took on an unimpressed look. “A passing fancy that could never truly happen.”

“Oh, Vis,” she sighed, and he wasn’t sure he deserved the look of pity. He met her eyes, confused, and she gave him a much more genuine smile in that moment. “Tell me?”

He opened his mouth and then closed it again, suddenly feeling shy. He had never… they had never discussed the twins or their supposed marriage. She had agreed because she believed he needed saving, but… No, he knew his sister did not like him in the way she loved her favourites or even in the way she loved Aegon. He pulled at his nail before the sharp stab of pain reminded him that there was precious little left to pick at.

“Our marriage,” he finally managed, aware of heat rushing to his cheeks. Rhaena frowned and he wanted to throw himself from the window.

You were grieving for a murdered woman not a few moments ago. Now you sit here like a blushing bride.

He shook the thought away. If he were to protect them all from Tyanna, to make sure they did not share Alys Harroway’s fate, he needed to know where he stood. He needed to know what foundation he had to build on for his own bid for the throne. Maybe one day… Maybe one day he could get justice for the woman who had treated him kindly despite her general bafflement at his presence.

“Our marriage,” she repeated slowly, her face a mask he could not pierce. He watched the fire make shadows dance across her face.

“Where… that is, what-” The words would not come and Rhaena’s face did not soften or change. Her gaze was unyielding, pinning him in place as he tried desperately to find the way to frame his thoughts. He let his gaze fall to his knees, unable to look at her.

“I am not Aegon,” he finally managed. “I am not… what you want.”

“Vis,” she said softly and he looked up to find pity in her gaze again. “I know. You don’t have to say it.”

“If I rule…” he began, forging on regardless. “…would you rule beside me?”

“I will be your Queen,” she said, her tone at odds with her serious gaze. He did not need to hear the rest of it. The unsaid ‘but’. But he would never have her heart. He swallowed, surprised suddenly at the pain that brought before the urge to slap himself rose in him. He’d always known that. He had no right to demand what she had not even given Aegon. His eyes travelled to the sleeping twins again, and his insides twisted.

“You still have the Lannisters?” he asked weakly, looking for any change of subject. An elegant silver eyebrow rose in question before it and its twin furrowed into a frown once more.

“I do not think so. They wanted a marriage. Aegon withheld it, he wanted a solid show of support first, and they wanted the marriage before their show of support. The battle at The God’s Eye… well, you saw what became of that.” The bitterness in her tone made him flinch. He felt like some villain when he spoke next.

“And if you offered it now?” He flinched when her gaze became sharp.

“I will not sell my children-” Her voice was full of rage but then she stopped and took a deep breath. When she spoke again, the rage had died. “It matters not, anyway. Maegor would never approve. He is of the idea that the blood must be kept pure.”

Another thought struck him then.

“When… if… we have a son, do you mean to betroth Rhaella to him?” he asked, feeling as if the very question spoken aloud were akin to flinging himself off of a cliff with no knowledge of how far the fall would be. He had only just established that she would even marry him, why did he jump to… to a son? They fell into another silence and he thought that his heart might beat its way from his chest.

“I think we need to talk,” she said finally. “But not now. Not with the girls sleeping. Tomorrow we shall sit down and we shall lay out what we are to be to one another.”

Chapter Text

Maegor was in the Sept when he found him. Not in prayer, Maegor did not worship the Seven. He felt he ought to be more bothered by that. Father had raised them in the Faith just as grandfather had raised him to worship the Seven, but Maegor… Maegor had made no secret that Visenya had not been so devoted. The Dowager Queen had made it clear her loyalty was to the gods and goddesses of the Valyrians of old, and Maegor had been raised with those beliefs in turn. The eyes of Ser Owen Bush followed him as he approached the king.

“Your Grace,” he began and then fell silent as Maegor held up a hand.

“What is it, boy?” he asked after a moment, and his voice was raspy as if he had spent too long yelling and screaming.

“Rhaena and I were wondering if we would be allowed to fly together today?” His voice felt so loud in the quiet Sept. He watched as his uncle leaned forward in his seat and placed his hands under his chin. Violet eyes drifted shut for a moment and then he chuckled at some joke only he had heard.

“You are becoming fond of each other,” he said. “That is good.”

“She is my sister-”

“The Court is ablaze with scandal about her sleeping arrangements,” Maegor growled, interrupting him, and he fell silent again. “Tyanna tells me you’ve taken a shine to the twins as well.”

“It… we are doing nothing wrong,” he squeaked, embarrassed at how the very idea of it wanted to make him squirm. Maegor tilted his head back and laughed, the sound of it filling the Sept, but there was no joy in it. Then his uncle stood, his eyes on the image of the Mother.

“I’m well aware of that,” he rasped. “Not that I’d blame you. Rhaena is… she is a true Valyrian. Worthy of a King. Not like what I am forced to be content with. A Hightower, a Harroway-”

“Is it true?” he asked, and wanted to slap himself when he realised he’d interrupted his uncle. Maegor peered at him. “About… Alys, they said-”

His uncle snorted.

“No,” he replied. “More of Tyanna’s plots and schemes. I would have thought she’d have told you.”

She gave him everything.

It was wrong, wrong that she should do so and that Maegor would just toss her aside. Kill her family, destroy her house root and stem and for what? There was no cuckoldry…

“Do you judge me, boy?” Perhaps it was a testament to how much he had grown that it wasn’t terror that seized him then. Fear, certainly, for Maegor was mercurial at the best of times.

“She loved you.” His uncle laughed harshly.

“She was an empty-headed fool.” He kept the frown from his face, barely.

“She risked everything-”

“I was not aware you were so fond of her,” snapped Maegor. He managed not to flinch, just. What was he doing, poking at the dragon so? Yet backing down, scurrying away… no, he could not. Not anymore. Not if he were to see this through.

“What did happen?” he asked. Maegor’s hands balled into fists, the muscle of his forearm rippling momentarily as if he were remembering the feel of her neck as he squeezed the life from her. Then, the anger left him and some expression flickered over his face before his features became a mask of neutrality.

“It is no concern of yours,” he said, after the moment went on too long. What had been there, for an instant?

Was he… ashamed?

The very idea seemed ludicrous and yet…

“My apologies, uncle,” he said, unable to move on from that brief look of guilt. Maegor chuckled bitterly but did not respond. He waited in the silence as his uncle contemplated the iconography.

“Go,” said Maegor finally. “Take your flight.”

“Thank you, uncle,” he said, turning to leave. The man’s mood was odd and he had no desire to risk it taking a turn for the worst once more. Once again that flicker of guilt replayed itself before him. What had Maegor done that even he should be ashamed of himself? The matter refused to leave him alone as he made his way to where Rhaena awaited him. What could it be?

“Do we have permission?” she asked him, startling him from his thoughts. He nodded, still distracted and her face brightened, before darkening again. “What’s wrong, Vis?”

How can I explain it to her? She doesn’t see him as I do.

That was an odd thought. He thought it again, disliking the way the knowledge settled in his chest. What did he know that she did not? Why… just what was he to his uncle and what was his uncle to him in turn?

“Maegor is in an odd mood,” he settled for saying as they made their way to the stables. She gave him a strange look before adjusting the cloak that lay across her shoulders.

“Not beheading the servants today, then,” she half snapped. “That man has no shame.”

“He was in the Sept.” He wasn’t sure why he told her that and judging by the look on her face, she did not know how to react. Eventually, she mustered a sneer.

“He makes a mockery of the Seven. To slaughter so many adherents and then sit where they once sat. He burned… he burned the Sept of Remembrance, for the Father’s sake!” He winced as her volume rose but none were around to hear it. People were being careful in the wake of the Harroway’s fall from grace.

“He has never believed,” he reasoned. Rhaena snorted.

“He does not believe in the Fourteen either. Don’t look at me that way, Vis… the Queen Dowager could have told him to worship the trees like a northerner and he’d have done it.” That… was probably right, he admitted to himself. Judging by the victorious look on her face, Rhaena had seen it. They lapsed into silence as they reached the stables and mounted up.

“Well then,” she said as they got past the gates, guard led by Ser Jon Tollet in tow. He understood her trepidation. It wasn’t the city, for King’s Landing was calm… or at least cowed for the time being. It was where the dragons themselves would be.

Rhaenys’ Hill… an insult to the Faith.

It had been many years since Maegor had burned the Sept atop the dragon Balerion, but the scars of destruction were plain to see whichever way you looked. Burned wood and melted, twisted stone. Scorch marks and soot staining everything in the vicinity black… some attempts had been made to clear the mess, but they had been half-hearted. All had ceased when Maegor had chosen the site to house dragons.

Yet despite the hate and rage the surroundings spoke of, his heart lifted when he saw Vhagar, sitting atop a pile of rubble. Her deep green scales shining in the late morning sun… to think that he should ride such a fine beast. Next to him, Rhaena had also sat up in her saddle, a smile growing over her face as Dreamfyre rested nearby. The slender she-dragon was dwarfed by his own, yet she looked no less regal as the light caught her scales.

It does not feel real sometimes

Vhagar rumbled a greeting as he laid a reverential hand on her snout. Across from him, Dreamfyre uncurled, sensing her mistress and an opportunity for flight.

“Come, brother, I bet you Dreamfyre will beat your old woman to the Kingswood!” laughed Rhaena. He did not think it an act for their followers. He grinned as he hastened to mount Vhagar, noting how she almost scrambled to do the same.

“I’ll take that bet!” he called as Vhagar spread her wings and leapt into the sky. He heard her shout but not the words. He was too busy laughing as Vhagar climbed steadily until all he could see were clouds and the great blue sky. He nearly unbalanced himself when she let out a great roar and seemed to strain underneath him, turning and surging forth as if she knew where he needed to go by instinct alone.

Dreamfyre answered Vhagar’s call with a bellow of her own, Rhaena manoeuvring her alongside Vhagar and he could just barely make out his sister as she clung to her mount’s back, pressed low to avoid the wind battering at her. Together they raced, the Kingswood approaching entirely too fast in his opinion. He felt as if he had birds in his belly as Vhagar landed and Dreamfyre followed.

He slipped from her back almost reluctantly and turned to face his sister. Rhaena seemed similarly at loss for words, and the silence stretched on for so long he began to squirm. Finally, she sighed. It sounded as if she had tried to laugh and somehow failed… Was she nervous too? That was comforting in its own way. He tried to stand a bit taller.

“Us,” she finally said.

“Marriage,” he answered, heart hammering in his throat. “I do not… you do not have to-”

Why will the words not come?

“I understand,” she said, her voice soft. “And I thank you.”

He waited as she seemed to think for a moment, her violet eyes studying him in a way she had never done so before. Then she gestured for him to sit. He did so, almost gratefully as his legs wobbled beneath him. She sat beside him, lowering herself a lot more gracefully to the ground than his own sudden drop. The look she gave him… it bordered on pity.

“I will give you everything I gave Aegon,” she said solemnly. “I will give you my support, my bed and my mind. Would you give me all Aegon gave in turn?”

Will he always exist between us?

The thought wobbled close to resentment and he stamped down on it. He was stealing Aegon’s life, everything he had been and everything that should have been his! Who was he to resent that Rhaena still thought of him?

“I will,” he promised. She smiled then, a tentative and hopeful thing. Then it died and his heart lurched.

“And now we must discuss other marriages.” He bit his lip, regretting bringing up the twins. They should be allowed to marry as they please, not beholden to his push for a thr- “I was wrong.”

He blinked.

“I was wrong to react as I did to the idea of them marrying. It was… It is a hard thing. Please understand. Aerea is so small and scared and Rhaella… the idea of separating them-”

“I was wrong to ask,” he insisted and she smiled, sadly.

“It is a cold fact that we must choose their marriages carefully,” she stated. “In truth, had Aegon lived, it is likely Rhaella would have been married to the Lannisters anyway. They sheltered us and they deserve a reward. Aerea… he was of the same opinion as father, you know?” He did not have to ask who she was referring to. “Aegon.. He wanted Aerea to marry our son. He promised me one, you see. So that’s the way it would have been, had he lived.”

I wish he had lived.

The suddenness of the thought made his eyes sting. He wished his brother had lived.

“You are their mother,” he rasped. “I will not do anything you do not approve of.”

“You are a good man,” she said. Then her hand ruffled his hair and he squawked in mock offence more out of instinct than anything. She laughed and it was like the old Rhaena was there for a moment, his heart aching so fiercely it stole his breath away. “You have become a good man. He has not broken you. Aegon would be proud. Father would too, I think.”

Father… who was his true father these days? Maegor had not broken him but he was not the son of Aenys anymore. That should hurt, but it did not. All he could see was his father as he had been. A broken, terrified man alternating between begging Visenya to fix it all and commanding them all to prepare to flee, to abandon Westeros. Coward. Craven. The ideas were bitter. Rhaena’s hand lifting his chin gently broke him from his thoughts.

“We must leave soon. Our White Knight will grow suspicious.” In the distance, Vhagar rumbled.

“Are we doing this?” he asked. “Are we… have we decided?”

She nodded, mouth set in determination.

“It still hurts to believe she betrayed us. I know you do not want to hear it, but I still hope she has some explanation… even if so, I am with you. Against the world.”

Against the world… It certainly feels like it.

Chapter Text

Lord Darklyn did not have much presence, truly. He was thin, his features approaching gaunt, and he barely rose to Rhaena’s shoulder when the two were first introduced. Yet… there was something not quite right about those eyes. Eyes unlike Tyanna’s amused but dangerous sparkle, or Maegor’s slightly too intense gaze… he shuddered and forced himself to look away from where the new Hand of the King conversed quietly with his Uncle.

A replacement for Lord Lucas Harroway brought in before they’d even finished removing his head, or the heads of his family, from above the gates. Lord Darklyn did not seem concerned.

His only daughter is a bastard child, unlikely to catch Maegor’s eye.

The thought made him shudder as he recalled what this meeting meant. As if sensing his thoughts, Rhaena caught his hand under the table and squeezed. He squeezed back and forced his breathing to calm, running through exercises Maegor had taught him.

It’s us against the world.

Those words kept coming back to haunt him, he realised, as she met his eyes and gave him an uncertain smile. It could not be just them, but he knew what she had meant by them. They had to trust each other, let none come between them, man or woman. Mother… or siblings. He swallowed. It was a mess. Building the foundations had stabilised him, but when he looked upon all they would have to do he still felt dizzy. Rhaena’s hand in his helped.

Tyanna’s amusement as she regarded him from across the table did not. What would she do next? Maegor’s destruction of House Harroway had calmed his rage concerning the knight and once again cemented her place at Court. Did she count that as punishment enough, or would she strike again? Would she risk striking again? The thoughts would not let him rest.

“Enough!” said Maegor finally. There was no anger in his tone as he addressed Lord Darklyn. “Let us begin.”

The rest of the Small Council took their seats, each looking tense. Justin Darklyn was a relative unknown to them all, after all. Was he a lickspittle, as Lord Lucas had been? Was he a cunning political operator, throwing his lot in with Maegor for the potential prestige? Or was he merely an incompetent, jumping for a chance at a high position without knowing what it would mean?

His eyes make him look older than he is…

He refused to look away, though, and Lord Darklyn’s eyes soon moved on. He felt Rhaena tense under his gaze, saw Tyanna’s mocking smile light up, saw Daemon Velaryon’s eyes narrow in suspicion.

“Well?” demanded Maegor in the silence as each Councillor sized up the newcomer. “What of the Faith? What of my Keep? What of my treasury?”

He is still on edge.

The knowledge bought a sliver of fear. Maegor was unpredictable when he was on the edge. Rhaena’s finger stroked around the curve of his hand and he forced himself to focus. Worrying overly much now could only harm his plan, not aid it.

“The treasury is… drained, my King,” said Lord Alton, the first to break the silence. He swallowed. He needed good news, not bad. Maegor sniffed, annoyed.

“Is it not your job to find me the coin?” he asked. “I have a dynasty to build.”

“The Red Keep is a mighty project,” said Lord Butterwell, his fingers playing with the quill. “Well worthy of Your Grace, but it eats any coin we have to spare.”

“Find me the funds for it,” said Maegor icily. “Raise the taxes again if you must.”

The smallfolk can not bear the burden, and the nobles will not.

He pictured the deserted streets of King’s Landing again. The lack of merchants, of people… the city would have rioted a hundred times over already had Maegor’s Watch not kept the worst of them from taking to the streets. As for the nobles… well, most were terrified of Maegor. Terror did not inspire loyalty. If he stole their treasuries, they would turn on him the moment he was weak.

“Of course, Your Grace,” mumbled Lord Alton. He took a breath. It was now or never.

“Perhaps I might put forth a suggestion.” He was proud of how level his voice stayed as the table’s eyes swung towards him. Maegor frowned but there was no sign of anger there yet. A good start. “The Lannisters are rich in coin-”

“And loath to part with it,” said Lord Alton, interrupting him. His words sent a nervous chuckle around the table. Maegor’s frown deepened. “We have already approached them for a loan!”

“Speak,” he ordered, and Alton gave in with a slight shrug to his shoulders.

“The Lannisters have long since hungered for a royal bride or groom,” he began again, aware of Tyanna’s eyes on him most of all. “Why not open negotiations with them?”

“And what royal bride do we offer them?” asked Daemon, although there was no hostility there. Curiosity would be the best word.

He would make for a good ally here.

“Little Rhaella,” he said. Rhaena kept her face very neutral but he didn’t miss the brief flash of pain. It was one thing to discuss it in private but quite another to suggest it out loud in public. One could not control it once it was said to others.

“You propose selling her,” said Maegor, his tone dark. He swallowed.

“A crass way of putting it,” said Daemon smoothly. “I’m quite sure my nephew is merely-”

“Doing his duty,” interrupted Rhaena. “It is his duty to offer all he can to support the rightful king. It is Rhaella’s duty to marry as my uncle bids.”

Maegor leaned back then, looking almost puzzled.

“We all marry for duty,” said Justin Darklyn. His tone was dry, those eyes fixed squarely on him. Did the man ever blink? “Did His Grace not marry Queen Ceryse for the same reason?”

“Yes,” said Maegor, almost thoughtful. “It is duty…”

“Whilst we speak betrothals, uncle,” said Rhaena softly. “I would ask for another?”

“And which one is that?” he asked, glancing towards her.

“Aerea to my future son. To keep our blood pure, as Aegon and I were married. As Viserys and I will soon marry.” There was a shudder from Alton Butterwell and Edwell Celtigar then, Benifer too, although he hid it better. Maegor sat in silence for some time.

Long enough for fear to begin clawing at his throat. Had he made some mistake? Overstepped some unknown line? Would his uncle see it as a move for power, directly against him in turn? He did not know. A droplet of sweat trickled down his back and he wanted to shudder. Rhaena’s hand tightened in her own as the small smile she had directed at their uncle became fixed and brittle. He dared not look around the room openly. He remained focused on the king.

“You speak sense,” he finally said. He wanted to sigh in relief but knew he could not. “Aerea is the firstborn daughter of Aegon, and Aegon was every inch the man Aenys was not.”

He wasn’t sure if anyone saw Rhaena flinch when Maegor pronounced his judgement. He only knew she had because he felt it from where her hand was still entangled with his.

“Thank you, uncle,” she said after a moment had passed.

“What of the Lannister proposal?” asked Alton Butterwell, looking pale. “I can hardly put forth something so crass as money for a babe-”

“Find a way!” barked Maegor, whatever mood he had been in after deciding on the betrothals turning dark. Alton swallowed audibly. “I will leave this family stronger than when I found it! House Targaryen will have its Keep. It will have more than its Keep.”

After the announcement, there was silence. Every eye in the room was on him as he rose, glaring at the Master of Coin.

What else could he have planned? What more must Westeros bear?

“And you, Lord Butterwell, will find me the coin I need or I will find someone else who can.” The words were not spoken so loudly, but the implied threat made him want to cringe away from his uncle, and it had not even been directed at him. Lord Alton looked on the verge of tears as he nodded, face as white as if he had seen a spectre. Maegor kept the man’s gaze for a few moments more and he could not tell if the King enjoyed the man’s fear or was merely making a point.

“I can speak with the Lannisters alongside Lord Alton,” said Rhaena, breaking the silence and inviting the scrutiny of the room. “I will ensure they listen to him.”

“There you go, Lord Alton,” said Maegor. “I suggest you speak with my niece on the matter. I will be most displeased if you should fail me… and little Rhaella in this endeavour.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” whimpered the man as Maegor sat down once more. “I will speak with the Princess after this meeting, as soon as she is willing.”

“Good,” said Maegor.

“The construction of the Keep requires some attention,” said Lord Darklyn. “I inspected it all thoroughly upon my arrival. It will be completed on schedule, I assure you, but Lord Harroway allowed many… issues to fester under his watch. I will have to take measures.”

“Do so,” said Maegor. “You are my strong right hand, you speak with my voice.”

Lord Darklyn nodded.

“I may be of use to you there,” said Tyanna, cruel smile in place. Lord Darklyn turned to look at her, almost surprised she had even spoken up.

“Would you?” he asked, almost sneering. “I require no aid from sneakthieves and the like that you employ.”

She sneered at him in turn, eyes flickering to Maegor as if she expected him to leap from his seat and strangle Lord Darklyn where he sat, but Maegor did not move, would not meet her eyes, and her sneer flickered. Next to him, Rhaena snorted softly in amusement. He could not feel it though, if Tyanna thought he was close to having done with her, she would bring everything she had to bear against them. She would claw them all down with her out of spite.

“Piracy in the Narrow Sea is rising,” said Daemon, tone almost lazy. “Trade in King’s Landing suffers for it. If His Grace would grant me permission, I would send out the fleet to teach them to fear House Targaryen.”

Maegor snorted.

“Mere boats will not do that,” he growled.

“I would never demand a dragon to aid my ships, Your Grace, that is for those greater than I.” Maegor glared at him at that before his eyes became a little more thoughtful.

“Yet I find myself warming to the idea,” said Maegor after a moment.

“The Prince and Princess have yet to have any experience on dragonback in war,” said Tyanna, smirk in place once more. He resisted the urge to glare, even as Daemon sat up slightly taller in his seat.

“Risking two dragons for mere pirates is a fool’s errand,” said Lord Darklyn. “Let the Prince go. Let him show them his might. The Princess will remain here and show that even the widow of Aegon Targaryen stands by the True King.”

Fear poured through him then. What game was being played? Was his uncle in league with Lord Darklyn? Or was the new Hand merely opposing Tyanna’s view solely because she put it forth? He tried not to think of bringing Vhagar to bear against men. It had been terrible enough to put his sword through the neck of the knight, but… to burn men? Men who could not fight back?

“An excellent suggestion, Lord Darklyn,” said Daemon. “Prince Viserys has certainly grown into his role as our King’s Heir, and this will only further cement his position as such.”

“Any objections, boy?” asked Maegor. He tried not to swallow, or let the fear touch his face. His uncle would judge him a craven, and if there was one thing he knew with a bone deep certainty, it was that if Maegor were to think him a craven, he would rather kill him than have him as his heir.

“None,” he said. He should say more, say some pithy line to impress them all but he couldn’t. Maegor held his gaze for a little longer before nodding slowly.

“Then Prince Viserys will lead the force to clean out the Stepstones.” The announcement made his stomach drop and bile surge into his throat.

“And what of our wedding?” said Rhaena, as if she could feel his fear. He wanted to weep at her defence. Maegor stared at her, as if such a thought had not occurred to him. “Such a campaign could take moons, perhaps even a year.”

“The princess speaks truly, My King,” said Daemon. “Pirates prefer to run than fight when facing true steel. It will be no quick venture.”

“Then you will wed before he goes,” snapped Maegor. “The realm will see Vhagar’s power once more!”

“Then it is decided,” said Lord Darklyn. He felt as if he were about to leave his own body. War, wedding Rhaena… It was only her hand in his that kept him from falling from his chair. He had entered this Council meeting hoping for little more than the beginning of his alliance and ended up leading an army…

Seven help me…

Chapter Text

The announcement that the Red Keep was at last finished brought cold dread to his stomach even as he played the pleased Prince under his uncle’s eyes. It meant he would soon marry his sister, it meant he would soon mount Vhagar and ride to war alongside his uncle… it meant- an ending of sorts. He could not even describe it aloud to Rhaena, when she had asked one evening. Yet him fighting under Maegor’s banner was an ending.

It made him melancholy, when he allowed himself to ponder the matter.

“A feast!” roared Maegor, much to the delight of the assembled courtiers. He tried not to let his surprise show. Maegor did not often host feasts or celebrations. He viewed them as foolish, congratulating yourself needlessly when there was always more to be done. “Lord Darklyn, I demand a feast. Not only for my noble supporters but for the men that built this Keep, for the men that have built my legacy!”

He nearly frowned at that. Nearly. Inviting the men, mere smallfolk, themselves to a feast of nobles? He could see confusion, badly hidden, spreading amongst the others too.

“What is his game?” murmured Rhaena, shifting her grip on Rhaella’s hand. “Father would never-”

She stopped then, eyes crinkling in pain. Their father would never have invited those without noble blood to a feast, he mentally finished. They were to be ruled over, not invited inside as equals. He often wondered if his father had ever even seen them beyond the cheering crowds or the growling mob. He would announce days of celebration and delight in their cheers- His mind was wandering again.

He knew Maegor had plans for his next construction, his next monument to Targaryen power. The fearsome Keep he had built within the castle his grandfather had been happy to call home was just a beginning. It would mean more expense, more burdens the rest of Westeros must bear and more… more of a chance that those most dissatisfied would rally to his mother’s banner.

“Vis?” He shook his head and turned towards his sister and her children. The twins were sticking close to her, although not entirely out of choice.

“My apologies,” he replied. “I was lost in thought.”

She gave him a weak smile.

“I could see that. What were you thinking of?” He debated on telling her for a moment. Of the fear that burned inside him. She already knew of some of it, yet to confess out loud… He could not. Especially not in the crowded throne room.

“Prince Viserys.” Rhaena’s face went carefully blank and he mimicked her actions, turning to face Tyanna. She was dressed splendidly for court today, he supposed she must have known the impending news. A deep black gown, low cut of course, with a scarlet mantle and enough rubies to buy a small city. He was not surprised somehow to see a circlet adorning her head, wrought in the style of his grandfather’s crown.

Presumptuous… The Dowager Queen would have put her in her place.

Wasn’t that a thought. Yet it was true. Not even Queen Ceryse would dare to wear something like this. He supposed it meant she was firmly ensconced by his uncle’s side once more.

“Queen Tyanna,” he murmured in reply, giving her a bow that nobody could insinuate was disrespectful. Rhaena and the children followed a moment later, and Tyanna’s eyes glittered with cruel delight.

“Your uncle wishes me to inform you there will be a private meeting tonight, before the feast shall begin,” she told him, amusement evident. What joke was she laughing at? He had no doubt it was at his expense anymore. What alliance they had was in tatters, as dead as the knight Rhaena had poisoned.

“My thanks, my Queen,” he replied politely. He would not ask her what the meeting was about, she would come up with some way of making him beg. He would not give her the opportunity.

“Come now, Tyanna,” came the amused voice of his uncle Daemon. His features implied merriment but his eyes were sharp, no joy to be found in the violet depths. “You must at least tell my nephew and niece what the matter regards.”

“Must I?” she asked, tone taking on the bite of challenge. Daemon laughed as if she had told the most amusing joke.

“I would warrant it’s regarding your new quarters, nephew. It’s time you and your sister stopped living out of your childhood rooms and moved into something more befitting your title and stature? Am I wrong?” He was quite sure that upon that question, he could hear Tyanna grinding her teeth. Only for a moment, and then she was all venomous smiles once more.

“An astute guess, my lord,” she laughed. “I should check my bedchambers for spies once more, no? Lord Daemon is correct, it does concern your upcoming change of quarters.”

He tried not to let his trepidation at that show on his face, but Tyanna had always been capable of reading him. She looked genuinely pleased at his worry, and that only further served to worry him more.

“The new holdfast is to house the royal family,” Tyanna went on after giving them a moment to begin fretting. “For our protection, you see?”

He swallowed thickly.

“Of course,” he rasped. He would be under her watch all day and night, he knew that now. No wonder she was so amused, she saw it as a way to assure him she had not forgotten his betrayal and that she would not allow him to do so again. Even if he wanted to.

“My Queen, might I have a few moments to discuss the upcoming wedding with the happy couple?” Daemon asked, tone unchanged and polite smile fixed in place. Tyanna smiled again, although he thought he detected annoyance there. She had no reason to deny their uncle that time.

“Of course, my lord. Do not forget the gathering, Prince Viserys.” Then she was gone, lords and ladies parting before her as she strode away. It was as if she did not see the looks that she left in her wake, from annoyance to outright hatred.

It does not matter. She might as well be Maegor’s only Queen for how little Ceryse flexes her power.

“Tell me, does every conversation you have with her put you more and more in mind of a snake, or is that just myself?” asked uncle Daemon, his violet eyes glimmering in delight. He heard Rhaena cover up her startled laugh with a cough behind him, but he couldn’t find it within himself to feel any merriment at the question.

“You should take her seriously,” he warned his uncle. The Master of Ships tilted his head as if considering that before smiling again.

“Believe me, nephew, I take her very seriously indeed.” Somehow, he believed that, for all that his uncle acted as if all this were some joke. The smile never quite reached his eyes fully. He was so very different from Maegor, he realised then. Daemon was charismatic, inclined to laugh and joke. He had gotten on well with their father, the former king had always loved those able to make him laugh and smile.

Yet Daemon was surviving, thriving even, in a court that blamed his sister for everything that had happened when their father had ruled. If he ignored every other indication of uncle Daemon’s hidden depths, he could not ignore that.

“I do not doubt that,” he said finally, truthfully. “Forgive me, uncle.”

Daemon waved a hand, dismissing the apology with a smile. “Think nothing of it. Although I am curious that you should warn me. I had noticed she is no longer your champion, but to break so publicly... Tell me, what did you do to get under her scales, nephew?”

“Disobeyed her,” said Rhaena before he could answer. It was just as well, he had no good answer that would have them all locked up.

“A capital crime then,” said his uncle. “It did not escape me that you are searching for allies either.”

“You are bold,” he said, surprise making his tongue loose. Daemon shrugged.

“I have approached you many times subtly. Now you seek the Lannisters as allies, it seems to me that you might be looking for more,” he explained without a trace of shame in his voice. “You should think it over. I am your uncle.”

“So is Maegor,” snapped Rhaena.

“True,” replied Daemon. His head tilted again. “But I am a man who wants to keep his head. I am a man who wants to advance his house. I am not Maegor.”

That was spoken quietly yet still spoken. He caught Rhaena’s eye. He could not deny they had spoken about approaching their mother’s brother for an ally on the council. It would do much to strengthen their cause.

“We would be happy to invite you to our new rooms for a private meal,” he offered at last. Daemon’s eyes glittered at that and he smiled like a cat that had just caught a particularly wiley mouse.

“I would be delighted to attend,” replied their uncle. “Just between you and me, I wouldn’t worry too much about the walls having ears.”

“Oh?” asked Rhaena.

“Your uncle may be keen to have Tyanna’s little rats running this way and that in the castle, but the new Keep? He would never allow her such power.”

He seems so sure. I wish I had that confidence. I would not put it past Tyanna to work around him.

“A relief then, that my marriage bed will not become fodder for common gossip,” replied Rhaena, as if the news were no more important than a report on the weather.

“Although, speaking of common gossip, have you any news on why so many of the smallfolk are to be invited to this feast?” asked Daemon. When they remained silent, he smiled again.

“It is strange, to be sure,” he continued. “Your father would never have done so, and that may be explanation enough.”

“Perhaps,” he said, and Daemon smiled in satisfaction. He did not want to dwell any longer on what his father had and hadn’t done. Something about this still did not sit right. Judging by the confusion others about the hall were still showing, he had no doubt it did not sit right with them either. “I simply fear this is some move of Tyanna’s we are missing.”

As soon as he said it, he wanted to take it back. There was no one nearby to hear it, to report it, and yet he couldn’t help but think she would know all the same. At his confession, Rhaena laid a hand on his shoulder.

She is still having to restrain Rhaella.

The younger twin pulled a face at his amusement. Aerea merely curled closer to her mother, balling her fists in the fabric of her dress. He wanted to be closer to them, yet all he could see was Aegon.

“I doubt it,” said Daemon finally. “Tyanna is focused on pressuring Storm’s End. This is Darklyn’s doing, of that I have little doubt. T’was he that began preparations for the feast, it stands to reason he would dictate the guest list.”

Then this was a test, he realised suddenly as their uncle smiled. He had brought it up, known the answer- As if reading his annoyance, their uncle nodded solemnly.

“I did not get this far by not being careful. I look forward to our meal.” Then he strode off, smiling and greeting those around him.

“I do not trust him,” whispered Rhaena. “I do not.”

“I think-” He paused. The suspicion, ever so vague in his mind, seemed absurd to say aloud, yet he could not stop himself. “I think he is in contact with our mother. He… I think he is playing every side at once.”

“It is a good assumption,” murmured Rhaena. “If so, if we can get him to commit to us, his value as an ally would be much greater.”

“If,” he echoed and his sister sighed.

“We have little more than ifs right now,” she said sadly. “The Lannisters have yet to reply to our proposal. All of this could fail before we begin if we do not have a solid enough base to approach others.”

“We will manage,” he said, more for himself than for her. They had to. They had no one else. Maegor would kill them in the end, either doing it himself or through the enemies he was making. The less thought of what his mother would do the better.

Chapter Text

The feast was not what he had expected, even if he wasn’t sure entirely what he had been expecting. The evening had started out with some decorum at least, the nobles in the room too startled at the fact that they were actually sharing such a feast with mere workmen to do anything about it. For their part, the workers who had built Maegor’s holdfast had been rough but polite, too cowed by their betters. As the ale had flowed freely, though, that had changed.

“This is not something Aenys would have allowed.”

It is a point of pride for you, it seems.

“No, my- uncle. No, it is not.” He dared not say more. He caught Rhaena’s eye, willing her to silence and she frowned but made a show of fussing over Aerea. She should not have brought them, they were still so young, and yet she was loath to be parted from them with Tyanna still on the prowl for any weakness. Maegor snorted at his agreement before flagging down a passing serving woman and demanding ale. He swallowed as his uncle ordered some for him too.

“I detested Aenys’ so called celebrations,” he continued when the woman had scurried off. “It was all a show to feed his ego. He wanted to show off and every one of those pissants was happy to indulge him.”

“Father-” He hesitated then and Maegor glanced at him sharply. “He…”

The words would not come. He remembered his father’s feasts and celebrations. Father had wanted to be liked above all, and when the wine was flowing and people were so verbose with their admiration, his father was at his happiest. He winced as he remembered the end, the tension. The way the feasts hadn’t worked, had only angered the commons more. A vicious cycle, a distraction. A fatal one.

There had been no celebrations on Dragonstone. Just their father’s fear and paranoia, the way the entire island had seemed to fall into a gloom as the king grew sicker and sicker, as the news from the mainland became worse by the day. He jumped violently when the serving woman returned, placing his ale before him with a shy bow. He thanked her and took it, drinking deeply. He barely even noticed Maegor’s approving look.

He paused in his gulping when he caught Rhaella staring at him with wide eyes. Slowly, he lowered the tankard and smiled. She returned it brightly. The boldest of Aegon’s children. Rhaena was still trying to calm Aerea. She did not handle crowds well.

“Once this is over, we will begin preparations for the wedding,” Maegor told him, following his gaze. He swallowed thickly.

“Thank you, uncle,” he said finally. Maegor smiled and nodded, before sipping his own drink.

He is tense, alert.

“Is something wrong, uncle?” he asked before he could stop himself. Maegor placed his ale down and scowled for a moment before his expression cleared.

“Tollett was right about you,” Maegor said finally, his features becoming proud. Bile surged in his own throat for a moment at that pride. Bile and a pleased feeling that settled in his breast. “You’re sharp. That’s good, don’t lose that, it may save your life one day.”

“Thank you, uncle,” he said again, feeling as if that was all he ever said these days.

“You need not trouble yourself about the matter for now. I will tell you when it is time.” That did not ease his worries, instead it fed them until it was a struggle to even stay sitting.

Time for what?

“Vis, could you help me with this?” asked Rhaena. Without thinking, he leaned over to find she had been pretending to tie a bow in Aerea’s dress. At his raised eyebrow, she untied it again with a show of annoyance, whispering to him. “Have you seen Darklyn?”

He had not. The Lord Hand had been responsible for this feast, had he not? Why was he not present then? It seemed obvious that he should be arranging something for his uncle, but he could not think what that could be. The unease grew once more until he feared it would choke him.

“We must speak with uncle Daemon,” he said finally. “He knew Darklyn arranged this, he may have looked deeper, discovered his motives.”

Rhaena bit her lip, looking uncertain. He did not trust their mother’s brother, just as she did not, but he knew the man could be used as far as it would benefit House Velaryon in turn. Beyond that, dealing with him would be like dealing with a live viper. For some reason, he never forgot that when dealing with the man. He could forget when it was his other uncle… how strange.

“Take the children to our new rooms,” he said finally. “I fear something is afoot tonight.”

“If it is something targeted at us, our new rooms will hardly help matters,” she muttered sourly.

“I do not think it is us,” he said, and wondered why he was so certain. Was it the pride Maegor had shown, or just knowledge of his uncle? Maegor was the type to kill quickly and he had no quarrel with Darklyn, he reminded himself. Rhaena gave him an aggrieved look before gathering Aerea onto her lap.

“I beg my leave, uncle,” she said finally as he began to fear she would defy him. “The girls grow tired.”

Maegor smiled, a genuine smile, and reached out, motioning Rhaella forward. The sudden need to reach out and pull her back gripped him, and he forced himself to remain still as Aegon’s daughter moved past him, curious about this man she knew so very little of. When Maegor caught her by the chin, Rhaena made a sound in the back of her throat and he could see her fingers going white as she clutched at her chair.

“Are you tired, little one?” asked Maegor. Rhaella stared up at him for a moment. Then she smiled.

“No,” she said simply. “Aerea is, though.”

Maegor blinked for a moment and then laughed loudly. Loudly enough to catch the attention of those around them, curious eyes watching the King and the daughter of the man he’d slain above the God’s Eye.

“Bold girl!” he said finally. “Go look after your sister.”

Rhaella skipped back to her mother and he hoped desperately that Maegor had not heard his sigh of relief. Instead, his uncle seemed intent on something else, something… no, someone. Ser Owen had just entered the hall, his armour standing in stark relief against the masses of brown and grey that made up the workers. Visible even amongst the more coloured clothes of the nobility that were still sitting at their tables.

“Hm,” said Maegor finally. “It seems we are to be called away, too.”

“Uncle?” he asked.

“Take your seat again, Rhaena,” he ordered, standing as Ser Owen passed them and settled at Ser Maladon’s side. Gone was the jovial Maegor of earlier, the one that had laughed so. The one that had shown him pride. For a moment, he thought Rhaena would refuse… then she sat, pulling Aerea onto her knee and clutching Rhaella’s hand. He swallowed again and drank the rest of his ale as the hall slowly went silent, eyes turning to the standing King. Maegor’s features could have been made from stone from how unyielding and intimidating he seemed in that moment. Once every eye in the hall was upon him, he reached down slowly and raised his tankard of ale.

“When I became king, Westeros was shattered, torn apart, by traitors and lesser men,” Maegorbegan, and he suddenly realised that his uncle seemed almost unsure of himself.

Of course, he has no way with words, not like father did.

“I have united us all under one banner once more with blade and flame,” he called. “I rebuilt my father’s realm and you! You have built Westeros’ crowning jewel! A monument to the peace that comes under the dragon!”

There was applause and some cheering. There could not be much, not with Maegor and not with how drunk they were, but he could not deny the speech had been underwhelming regardless. His father… his father could have had these men eating out of his hand by now.

“Yet there is more to do, more to build, for us all, if this peace is to continue,” explained Maegor. He resisted the urge to look at Rhaena, to see if she had realised the same things he had. “Together we shall destroy a symbol of our divided past and build a new symbol of our united future. Tomorrow we shall rest and after that… after that, we shall sweep away the remains of the Sept of Remembrance and build something new, something more, in its place!”

As the king’s voice died away, his workers began their cheering in earnest. He could not blame them, he reflected as he applauded. They were cheering for continued employment, guaranteed food for their families, whilst the rest of King’s Landing was filled with that terrible emptiness. The nobles cheered because they did not wish to die, yet he had no doubt word would spread quickly and more would set themselves against Maegor. His uncle sat back into his seat, looking pleased with himself, as more ale was sent to the tables of his workers.

“A little showy,” he said finally. “Yet Darklyn recommended it. Something to please the smallfolk.”

He did not trust himself to answer that. The moment of silence stretched on, yet no recrimination came from his uncle. He seemed lost in his own thoughts, eyes staring out over the hall, yet not truly seeing it. Then he stirred.

“Go, take your girls, Rhaena,” he commanded. Rhaena rose, giving him a bow that was barely respectful and gathered the twins close before pausing, as if something had just occurred to her. Then she bent low, her breath coming warm on his ear as she whispered.

“Be careful, Vis. That wasn’t everything, I am sure of it.” He did not let himself react beyond a small smile and wave as Rhaena escorted the girls away, Ser Maladon moving to follow them.

“She will make a fine Queen,” said Maegor a moment later, watching as she left. He did not like the look in his uncle’s eyes and so he cleared his throat.

“I thank you again for allowing us to marry,” he said, tone sounding insincere even to him, yet Maegor did not seem to hear it. Instead he stood, the sudden movement sending slivers of fear through him, leaving him tasting it on his tongue.

“Come, it is time we addressed the true issues of tonight,” his uncle growled. He stood and followed as Ser Owen led them away from the hall.

“Might I ask-” he had barely begun before his uncle cut him off with a wave of his hand.

“Stay silent whilst there are those able to hear us, boy,” he barked. He did as his uncle commanded, feeling like a chastised child as they were led into the bowels of the keep. Fear took him again when he realised they were approaching the cells. For a moment his breath did not seem to come properly, then they rounded the corner to find Lord Darklyn, flanked by Tyanna, and breath left him entirely.

“My King,” Tyanna all but purred. “Those you have asked for are within.”

He forced himself to focus. This was not the Black Cells, this was not where he would be sent if his uncle knew what had happened to Rhaena’s knight, or that they plotted to form their own faction within Maegor’s court. He let out a slow breath and fixed a brittle smile onto his face.

“They came willingly,” said Darklyn. “They believe they are to receive their gold for the stables and a personal thank you from yourself.”

Maegor nodded as Tyanna chuckled at that.

“Good,” said the king. “Have we ensured that no party has what they know?”

“I have taken steps. Their families are being dealt with as we speak. Quietly, of course. Those that did enquire will be visited by my men within the next few days,” Tyanna told him, her eyes flashing as she gazed at him. Maegor stepped forward then, catching her about the waist as she let out an almost girlish giggle. He did not miss Darklyn retreating as Maegor lowered his lips to hers.

They mean to murder these people? Their families?

The thought made him feel ill. He had taken a life before. He had killed the knight on the Dragonmont, but that had been in battle, the man had fought back, would have killed him in turn had he failed. This was wrong. He forced his gaze from the entwined lovers and met Darklyn’s dispassionate gaze. He wanted to shudder again, yet forced himself not to.

“This is a triumph,” said Maegor finally, turning to them as he kept Tyanna at his side. “Take heed. Today is a triumph for our house, for Westeros. We will be the masters of our castle, of our city and of our kingdom.”

“Will you let me watch when you slay them, my King?” asked Tyanna. He fought the bile in his throat again as he waited in the silence alongside Darklyn. He wondered if Maegor had forgotten their presence, or if he simply did not care, as Maegor drew her close again. A quick kiss this time before he let her go and stepped backwards. Maegor raised those exultant eyes to him then and smiled.

“Inside this room are the men that dreamt up this castle. Every passage, every room… every secret. Do you understand?” The question made him want to wheeze at the realisation. Maegor would kill these men so he could be the only keeper of the secrets he had commanded they design. He would kill their families and any who might know-

“I wanted the workers too,” said Tyanna, pouting like a child who had not gotten her desired doll.

“It was not necessary. We need those workers for our future plans,” argued Darklyn quickly.

“Enough,” barked Maegor, before turning back to him. “Do you understand, Viserys?”

There is no way to win. I am trapped. There is only one answer I can give...

“I do, uncle.” Tyanna’s wide smile was enough to know he was damned.

Chapter Text

The slaughter of the Keep’s architects had been quiet, half ignored, but it was known and not a day went by that more should know.

“You should not blame yourself,” said his uncle, his mother’s brother. Rhaena shot him an annoyed glance, looking for a moment as if she wished to argue, and then she sighed and seemed to slump, raising a hand to her face. He knew that her first instinct had been that he should have fought, that he should have saved those men. It had disappointed her even when she had acknowledged he’d had no choice but to give in. “You did not wield the blade, you did not lure them to that room, nor did you organise the feast to cover up the crime.”

“I gave my approval,” he murmured.

“It would have happened regardless. All you defiance would have earned you was Maegor’s ire. I speak from experience when I tell you that such a prize is often deadly.” He risked a glance at Rhaena again, met those eyes so much like his own as she stared at him.

“He is right,” she said. “I wish it were not so, but he is right.”

It does not help the guilt. The nightmares.

He shook his head and turned towards the window, turned towards a somewhat cheerier King’s Landing. One that was preparing to celebrate their impending marriage. Maegor had even been so kind as to pull his Watch back to their barracks, to free the streets of the strangling fear they took with them wherever they went.

“When I am king,” he said aloud, almost without meaning to. “Maegor’s Watch will be a thing of the past.”

Perhaps the only thing I am sure I will do when I inherit the Throne. Even if it is the only thing I manage as King.

“Why wait?” asked Daemon. He turned, surprised and thankful he had not been chastised for changing the subject. “Should our little sojourn to the Stepstones go well and you return covered in glory, and I assure you that you will, you could request anything from Maegor. Dragonstone, perhaps? His little collection of murderers and ne’er-do-wells would be nothing.”

“Dragonstone,” he murmured. The thought… he had been back there. He had. The thought of owning it, though, the thought of once again taking what was his brother’s set unease loose in his gut.

“If Vis comes to lead them, getting rid of them will not be necessary,” said Rhaena thoughtfully. “And it would give us a small force of men loyal to us, right on our doorstep if managed properly.”

“I have men I can give you,” said Daemon quickly. “And after the Stepstones is done with, there will be those who will follow you to the Seven Hells themselves because you have fought alongside them.”

“Even a hundred men would tip the balance,” said Rhaena.

“And thus, your faction takes an even greater shape,” said Daemon, voice thick with satisfaction.

“I would not be so bold,” he said finally, the possibility in their words making his head spin. “The Lannisters have yet to reply to our proposal, and a few loyal men in the capital could not prevent Maegor or my mother from sweeping us aside right now.”

And you are not so trustworthy, either, uncle, for all you protest your loyalty to me.

From the look Rhaena directed at their uncle’s back, he knew she felt the same. Daemon frowned for a moment, lip twisting in that feigned confusion he always managed whenever their mother was brought up.

“Your mother will not sweep you aside. She would be beyond proud to see how far you have come.” The protestations felt rote, empty, as they had done since he’d first spewed them out. Rhaena shook her head.

“Our troubles with our mother are our own, uncle,” she said. “We have grievances in how she has handled this. Even you can not deny that.”

“I concede the point,” he said, full of fake graciousness.

“And I concede that your idea has merit,” he admitted in turn, eyes travelling back to the city. The smallfolk would welcome someone taking the Watch in hand. Would it help the scars that afflicted King’s Landing? Or would they see him as just another noble out to bleed them dry?

“Why did you come here, uncle?” asked Rhaena and he realised with a start that his uncle had sought them out, hadn’t he? Come to find them and then gotten distracted reassuring him once more. His uncle must think him weak then, to get so distracted. Daemon pulled a face.

“I came here to report on the Velaryon fleet to my prince,” he said, tone sardonic. “But in truth, I wished to escape that smug harpy and Maegor’s moods.”

His other uncle’s, the one he must be equally as wary of, moods had become more noticeable, more terrifying in their intensity. Joy and pride in one moment and then rage and fire in the next. He knew it was his uncle’s head wound fuelling it. The noise, the celebrations, only sending the pain to greater heights, but such explanations would not bring back the knights and ladies he slew when they angered him.

Or merely existed too close to his current tantrum.

“He is getting worse,” muttered Rhaena. “And she only feeds it.”

“I fear Darklyn is just as bad,” he replied, absent-mindedly. “Each compete for Maegor’s ear, for his will. Each inspire him to brutality in their own way.”

He would not forget Darklyn’s quiet satisfaction, just as he could not forget Tyanna’s almost sexual excitement that day. The way both had wanted death, wanted murder, and only disagreed on the scope of the matter. That was their influence on his uncle.

“I rather think I fancy Darklyn’s place when you are crowned, nephew.” He glanced at the man, shocked for a moment by his boldness, then remembered his uncle had abandoned subtlety entirely after that first dinner. He remembered the way Daemon had laughed at their caution, the casual oath to follow him.

“Such a position will be discussed closer to the time,” said Rhaena, tone sour. Daemon smiled and bowed mockingly.

“How is the fleet?” he asked as his sister bristled, her fists clenching. The question brought dread to his gut but he pushed it down. He had to. Not fighting would kill him quicker than mounting Vhagar and seeing battle.

“As ready as always,” said Daemon. “It awaits only your coming marriage.”

The other matter that had his guts churning recently. War and marriage, both hung over his future like a long, black shadow.

Which am I more afraid of?

He raised his gaze to his sister again and received a small smile for his trouble. She was just as nervous, he knew this. She feared for her bold and bright daughter, given to the Lannisters. She feared for her quiet and frightened daughter, held for their eventual son. Maybe she feared him, feared the husband he would be, for all he promised to never bind her, to let her be as free as the woman she was named for. He was certain she feared for the woman in the Westerlands. The one she loved. The one whose name she mumbled in her sleep.

“At this point,” he said. “I will be glad to have it all over with.”

“I agree,” said Rhaena. “He seems to be on a mission to further beggar the realm.”

“What a heartwarming beginning to a marriage,” chuckled Daemon, and the tone set him bristling, set his anger surging. How could he not see? His sister was a widow, a widow forced to marry a broken, inferior version of the man she had, if not loved, then at least respected enough for it to be mistaken as love. He nearly said it aloud. Nearly spilled it all out before them. He stopped himself. Rhaena stood, her arms folded across her torso, but her face a mask of anger.

“You will not speak of our marriage,” she said, tone like ice. “I love Viserys, I would die for him. I will bear him his children and I will rule as his Queen and you, dearest uncle, will not say a word.”

“Calm yourself,” their uncle said gently, a moment later. “I understand your position. I am not your mother. I do not judge. If you can manage some measure of happiness after all this, then I will do all I can to support such a thing.”

He swallowed, his throat suddenly feeling swollen.

“Perhaps there is,” he said, proud of how his voice did not shake. Rhaena shot him a look. “My sister deserves ladies to attend to her after our marriage, when I am gone to war…”

He couldn’t quite finish the sentence. Instead he shot her a desperate look. He hated to think he was begging, but he was.

Understand me please. I want you to be happy. I want to give you what Aegon gave you.

“An excellent idea,” said Daemon, seemingly recovering. “My niece deserves the trappings of a future Queen.”

Rhaena looked unamused, folding her arms.

“I understand your game,” she said dryly. “I can sort all that out by myself.”

When will you bring this Elissa to the capital?

He did not ask aloud, even as her unamused look faded into thoughtfulness.

“Your mother mentioned dear friends,” said Daemon cautiously and he wanted to warn his uncle from the matter. “If they should need bringing to King’s Landing, my personal vessel is at your disposal.”

Her mouth opened and then snapped shut, as if she had been about to triumphantly inform them all of something, and then thought better of it. They stayed in silence for a while until his uncle rose and reached for his cloak.

“Think over all I have said, and please do not hesitate to call me should you need anything.” He nodded as Daemon cloaked himself in Velaryon teal and silver.

“Thank you, uncle,” he said as the man made to leave. “Your support is very appreciated in this confusing time.”

The man nodded and then smiled, before turning to bow to Rhaena.

“Until next time, niece. I hope I see you before the ceremony, at least.” She smiled thinly at him.

“Of course, uncle. Thank you for your visit,” she replied, tone even.

“Thank you for the haven in the storm,” he joked and then he was gone, cloak whirling dramatically. He took the seat so recently abandoned by their uncle and peered at his sister, trying to gauge her mood. She gave him another smile, a more relaxed genuine one this time, and something close to relief made him almost lightheaded.

“I thank you for the gesture, little brother,” she began. “But I can manage my own love life.”

He opened his mouth and then closed it. She reached out and captured a hand in hers, turning it over and then sighing when she noticed the torn skin and ragged nails.

“It’s a bad habit,” she murmured. “Does this not hurt?”

“Occasionally,” he admitted, feeling very much like a young boy. She snorted and then let his hand go. For a moment, he thought she would say something more. Then she smiled and leaned back.

“Come,” she said finally. “The girls will need waking up. It would not hurt for you to do it. They must get used to you before the wedding.”

Chapter Text

His wedding would have been less awkward if the High Septon, the one they called the High Lickspittle, was not so obviously terrified of his uncle. The man paused and stuttered every time his uncle shifted in the crowd. The stopping and starting grated across his nerves until he could understand so clearly why his uncle was prone to his outbursts.

Let me say the words already, let this humiliation be over with.

It would not be over with, not after the ceremony anyway. Queen Tyanna had played the gracious mother and demanded a feast, demanded the almost obscene level of celebration their wedding had become, all with that cruel look in her eye and the satisfied smirk she so often wore. Darklyn had done little to argue, that was the only thing that knocked the smile from her face these days. Queen Tyanna detested having to share her influence over her husband with anyone else.

And Darklyn has made it clear he is here to stay.

Another stammer had his jaw clenching shut, making his teeth ache with the force of it. He risked a glance at Rhaena and saw as clear as day that she was faring no better with her temper. She had not slept well last night, he knew that from just looking at her. Even if he had not been laid beside her, listening to her cry and whimper. Listening to her murmuring Melony’s name. Murmuring Elissa’s name.

They had both been miserable this morning when their attendants had separated them. He had managed a few hours before the grey and grim dawn light had awoken him once more, and what sleep she had managed had been disturbed. Preparing himself for the ceremony had been worse, in its way. Dressing in such extravagant clothes, feeling like a mere copy of his brother. Rhaena had it worse. Her own gown was gem encrusted, but it was a shadow of what she had worn in her first wedding and seemed designed to be a monument to Targaryen power. No hint as to her Velaryon heritage… No friends or ladies by her side either.

I remember… It was the only time I ever saw Melony happy to be in a dress.

Melony had been Rhaena’s first great love, he knew that. She had others before Melony, but they were the sweet crushes of childhood. Melony had been her first love as a woman. This Elissa must be something quite special to his sister if she cried her name in the same breath as the Piper lady who had fought for her and died for her. The High Lickspittle’s words finally dragged him back. He knew this part of the ceremony. He had stood where the twins now stood, watching as his brother married Rhaena once.

He swallowed and repeated the words the High Lickspittle told him to, the words Aegon had spoken, and felt very curiously like he did not exist inside his own skin. When he turned to grasp Rhaena’s hand after she had spoken her own words, he noted that his hands were shaking. Hers were cold, like ice in his grip. He could barely meet her eyes as they leaned in. A chaste kiss. One that earned them polite applause from the watchers.

When Aegon had married, the happy couple had stood before the crowds of King’s Landing and presented themselves before those they would one day rule. There had been objections from the smallfolk, of course, but not so much that it halted the celebrations. Perhaps that should have been a warning sign? That mere smallfolk would speak out against the dragon. Father had been content to believe the day of festivities would be balm enough to soothe the fury that the Faith were whipping up.

Could we have stopped everything that happened if we had acted on that day?

He doubted it, somehow. He held out his arm for Rhaena as they turned to face the sept and was somehow comforted when her arm slipped through his. Warm. Solid. It was enough to stop his head from swimming and drag his thoughts from the past at least. He did not, could not, miss Maegor’s face in the crowd. Proud, satisfied and looking as if he had gotten as much sleep as Rhaena and himself. Would he lose his temper here and now? Later at the feast?

The thoughts left his head spinning as they began the long walk from the High Lickspittle to the doors. There would be no crowds for Maegor’s heir, no smallfolk to cheer for their future. Maegor’s Watch had driven them back into the city and away from the Keep. There would be no riots and no chance for the Faith to make a nuisance of themselves. At least there were no heads lining the walls today.

Tyanna would have had her fill though, even if she has not left evidence.

He took a breath when they exited finally, still feeling as if the eyes of the world were upon them. There would be a grand feast next, merry-making and celebration.. Everything Maegor hated. Everything that he, himself, did not want. Not when he felt so much like an impostor. He did not think he could have hated Tyanna more when she had connived to murder Alys Harroway by setting his uncle against her in one of his rages, nor when she had been so delighted over Maegor’s murder of his Keep’s architects, but that had been cold and impersonal. Now, as every second of today seemed planned to slice and cut what little stability he had, now that hate crystallised into something purer.

“Vis, you are hurting me,” murmured Rhaena. He nearly stumbled in realisation and released her arm, letting her take it back.

“I’m sorry,” he said. Too quickly and the words were mangled with one another. Rhaena gave him a rueful smile. A sad smile.

“I do not blame you,” she said quietly, offering her arm once more. “I blame her for the mockery. I blame him for killing… for killing Aegon.”

He had little to say to that as they continued on to the rooms they shared. Maegor had drawn in as many as he could. Or, more accurately, Darklyn had. He knew the Arryn’s had sent a delegation, Riverlords and Crownlords had flocked to the capital, lords of the Reach who had thrown their lot in with Maegor such as Lord Meadows and the newly made Lord Webber. Even some Westerlanders, given Lord Alton Butterwell’s difficulty in negotiating with the Lannisters, and he had been surprised to see that. No Stormlanders though… that was likely a given. No northerners either, but that did not concern him.

“I feel as if it is obscene,” he admitted as the servants met them, working quickly to divest them of their current over-garments. He had not realised how hot and restricted he’d felt until he was free of them.

“To have so much when those around us have so little…” Rhaena trailed off, her eyes going distant before seemingly coming to some sort of decision. “I will see what I can do here for them. Maegor can not deny me some sort of charity, surely?”

He let his mind rest on that for a moment as the servants came forth with new clothes. Less ostentatious, at least, but they still felt like weights around his limbs. With Rhaena attending to the smallfolk and he curbing the excesses of the Watch… perhaps they could win King’s Landing. There would be no riots like there was after Aegon left… no near misses. No scrambling to hide as the mob screamed for blood-

No. I will ensure that never happens again.

“It’s an excellent idea,” he admitted. Rhaena smiled before tutting in annoyance as a second set of servants moved close, intent on redoing their hair.

“Although..” she paused, suddenly seeming almost lost in thought before she smiled sadly.

“I never really had such a head for things,” she admitted, only the slightest dusting of red over her cheeks hinting that she was even embarrassed by her lack of skill in numbers.

“Mother used to despair,” he said before his mind had caught up. When it did, he winced in time with her. Neither had mentioned her, he felt as if he had broken some unwritten rule.

“She did,” said Rhaena. “She did.”

They lapsed into silence as the maids and servants finished their work, draping them in black and red and in more jewels than he had seen since father’s last, most extravagant feasts.

“Sam always had a better head for numbers,” said Rhaena suddenly. “And Stokeworth is not far. I will bring her here, let her help me with such things. She learnt at her father’s feet, after all.”

Lord Alyn was dead though, having died defending his father’s early reign from those who had been cowed by his grandfather and unimpressed with his father. He closed his eyes for a moment. What a senseless death, to die defending something that had collapsed so utterly around their ears not even a decade later. To die defending something so unworthy…

“I liked Lord Alyn,” he settled for. Rhaena nodded but he could see her thoughts were not with him, not really.

She is gone on one of her adventures.

He smiled at the thought and offered his arm once more. No doubt her mind was wandering this way and that over all the Seven Kingdoms, memories of her travels, memories of her friends… She took it absentmindedly, a small smile fixed into place on her features. They began their way back towards where the guests would now be preparing for the feast. He took a deep breath. He could get through this.

“I’m glad it’s you,” said Rhaena finally.

“Sorry?” he asked, half surprised she had spoken up when he himself was still immersed in his thoughts.

“I’m glad it’s you by my side. As disgusting as others find it… they do not understand us. I thought I might marry Androw Farman. When Maegor summoned me, Elissa begged me on bended knee to marry him and together we would all flee. When I knew he had you… I could not. She was very angry at that, Vis. Very angry.”

He opened his mouth but she was smiling. There was no bite in her expression, no rage at rejection.

“Who is she?” he asked, something more than curiosity pushing him to ask. She smiled again, soft and gentle. She loved this Elissa, of that he was quite certain. She loved this Elissa as she had loved Melony.

“She is… she is the daughter of Lord Marq Farman,” she finally replied. “You would like her.”

“If she is special to you, sister, then I am sure I will,” he said and found the sentiment was mostly true. She beamed at him, her gaze full of pride and sisterly love. He could not bring himself to elaborate though, not when her smile seemed genuine and sunny as they reached the feasting hall.

The hall itself was a riot of colour and noise as the festivities began even without their presence. It was not their guests that drew his gaze though, no lord or servant to send his heart sinking into his stomach. He met his uncle’s eyes across the hall, knew he had even if the figure was distant. Not so distant that he missed him snatching the wine from in front of him, not so distant to see his clear annoyance with his surroundings.

He is in pain.

Chapter Text

His heart hammered in his chest as he gripped his sister’s arm, watching as the distant figure of his uncle slammed the goblet back down and snarled something at a passing servant.

I can not… I can not play his perfect prince right now.

“Vis?” asked Rhaena, her smile becoming concerned even as she feigned turning into him, hiding him with her body.

Or as much as she can… when did I become taller than she?

“He is…” Yet he could not say the rest. Her face morphed into understanding though, her eyes flickering to the high table as more wine was placed before Maegor and he snatched at it, sending the poor serving girl almost running in terror. She swallowed and then nodded.

“I… I understand,” she whispered, turning back to him. “Surely even he would not-? Not now, of all times, surely?”

He did not believe his uncle would restrain himself, not for a wedding feast. He took a deep breath.

“Let us go slowly through the hall,” he suggested and Rhaena nodded, her eyes troubled. They would have a good excuse, at least, for they were swarmed by well wishers almost immediately. Yet he could not shake his fear, could not stop his gaze from travelling to the high table, and could not stop feeling as if Maegor’s eyes were on him alone. What would he do if Maegor struck out? He had not protected Alys Harroway, he had not protected the architects, could he let more die for his uncle’s rage?

“Niece, nephew!” came the now well familiar voice. He managed a strained smile for his uncle. “I do hope you are enjoying the festivities. I know I am!”

Daemon raised his wine glass with a wink and when he peered past him, he saw a multitude of Velaryon cousins all in sea green and silver, watching them with guarded expressions and brittle, polite smiles. How many were loyal to him? And how many listened to his mother’s whispers?

No thinking of her today, I have already broken that rule once. I will not do so again.

“Have you seen the twins about?” asked Rhaena, summoning her own false smile. Their uncle’s grin was easy and unconcerned.

“I think their nanny took them away. Poor Aerea was quite overcome.” He winced at that. Aerea… yes, he could see that she would not have taken such a feast, overfull with strangers and loud noises, very well. “Rhaelle was happy enough but she wished to stay with her twin.”

“Good,” said Rhaena. “I must have some sweets sent to them. They are being quite brave.”

“Like their mother,” said Daemon gently, something he had never seen before passing briefly over his face before it was gone and he raised his glass once more. “Go, enjoy your day. There is time for grim reflection much later. After the bedding!”

At that, his stomach did lurch. Rhaena looked similarly ill.

“I thought I’d never have to go through that again,” she muttered, directing a glare at the high table. “I don’t suppose he has decided the tradition is too conducive to merry-making and banned it.”

“Tyanna will have persuaded him,” he said glumly. Rhaena snorted derisively and they stood in silence for a moment, a break in the crowd where no one would approach for fear of interrupting their conversation with Daemon. Then the moment broke and it was not long before more came, ladies and lords.

Thank the Seven we thought ahead to plan our responses.

There were more than a few offering alliances and support. How many of those words were Tyanna’s poison? Or Darklyn’s? He would bet good coin on there being more than a few hoping to catch them in some act and reveal all they worked for to his uncle in the hopes of raising themselves up. How many secret conspiracies might they be accidentally embroiled in, had they not sat down in the privacy of their rooms and ran through every scenario like mummer’s perfecting a scene?

“Hello, my princess, it has been some time.” So consumed in his thoughts he was that he had failed to notice the man who now stood before them. Dressed in gold and red, blond hair with an easy grin that did not quite reach his sharp green eyes.

“Ser Tyler,” said Rhaena, sounding genuinely shocked for a moment. “I did not think you would be here.”

“Neither did I, but my father demands and I must obey,” he said easily.

So this is the man that led the only ordered retreat from the God’s Eye when Aegon fell?

He did not look like much, but that should mean nothing, appearances could be deceptive. He knew that he himself did not carry his uncle’s frame, and yet he had bested most knights in Maegor’s entourage at least once. This man had saved a good portion of his host and had done so nearly half mad with pain. A worthy ally, if he could be trusted.

I do not like the look he gives Rhaena.

“I am glad for your presence then,” Rhaena said warmly. “I am glad… that you were free to come.”

“Free to enter the city, you mean?” teased Tyler, smile wider now but still not reaching his eyes.

“Yes,” Rhaena mumbled, looking almost abashed. He bit his tongue. Asking a man that had given almost everything for his brother just how he’d managed to keep his head in the aftermath of Aegon’s victory was going too far.

“Father paid my weight in gold and then some to have him commute my sentence,” Tyler told her. He swallowed, wondering for a moment if the Lannister bastard had somehow seen his thoughts. But no, the question was an obvious one, it would hang between them unless his answer satisfied. “I rather think my life bought quite a bit of your fine new Keep.”

Is everything a joke to this man?

“I am glad you kept your head, Tyler, but I’ll bet half the whores in Lannisport are more overjoyed than I could ever be,” his sister teased and the tone made him pause in surprise, even as Tyler all but roared in laughter. Had she been waiting on the answer as well? Was his explanation enough that she could relax?

“It is true, I’m told they held a grand feast,” the knight chuckled. Rhaena smiled warmly at him. The bastard’s smile became sly and he found himself hating the man, just a little, even if he was not quite sure why. “My father understands the Iron Throne wishes for more of our gold?”

“I would not put it so crassly,” he said sourly. Tyler shrugged, his glance towards him more dismissive than annoyed. Blood roared in his eyes for a moment.

“Yet that is what is offered, from my understanding of things,” the man rebutted. “You offer us a bride Aegon already promised in return for gold and support.”

“Now is not the time to discuss this,” he replied, wanting to shake the man, to strike him, to point out how likely it was more than a few of these men and women surrounding them were on someone’s payroll and would be eager to earn their coin by reporting this dangerous conversation.

“Of course, I quite understand,” said Tyler, as Rhaena opened her mouth to speak. He did not know if his sister intended to snap at him or the irreverent man who was so keen on losing his barely secure head. “Perhaps another topic?”

Ser Tyler’s smile was sharp now, his eyes fully turned to him. He met his gaze with an even one of his own. He was a prince, a dragon rider, the heir to the throne - this man, no matter how smug, was a bastard son. A celebrated one, perhaps, but nothing more. He wrapped the knowledge around him like a cloak, as if it could protect him from anything short of a blade to his ribs.

“Tyler,” said Rhaena softly. Green eyes flickered for a moment as she stared at him sternly. “I know well your ways. I shall be angry if you use your tongue to harm my brother.”

“You wound me,” chuckled Tyler. “I was merely wishing to enquire about his status as a squire?”

Did he expect that to cut deep?

“The king is not one to grant titles to the unworthy,” he stated. The lack of his spurs had not even occurred to him until Daemon had mentioned the tradition of knighting a man before his marriage and groused at being forbidden by his uncle. Ser Tyler’s smile flickered for a fraction of a second before returning and widening.

“Well said,” he murmured, seemingly conceding the match. Then he turned his appreciative eyes back to Rhaena. “Call upon me soon, my princess, and we shall speak of betrothals and loans.”

Then he was gone, crowd parting around him as he strode through. He walked as if he owned the entire hall around him. Perhaps he thought he did, given what his life had cost his family.

“So you have met Ser Tyler,” said Rhaena, sounding unaccountably tired. “He does not improve with time, but he is tolerable on a good day.”

“Are we sure we want their allegiance?” he asked, only half joking. Rhaena smiled softly.

“Lyman is ambitious, powerful and very, very rich,” she said softly. “We need to counter too many plots and schemes to refuse to consider him.”

“You speak the truth, for all I admit I wish it weren’t so.” Oh, and how he did. Even if Aegon had promised her, or even implied so, to Lyman, Rhaelle deserved better than to be sold.

“Are you ready to seek out our uncle?” asked Rhaena, trepidation in her tone. “It seems he grows impatient at the high table.”

He let his eyes follow her gaze, more startled that the Lannister bastard had so occupied his thoughts. His uncle had risen to his feet and was pacing. He swallowed. Such an action never boded well. His stomach chose that moment to growl its disapproval and he sighed, giving in.

“Let us go,” he replied grimly. His shaking hand was quickly taken by Rhaena’s own unsteady one. To endure a feast by his side when he was like this… It would only grow worse, of that he was certain. His uncle needed peace and quiet, a darkened room in which to sit for some time. It never erased them, but it brought them to their end faster and it dulled the pain that did come. Never so much that they did not trouble him, but not so much of the pain this feast was no doubt bringing him.

Of course, he rarely consents to sit in that room.

Maegor was not one to be sent to wait in the dark, he preferred to work through the pain in the yards, fighting his knights and putting men aplenty in the dirt. Let none say Maegor was a cripple, not when he could still kill a score of men on his worst days.

“My king,” he said, Rhaena echoing his words, as they arrived before him. Maegor paused and for a moment he feared he had done something wrong, that his uncle had been expecting a more familiar address. Then he nodded stiffly in acknowledgement. Neither of them sighed in relief as they took their seats to Maegor’s right, even when the noise of the guests finding their own seating could have covered it.

“Finally,” growled his uncle. “You took your time.”

“We spoke to a few guests, showed our faces among them. There would have been talk otherwise,” reasoned Rhaena, her voice soft and gentle. Maegor scowled fiercely but did not respond to her tone. He detested that soft tone people were want to use around the sick. Hated it enough he had killed in the past for it.

He did not have long to muse on that grim memory as Tyanna sat down, dressed in black and red, dropping a kiss to her husband’s cheek, seemingly oblivious to his annoyance or the way he pulled away, lip curling in annoyance. She sat almost daintily in the seat to Maegor’s left. Beyond her, Ceryse sat, drinking wine and glaring at all surrounding her, as she was usually found doing. The Hightower queen had often made it clear she cared not for Maegor and quite preferred him to care little for her.

Daemon, their uncle, seated himself on Rhaena’s left, murmuring some joke or other that had his sister smiling, even if it was strained. His mother’s brother seemingly cared little for the look Maegor shot him. Perhaps he was pretending to not have seen it, yet he knew there was no way to miss such a hateful look. He caught Rhaena’s eye and she nodded.

Best keep one uncle away from the other for this feast, at least.

Chapter Text

The more he ate, the more certain he became that this feast was a mistake. The awkward silence that dominated the high table was completely at odds with cheerful sounds of the other guests talking and laughing with one another. Every particularly loud giggle or guffaw felt like iron nails across the stone of his consciousness. Not even Daemon managed his usual cheery manner, instead eating silently and solemnly, his eyes drifting out over the assembled lords and ladies and more often than not finding the table of Velaryon relatives, all whom looked ill at ease and less than comfortable surrounded by so many of Maegor’s supporters.

How many support her? How many whisper that it is she they should follow?

After all, now he was wed to Rhaena, only Jae remained untainted by the incest the realm had hated so much. Resentment and relief burned in equal measure. His brother was safe… and yet it was his sacrifices that had given Jae that safety. Sacrifices she had forced upon him when she had fled, nominated him for this dreadful duty without even so much as a word passed through a servant’s mouth or a letter smuggled to him in the dark of night.

More courses were finished, more courses were brought out and they all ate in silence, some unseen strangling tension suppressing any words they might have wished to share. He knew the source, although he dared not even glance at his uncle. The king was angry, the king was in pain and his every movement screamed those facts to all paying attention. The way he slammed his wine down after guzzling it like a dying man in a desert, the way he’d barely touched his food, the way he stared hard at those close by he judged too loud.

There will be death before the end of the feast.

The sudden, morbid thought made the food sit even more uneasily in his stomach, too heavy and too much, it made him feel ill. It sent sweat prickling about his body, beading on his forehead, and made his breath hard to draw. He grabbed for his wine, suddenly, barely tasting it as he gulped one goblet full in almost one action and then going for a second. Until Rhaena raised her arm, laying gentle fingers across his wrist and he let the wine fall back to the table, the dark red liquid slopping over the rim of the goblet to send droplets of it over her knuckles before running off and soaking into his doublet sleeves.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, loud enough for only her to hear him. She gave him a sad smile, full of pity, and it brought more shame to his throat. Her eyes met his and it seemed as if she wanted to say something else, something more, her mouth opening before she thought better of it.

“Our bedding will soon be upon us,” she settled for saying. “Do not drink too much.”

“Listen well to your sister, Viserys,” joked Daemon, although the amusement seemed flat. “It would not do for wine to rob you of your later performance.”

The insinuation sent his cheeks a blazing red and made Rhaena frown in annoyance at their uncle.

“I hardly think-” she began, then froze as Maegor brought his goblet down on the table so hard that the wine spilled out, forming a pool of red about the platter in front of him. His face was mottled in rage. He felt the embarrassment die, drowning in a wave of horror and fear as his father’s brother stared at his mother’s brother with murder written large on his face.

“What did you say?” Maegor growled. Swallowing was hard suddenly, breathing was harder still. The sweat that had gathered earlier now rolled down his face and fear of what was to come, what would happen, made his hands shake. Maegor had no weapon but neither did anyone else… only the white cloaked Kingsguard and the red cloaked guards had weapons here, and they were his Maegor’s, in truth. Daemon had no allies, no one to save him.

Why couldn’t he have kept his mouth shut? He has survived this long, why could he just simply hold his tongue for a few days more!?

“My sincerest apologies, Your Grace, I meant to cast no aspersions or cause any offence. It was merely a jape.” Daemon had his head half bowed, everything about him screaming submission and regret. He met Rhaena’s eyes and saw his own horror and fear reflected there, the panic edged with desperation. He looked at his uncle, too far gone in his pain and anger for words to have any effect on his mood now. He saw Tyanna smirking from over his uncle’s shoulder, readying herself for the show Maegor would make of Daemon’s death. She smiled when she met his gaze, her painted lips curling into amusement.

“You dare insult my heir in such a manner!?” The barked question silenced those close by and the effect spread out like a wave crashing across the bay until the Hall was almost completely silent. Enough that he could hear his own breath coming too harshly, hear how Rhaena was struggling to draw her own breaths in turn. He could see the Velaryon table, two men he did not recognise almost out of their seats, eyes fixed on their lord. Daemon cringed backwards, like a dog being kicked or struck physically.

“Poorly chosen words,” said Rhaena suddenly, breaking the silence. “No harm done, dearest uncle.”

She reached out then, as if to place her hand on Maegor’s arm. He ignored her, standing up and sending his chair toppling with a crash that made him flinch at how loud it was in the silent room. Daemon wasted no time, spilling from his seat and lowering himself to the floor on his hands and knees. Humiliation on his uncle’s behalf burned bright in his gut but it took second place to the fear and to a strange realisation.

He is like myself. He knows Maegor, knows that such petty things as pride have no place in surviving him.

The Lord of the Tides would grovel and beg and squirm as much as needed to sate Maegor’s temper, he would debase himself in public and in private… and he would live when too many who did not understand this would not. He would be a worm, no threat to a dragon. Maegor started forward, ready to close the gap between himself and his Master of Ships.

But a worm can not be a worthy ally for a would-be king. A worm could not be king.

The thought carried him to his feet, cast him from his body, making it seem as if he were watching himself from so far away. His heart pounded so loudly he could feel its beat in his bones, breath was no longer hard to draw, simply because he’d ceased to draw it entirely. Maegor stopped his advance on Daemon, staring instead at him. He who had so suddenly risen and blocked his way. He saw that rage, that killing intent, Maegor’s entire focus turn on him, and wanted to soil himself in fear of it.

“Uncle,” he said and nothing more would come. No excuse, no witty line… just fear. Could Maegor see it? Would he kill him for it? He met his uncle’s eyes, those violet eyes that mirrored his own and was startled to find surprise there despite the snarl of anger that still twisted his uncle’s lips.

“To celebrate our wedding with such a display bodes ill,” came Rhaena’s sweet voice. His lungs screamed at the lack of air but it would not come until he knew Maegor would not strike at any of them, with murderous intent or simply to alleviate his pain and frustration. Daemon remained quiet, eyes down and fixed on the floor as Maegor seemed to draw back, thinking over their words.

Then Maegor sneered, his eyes sweeping them all and that sent his heart jumping into his throat. His uncle did not strike, instead throwing himself back into his chair, somewhat like Rhaella when she had been told ‘no’ and intended to make them all suffer for doing so. The sudden realisation nearly made him stagger as he all but gasped for breath, as he came back to himself and felt the tremor in his legs and arms and how his head pounded as if he had drunk far more than one goblet of wine.

A cautious murmur fed by low muttering spread through the hall as Daemon rose to his feet and clambered back into his chair, a flush of red at his neck and ears the only hint of his feelings on the matter. It was only when Rhaena tugged on his arm did he realise that he was the only one still standing. It felt ridiculously hard to force himself to sit, the motion should have been easy, yet he felt as if every part of his body were rebelling against him for doing something as foolish as standing between his uncle and his target.

“Thank you, niece… nephew,” murmured Daemon, so lowly that he barely caught it.

“Think little of it, uncle,” replied Rhaena, in an equally low tone. “Keep your jests to yourself from now on.”

“You need not tell me twice,” Daemon breathed back. He glanced back at Maegor, found him still sitting there, staring at his food as if had done him some personal wrong. As if his gaze were dragonfire itself and could obliterate all in its path.

He is like a child when he is like this…

The thought made him want to giggle, mirth welling up in his chest only to be doused instantly when his uncle’s gaze raised and met his own, as if sensing the eyes on him. Around them, the cautious murmuring was returning to normal levels of noise, although he heard little laughter now. The king’s show was over, they had made it through to the other side unharmed, and yet here he was, daring his uncle to give a repeat performance.

His eyes watered and yet some stubborn part of himself refused to let him look away first. There was no heat in Maegor’s eyes now. He could not understand what was there… that strangeness he had seen so soon after his uncle had murdered his second wife. Was it guilt? Regret? He did not know. Any normal man might feel those things, regret for words said in haste or guilt at an accident caused.

Maegor is no normal man. Did this mood take him after Aegon? I do not remember it…

“I’ll take my belt to your backside if you keep glaring at me like a child,” his uncle grunted suddenly, as if nothing had happened. “Stare at your wife and get ready to do your duty.”

“An excellent point, my love,” purred Tyanna and even Maegor looked briefly surprised even as he himself jumped at her sudden interjection. He’d forgotten about her, he could not afford that, it would spell his death if he did. “The feast grows dull. Send the young lovers to their marriage bed and breathe life into the sullen crowd.”

A new kind of panic formed in his gut and he glanced back to Rhaena. She had heard, he knew she had heard because she was frowning.

“A little early?” he asked, voice strangled and Maegor laughed. The sudden sound sent those nearby flinching as if they expected violence.

“Nerves? I suppose you should have them,” he chuckled. “You have a bride befitting your status, not like I had to make do with.”

Ceryse, still deep in her cups, directed a poisonous look his way then and Maegor… he did not smile at her. It was more that he peeled his lips back in what was not quite a snarl and very much a threat. Not that his first wife cared, she just continued sipping her wine. He could not imagine that she was even tasting it. She simply drank, then gave it a few moments before drinking again. No indication of enjoyment or pleasure…

“I agree with your suggestion, wife,” said Maegor finally, drawing Tyanna in for a kiss that he had to look away from, lest bile rise in his throat. In doing so, he met Rhaena’s gaze, noted her own pale skin and the look of distaste she directed at Maegor and Tyanna when she noticed their display.

Then Maegor rose, the crowd’s eyes on him once more as he raised his cup of wine into the air. “THE BEDDING!”

Chapter Text

He looked away as his sister was pushed into the room, his eyes catching sight of too much and not enough at the same time. Something bubbled beneath his skin, it made him dizzy, made his breath hard to draw - it wasn’t fear. He knew fear all too well by now. This was something else. He waited until his sister had wound herself in white linen, as he had done, before looking back.

I have no claim to disappointment.

He moved to the bed, sat down before his legs gave out, and watched as she poured herself a drink, gulping at it as if she were the one full of this strange mood. As if she… His eyes widened when he realised. She paused, put the goblet down and gave him a smile. In the silence, he could hear the sounds of revelry through the door, the call for the bedding having done precisely what his uncle had hoped it would.

“Are you well?” he asked, feeling ever so much like a fool. Her lips quirked.

“As well as I can be,” she replied. “Forgive me, I did not think I would have to do that again. I thought I was ready…”

She stopped and shook her head, moving over to the bed herself now and dropping down into the softness of it. He watched her, unsure of what to say. Should he comfort her with words? Reach out and draw her close? Or should he try and distract her? Perhaps he could tell a joke and make her laugh, it would wipe away the little frown she had on her face…

“I’m sorry,” he said instead and cursed his cowardice. She snorted in amusement but the little crease between her brows and the slight downturn of her lips did not vanish.

By the Seven, I could at least think of something witty to say!

But nothing came and so they sat in strangling silence, her eyes drifting closed as she slowly relaxed, the frown becoming something more peaceful. Some panic seized him then, some need to not see her drift away to sleep.

“Tell me about Elissa,” he blurted out. Her eyes snapped open, shock overtaking her previous expression and he wanted to smack himself again. “She is special to you?”

She stared at him as if he had grown a second head and he wanted to disappear into the floor, never to be seen again by anyone. Especially Rhaena. He had not been expecting her giggle, nor that she would follow up the giggle by throwing herself backwards into the mass of pillows and laughing so hard that tears ran down her face and she was forced to clutch her side. He burned at it, feeling the pout on his face, no matter how many times he tried to banish it.

“Are you jealous, little brother?” she asked finally, wiping tears of mirth from her cheeks and staring at the canopy above them. He didn’t answer, couldn’t answer, and she peered over at him. Her delighted smile died then and she pushed herself back up, shuffling forward awkwardly to pull him close in a tight hug that did little to ease any of the jumbled emotions he felt.

“Sorry,” she whispered. “I should not have laughed.”

“I was only asking,” he told her and he hated that he sounded like a child whining for sweets. He did not want her to see him as a child, but as a man.

“Oh, Vis,” she sighed. “How long?”

“How long?” he echoed, confused. She pulled a face at him and he frowned.

“How long have you wanted this to be a marriage in truth?” The question sent heat to his cheeks and he started to stammer some denial, anything, but she held up her hand with a rather bemused expression. He felt shame claw at him then and he could not look at her. She sighed again. “Oh, Vis, you should have told me.”

“What good would it have done?” he asked, startled by the bitterness his tone betrayed.

“Very little,” she admitted. “Will this come between us?”

There was something in the way she asked… it forced him to to look up, look AT her, and see the fear in her features.

We only have each other. That’s all.

“No,” he insisted. “No, it is my problem to bear. I will not blame you.”

At that, some of the tension cleared and she relaxed slightly.

“I must admit I didn’t expect it,” she confessed, pink touching her cheeks. “I thought you’d find yourself a nice girl.”

“Maybe I will.” The attempt to tease her didn’t quite come out as he wished it to, but she smiled all the same. “I’m sorry, Rhaena, I didn’t mean to…”

She shrugged at that and he found he preferred the expression of confused amusement to one of fear and tension.

“You wanted to know about Elissa?” she finally asked. He lowered himself down onto the pillows and peered up at her. Part of him did not, but too much of him was entirely too curious.

“She is… adventurous. She has her own ship, you know, and she’s even gone as far as Bear Island,” she began. “I told you she is the daughter of Marq Farman of Fair Isle, yes?”

At his nod, she continued and he could not help but smile at the faraway expression she had adopted, nor the small smile on her face as she recounted stories of the girl she so loved, her antics, how she’d managed to knock her brother Franklyn overboard twice in one journey and how it was almost certainly on purpose because she was far too talented a sailor to do such a thing by accident…

“So, you see,” she told him, her expression becoming mockingly stern. “You needn’t send our uncle haring off to fetch her here. She is quite capable of getting here by herself and she’d be offended if anyone thought otherwise.”

“Will she come here?” he asked, suddenly curious.

“You said I should be allowed my ladies,” she told him, some of that tension back. He frowned.

“I know, I am merely curious,” he insisted. “I am not going to withdraw my approval because I am a fool.”

She snorted and reached down to ruffle his hair into a mess.

“I wrote to her,” she told him. “Her, Sam and Alayne. I asked them if they would come. I have received no reply yet, but I had not expected one so soon.”

“I am glad you will not be alone here,” he told her, truthfully. “You have told them of… matters here?”

“Not yet,” she admitted, looking almost embarrassed. “It will require a delicate touch. Alayne will be no trouble, but Sam and Elissa…”

He read between the lines. Rhaena preferred her favourites boisterous and loud and Sam had once been the daughter of a Hand, well used to having her way within the Keep itself, even after her father’s death. But this Keep was not his father’s Keep, and that haughtiness could kill as surely as any words of rebellion. Allowing his only daughter to walk blindly into Maegor’s rage and Tyanna’s cool scheming would be a poor way to honour Alyn Stokeworth’s sacrifice in Aenys’ name.

“Vis,” said Rhaena, after a while. “I am proud of you.”

“Huh.” The comment came from nowhere and it made him blink in surprise. She tilted her head down and smiled.

“You stood up to him. I saw you.” The memory sent his mouth dry.

“I had to,” he whispered, more to himself than her. “I had to. If Daemon died or lost too much face… if the lords thought him less than nothing…”

“He would be worthless to us.” He wanted to flinch at his sister’s cool appraisal. “But you stood up to him. The whole realm saw you look him in the eye, stand in his way, and suffer no consequence.”

“Suffer no-” he paused, took a deep breath and forged on. “He may kill me tomorrow for all I know.”

“He will not,” she said as if she were Daenys herself, seeing the future as clear as he saw the room around him. “You saw him Vis, he… gave up.”

He did not give up… he…

“He stopped… listening to his pain,” he finally managed. Rhaena tilted her head. “He was ashamed, discomfited. He is like that… he was like after Alys-”

“You think he may remember it the next time he is angry? Come seek you out and deliver some late punishment for defiance?” At his sister’s guess, he nodded, feeling the earlier thoughts of shame and misery return. She placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. “We are married now.”

What does she mean by that?

“I do not believe you need to flee, but our uncle should, probably. Go to Maegor tomorrow, tell him you leave for Driftmark, tell him you will gather his fleet. Shake your sword about, let our uncle hear what he wishes to hear, that his precious heir is ready for war.” He stared at her, horror churning in his gut. He had forgotten about leaving in the excitement of the feast.

“Could I?” he asked. “But you would be alone.”

“My ladies will soon arrive, and I have the twins to busy myself with,” she told him. “They will miss you terribly, of course.”

“I will bring them gifts back,” he promised, and her answering smile was like the sun coming up.

“It pleases me you think of them so,” she replied. Another silence grew between them as he mulled over her words. Leaving King’s Landing? After all the years of being bound here by fear and Maegor’s will? The idea seemed so odd… he had known that he would leave eventually. Probably with one of Maegor’s Kingsguard at his back, but to push forward the date. Simply go to his uncle and tell him that was what he intended to do?

“It seems too simple,” he breathed, wonder at the implications making him lightheaded and dizzy once more.

“He will send guards,” warned Rhaena. “And so will she.”

He did not need to ask as to whom she meant by that.

“I could request Crayne and Tollett. I have their favour…” Well, not entirely, but they were not Maladon Moore or Owen Bush, more likely to put a blade in his back than save him from such a strike, given what he suspected about their allegiance. Mallery and Bracken… they would also serve him well, although he did not know them well enough to be comfortable.

And I could never feel safe with Langward behind me, although for entirely different reasons.

“You will be sailing past Storm’s End,” said Rhaena. There was no stress placed on any word, she said it as if it was no great thing…

“I will,” he replied. “Daemon is likely to send her a man with word of his expedition.”

“We can do little to stop him. Will you send her word?” He stared at her, mind churning back and forth, back and forth.

“She left for Jae and Aly,” he said slowly. “I believe that now… but even then she looked to crown him because she believed Maegor would kill me for her flight. Even after I lived against all odds, she was still betting on our deaths and now-”

He stopped, bitter tears forming.

“I know,” murmured Rhaena, no doubt thinking of the knight and his words once more. “She set herself on a path that she can not abandon. She has invested too much in opposing Maegor and we… we are an extension of our dearest uncle.”

“I will not waste words on her,” he decided. “We are in opposition. Tyanna was right about that much, even if her so called conclusions were untruths.”

“It hurts,” said Rhaena, finally dropping down next to him, sinking into the pillows. “It hurts now as it did then.”

The pain is old and fading for me.

He did not say that out loud. Instead he stared at the canopy once more, exhaustion beating back anything else that might cloy his mind.

“We should sleep,” he said finally. “And tomorrow, I will tell the king of my plans.”

Chapter Text

“Well? Have we an heir on the way?” The demand sent heat flaring to his cheeks. Rhaena and he had done nothing but speak last night, and less than that this morning. Yet that was not what Maegor wished to hear. He swallowed his fear, his dread that Maegor would still bear some ill-will for yesterday.

His uncle seemed to be in high spirits, sequestered away in his private rooms, no lickspittles or even Tyanna in sight, just his uncle alone in the rooms that had once been Aenys’. He hoped his uncle remained in such a mood, but he knew better than most that the king could fall into rage, anger and frustration without rhyme or warning.

“I hope so, Your Grace,” he managed to stammer and hoped Maegor thought his fear to be nerves of a newlywed and not fear of what was to come. Maegor stood suddenly and it took all he had not to flinch back and drop his eyes to the floor. Not that he thought his uncle noticed. Instead, the man swept by him, a fierce smile on his face as he crossed the room to the window.

It was times like these that he was reminded just how… monstrously built his uncle was. Aenys had been thin and waifish, no muscle to speak of. Maegor was only his father’s match in height. Where Aenys looked as the wind could carry him away, Maegor was broad with muscle enough to put most men to shame.

Perhaps I might come close, one day, if he insists I keep following his training.

He did not know how to feel about that. He waited in silence, only his musings on the matter to distract him, as Maegor seemed to drink in the breeze and sunlight, letting the wind ruffle his hair slightly.

“I know what you have come about,” he said finally. He thought his heart might leap from his throat but there was still no anger, only an odd kind of joy. As if his uncle were struggling not to laugh.

“Now that the wedding is done with, I hoped to leave as soon as possible,” he told him after a few deep breaths to keep his voice steady. “And request a Kingsguard or two for my back.”

“That I did not expect,” Maegor chuckled. Then he turned, a fierce smile still on his face. It made him look younger and… and more like his father than he had ever realised his uncle looked. The thought made him swallow thickly. If his uncle noticed, he gave no sign as he forged on. “Tyanna thought you’d scurry off hand in hand with Velaryon.”

“I would not be so incautious,” he mumbled, and hoped his uncle took that as a sign he distrusted Daemon, and not that he was so unwilling to give Tyanna an opening to strike at him.

“Good,” said Maegor, a moment later. “You are my heir. I will not lose you. The snivelling boy your mother has is no worthy replacement.”

“Jae is still young, but he is a dragon,” he offered, recalling the words he and Rhaena had spoken the previous night.

“That is true,” Maegor grunted, moving back across the room and dropping into his seat once more. His smile was smaller now but no less genuine. His fear ebbed slightly. It was never gone, not with Maegor, but he felt less like he was about to leave his skin now.

Should I ask why he has not ridden to Storm’s End? He would tell me in this mood, I am certain of it.

“I am glad to have been proven wrong, Viserys,” said Maegor before he could force himself to speak the words. At the change of conversation, he blinked in surprise, making his uncle chuckle again. “I was convinced you were more seahorse than dragon. No skill with the blade or lance, no mount worthy of you, and a fondness for wine and merrymaking.”

“I admit I… was lax in my duties as a prince,” he confessed, unsure of what else to do. Maegor would not appreciate a denial and… he was not entirely wrong in his assessment. Aegon had mainly been the one to cajole him into his martial lessons, Aenys had been content to spoil him. Maegor laughed again as if the truth amused him.

“But look at you now! Tyanna said you were clay, unmolded, and that in the proper hands you could become a man worthy of Aegon’s legacy! She was right. I am glad I did not smash you when I wished to.” His horror at that statement must have shown clear because Maegor merely sighed and shook his head.

“It is an ill thing to speak of. You were a hostage to your mother’s good behaviour and she broke the terms we agreed upon. I should have taken your head, it would have been well within my right to. But…” Maegor trailed off then, his eyes going distant.

His throat ached as he swallowed again, darting his tongue out to wet his suddenly dry lips. Maegor like this… he was dangerous when he got to thinking. He could send himself into rages or black moods he would not lift from for days.

“Jae would be the next male heir,” he rasped. Maegor’s eyes flickered up at that, at the implication that there would be no other heir before Viserys.

He has never spoken his secret out loud to me. Never acknowledged it. It was Tyanna that told me.

He forged on, regardless of what Maegor might have been about to say, putting bitterness and anger into his next words. “And that would be a reward for a traitor like my mother.”

“You have the right of it,” said Maegor, looking pleasantly surprised. “But we did not come here to discuss her, did we? Which of my guards do you want?”

“Crayne and Tollett,” he answered easily. Maegor nodded, his smile widening a little.

“Good men,” he murmured. “That they already respect you is also a draw to choosing them?”

Then his uncle laughed. “I jest, nephew. Take them! No doubt they will relish the chance to sink their blades into pirate scum. And they will prove invaluable in the second task I have for you.”

“Second task, uncle?” he asked, apprehension forming in his gut, feeding the fear until his blood sang with it.

“Tell me, do you trust Velaryon?” asked Maegor. He gave the question some thought.

“I trust him to act in his own interests above all else,” he replied truthfully. Maegor laughed again, although there was no joy in it this time.

“Feckless creature, loyal only to himself,” Maegor hissed. “Exactly like his poisonous sister.”

“Do you believe they conspire?” he asked, wondering how his words could be so calm when he felt as if his wits might flee him at a moment's notice, abandon him to fear and send him shaking like a leaf in the breeze.

“I know they do,” growled Maegor.

“He has made no mention of it to me, but I have made no secret of my allegiance,” he lied. Maegor nodded, his eyes on the window again.

“Watch him on this journey and if you can, bend him to your will. Flatter him, make him your greatest ally, tell him whatever you must to lure him from his accursed sister. I have no doubt Daemon is her spy in this court, and I would see her blind and deaf to my actions, even if I can not strike at her quite yet.” His uncle's hands were curled so tightly into fists that the skin had turned pale white.

“Will you strike at her?” It was some morbid curiosity that forced him to ask. Maegor turned his gaze to him, fury in his eyes, but not fury borne of pain or fury directed at him.

“When the time is right,” he replied. He waited but his uncle gave no more hint as to what such a time may be.

“When Daemon is mine, what should I do?” he asked. Maegor shrugged.

“Use him? Kill him? His life is yours to decide, I have long tired of the mewling little bastard. Tyanna wants his heart, but my wife is greedy. He is yours from this day on.” The words made him frown, made his head spin. That Tyanna wanted Daemon dead was no secret, but why deny her the right if Maegor was so certain Daemon was not loyal? At his frown, Maegor grimaced.

“You question the decision?” he asked, a sharp edge to his tone that screamed of danger.

“Only that the Queen should be denied her wish,” he assured his uncle. Not too quickly, not too much fear - meet his eyes and do not grovel, but give no challenge either. Maegor huffed.

“The Queen-” and his tone was mocking as he said the words, “- will live having one less victim in her cells. You, on the other hand, may not live without one more ally.”

Does he know of our faction?

That brought horror to his breast, made his heart beat fast even as he forced himself to affect slight confusion. Meeting his gaze again, Maegor roared with sudden laughter.

“Do you think me a fool?” he laughed. “Tyanna tells me endlessly of your twisting this way and that. Lannisters, boy? I knew the moment Rhaella was offered. You need not look like a frightened rabbit, nephew. I approve.”

“You approve?” he asked, blood rushing in his ears as that dizzy feeling he had come to know so well returned like an old friend.

“I took the kingship from Aegon and the lords of the realm could not have given two shits. Your mother is a snake, but a cunning one. She will have seen what I have seen. I can say that you are my heir until I am blue in the face, nephew, but my power ends at the moment my heart ceases to beat. Your power must see you to the Throne.” He nodded and Maegor smiled again.

“I… apologise for keeping it from you,” he stammered.

“Tyanna sees more than she has any right to. Nothing can be hidden from me,” Maegor told him, those eyes suddenly flat, serious and dangerous. “A word of warning, nephew, never seek to strike at me. Heir or not, I will kill you, I will kill your sister and I will kill her spawn.”

“I would not,” he gasped out. “I am your heir. To slay you is to crown my brother myself.”

Maegor nodded, seemingly satisfied with the statement.

“Keep that in mind and I will look beyond the games you play in court, even if you insist on riling my wife with them,” his uncle assured him. “Now go, you have Crayne and Tollett. Deliver me a loyal lord and deliver fire and blood to the Stepstones.”

“I will… I will show them Vhagar’s power once more,” he promised but in his mind, he was reeling.

By the Seven, the weather turns less than Maegor’s moods.

An hour later, he was on Vhagar’s back, shadowing the Seahorse’s Pride as it plowed through the waves to Driftmark. Three days after that, with the might of the Velaryon fleet at his back, he went to war.

Chapter Text

The morning he returned home was bright and sunny, and not even the thought of once again stepping foot in King’s Landing, of once again being under the power of the king, could keep the smile from his face.

“Don’t look so cheery, nephew!” called Daemon, his uncle strolling across the deck of the Seahorse’s Pride. “I might think you didn’t like my company.”

“It’s fair enough company,” he replied, forcing a flat disinterest into his tone. “I’ve had better and I’ve had worse.”

“Ha! I see my sailors have been a bad influence on you,” snorted his uncle, shoving his shoulder gently. “You’ll have to remember your manners when you return home, else Rhaena will feed you to that dragon of hers.”

“She’s no blushing maiden,” he chuckled. “She could handle a few strong words.”

“And if the twins pick up such language?” His uncle’s smile widened as he flushed at that.

“Fine, fine, she’ll feed me to Dreamfyre should the twins learn what-” He broke off as a deafening roar echoed over the Blackwater, sending sailors and soldiers scuttling about the decks, their eyes in the air looking for the source. Balerion the Black Dread was no smaller than he remembered, with scales that seemed to drink in the light. It was fast, closing in on them with a speed that made his stomach lurch with that familiar anxiety.

I will not fear him. It will not be the same. I return to him a man in truth, not a cowering boy.

It did little to settle his stomach, especially when the great dragon cast their ships into its shadow. He raised his hand in greeting, unsure if Maegor would even see the gesture from his perch atop the mighty dragon. Perhaps he did, for a moment later, the Dread circled around them in a wide arc and set off back to the city at a punishing pace. The fear died quickly as the sun returned.

“Have you any news from the city?” he asked.

“None,” replied his uncle. “What about your shadows?”

“Nothing either. According to them, they’ve heard nothing from their brothers at all.” His uncle hummed thoughtfully at that reply. He did not disbelieve his Kingsguard followers - someone would have reported a courier or raven reaching the knights on their campaign.

“No news means nothing truly horrific has happened,” Daemon finally replied. He watched his uncle and the way the Lord of the Tides’ eyes seemed fixed on something far in distance. He glanced around them. Crayne and Tollett were yet to rise, it would seem. It made sense, they had been up late, drinking and gambling with the crew whilst he had retired early.

“That the state of affairs we left King’s Landing in does not count as horrific says much,” he finally muttered, confident none would be reporting any such words to the king… or Tyanna.

Such a shame about the men she sent, fallen in battle against pirate ambushers.

“I concur,” replied Daemon. “But there is little we can do but hope your little gift has the desired effect.”

“I will catch him in a generous mood sooner rather than later,” he promised his uncle. Daemon nodded, then smiled widely, some joke only he knew lighting his face up with mirth.

“You have come a long way in six moons, nephew. I rather think you would not recognise yourself,” he explained when he saw the raised eyebrow. Then he laughed at his no doubt bemused expression. “Come now, would the Viserys of six moons ago talk so confidently about manipulating the king?”

“No,” he admitted, cheeks aglow. “I would have stammered and made some excuse and bolted. Your lessons have… helped.”

“You already had the act perfected, you just needed to see it,” replied Daemon, false modesty suffusing his tone. “But I will accept any and all flattery.”

“Should I send someone to wake my guard?” he asked after a moment or two of companionable silence. “If Maegor finds them sleeping on the job-”

“He’ll ruin all your work impressing them?” asked Daemon, before waving his hands in surrender at his mock glare. “Very well, very well, I’ll personally see to it. Maybe I’ll douse them with a bucket of the Blackwater.”

They both paused, sniffing, then Daemon laughed again. “Too cruel!”

And then he was gone, disappearing into the underbelly of the ship and leaving him alone on the deck once more. He crossed the deck and leaned against the taffrail, let himself look out over the sea and relax in a way he suspected he would not be able to for some time. Vhagar was there, her flight undisturbed by Balerion’s brief appearance. Her green scales shone in the sun as she dived this way and that, snapping at the gulls that she was chasing.

I sat atop her back and burned men.

The thought brought no chill, not anymore. The first time he had fought he had vomited, the second time he had retched… then they had found the first stronghold. A slaver captain, known to specialise in Dornish flesh. Burning pirates after that did not trouble him at all, although the smell still lingered in his nightmares.

“M’prince, we ‘ave yer takings ready below, where d’ya wan ‘em?” He blinked at the rough words and turned to find a face he knew well. A Valeman who had sailed under the Seahorse before his father had even been king, a man with more knives on him at any given moment than teeth in his head. A rogue, his uncle had told him, but a man to have at your back.

And with any luck, he will be one of my men in the Watch, should the King grant me the title of commander.

“Keep them ready, Lord Daemon has gone to prepare their bearers for the presentation to King Maegor.” The man left, ambling back across the deck and passing the very man they had just been speaking of.

“I reckon they might be making my ears burn with curses, but your guards are awake and will soon be ready,” Daemon explained.

“And we will soon be in port,” he remarked. Daemon frowned.

“Are those armed men waiting for us?” Daemon asked, shielding his eyes from the sun with a raised hand. He followed his uncle’s gaze and frowned.

“I can see the glint of the sun off of the spears,” he said finally. “Maegor’s Watch.”

“Seven Hells,” hissed Daemon.

“As like as not the city is riled, then,” he murmured. Worry for Rhaena wormed in his gut. She had written vanishingly little of her charitable works to him. Had something happened to her?

No, no. If something had happened to Rhaena, Maegor would have burned half the city.

“The city is always riled,” replied Daemon hotly, gesturing to several nearby men. “You there, get a few more dressed up for the honour guard. I’ll not rely on his bastards for protection.”

“Yes, my lord,” was the responding call.

“And make sure the crew stays on the ship! I won’t lose men to a sudden outbreak of stabbings!” he called.

“Dire predictions,” he murmured. He could not take his eyes off the city as it grew closer and closer. Nor could he block out the image of the men waiting for them, bearing banners with the three-headed dragon upon it.

“Always necessary with Maegor,” muttered Daemon. “Look sharp, your guard is finally up and about.”

“Ho there, Viserys!” came Jon’s call. He took a deep breath and arranged his face into an easy smile.

“Ho there, Jon! Sleep well?” The tease earned him a shove from the knight.

“I wish I had,” he complained. “Sy’s snoring kept me up.”

“Snoring! As if you did not make the poor men on watch wonder if we were being pursued by a leviathan with your snoring,” replied Symond, his face cross. Jon snickered.

“I’ll be looking forward to a proper bed,” said Jon, eyes fixed longingly on the shore. “That cot may cripple me if I’m forced to use it any longer.”

“Ignore his belly aching, my prince,” said Symond.

“I often do,” he replied, sending Jon into spluttered shock and Symond into peals of laughter. “In a serious tone, the Watch awaits us at the port.”

“So I see,” said Symond. “His Grace must predict trouble.”

“Then we keep our eyes and ears open,” he informed them both. They nodded, the shift from joking brothers in arms to knights ready to fight and die stark as they straightened and watched him with serious eyes. “Lord Daemon has gifted us a few more men, at least.”

“Good, numbers and arms will make them worried,” replied Jon. They were close now, practically ready to dock. Close enough that he could see the grim face of the captain sent to greet them, his cheek marred and twisted by some ancient scar. It was Daemon that greeted the guard, his loud and boisterous tone carrying his words on the wind to their ears. The watch captain was quieter, his muttered and disapproving answers barely audible to them. Certainly, they could not make out his words.

“I know him,” said Jon, quietly. “Some crownlander bastard Maegor took on after he informed on his family.”

“Seven hells,” muttered Symond. “What’d they do?”

“Spoke against the crown, to hear it from his lips, but as like as not they just-,” replied Jon stopping as Daemon motioned them over. Already the Velaryon men were gathering on the ship.

“His Grace has decided that Ser Hugh and his men here are to be your honour guard.” Daemon’s tone was easy, even amused, but he could see the anger hidden behind the cheery tone. “Ser Hugh was being very diplomatic, but it seems my men are not quite good enough. Something about being the wrong colour.”

The two Kingsguard peered at one another, but said nothing. He swallowed and then nodded, as if he had come to some decision.

“My uncle is generous indeed,” he spoke, loud enough for Ser Hugh to hear him. “Grab your prizes, Sers, we have a king to present ourselves to.”

Jon and Symond stepped around him, taking two unwieldy bundles of cloth from outstretched hands. As they did, Daemon leaned forward.

“Be careful,” he murmured, lips barely moving.

“Of course. The same applies to you,” he replied. His uncle nodded and then the Kinsguard returned, each trying to find a proper way to balance the bundles in their arms.

“Just strap them to the horse,” Jon argued as they disembarked.

“And when we have to stand before the king with them?” Symond argued.

Still, their argument soon ceased entirely as they mounted up, professional soldiers once again, each picking some spot to watch. He mounted his own steed and dropped a hand to his sword, a gesture made more to reassure himself than to warn any watcher. Around them the watchmen formed up, their armour and the tips of their spears gleaming in the sun, their red cloaks immaculate. Ser Hugh led on a horse of his own, the only watchman mounted. Finally, the scarred man called out and their procession began.

Warrior grant me strength, this is a miserable thing.

It was all he could think as they rode. The city seemed quieter, even more frightened than when he had left. More houses seemed to be boarded up, even markets seemed to be empty of stalls. Those that did cross their path quickly fled, not even daring to raise their eyes to see who rode with the Watch. He did not even feel that hostile presence he had felt the day they had left for Dragonstone and his taming of Vhagar. That feeling had heralded riots. This feeling felt more like it belonged to some city of the dead, occupied only by spirits and shambling corpses of old tales.

He was not surprised to see new heads atop the walls, what was left of them making him shudder. He had killed with blade and dragon, yet he could not imagine ordering something like this. It was more fitting of the beasts they had encountered than the king his uncle was supposed to be.

When I am king, this will stop. If a head is up there, it will be for something so serious and so awful that the people will cheer to see justice has been done.

Although he could not imagine what sort of crime would engender that reaction in the commons. Some particularly foul murder- he shook his head. He was letting his mind drift and he could not afford that here. Especially not as they passed beneath the gates of the Keep. Grooms rushed forward to take the horses as the watchmen around him fell into a new pattern, all ahead of him, ready to announce his presence to those the king had no doubt assembled to hear of his chosen heir’s victory.

They marched through the halls, a dearth of servants immediately noticeable even to him. He hoped they had merely been told to stay out of their way and that those heads out there did not belong to the staff. He pulled his thoughts from that road as well. No good would come from imagining up graver and graver fantasies. Yet it passed some time, for even as he reminded himself of Daemon’s advice, they were before the doors to the throne room, a low hum of voices from inside.

People were tense, he could tell, but he also knew there was excitement there. He took the pause to straighten his clothing and re-position his sword on his belt. The thought that this was more his father’s type of thing than Maegor’s made him smile. Then the smile died as he realised that more likely than not, Darklyn or Tyanna or some other yet unknown player had seen to it that this spectacle occurred. He had wanted to present himself and his gift to Maegor in private and use that privacy to gain his desired title.

Gods, I hope Rhaena is well. I hope the twins are well.

Then the doors opened and the crowd fell silent in awe as the men marched in, taking up positions along the centre of the room, as if to mark some path he must walk. His uncle sat there, watching him from his position atop the Iron Throne, wearing armour as if it were he that had gone to war. He stepped inside, Jon and Symond following, the only sounds being the clanking of blades and armour.

He felt as if his heart might beat out of his chest. The journey seemed to take too long and yet he arrived and Maegor’s feet, at the foot of the Iron Throne, far too fast. He dropped to one knee.

“My king,” he intoned. “I bring you the blades of every flesh seller and pirate captain from here to Bloodstone.”

As practised, Jon and Symond knelt, unravelling their banners to reveal a dozen gleaming blades apiece. It would not escape anyone’s notice that the banners were singed, nor that both of them had belonged to truly infamous and vicious captains until very recently. An appreciative gasp sounded about the hall, murmurs of awe soon following it. He did not look up, not until Maegor made his judgement.

Please be in a fine mood, please!

Yet even as he thought it, a loud and slow clap rang out. Cautiously, he peered upwards. His uncle sat there, a fierce grin on his face as he rose.

“Well done, prince Viserys!” he called. “Well done!”

Chapter Text

“Welcome home, husband.” Rhaena had changed little, he reflected. He returned her smile easily, aware of Maegor’s eyes on them both.

What is he watching us for? He has his triumph.

“It is good to be home, wife,” he replied. “How are the twins?”

“Well, Aerea is as quiet as ever, but Rhaella has asked about you.” He opened his mouth to reply when their conversation was interrupted by a woman throwing an arm about his sister’s shoulders and fixing him with a roguish smile. That was the first thing he noticed about her. Her smile would not look out of place on one of Daemon’s sailors, but on a noblewoman in court? Bemused, he took in the rest of her. Blue eyes, blonde hair and tall for a woman, to be able to match his sister in height. Her skin was tanned, freckles dusting her cheeks.

“Rhaena is being coy,” she told him in a teasing tone. “Little Rhaella asks for you about twice a day.”

“Well,” he murmured, not sure how to respond to that. “It’s a good thing I remembered to bring gifts then.”

“She was quite upset you missed her nameday,” his sister confided, her hand coming up to clutch briefly at the woman’s hand slung over her shoulder before it dropped again.

“Forgive me,” he began, an inkling of who this woman was beginning to form in his mind. “I have not been introduced to your companion.”

At that, Rhaena almost looked guilty. The woman withdrew her arm and gave a respectful enough curtsy, even if that smile was still in place as she rose to meet his eyes once again.

“Lady Elissa Farman,” she told him, before Rhaena could speak. “Newly appointed Lady to the Princess.”

“It is a pleasure to meet you,” he told her, surprised more by the lack of jealousy he had expected to feel more than anything.

I thought it would be hard to meet this woman…

He was saved from exploring that further by two ladies he knew well pushing their way past both Rhaena and Elissa. His smile widened then.

“Lady Samantha.” It had been a long time since he had last seen the daughter of Lord Alyn Stokeworth. Beyond her lurked yet another girl he knew. “Lady Alayne.”

They both gave little curtseys but he sensed that was more for those watching than anything else. The daughter of Alyn Stokeworth had changed little. Still taller than his sister, though not as tall as him these days, she was broad shouldered but lean, with eyes that did nothing to hide her keen intellect. Although she had yet to speak, he could well remember how loud her voice could be. Alayne had changed little as well, plumper than she was in his memories but still the honey haired girl he remembered trailing after his sister, Samantha and Melony, protesting that if Samantha had her way her dress would be filthy before long.

“It has been too long, my prince,” Samantha said. and there was emotion in her tone even if he would wager she was putting the effort in to speak quietly. Her brown eyes flickered behind him, to the throne for a brief second, then returned to him, dissatisfaction there. “Too long.”

Rhaena warned her of the realities of Maegor’s court then. Good.

“My lord father sends his greetings, my prince,” cut in Alayne, fidgeting with her fingers until Elissa gave them a light tap. She flushed a blotchy red and let her hands fall to her side. “It is wonderful to see you once again as well, my prince.”

“It pleases me to see you all here and well,” he replied. “Please return your father’s greetings for me.”

Alayne smiled broadly at that and a silence descended on them all. Now that the thrill of familiarity had worn off, he felt almost out of place amongst these women. They knew each other in a way he did not. Elissa was to Rhaena what Melony had once been. Samantha and Alayne… they had seen it all, been at his sister’s side since she was old enough to have ladies.

I have nothing like that…

The thought grieved him. He had had friends and confidants once. They had all gone away the moment father’s reign had been challenged, taken off by concerned lords. Even if they had remained, Maegor would have seen them all stripped from his side anyway.

“Vis,” said Rhaena. He blinked and shook the memories from his head before meeting her eyes. They were soft with something almost like pity.

“Is something wrong?” he asked, wanting to assure her that it wasn’t jealousy that bit at him. Or rather, not jealousy over her. The mortifying memory of their bedding returned, of her knowing…

“I…” she paused, looking almost guilty, then stepped from Elissa’s side to his. “We should meet with Ser Tyler. We need not sneak around now Maegor has given his approval.”

“Rather you than me,” Elissa told them, before directing that wicked smile at Samantha and Alayne. “Since Rhaena is abandoning us for the whoremonger, what say we go amuse ourselves back in her rooms?”

“Elissa,” hissed Rhaena but he saw her struggling not to giggle. “Be polite… and do not disturb the twins. They should be napping.”

“Of course, princess.” There was suggestion in that word, tossed over a retreating shoulder and spoken with lips still curved into that smile. Rhaena was smiling as her ladies disappeared from view. He gave her a few moments, mortification and something else turning over in his stomach.

“Whoremonger?” he finally asked. This time, Rhaena did laugh, although it was soft and unheard over the din of the room. He held out his arm and she took it, moving closer to him as they began their search. Although there were many people in the crowd, it did not nearly match the events his father had once put on. It made the throne room feel almost too big… none would meet his eyes as they moved through them, either. Just simple greetings that he and Rhaena returned.

“Ser Tyler’s usual haunt is a brothel,” she explained as they reached a clearing in the crowd. “He’s garnered quite the reputation within King’s Landing.”

“Does he still have his father’s ear?” At his tone, Rhaena’s smiled shrank and he wanted to take the words back.

“He says so. Do not read much into his habits, Vis, it’s how he hides himself.” That made sense. He’d only met Ser Tyler very briefly, but the man he had met had been at odds with what he knew about him.

“He led Aegon’s men, I do not doubt he is capable,” he mumbled, before turning to thank a nearby man for his polite bow and flowery greeting.

“He is his father’s choice for deniable actions because of his status as a bastard,” she muttered as they passed yet more people. “He hides that behind whores and wine, but make no mistake, with both blade and wit, he is every inch the Lannister.”

“You would know the Lannisters better than I, sister.” Rhaena didn’t answer him, instead humming thoughtfully, her eyes on the people around them rather than him now. “How goes your charity?”

He had almost forgotten her plans… but she had brought Samantha Stokeworth here to put them into motion, had she not? His sister flushed.

“Well enough when Tyanna does not interfere,” she muttered. “It is hard enough to connect with the smallfolk when they may riot at any point, but she has Maegor’s Watch trail me about.”

“You are safe, though?” he asked, worry briefly shooting through him. Rhaena smiled sadly.

“Safe enough. The people of the city do not wish to come to her notice. I am safe, but I fear our charity is a failure due to her actions.” He frowned at her explanation.

“It is still my intention to ask for the Watch,” he told her. “Mayhaps we will see more success then?”

“It is my hope,” she murmured. Then her eyes flickered closed. “The city… it is dire, brother.”

The confirmation it was as bad as he suspected sent his heart falling to his stomach. Maegor and Tyanna… they would strangle the life from King’s Landing if they were left to it.

“Do you still speak with Lord Butterwell?” he asked. “Once I have Maegor’s Watch, we might well persuade him to fund some works about the city.”

“Lord Butterwell will do nothing without Darklyn’s order,” muttered his sister. “Let us discuss it another time. Ser Tyler has spotted us.”

“Here you are! The man of the hour, all huddled away in the shadows,” came the Lannister bastard’s voice, full of false cheer.

“Ser Tyler, it is a pleasure to see you here.” The niceties felt hollow. Ser Tyler evidently felt the same, as evinced by his false smile.

I did not like him at our first meeting, and I do not like him now. He is false.

“I would not miss your triumphant return, my prince,” Ser Tyler told him. “Nor would I miss a chance to bask in the beauty of the princess.”

Rhaena rolled her eyes at the compliment.

“You flatter me, Tyler.” But there was a small smile on her face, as if he had told her an excellent joke.

“I try to.” He was smiling too, green eyes sparkling with amusement. “So, no doubt you are eager to speak of business now that your husband has returned from his excursion south?”

“Indeed,” he told the man. “The king has given his approval for Rhaena and I to negotiate favourable conditions.”

“His loan being chief among them? They have begun clearing the site of the Sept already.” Then Tyler paused and waved a hand. “But it is so crass to discuss such things openly, do you not think?”

“Then join us for a private meal, Ser Tyler,” he offered. “Allow us to truly discuss matters in comfort and privacy.”

“Privacy is a scarce thing in King’s Landing,” Ser Tyler told him, smile dropping for a moment. Then his face brightened again. “Tell me Rhaena, will you be inviting that woman?”

“Elissa?” she asked. “Not to a meal with yourself.”

“A great shame, entertainment would be a welcome thing when we must discuss such serious matters.” He frowned at Ser Tyler’s jape, even as Rhaena flushed red. Then Ser Tyler glanced at him and made a show of some grand realisation. “But of course, has your husband even met Lady Elissa?”

“Briefly,” he told him as Rhaena’s blush deepened.

“Watch her closely, my prince. I’m sure your wife could tell you that she has quite the reputation amongst the Lords of the Westerlands.” This was a jab at Rhaena and he was not sure he liked it.

“She seemed lively,” he noted blandly, as if Ser Tyler’s attempts to get him to enquire further had gone directly over his head.

“Lively is one way to put it,” snickered Tyler. “She made the Prester boy piss himself.”

“Tyler,” Rhaena finally warned. His smile became a tad smug.

“Of course, I let my words grow impolite. Too much wine, I think. If my prince and princess will excuse me?” He’d wager gold dragons on Tyler lying about the wine, but he gave his muttered assent for him to retreat, a spring in the man’s step. It made his teeth itch.

We sought him out for an alliance, he sought us out to cause trouble.

“Is there no chance of the Lannister sending another man?” he groused.

“No,” Rhaena replied in clipped tones. “Even if Maegor’s approval reaches Lord Lyman, he will not risk his children. Not unless we offer him something truly worth his while.”

“And what would that be? It may be worth it to speak with someone not so dedicated to causing strife.” Rhaena snorted at his words.

“You could not provide Lord Lyman what he wants and keep your promise to me, brother.” He blinked in surprise at the harshness of her tone suddenly and the way her face seemed to be carved of stone for how stern her features had become.

What promise did I make?

Panic stole his breath and words for a moment, and then Rhaena’s expression softened and she shook her head, smiling slightly.

“He wants a Lannister queen, Vis,” she told him, taking pity. “And you have promised that to Aerea.”

“For a moment there I thought I had forgotten some other promise,” he admitted. “You need not fear, Rhaena, your Aerea will be queen.”

Then, feeling vaguely disloyal for some reason, he echoed the words Maegor had spoken to him long ago. “A dragon needs a dragon, after all. Lion, Falcon and Seahorse will not do.”

Chapter Text

His uncle still seemed to be in a fine mood when Viserys found him in his rooms. Although it was somewhat hard to tell as his uncle stood with his back to him, his gaze directed out across the city. He swallowed. Daemon had given him all he needed for this.

I can do this. I have already done this. Simply speak the words.

“Uncle,” he began and Maegor held up a hand.

“Velaryon sings your praises, your men sing your praises,” Maegor said slowly. “I’m told the pirates of the Stepstones fear to even speak your name.”

He remained silent and Maegor let his hand fall to his side. What game was his uncle playing? Perhaps he knew enough to not gibber in fear every time he spoke to him now, perhaps he had a better grip on his uncle’s moods than most, but he still did not know him, not truly. His uncle turned and gave him a smile. Before, he might have trembled at that smile, the way his uncle bared his teeth like a dog about to bite.

“How was it?” His tone was full of satisfaction. Satisfaction and longing.

“It was justice-” he began, the speech he had prepared all laid out in his head, practised in front of Daemon for hours on their return journey.

“Justice,” he uncle laughed. “Do not be coy with me, boy.”

“It was hard,” he said, almost without thinking. Maegor frowned at that. “You said never to lie to you.”

Cleave to the truth as much as possible, give Tyanna no easy gaps in my armour.

“I did, didn’t I?” his uncle groused. He ignored the disappointment there.

“At first, it was hard to countenance killing them without a fight of some kind,” he continued. “Then we raided our first slaver den.”

I still see it in my nightmares. It is not hard to see how Tyanna learnt her trade.

Maegor brightened then, that smile returning.

“You learnt to hate them,” he realised.

“After that, my only regret was that there were not more to burn.” There was fierce exultation in his uncle’s eyes as he stepped forward.

And that is no lie either.

“Good boy!” he roared and the sudden volume might have made him flinch once. Not now, now he held his uncle’s gaze and tried not to feel guilt at the pride that surged through him.

“I gave them fire and blood, uncle,” he added.

“That you did! I wish I could have been there,” Maegor sighed. He was still full of cheer though. “You and I, breaking the pirates of the Stepstones. They would have sung songs about it!”

He licked his lips. He knew what to say here. Maegor was in fine spirits. If his speech would not work, then flattery would.

But not any type of flattery. Not the flattery my father craved.

“The wrong uncle was beside me,” he told him. Maegor snorted but there was no anger.

“I trust you took my advice regarding him,” he asked.

“I did, uncle.” Daemon knew well what Maegor had told him in that last meeting. He had sworn to play the cowering sycophant to his more powerful nephew for the foreseeable future at least. He knew it would not last. “He is mine.”

“And was he the whore’s eyes within my city?” Maegor growled.

The truth may not be so easy to tell here, but she will know if I lie. If she knows, he will come to know.

“They communicated,” he told him. This would be tricky. Maegor already knew, of course, but the confirmation might drive him to do something unwise. His heart lurched when Maegor tensed up. “I am allowing him to continue, for now.”

His voice was clear and strong and Maegor frowned darkly.

“I see,” his tone was dark. He swallowed, kept his breath within him, and held his uncle’s gaze.

“It seems to me that we gain more from knowing what information she receives than not,” he told him.

“Now you sound like Tyanna,” Maegor snapped before turning away.

“My Queen taught me well,” he answered. Had Darklyn and Tyanna’s clashes continued? Why had his uncle frowned even more at the mention of her?

“Have a care you do not become her in miniature,” Maegor growled. “I will not have some craven sneak-thief for an heir.”

“I prefer to meet our enemies with my blade in hand,” he reassured him. He had to wrangle some semblance of control of this conversation back, or he would not get his prize. He found himself surprised by just how much he did want it. “Forgive me, uncle, if I have angered you.”

“It is not you,” Maegor said, a little more forcefully than he would like. “The woman vexes me of late. No, she has vexed me for a while now.”

Since when, I wonder? Since Alys’ death? Since Rhaena killed your knight? Or before that, when she revealed your impotency?

Those were dangerous thoughts. No wonder Tyanna had not struck at him further, though - with Maegor growing distant, Darklyn nipping at her heels... If he died now, if something happened to Rhaena or the twins, she would be dead before the sun set. At the same time, she would be more dangerous than not, if she feared losing Maegor to another.

“I am sorry, uncle,” he settled for saying.

“Put my troubles from your mind,” Maegor grunted. “I am cursed with two detestable wives and the only tolerable one long gone. You are not.”

You killed the only tolerable one! You killed her, her family-

He shoved the anger aside. He saw his chance, he could not waste it on anger for a woman long dead.

“Indeed, uncle, and I can only thank you once again for that. “ He made a show of hesitating and Maegor’s frown deepened for a moment.

“Speak, boy,” he commanded.

“Forgive me, uncle, but your words reminded me that I had come here today to ask for a boon.” He met his uncle’s gaze again.

“A boon,” his uncle repeated and he almost sounded interested. “What would my nephew ask of me?”

“Rhaena and I spoke of her charity,” he began and Maegor’s interest wavered slightly. “She mentioned the City Watch.”

“Tyanna’s little band of cut throats,” Maegor sneered. “They serve their purpose well enough. What of them?”

Tyanna’s little band? Uncle, they are Maegor’s Watch.

“They are feared, resented,” he told his uncle. “They keep the smallfolk from rioting, they round up those the Queen directs them to-”

“Get to the point, boy,” Maegor told him, annoyed undertones in his voice.

“I want them, uncle,” he admitted. The annoyed look faded to be replaced by… confusion.

“You want them, do you?” he asked.

“I have seen war,” he explained. “The realm knows I can fight, that I can ride into battle. That I am no craven, not like my father.”

Maegor nodded, interest returning now.

“Now it must see that I can be just and fair-”

“Like I am not?” Maegor asked and despite his new found confidence, he froze.

Shit!

“Uncle, I would never imply-” Maegor turned away again, began to pace with agitation. Dread grew in his gut, but he refused to let it take him. It was a misstep, yes, but Maegor was not in a mood where a misstep would mean death. Humiliation, perhaps?

“I am not unaware of my reputation, boy,” he growled finally. “I am forced to concede it is deserved. It was… needed. Westeros needed to see what resistance would earn them. They had forgotten the lessons my father taught them.”

“The blame lies with my father,” he assured his uncle. “He wanted to please them. They should have been pleasing him.”

“And now you wish to please them in the same manner?” his uncle sneered.

“No, uncle.” Maegor looked almost amused at his denial.

“Then what am I to think of this?” he asked archly. “When you use such words as ‘fair’ and ‘just’.”

I need to control this once more.

“Grandfather was fair and just,” he answered. “None would accuse him of grovelling before the commons. He was unyielding.”

“I know my own father, boy,” Maegor snapped. Then the brief anger that had echoed over his face died and he almost looked thoughtful. “You have plans, I suppose.”

“They are corrupt,” he answered quickly. “They take what is rightfully ours. I will put a stop to it. They will no longer be feared by the innocent.”

Maegor laughed suddenly. It was a soft laugh and it sent hairs on the back of his neck prickling. There was danger here. Sudden, unexpected, but he could feel it so clearly as if Maegor had drawn Blackfyre in front of him.

“I see,” he finally said. “You must think me a fool, boy, for not seeing your game sooner.”

What has he seen? What does he know?

“Uncle?” The bafflement was less feigned than he hoped.

“The Watch belong to Tyanna. You want them, to wrest control from her.” He swallowed and remained silent as Maegor chuckled again. He let his silence continue as his uncle seemed to lose himself in thought.

“Tell me, boy, what did you do to set her against you?” he asked. “Tell me truthfully, and I will give you your Watch.”

“I lied to her,” he settled for saying. “I tried… to manipulate her.”

The sudden laughter took him by surprise.

He finds this amusing?

“I am surprised you would dare!” his uncle laughed. “Yes, I can see how she would find that displeasing.”

There was another strangling silence. He began to wonder if he had not misstepped when-

“Take the Watch, boy,” Maegor sighed. “Just know that I will not interfere with whatever games you play with my wife.”

Chapter Text

The giggling shriek from the other room set his teeth on edge. Then it fell to a murmur and he turned his attention back to his uncle.

“She seems happy,” Daemon noted, before taking a sip of his wine. “Bringing her ladies here was a fine idea.”

Bringing Elissa is what cheered her.

“I want her to be happy.” He did not lie when he spoke. Still, he reflected as giggles broke out again, Rhaena spent every moment with her ladies these days and something like resentment curled in his breast. They were planning their bid for the Throne, for Maegor’s Throne.

“As all brothers should,” Daemon said when he did not elaborate. “Has your eye wondered to any woman yet?”

He flushed red for all that he wished he did not and Daemon laughed softly.

“You are so close to six and ten, my boy, isn’t it time you got some experience there?” he asked. He fixed his uncle with a warning look and the man laughed again but let the matter lie.

Thank the gods. Yet he is right. Rhaena allows it of me as I allow it of her. Yet… the idea of taking a mistress from the nobles here makes me squirm.

“You are in fine spirits,” he finally pointed out.

“Of course I am,” Daemon replied easily. “I come bearing excellent news, after all.”

That made him sit up a little taller.

“The Queen is reportedly in quite the fury over your new appointment,” his uncle chuckled. “I hear Maegor will make the announcement upon your nameday.”

She must be furious I have taken something else from her.

“It all seems so long ago,” he murmured. “Yet it has scarcely been a year since Maegor took me as his heir.”

Something like pity entered his uncle’s eyes then and the anger he felt surprised him.

“It feels like an age for me, as well,” his uncle said softly. “I could not- I walked softly, spoke softly, in those early days. I promised that man things that turned my stomach.”

He said nothing, lowering his gaze to his nails, still bitten ragged.

“I…” He heard his uncle say and then stop with a deep sigh of weariness he had not heard from him. A weariness at odds with his previous good mood. “It was a bad time for us all. You more than most.”

At least he admits that. I should not have brought this up. There’s too much pain…

He swallowed the grief but it would not die in him. They had not spoken about this before, not when they had been alone as the fleet pushed onward to the Stepstones. Nor when it had returned, their loyalties more tightly bound to one another. He closed his eyes against the tears that threatened to come.

“I was abandoned.” His voice was raspy and it set Daemon shifting uncomfortably, he could hear the creak of his chair, the rustle of his clothes. He clenched his jaw and swallowed hard. When he spoke again, his voice was stronger. “You. Mother. Would you have cared then if I died? Would mother have cared?”

I sound like a whining child once more. If Maegor heard, he would strike me.

He opened his eyes and found Daemon staring at him, shame on his face. He did not think it was a false shame. When he raised his gaze to meet his uncle’s eyes in challenge, Daemon looked away. It was sometime before he spoke.

“You know who I am, Viserys,” he said finally. “I have never made any secret of it. I worked for my survival before a king disposed to kill me for my name alone. I could have aided you. I did not. I could tell you that any aid I offered would have been of little use. That my aid may have further tainted you in Maegor’s eyes. It would be a falsehood. I did not render aid because House Velaryon danced close to disaster and I saw its survival as my greatest duty. I still do.”

I can respect that. I can.

He nodded slowly as his uncle finished speaking.

“And mother?” he asked. “Tyanna was most gleeful about her actions. Not because they lied but because they were so damning in their truth.”

Daemon sighed heavily again. “I wish you had come to me before.”

“When the men around you were yours?” he asked. It was an uncharitable question.

And I am a child again, asking it of him.

“Perhaps,” Daemon replied. “Your mother would grieve greatly should you die, Viserys. Do not allow Tyanna her victory.”

“Then perhaps mother ought to work harder at denying her,” he responded hotly. “She took the sword.”

“And in doing so made Jaehaerys the greatest threat to Maegor’s rule not already in his power,” Daemon replied slowly. “Seven damn this! I could have explained all this long before if you had just come to me.”

Hot anger poured through him and he stood.

I need to leave. I need to leave before he convinces me I am wrong. Before I let myself believe-

“Viserys,” his uncle said slowly, rising with him. “Viserys, even if her actions appear dire, please know she loves you fiercely.”

“She does a poor job of showing it,” he spat. Then before his uncle could say more, before he could convince him of a beautiful lie, he turned on his heel and left his uncle standing there.

He was not sure where he was going, only that it be away from Daemon. Away from those quarters that were so painfully new, with nothing of his brother in them. Away from Rhaena and her giggling trio of ladies. Away from anyone who might see the tears that threatened to fall from his eyes. Away from what he most desperately wished to believe yet could not, in his heart of hearts.

His mother had betrayed him. She had offered him up as a sacrifice. Daemon could make him believe otherwise and that was a dangerous thing indeed.

“My prince!” He knew the voice at once, although he had never heard the man shout before. Darklyn. The Lord Hand. He froze at the call before drawing a deep breath and letting it out slowly. He could not show weakness to this man. This man might as well be Maegor himself.

He is Tyanna’s enemy, but not my ally. I must keep that in mind.

“My Lord Hand!” he called back, when the man was close enough. He was still thin, his gaze still lacking any kind of passion. Perhaps that was what bothered him so much. Perhaps that was why Tyanna hated him so much.

She is all passion, even I can not deny her that. I could not think of a man more different to that as Darklyn.

“I’d heard you were meeting with our Master of Ships today,” Darklyn observed mildly.

“Merely to discuss the transfer of some men to my employ,” he lied smoothly.

“Ah, your newest conquest.” He let his gaze meet the man’s dark eyes. He would not shudder or squirm. He pulled Maegor’s protection, Maegor’s words about him like a cloak, and instead smiled thinly.

“Less a conquest, my lord hand, more a gift given by my ever generous uncle.” At that, Darklyn did chuckle.

It sounds wrong. Like someone taught him how to laugh but he never quite understood the lessons.

“Please, call me Lord Justin,” the Hand replied. “Forgive me, my prince, but when I spied you rushing past, you seemed to be in a dark mood indeed.”

“Merely focused,” he lied again. Darklyn, or Lord Justin rather, gave him a look that told him as clearly as words that his lie had not been believed.

“Focused upon your upcoming appointment, perhaps?” asked the man. He wanted to sneer.

Careful now. Treat him as you treat Tyanna. He is as dangerous, perhaps more so, given his successes against her.

“Indeed,” he replied instead. “It will be a monumental task to set right the course of the City Watch.”

“A noble task though,” Lord Justin reassured him. “One that will attract attention, however.”

“Attention?” he enquired. “I have attention already, my lord. I am heir to our king, a dragon rider and newly returned from battle besides. The eyes of the Seven Kingdoms are upon me.”

“I speak of those with darker thoughts and intentions than the good men of Westeros who pay rightful deference to their future king.” The response was clipped, the first bit of emotion he’d heard all day from the Hand.

He grows tired of my dancing. He wants me to commit. Do I?

Curiosity finally won out. He kept his voice low when he spoke, though. It would not do to hand out easy victories to any that may be listening. “You speak of the Queen.”

Darklyn’s dark eyes shot about them, as if half expecting Tyanna to be hiding behind the corner.

Perhaps she is. Or mayhap she favours the rafters for her eavesdropping.

“I do,” he finally admitted. “’Tis a bold move, to so blatantly steal her toy soldiers so.”

“Her Watch are not soldiers, they’re thugs,” he murmured. Lord Darklyn nodded.

“I do not disagree. It is I, as lord hand, that soothes the affront their nature causes more often than not. I assure you, I know well what they are.” That statement made him frown.

“Lord Celtigar does not aid you?” he asked. As Master of Laws, the Watch was supposed to be Celtigar’s.

“Lord Celtigar is loyal but I am afraid he has little to boast about beyond that,” the Hand noted. “I have agreed to take over such duties for him. If only to keep them from the Queen’s grasp.”

There is a point to this. I must find it, before he becomes bored of our jousting and leaves me short a potential ally.

“So it is you, my reports will go to, Lord Justin?” he asked. His earlier grief was fading now, replaced by the thrill of something he did not know. It felt like he was facing battle once more, nerves and excitement making his blood sing.

“Indeed,” Darklyn replied.

“And should the Queen request the use of the Watch, it would be you she would go to?” he continued. Now the Hand smiled, although the lack of joy in it might have frightened him at one point in his life.

“You have the right of it, my prince,” he replied, that smile not fading. “The Watch will be yours come your nameday. I will, of course, defer to you in its running.”

“Thank you for your confidence, Lord Justin,” he told the man.

“It is given freely as it is your due as heir.” The smile faded slightly. That dispassionate gaze faded and became something close to the dark expression he had seen as Maegor had personally slaughtered the architects of the holdfast. “Worry not about Pentoshi whore, my prince. The realm sees her for what she is. Soon, the king will too. On that day, she will regret reaching for a station so above what she truly deserves.”

And that look tells me more than anything you wish to be wielding the knife when that day does come. Seven Hells, I am surrounded by monsters.

Chapter Text

Ser Hugh Waters, a bastard that had earned his spurs fighting against Aegon at the God’s Eye. A bastard that had left that battle scarred and twisted. A bastard that had informed Tyanna of his own family’s traitorous inclinations. A bastard that had watched as Tyanna had executed them all after she was done with them in her Black Cells.

This man will be trouble.

He watched as his new second barked orders at the assembled Watchmen, treating them more like soldiers than men sent to keep the peace. Ser Hugh Rivers was tall, the very image of a knight, if it weren’t for the scar that mangled his cheek, twisting even his lips upwards. The men behind him weren’t much better. They were the type of men who dragged men off in the night, snatched women in the street and dragged children from their beds in the dead of night.

If things had been different, I might have been a victim to these men.

He repressed the shudder and made sure his face was blank. It was important they not see his disgust. By the end of the week, he’d have his men in positions of power here. If the Seven were kind, by the end of the year, he’d have purged Tyanna’s puppets as well. How many were hers, even now? They may be Maegor’s Watch to all that knew them, but Maegor hadn’t been wrong when he’d called them Tyanna’s.

Tyanna had filled these ranks, they fetched Tyanna’s victims for her… some had to be hers completely. Perhaps even Ser Hugh.

“Your Grace,” Ser Hugh finally said in an overly careful voice. He tried not to shudder, no amount of careful pronunciation could mask the simmering frustration he held. “I have assembled the men, as you requested.”

“Thank you, Captain Hugh,” he replied. “It is good to know I have a capable second to guide me through my first steps here.”

He wanted to grimace as he said the words. He sounded more like his uncle Daemon in that moment. Their words to each other were careful, so as not to cause offence, but they had spoken. They had spoken and he had not seen visions of his mother, as he had feared he would. He would claim that as a victory.

Ser Hugh stepped back and said nothing to him at that. Perhaps he didn’t know how to reply to the flattery, perhaps he saw the lie for what it was. He hoped it was the former, the latter implied the man was more cunning than first represented. The watchmen were silent as he stepped out in front of them. A hundred and half again strong, they watched him. They were evaluating him.

How many were hostile because of her? How many feared him because of Maegor? How many knew they were caught in a political play? Addressing Daemon’s men had been easier. At least he knew they’d been told to cheer regardless.

Damn it. Grand speeches won’t get these men to cheer. I doubt anything would get these men to cheer.

“Greetings, men of the Watch!” he called. That provoked some shifting, eyes sliding from him to their compatriots. Which ones had not done that? He could see a few. The ones that stared too intently would have to go first. “I am Prince Viserys, heir to King Maegor!”

If they didn’t know that, they weren’t worth the armour they wore, but the statement was more for him than them. They were a ragged lot. No matching armour among them, a lot of it old and dented and nearly all of it rusting in some manner. How could they even fight with equipment like this? They looked more like bandits or cheap mercenaries than men of the crown.

“My uncle has given me command over his Watch, and so I stand here today as your commander!” he called. Some looks of interest, mostly disinterest, some outright hatred. The ones that looked interested were worth watching as potential allies. “Your work is invaluable to this city and to my uncle! That is why he has sent his only heir to you!”

A lie. It was invaluable to Tyanna, perhaps, but if the Watch vanished tomorrow, it would be cause for celebration. A celebration that would then become a riot.

“Together, we will see these streets bend to my uncle’s will!” That would have to do. There was no cheering, not like Daemon’s men had cheered when he’d given them a speech. “Over the coming days I will shadow your patrols, inspect the gates and… speak with your captains. The Watch will change.”

That got a reaction though. Even from Ser Hugh. He smiled, and knew there was no joy in it. Time to end this. “That is all. Dismissed!”

Five that wouldn’t take their eyes from him. Five that have to be gone as soon as he would be able to lose them.

“I expected a pretty speech.” He froze and turned. So did Ser Hugh, his sword half drawn as he turned to face whoever had ambushed them.

“Ser Tyler,” he managed between gritted teeth. “I was not aware you were here.”

“Well, I thought I’d come see your first day here myself!” he declared, pushing himself off of the wall he’d been lounging against. The semi-permanent smirk the Lannister bastard wore was in place once again. “I rarely come this far into the city. I don’t have to anymore, you know? That new brothel that the delightfully foreign Madam Marra has opened up caters to my needs quite splendidly.”

“I’m afraid I’m not quite up to date on the city's brothels,” he admitted and didn’t feel any shame whatsoever on that front. If he took a lover, when he took a lover, she would not be a prostitute.

“It’s an interesting idea. If you ever wish to celebrate your appointment-” Ser Tyler was unceremoniously cut off.

“Silk,” he said firmly. “It’s caused trouble.”

“Of course it has,” Tyler laughed. “But honestly, all that surprises me is that it took so long for the idea to take root in this fair city.”

“I am missing some information here and I am not so certain I wish to listen to you long enough to get it,” he finally snapped. “Why are you here? Other than to avoid Rhaena and Lord Butterwell.”

Tyler laughed again.

Gods, if only I could get away with striking this man. He fought for Aegon, did my brother feel this way about him?

“I suppose that’s a fair strike,” he chuckled. “You needn’t worry so much, my prince. My father is drawing up the contract as we speak.”

“He seems awfully slow about it,” he shot back. Then he turned to Ser Hugh. “Leave us, Ser.”

The watch captain stared at him for a moment, his gaze flickering from Tyler to him and back again. He knew there was some scheme occurring here, you would have to be blind not too. Then he turned on his heel and marched out.

“Now we get to the meat of the matter,” Tyler observed as Hugh disappeared. “What is he? Tyanna’s little dog?”

Don’t change the subject… Rhaena will kill me for this if I foul it up but this man tries my patience a little too much.

“It seems likely,” he replied. “I want the Lannisters, Tyler, but I won’t perform tricks for their approval.”

“No tricks,” the man laughed, raising his hand in surrender. “My father is simply… cautious.”

“I honour my debts. I honour my agreements,” he hissed, angrily. Tyler shrugged, his smile properly falling for the first time. For a moment, both he and the Lannister were silent, staring one another down. Annoyance surged in him. He would give them a princess!

“We have no proof of that,” he finally said. “Aegon promised us his daughter for our aid in his war.”

“You sent a few thousand men, no true support,” he snapped. “My brother died because Westeros did not rise for him when he called them.”

“Given his loss, that seems wise now,” Tyler replied, his tone icy. “I burned for your brother, my prince, do not call our support nothing!”

Their eyes met then and he stared at the Lannister bastard, rage surging in his veins. Everything else seemed to fall away. He could do it. He wore a sword, Tyler did not. The last time he had felt this rage… he’d… visions on Rhaena danced before his eyes. How horrified she’d been.

I am not my uncle!

“My apologies, Ser Tyler,” he said. “You fought for my brother. I am glad you did. I have heard your actions after he died were nothing short of the heroes of old.”

“You flatter me,” Tyler replied, relaxing back himself. “I… will speak with my father.”

“Thank you.” And he meant it. Tyler was much more likable when he wasn’t laughing at some jape no one else understood. “Perhaps I can offer some incentive to sweeten the pot?”

“I am willing to hear it,” Tyler replied easily.

“I’m sure you’ve noticed the… poor state of my new men, out there.” Tyler smiled again this time, not his smirk from earlier though.

“I had. If the men of Lannisport were dressed like that, I would be ashamed to call myself Hill.” He forced himself not to wince at Tyler’s damning words.

“You are right. Finding a new source of armour, if only to erase the shame they bring to myself and the crown with their current equipment, is something of a new priority for me.”

Very new. Acquired only within the past few moments.

“What if you and I came to an… agreement that their new equipment be made in Lannisport?” he offered after a moment of letting that sink in. “For… let’s say, as long as I am Commander of the Watch?”

“Guaranteed income for the armourers of Lannisport, a chance to boast our armour adorns the Watch - a fine prize indeed to dangle in front of my father like bait,” Tyler mused.

“And the Lannister grow ever closer to the crown,” he told him. “Capable and appreciated allies, a royal marriage… and with the blood of the dragon in your future children’s veins, likely a few more marriages beyond that. Cousin to cousin marriage is not unheard of for our line, Ser Tyler.”

Tyler’s eyes gleamed at that. “There’s a thought. Perhaps even a Lannister Queen in time? Yes, yes, father will appreciate that indeed. Do not worry, Your Grace, we are very much looking forward to working with you.”

And I have him. Is that truly all they want? A Lannister beside a Targaryen King? She’d need to have the blood of the Dragon for that, but it’s not impossible, I suppose.

“Thank you, Ser Tyler,” he said aloud. “It has been a pleasure speaking with you.”

Chapter Text

He saw the exact moment the man spotted his party. His face transformed from a pleasant smile to one of palpable fear and he leapt backwards into the doorway he had just left. By the time they drew level with the shop, the door had slammed shut and the man was gone.

Likely barred too.

The knowledge was bitter on his tongue, sending annoyance and frustration bubbling through him. Uncle Daemon was quick to remind him he had controlled the Watch for less than a moon, that change would not come quickly, but if he waited it would come. The fear of the smallfolk cut at him, even as some part of him remembered their anger and the mob…

It would do no good to dwell on that now. He let his gaze wander to the two men that flanked him, and the man that lurked behind them. Ser Hugh stayed close, as he always did. The knight had resisted his patrols at first, and after his defeat on that matter, had tried to insist on a stronger guard. He had not been deterred, and getting rid of two of Hugh’s loudest supporters had quieted the man for now.

He was almost certain now that Hugh was Tyanna’s, and so were the men that rallied to him. It made getting rid of her men somewhat easier, yet more difficult in many ways. Besides them, the man known as Yellow Perkin and the equally odious Ser Andrew Grafton had been dismissed, though they would have to be sent on their way eventually as well. Perkin was a coward and Grafton a bully - but more importantly, both were hated by King’s Landing at large. Getting rid of them had established that he was not more of the same to the people, and deprived Tyanna and Hugh of voices among the men.

Still, they are but two former captains. They, and the other lower-ranked men I sent away, are not the true problem.

He let his eyes slide to the next man. Ser Robin Waxley was a cheerful man. Short and plump and never without that jovial smile on his face. Ser Hugh may have backed off after their first clash for the Watch, but this man had become his new minder and was not nearly so objectionable on the surface. He may be quick to joke, but he was also quick to sneak about and report everything he heard or found to Hugh.

And inevitably, Tyanna.

So he played nicely for now, let them get comfortable again. Let them start making mistakes again. He met the eyes of Owen Bush and refused to shudder. This was the reason he could not be too bold. The knight of the Kingsguard had replaced Symond Crayne and Jon Tollett the moment he’d gotten rid of the worst men among the ranks of the Watch. It was a warning… an explicit one.

She’s getting desperate. Darklyn is pushing her harder than she could have known and now I am sapping her strength too. Of course, this means I can not turn on Darklyn either. If he fails, I will be next.

He shuddered to think what might happen to Rhaena and the twins should he fail here. No, he would not think of it. He would not let them down. He took a deep breath and somewhat regretted it a moment later. The city may be quiet and fearful, but its stink was no less rotten. Even standing upon the Street of Sisters, a main thoroughfare of the city - wide open and maintained even under Maegor’s rule, it was impossible to not smell it.

Perhaps that was their proximity to the slums known as Fleabottom, however. He stopped and gazed up the Street as he had a dozen times since he had begun his work in the city. When he had been younger, the Sept of Remembrance had stood on Rhaenys’ Hill. He could barely remember the structure itself, but he remembered the way his father would fall silent as they passed into it.

He wasn’t a king then - just a boy mourning his mother.

His fist clenched.

No, he was never a king.

“How are the commons reacting to the building work?” he asked aloud, hoping his face had betrayed none of his sudden anger. It was Ser Robin that answered, his smile genial and false.

“Jobs are always welcome, Your Grace!” the man practically trilled. “Of course, there are some malcontents who speak against it but they are rabble-rousers, men who have set themselves-”

“I didn’t ask for that,” he snapped back harshly and Ser Robin’s mouth snapped shut. He took a deep breath. It would do no good to lose his temper here. Instead, he let his gaze wander up once more. “We move up to the peak of the Hill.”

“That wasn’t in our patrol schedule,” growled Ser Hugh. “We agreed we would proceed to the Gate of the Gods.”

“I am changing that schedule,” he replied shortly. “I wish to see the work.”

He had no need too, of course. Daemon had finally divined Maegor’s plans for what had once been the Sept, and had since become a resting place for the dragons under Maegor’s control. A great stable for them to rest in truth. To destroy that symbol of rebellion and pave over it with a symbol of Targaryen power.

They will not forget it. Good.

Memories of their desperate flight from King’s Landing came to him unbidden again. His father’s fear, his mother’s quiet anxiety… his own terror as he realised the depths of the situation.

“I was informed you were more than a spoiled princeling!” spat Hugh a moment later and that frustration that had been bubbling under his skin since their patrol had started boiled over into rage. He whirled on the man even as Ser Robin squealed in fright and protest, scrambling to stand anywhere else than between them. Behind Hugh, Owen Bush’s stance moved ever so slightly and his hand dropped to the hilt of his blade.

Who would you strike if this turned violent?

He met Hugh’s eyes and they did not waver in their defiance. He tasted copper for a moment. A pity Vhagar had been moved to make way for the crew… or mayhaps a mercy because in that moment he might have called for her. Worse still, she might have come.

“You are a captain of the Watch. I am its commander. You will do as I say or I will find a captain that will.” The moment stretched out and he longed to grab his blade, longed to make Ser Hugh bow… or break him if he would not.

“Of course, Your Grace,” Hugh finally said. “I apologise for the offence.”

The lowered eyes and sudden deference did not fool him. Ser Hugh was furious, and even this pretend submission couldn’t quite hide it. If he continued berating the man, it would put him in the wrong. So he whirled on the spot and began stalking along the street, leaving Ser Robin hurrying to catch up with him. After a moment, the other two followed as well.

Then guilt edged out his anger. This was not him. This rage would earn him nothing. He had to stay calm, stay focused. He had a goal here and it would not be accomplished by cutting down a man in broad daylight for the crime of annoying him.

I am not Maegor... yet part of me still wishes he had defied me further.

For a moment, he longed to be with Rhaena. She would set his mind straight. She would remind him he wasn’t this angry monster. He felt something bitter then. As much as he might wish to rage and blame the King for this anger - he could not.

Rhaena could and did, but he knew where it came from, and it wasn’t his royal uncle, not in truth. It came from him and the knowledge they’d changed him, the knowledge his mother had changed him, and from the knowledge that had they not, he would have been every bit the man his father had been... and he was not certain that the man his father had been was worth a damn.

He raised a gloved hand to his face and rubbed at his eyes as they made their way to the Hill. He had come back from war so full of hope, so full of determination - he’d gotten everything he knew he needed to take what was rightfully his and… and it felt hollow and empty.

Does he feel like this?

He might have brooded and sulked about the matter the entire way, but the crowd that gathered before what had been the Sept of Remembrance stopped him dead. He’d been so used to the empty streets, so used to the smallfolk not leaving their homes unless they had to, that this crowd seemed wrong and out of place. Ser Robin was huffing and puffing when he reached him, but even the redness of his cheeks couldn’t hide the fear on his face.

“We must leave, my prince!” he squeaked, barely able to get the words out. “Now!”

“And why is that?” he asked slowly.

“These are the malcontents I spoke of-” He cut the man off with a wave, even as unease began to take root in his heart. This kind of mob had driven him from his home once. He grit his teeth together and took a breath. He could hear now the voice of a man rising above the noise of the crowd.

“How long has this been going on?” he demanded.

“Since the Red Keep was finished.” It was Ser Hugh that answered. “I have men watching the crowds, picking out those that oppose our king.”

They were being noticed now. Too late to flee, even if he had wanted to. Murmurs were running through the crowd, men and women breaking off from it, their heads down in the hopes that whatever trouble would come next would pass them by. They gave their party a wide berth, though. He swallowed as his unease became fear. This could become a mob very quickly, had his father not learned that?

“Summon what men will be present. I will not have such danger in the city.” Hugh frowned, his scar twisting his face in a grotesque manner, but he didn’t argue this time. When he turned once more and took a step towards the crowd, Hugh followed with Bush taking Ser Robin’s face. The plump man seemed unwilling to risk himself further.

An excuse to get rid of him, at least.

The crowd parted for him. In fact, it would be better to say they all but threw themselves out of his path as he strode forward. The braver ones near the front met his eyes in a challenging manner, and did not move until the last moment, but they moved in the end. It seemed Hugh had downplayed how many men he had, because their party swelled from three to five to eight, until twenty-five men stood with him.

His breath felt shaky. If they knew how scared he was, they would descend on him in an instant. Another breath, another foot forward. He kept his back straight, kept his gaze forward. Then the crowd thinned out once more and he came face to face with a septon.

No, not a septon. None of those men would let themselves get into such a state. This man looked more like a beggar, all wild eyes and dirty, torn robes. His hair was long and unkempt and his shoes little more than sacks of cloth.

“What is this disturbance of the peace?” he called. The mob- the crowd was thinning out considerably now. Cooler heads were leaving, not wishing to be caught in the violence they believed was coming. A boon in that there were less men to fight, yet that meant that those that stayed were more inclined than ever to become a mob and fight him.

“The peace!?” shrieked the man. “There has been no peace since the usurper took the throne!”

Ser Hugh’s hand dropped to his weapon, as did Owen Bush’s.

“King Maegor is the rightful king,” he called back, the words ash in his mouth. “As decided in his Trial of the Seven.”

“False!” the man yelled. “He is false! Everyone knows the Seven struck him down that day! Everyone! T’was his witch that brought him back!”

Murmuring from the crowd, but he dared not glance back at them.

“My uncle is the rightful king,” he repeated. “But by your own argument, treason as it is, I would be the king and your words still break the peace of this fair city.”

There was a huff of laughter from behind him, but he dared not look back and see which one of his men found that so amusing.

“You!” laughed the man. “I think not! You are like your brother! Mired in sin! He who has taken his sister to wife! No, you are no king! Our only king is Jaehaerys! Jaehaerys, first of his name! The only son of Good Aenys not to be tainted by incest!”

He nearly struck the man then, so quick was the force of his anger.

Is this her doing? How does she think this will end? With… she wants a monster, doesn’t she?

For a long moment, he was tempted to give her one. Let her sit in that bastard’s castle, full of fear at what her monster might do.

Her plan can go and hang. I am not Maegor!

“Silence!” The loudness startled even him and he was the one who had spoken it. He turned his back on the half feral man. His mother wanted the people riled up. His mother wanted the people looking at Jaehaerys as their saviour. “This man speaks of treason against the rightful king. Against that king’s rightful heir.”

“Any man that leaves now will not be subject to later charges for entertaining this tripe!” he bellowed. “Go! Go to your homes and families! Go to them instead of listening to men that desire only your blood for their cause! If this square is not empty in the time it takes me to deal with this wretch, I will have any stragglers flogged!”

Muttering broke out at that, and their movements became a little more hasty. He whirled again, aware of his cloak tangling in his scabbard. Upon meeting his eyes, the man backed off, fearful and seemingly confused at how this had turned on him so quickly.

“Take this man to the Gate of the Gods, Ser Hugh,” he commanded. “And make it clear to him he never sets foot in King’s Landing again.”

“My prince!” he protested. “He should lose his tongue at the least!”

“Doing so will just incite the crowd to form again later,” he replied. Maybe that was even true, he mused as Ser Hugh’s face screwed up in annoyance. The truth for him was that he did not have the stomach to give this man to Tyanna, and that was what would be required of him. “This is a mercy, instead of preaching treason and sedition, perhaps you should preach of this instead.”

The man jerked as two Watchmen stepped forward and seized him in a rough hold. They would be none too gentle with him, but he hoped Ser Hugh would not be so quick to outright disobey him. Daemon would know if he did.

“And send Ser Robin to me, I would have words with the craven!” At his barked command, Ser Hugh’s face became even darker.

Chapter Text

“Ser Harys.” The man froze in the middle of his protest at the tone in his voice. He kept his face in the stony expression he had worn all morning. “I care not for your excuses.”

“Your Grace! Please, there must be some sort of mistake, I swear!” He hid his discomfort at that. Ser Harys of King’s Landing was among the best of the Watch, he lacked a reputation for cruelty, he had never been in his cups whilst on duty, and had never been implicated in any other crime he’d been able to conjure up.

Until now. He was uncertain as to how the man had failed to hand over his old uniform. Ser Harys swore he had, but the old quartermaster, a man who couldn't care less about the politics that went on outside his domain, had testified that he was missing a number of the old and battered equipment. Ser Harys’ included.

Old Rogar can barely even see these days. He might have handed it in and the blasted old man misplaced it.

“Ser Harys has served bravely and faithfully, Your Grace,” intoned Hugh, an edge of dislike to his voice. He didn’t look at him. Some men, Hugh had been happy for him to dismiss. Others he had protested at. The emphasis the man put on ‘bravely’ told him Hugh still seethed at Ser Robin’s dismissal.

“A shame he should ruin such service with his blatant theft,” he said, allowing the tone of his voice to communicate his displeasure to Hugh. The man had not fouled anything notable up yet, getting rid of him would still be far too difficult.

“This is a farce!” Ser Harys burst out, anger evident in his tone.

“Calm yourself,” Ser Hugh barked in return. Harys looked as if Hugh had just struck him, slumping in defeat a moment later.

“Might I be allowed to leave under my own power, Your Grace?” That made him frown.

“And why would I allow that?” he asked, keeping his tone level.

“My child, Your Grace, and my wife. I may yet earn coin working by putting my blade to use with some dockside merchant.” The man’s tone was sulky.

As long as he is gone, I suppose.

“This is acceptable,” he said out loud. Ser Hugh snorted, just loud enough for him to hear some derision in it. Nothing he could prove, though. Not when Bush still lurked outside, watching for any mistake he might make. Ser Harys bowed respectfully enough and turned on his heel, marching stiffly through the door.

“Send in Jenkin,” he commanded. The next on his list of men to be rid of stepped in, his weaselly features sulky, unwilling to meet his eye as he bowed.

“Your Grace,” he murmured. The tone was polite enough at least, but he could still see the resentment in the way the man stood. Every so often, his eyes would find Ser Hugh, where he stood at his back. That annoyed him a little. Too many saw Hugh as the true leader of the Watch and himself as nothing but a figurehead playing at politics and court games.

“Watchman Jenkin,” he began, keeping his tone steady and stern. “You stand accused of theft and abuse of your position.”

“I never!” he cried. “Ser, tell ‘im, I never stole nothing in my life!”

“You deny these accusations?” he asked, not giving Hugh the chance to step in.

“I do,” the man said proudly. “I never stole.”

“I have received reports that you have taken fruit and other goods from market stalls without providing coin in return, and offering no promises to pay in the future,” he informed the man. Another desperate look at Hugh.

“He gave it to me,” he said a moment later, looking almost confused.

“You don’t deny receiving the fruit and not paying for it?” he asked.

“Ser!” Jenkin cried again. “Ser, he gave it to me, I swear!”

“I can attest to the fact gifts are sometimes given to men in the markets,” Hugh cut in.

Given so that they do their jobs and watch over the stalls, you mean? An odd thing, that stalls that do not engage in this practise receive no such protection.

“So you admit to receiving a bribe?” he asked. Jenkin’s mouth dropped open and he felt the disapproval from Hugh without having to turn and look at his face.

“Ser?” he asked. He was beginning to suspect this man was not very clever.

“You are dismissed from your post, Jenkin.” The man looked bewildered.

“He never asked me to pay,” he whined. He was whining to Hugh though, as if he expected Hugh to step in.

“Jenkin.” The bastard’s tone held warning.

“I’d ‘ave paid him if he asked,” he continued. “He never did, Ser!”

“The Prince has made his decision, Jenkin.” Ser Hugh said. “Leave.”

He did, looking puzzled still. Leaving him alone with Ser Hugh, the Crownlands bastard radiating disapproval. He squashed the guilt he felt. Ser Harys was what passed for a good man in the Watch, and Jenkin had clearly not been all there.

“Speak, Ser Hugh.” The man may yet let his anger lead him into a trap with which to remove him from the Watch. The man moved around to the front of the desk, a scowl etched into his scarred features.

Let’s see how far he is willing to go.

Daemon had opined that it would not be long before the man made some move. Lord Justin thought differently, he had stated that it would take more than dismissals to move Ser Hugh to anything untoward. The man, according to the Hand, was rigid and unyielding.

“Nine and twenty men you have dismissed from our ranks in little over a moon,” Ser Hugh said finally.

“Nine and twenty men who fell far short of the expectations laid upon them by the oath they swore.” At his words, Ser Hugh’s scowl deepened.

“Nine and twenty men that stood between His Grace the King and the same rabble that saw King Aenys flee the city.” Those words brought anger to his breast, his fists clenched tight until his hands ached with the force of it. He let it seep into his gaze, let Ser Hugh see how furious this had made him.

“My uncle has no need of liars, thieves and cravens to guard his back,” he spat at his second.

“My apologies,” Ser Hugh replied quickly.

“Save them. If my uncle ever heard you imply as such, he would kill you where you stood.” On a bad day at least, when his blood was up and pain raged inside his head, but Hugh did not protest the assertion.

“Your Grace,” he said, through gritted teeth.

I wonder if I can provoke him further, yet.

“I do acknowledge your point, however,” he began, as if it were no great thing. “As such, I have secured two and thirty men to take the oath of the Watch before this moon ends.”

There was a silence as Ser Hugh thought over those words. Then he understood, his scowl becoming a look of stormy fury as the implication became clear. These men would be Viserys’, and no one else's. Not Hugh’s, nor Tyanna’s, to command.

“Knights, too. Good men who know where their loyalties lie.” That was unnecessary, perhaps. The man turned and stormed out, fury radiating from him as the door slammed shut behind him.

Tyanna will know soon, then. Good, we are well-positioned to handle her response.

He let out a long breath, let himself relax a little. Owen Bush might force his way in sooner rather than later, but he had some small amount of privacy now. The anger at the mention of his father… Hugh had been right, so why did it sting then? They had gotten into the old manse itself. Yet he had been planning to flee long before that. Tears stung his eyes, but he refused to let them fall. He had wept for his father, but he was no longer certain that Aenys had deserved that devotion. He swallowed, the action suddenly painful as pressure built behind his eyes.

The knock at his door banished the grim thoughts. He assured himself of the location of his blade, for he was not so arrogant to assume that just because Tyanna had not heard of his purge, she was not already prepared to strike at him, and called for his visitor to enter.

Gods, is that…?

It seemed an age ago that he had last seen that man who stood before him now. Dark eyes and dark hair, a smile that made him want to shudder in recollection. How many times had he seen that smile directed nervously at Amos as they’d moved in to beat him?

“Your Grace,” the squire said, dropping to one knee and bowing his head low. “Ser Benjen Coldwater, at your service.”

“You were knighted.” His voice was raspy and he swallowed painfully again.

“Yes, Your Grace,” he replied. “After we were dismissed from His Grace’s service.”

“After what I did to Amos.” The words were bitter on his tongue. The man glanced up, surprise on his face. Then his head dropped again.

“Yes, Your Grace,” he mumbled. “I can only beg your apologies for my part in that.”

“You beat me. Three against one, it was never a fair fight. When I lost, you beat me.” The man was practically grovelling now. He felt like that child again, quite suddenly. When he stood, the knight flinched. Guilt touched him then.

“But you warned me about Amos’ plan,” he added. “Thank you, Ser Benjen.”

“Your Grace?” The knight’s tone was puzzled, as if he had not expected it. He held out a hand, and Benjen stared at it for a moment, before smiling and accepting it in order to pull himself back onto his feet. “Thank you.”

Some tension eased then, and he was immensely glad for it.

“What brings you to the Watch, Ser Benjen?” he asked, for lack of anything else to say.

I can hardly fondly reminisce over the beatings he gave me.

“Yourself, Your Grace,” Ser Benjen answered. “That is… I wish to pledge my sword to your new Watch.”

“You do?” It was hard to keep the surprise from his voice, but he just managed it.

“After being dismissed, my father ensured I was knighted, but there is little call for a disgraced former squire of the King, Your Grace.” His features showed bitterness at that. Some guilt stirred in him then, it had been this man’s warning that had saved him a vicious beating. He had taken the warning and turned it upon Amos in turn, and Benjen had suffered for it. Suffered because Maegor wished to dispense a lesson.

“We have room for men willing to serve loyally. Men who are willing to conduct themselves with integrity and kindness.” The knight actually grinned at those words, falling to his knee once more.

“Thank you, Your Grace.” Benjen’svoice sounded almost ragged with relief. He smiled.

At least I have done some good then.

Chapter Text

He had been discussing the details of the Watch with Benjen when a runner had arrived, raising a commotion over a murder. He had been ready to dismiss it. In Fleabottom, he’d come to understand, murders were a star for six. Yet Hugh had reacted as if the killer had struck within the Red Keep itself, and that had been his first hint that this was no ordinary murder.

The second was the crowd, small now but rapidly swelling in size, and the anger that filled the air. The angry muttering of those that made it up interspersed with the shouts for justice and the death of whoever had become their focus.

They parted for him, but his presence did not dampen the fury and shock. His men had closed ranks - for now, shielding the body from their sights. Should the crowd continue to grow, soon they would be holding back a mob.

He quashed the unease that thought brought him, tried to ignore the memory it summoned, as his men parted to allow him through, and tried to focus on the scene before him.

Gods, was that a woman once?

Bile surged to his throat and he barely kept his stomach. Benjen was not so lucky and the nearby men snorted as he staggered over to the gutter and spilled his stomach into it. The body had been torn at, stabbed and ripped. Attention had been paid to what had been the woman’s face. Had been. Blood splashed over the cobbles, cool and congealing in the evening air.

“This was done in broad daylight,” he said with a choked voice as he looked. Nearby, a watchman nodded.

“Aye, my prince,” he said gravely. “He is bold. Used to be he struck at night, but no whore that wants to live long plys her trade after dark now.”

“How many has he killed?” he asked, unable to take his eyes from the body, the silent horror making him want to look away, yet unable to.

“This makes his fifteenth, my prince.”

Fifteen women killed in this brutal manner, and I was not told of it until he slew his next body. Would Hugh have alerted me had I not insisted on coming?

“We got him, though,” the man said. “Got nabbed rummaging through her dress. Fuckin’ disgusting.”

“Take me to him.” It was a command. The man hesitated for a moment, then gestured for him to follow. He left Benjen still heaving over the gutter and marched stiffly into the alley, where even more of the Watch stood guard.

A sickening thud was what first greeted him. To his shame, he flinched, memories recalling the sound Amos’ face had made...

“It weren’t me, I swear!” A man in what was closer to rags than clothes wailed from the ground. His face was split and bleeding. He forced himself to look at him, forced thoughts of Amos from his mind.

“Yet my men found you playing with the body?” he asked, his tone like ice, mind unwilling to contemplate what that truly meant.

“Not playing, please ser, not playing,” he wailed. “I was robbin’. She always did good trade and I ain’t had a good meal-”

His previous interrogator, a serjeant by his uniform, dealt him a swift kick, cutting his desperate excuses off. He forced his hands to unclench, to let out a slow breath. If he could get this right, if he could stop these murders…

“He’s lying,” snapped a second watchman. “I was here when we grabbed him. The body was still warm.”

This is Maegor’s Watch. They already disbelieve him. I am no better than Tyanna if I allow this.

“Let us say I believe you,” he began slowly to the angry looks of the men in the alley with him. He would have to be delicate in how he handled this. “The corpse was still warm. You must have seen something.”

The man did not speak, settling for whimpering. Two of the men moved in to deliver another vicious kick and he wailed once more, rolling over to protect himself.

Keep calm. Keep calm. I have to get this right… that mob…

He swallowed the fear and memories of another mob before holding his hand up. The three men surrounding the wailing man froze, glancing at one another warily, clearly wondering what his disposition might be like.

“Get him upright,” he ordered. A moment, then they obeyed, hauling the man to his feet as he flinched at their grasp and wheezed, tears and blood running over his face. It took two of them to hold him, settling for keeping him on his knees rather than his feet, as the man seemed unwilling or incapable of standing.

“Please, ser,” the captive whispered. “I saw nothing. I saw nothing.”

Ignore the blood. Ignore the beating. Ignore…

“Either you killed her, or you found her close enough to see something. Which is it?” His voice was ragged when he spoke and he prayed those around him would consider it anger rather than disgust.

“I saw nothing!” he wailed, almost slumping down once more if not for the hands holding him.

“Holding your tongue will avail you little,” he snapped. “Speak! Or would you have me take you to the Black Cells and have her loosen your tongue?”

The threat made his tongue feel like lead. In the grasp of his captors, the man went sheet white, visible even behind the marks the watchman had left upon him.

“My prince, the crowd is getting worse.” He forced himself not to jump, for he hadn’t known Benjen was coming. “We must away before long, lest they turn to violence.

“Prince,” whispered the man. Perhaps it had not been the crowd he feared, then.

“Yes, Prince Viserys,” he told him. He let the lesson he had learned at Maegor’s knee guide him. He let his face show disgust and rage, let his hand rest on the blade he carried, let his whole body scream the threat he posed. The man whimpered again.

“I didn’t… I didn’t see… it weren’t… I…” This time when he slumped, the watchmen were forced to let him go. He grimaced as the man’s head struck the pavement and guilt clawed at his throat.

Fear will not help me here.

The realisation struck him and he took another deep breath. Another route, then. Tyanna had tried kindness before violence, tried loyalty before cowing him with fear. Ignoring the rising calls for justice, he lowered himself down closer to the whimpering heap.

He ignored the imagined disgust. He could understand it. It felt wrong. This is what his father would have done, begged and pleaded instead of-

No, I can not think that here. Not now.

Yet it still felt wrong in his breast.

“I believe you,” he finally settled for saying, forcing his tone to be gentle. The words tasted like bile. “I do. You are a thief, not a murderer.”

His words provoked a gasp - nothing so paltry as relief - relief was too small a word for the emotion it contained.

“Tell me what you saw,” he continued in that forced, gentle tone. “Anything that can prove your innocence. People are scared. Angry. They want to see something done. You can make that happen.”

Snivelling, the man pushed himself up, choking on his own sobs again before their gazes met. He forced himself to hold those eyes, to not look away from the state he was in.

“I saw a man!” he mumbled. “A man. That’s all. He ran too quickly-”

“A man,” he repeated and the wretch nodded. “What was he wearing? In which direction did he run?”

“I don’t… I didn’t see. Please, y’Grace, please. It weren’t-” His pleas were cut short by his renewed sobbing.

“Likely only had eyes for her purse.” Someone, he was not sure who, murmured. Someone else spat in disgust at the words.

Right, as like as not, but… this man is no killer. A wretch, perhaps.

“Please, good sir,” he murmured again, finding it easier to take a gentle tone now. “Help me.”

With some difficulty, the man pulled himself against the wall of the alley, learning against it and turning red-rimmed eyes to him.

“He threw something,” the man finally admitted. “He threw something into the gutters when he ran at the turning… Please, I just wanted some food.”

Guilt struck him then. He forced himself to focus on the man’s gaunt and dirtied features. A desperate man indeed, to try and steal a dead whore’s purse. He let out a slow breath and pushed himself back to his feet.

“You heard him. Go.” He was proud of his tone, full of steel and not marred by exertion as he stood once more.

“He could have put the knife there himself,” Benjen mumbled. A quick glance around told him his men agreed - something bordering on outright dissension, and he wanted to curse at the sight of the averted gazes.

“He wanted a purse,” he snapped. “The murderer has killed before. He will kill again. Does this look like a man capable of such acts?”

At his tone, Benjen nodded, half bowing before turning his attention to the man still leaning against the alley wall. He was peering up at them now, a look of misery on his face.

“I understand,” Benjen finally said, and something relaxed. “What do we do with him?”

He closed his eyes for a moment, the din of the crowd had reached almost a roar. They called for blood and justice. They were afraid. This was not the mob of his childhood fears, but it would tear a man apart just the same.

“Chain him,” he commanded. “He is still a thief.”

It was the right thing to say. He knew it the moment Benjen relaxed truly and gave him a relieved smile. The remaining men in the alley hastened to his command and he turned away, unable to look.

“Move quickly,” a man in serjeant uniform commanded. “Don’t incite the mob. Here, throw this sack over him.”

“So there is someone thinking in this mess,” Benjen remarked sourly as they made for the exit of the alley. “Father forgive me, but I hope he lied about the knife.”

Yet there was no such lie. Even as he stood in the sunlight, letting his eyes adjust from relative gloom, one of his men approached. A dagger, soaked in crimson blood. Benjen let out an impressed sound.

“Father above,” he heard one of his men whisper.

“What kind of fool points us to the weapon he used,” sneered another.

“I doubt it’s his,” Benjen pointed out, his tone verging on biting. Good, he had him convinced now. “That’s a good knife, made by a good blacksmith. Looks like castle forged steel. He’d have sold it for food long before he took to murdering women with it.”

Benjen fell silent when he held out his hand for the knife, before lifting it into the light. Benjen had been right, it was a good knife. The beggar had been telling the truth, at least. Using his father’s lessons had worked. Whilst he would spare no kindness for this murderer, he had not made a mistake in extending some kindness to the wretch.

“Ensure our new prisoner is fed and clothed,” he murmured, tilting the blade, eyes searching for the maker’s mark that had to be there somewhere. He might not know these streets as well as he wished, but he knew weapons. Maegor had seen to that.

It seems I have plenty of lessons to call upon today.

“Shame to lose a good knife like that,” Benjen observed. “Our murderer will be feeling its loss.”

“We’ll return it to its true owner soon enough,” he swore. Perhaps uncle Daemon would know of a man able to identify the make…

Yet he could not focus entirely on thoughts of his uncle, for as soon as the man was dragged from the alley, barely able to stand, the crowd seemed to swell, pushing forward against the line the Watch had formed to keep them away from the body. He took a deep breath, let them see him, his hand on his blade, and let them understand what his presence meant.

The crowd seemed to falter. It was no less of roar, it did little to dim the screams and yells - but its forward charge stopped. Uncertainty, fear - he could see it on their faces.

They’re still afraid, though. The only thing that will calm their fear is the end of the murders for good.

“S’pose that should’ve been our hint,” said the watchman that discovered the knife glumly. “He’s never stolen from them before, and the fifth one had near a gold dragon on her.”

“A fine knife, able to ignore their takings…” he mused. At his words, Benjen gave him a rueful smile.

“Sounds to me like he’s no native to Fleabottom,” Benjen concluded. So they were of the same mind.

“A noble,” asked a watchman. “Don’t much like the sound of that, uh, no offence meant mi’lords… y’Grace.”

“Regardless, he will be brought to the King’s Justice,” he said, not quite able to suppress the worry that had begun at his breast. He had no fear of Maegor disallowing him from hanging whoever this murderer turned out to be, but Tyanna?

If she thought it would harm me, she would do it in an instant.

Chapter Text

“I must say, when you called on me this morning, I did not expect it to concern whores.” He gritted his teeth at Tyler’s amused tones. Snapping at Tyler would be noticed by the armoured group that trailed him, Velaryon men all and Ser Symond Crayne, and he had to maintain the appearance of control.

“You seemed to be the best to ask,” he retorted. Tyler let out a bark of amused laughter.

“I’m hardly the greatest patron in the whole of King’s Landing, but I grant I am more than passingly familiar with them.” It was the constant amusement, he realised, that drove him to rage around Ser Tyler Hill. The fact that everything he said seemed a jape - and the uncertainty of just whom it was mocking. “Though I admit, I prefer Silk to any houses plying their trade here. Less of a bloody business, for one.”

He ignored the jab at the dead women. Whores or not, mocking their death seemed in poor taste.

“I’ve heard that name everywhere,” he grumbled, pulling the conversation away before Tyler could mock the dead further. “Silk.”

“Not visited yet? You must be the last man in King’s Landing that has not!” Tyler laughed. “I suppose if I were married to Princess Rhaena, I would not be keen on brothels either.”

“Silk,” he repeated. Tyler gave him a smug smile.

“It’s a brothel, as previously stated. Decadent and well-worth the small fortune they charge. It’s run by a Lysene madam to Lysene standards, minus the slavery, of course. Virtually unique in all of King’s Landing, but I suppose they have mastered the craft over there.” The joking demeanour had faded into a fond smile. “It’s caused all kinds of upset amongst the rest of King’s Landing’s - ah - women of the night.”

“It’s running them out of business,” he realised.

“Oh no! I doubt one ever could in that profession. No, it’s gentlemen like myself. Those with gold and a will to spend it on good company.” It made sense, even if he wished it would not. “Smaller houses like the one your girl patronised are suddenly doing a lot less trade with nobles. I’m told Madam Marra’s men had to deter more than a few vandals and ne’er-do-wells.”

A thrilling tale of back alley squabbling every man in Maegor’s court will pretend no knowledge of.

“The murder hasn’t helped,” Tyler continued, heedless of his silence. He gestured at the gathering gloom. Still light enough to see, but it would not stay that way for much longer. “They’ve had to close and open at odd hours for their business. Before your murderer began his bloody business, this would be their quietest hour. Now, this is their busiest, so that their girls will be away before dark truly sets in. It’s bleeding them dry, if you’ll excuse the unfortunate turn of phrase.”

He actually sounds like he cares…

“I suppose we must remain lucky your… friend commiserated over her death within your earshot,” he finally settled for saying.

“Not so lucky,” Tyler replied easily. “They have men to guard them at Silk. In the cold dark of the streets, not so. They’re all afraid.”

“Nevertheless, I extend my gratitude for the information.” He paused, eyeing the empty streets. At least the tension here was not born from his uncle’s actions, but something he could strike at. “As well as the guidance.”

Tyler smiled at his belated addition, but did not answer. He was thankful for that, the jabs and japes had become intolerable. Rhaena would not appreciate him snapping and snarling at an ally, even one who felt as unreliable as Tyler did. Once again, he reminded himself that Tyler had been burned by dragonfire and retained enough sanity to lead his men from the battlefield. Instead of letting them panic and scatter, he’d pulled them close and saved them.

“Ah, I do believe we have arrived. According to my friend, as you so delicately put it, your murdered lady worked here.”

“My thanks once again.” He meant it. Tyler hesitated for a moment, then gave him what seemed to be a genuine smile.

“I have no love for cowards such as this man. An honourless craven. It may seem crass, especially given my one time fate, but I do hope he meets our Queen before he dies.” There was the Tyler Hill who had led armies. Then the moment faded and he gave one last mocking bow before striding off.

“An odd man,” Ser Symond observed once Tyler was out of sight. Privately, he warred with himself. He still did not know the man Tyler was. He doubted even Rhaena did, and she had known him for far longer.

“Indeed,” he settled for saying. “I want a man on the door. The rest will follow me inside. I will brook no violence or threats in this place. These people are scared, let us reassure them rather than further their fear.”

At least I know these men will obey my orders alone. Had I taken Hugh’s men, I fear there would be violence before the end.

“Question the women,” he continued, refusing to let that thought show on his face. “About the murdered woman and about any nobles that still patronise houses in the area. Make no threats of the law, it will only serve to put them on their guard against us.”

There was a murmur of agreement. Symond held him back as he turned, the iron grip on his shoulder remaining until two of his men had entered before releasing him. Symond’s features were serious, putting him in mind of the moments before he had mounted Vhagar, before Daemon’s fleet had finally cornered some petty pirate king. He turned his back on him and followed his men in.

He found an atmosphere on a knife’s edge. His men, slowly filing in, had obviously been noticed. Now the patrons only waited to see whether this was a raid, or a shake down. Yet this was not Maegor’s Watch, not anymore. He stepped forward and attention was immediately fixed upon him.

“Forgive us our intrusion,” he began. “But there has been a murder, and I have a duty to see the murderer hang for his crimes.”

Some tension faded then, murmuring broke out and anticipation became cautious interest.

“I’m told the most recent woman, known as Larra, worked here-” His voice faltered as a woman stepped out of the crowd. She was older, hair streaked with grey and a face that spoke of a life hard lived.

“Oh aye, that she did,” the woman told him. There was grief in her voice. “I warned her, I did. But she had kids- needed the coin. Too hard-headed was Larra.”

His heart lurched in his chest. Children?

“I would speak with you, madam, if you would allow.” She watched him for a moment, eyes suspicious, before nodding. “Might my men question your ladies?”

“I don’t want no trouble-” He waved her sudden worry away.

“This murder is my only concern.” At his firm tone, the woman hesitated again. Sudden anger boiled in him.

So many murders. So many dead. All she cares for is gold?

Yet he felt unkind the moment he thought it. Loyalty before fear-

But give them something to fear if they are not loyal.

“I care little for your business, good lady, but I care a lot about the animal that tore a woman to pieces.” She flinched, grief returning to her features, before she nodded. The last of the tension faded, replaced now with a feeling of being out of place. As if neither his men nor the patrons and ladies of the club knew just what to do next. He stepped forward, his men moving forward with him.

The madam watched him with apprehensive eyes as she navigated around the tables and threadbare couches into a small alcove. She dropped onto the bench within it, looking suddenly older than she had mere moments before. He met Symond’s eyes before pulling across the curtain. Silence reigned for a long time before the woman heaved a sigh and peered up at him.

“Not sure what I can tell you,” she finally admitted. “She worked here, always had done. I’ve took a lot of new ones with all this going on, but she, she was one of my oldest.”

“Would she have been here when you still served noble patrons?” The woman nodded.

A former patron might explain the killing, yet this man killed fifteen others. Even if he struck without any care for who his victims were, he must have scouted his prey.

“Did any bear her a grudge?” he asked. “Had any new clients seen her?”

“I… I am ashamed, ser, for I know not. So many to see to, and she knew all she needed to. I left her with a few girls to train.”

He swallowed the annoyance that brought. How could this woman know so little? A woman she had known for years!?

“Are there any she was close to?” he asked finally.

“Yes, yes,” the woman said, rising to her feet, if a little unsteadily. “I will fetch her for you, ser.”

“My thanks,” he replied, the frustration bubbling just under his skin fading a little. He forced himself to focus. “Good woman?”

She paused in the act of drawing the curtain aside.

“You said she had children?” At his words, she smiled and nodded sadly.

“Aye,” she confirmed softly. He fumbled for his purse, producing a handful of silver and copper coins. At the sight of them, the woman’s eyes went round.

“It is no great sum and far too late, but I would be obliged if you were to ensure this reaches them, along with the well wishes of Prince Viserys.” She choked then and he realised she had not truly realised who he was until that moment. With shaking hands, and wide eyes she could not seem to tear from his face, she took the coins he proffered.

Loyalty and kindness before fear and force, he reminded himself once more.

“Your Grace-” she whispered finally before straightening, her face still pale. She whirled on the spot and hurried off.

“Was it wise to give her half your purse? She’ll steal it, as like as not,” Symond drawled a moment later.

“My name will see it to where it needs to be, and the more she talks-” He trailed off and Symond made a small sound of understanding. He let the moment drag on, resting his weight against the wall and closing his eyes, as sound slowly returned to normal levels. The nervous laughter of those not quite at ease yet, the murmured questions of his men-

“You have something to say,” he murmured. Beside him, Symond stiffened.

“I cast no judgement,” he replied quickly.

“Are we not companions, Symond? Have we not fought side by side?” At his words, Symond sighed heavily.

“I worry about His Grace’s views on playing the commons.” The words brought back that anger and he forced himself to take a deep breath.

“My uncle has given me leave to do as I see fit,” he said slowly.

“I understand, Your Grace,” Symond replied quickly. He pushed himself away from the wall, suddenly filled with restless energy. How long had the woman been gone?

Too long.

Symond fell in behind him as he made to follow her. Thankfully, it did not take long to locate her and his churning mind was saved from making him even angrier.

“…made nary a groat tonight, and you want me to deal with the Watch and let Hazel take my man?”

“The prince, Lily,” the woman was pleading. “He wants to know about Larra.”

“So he can make it all her fault like they did with the last lot?” Lily sneered.

“So we can catch a murderer, good lady.” The words left him before he could stop himself and contained more than a little of the frustration he was feeling. At his tone, the madam flinched away, as if she expected him to draw his sword and strike her or Lily. For her part, Lily gave her employer a look he could not decipher before turning back to him. He felt his mouth go dry, although he was not sure why. Certainly, she did not intimidate him. Not that much older than himself, slender and pretty with nut brown hair and darker eyes. Eyes that met his own without a shred of fear. Curiosity stirred in his breast, and he offered her what he hoped was a polite smile.

“Your Grace,” she said, before bowing low.

“My lady,” he replied. “I apologise for my tone. I assure you I only wish to put an end to these murders.”

She gave the older woman a wary look before her gaze returned to him, something rueful in it. The older woman, whose name he had not thought to ask, beat a hasty retreat, leaving them alone but for Ser Symond.

“If it is coin you require-” He fumbled for his purse before belatedly remembering that he had given the silver and copper coins away not long before. Feeling foolish, he offered her a gold dragon. “I only wish for a few moments of your time.”

At the sight of the coin in his hand, her eyes lit up.

“For that, you can have me for the night.” The tone put him in mind of a cat, smug and purring after catching a luckless bird.

Does that make me the bird, then?

“Did she…ah, did she have any noble patrons?” At the question, the girl’s eyebrows rose.

“Noble?” she echoed. “Not the bastard you nabbed over her body?”

“A thief, good lady,” he told her. She snorted.

“Enough with the ‘good lady’. Lily will do me good enough.”

“Lily it is, then,” he replied and offered her another smile. One she returned.

“As for nobles…” she trailed off, long fingers rising to tap the pale skin of her chin. “There aren’t many these days. They stick out. Nah, I don’t reckon she saw one, but we’ve ‘ad a few in.”

“Are they regulars?” he asked.

“Oh aye, two were. They’ve got girls they like, you know how it is.” She paused in her musings to direct a thoughtful glance at him, and he prayed he was not blushing at her more than frank explanations. “Oh Mother’s sodding arse cheeks, there was one she saw!”

He could not even bring himself to blush at her cursing as she straightened up and sent wild hope coursing through his veins.

“Yeah, yeah, I wrote him off because he came around here like a lovestruck fool!” she exclaimed. “Merrel! MERREL!”

At her shout, the older woman appeared again, a cracked cup held in one hand. He winced at the smell, evidently the good lady had needed a drink or two to settle her nerves.

“Do not shout so, girl!” Merrel chastised her. “What are you raising such a racket for in front of the prince?”

Three drinks, perhaps, judging from how she is swaying.

“Larra’s moony lord?” Lily asked her. “Who was he?”

“Seven hells,” mumbled Merrel a moment later, her eyes flickering to him before she took another gulp from the cup. “Some Reacher knight. Not after her, though, just came in ranting about the Seven. I had Tom kick him out.”

“Would you recognise this lord again?” he asked, feeling almost dizzy with relief.

“Oh aye,” said Merrel. “I reckon I could.”

“That is excellent news, good lady.” At his words, Lily snorted in amusement again.

“Ask her again when she’s sober,” she muttered a moment later. “She’s gone in the wind, she ‘as.”

“Thank you both for your aid,” he told them, ignoring Lily’s comments.

“Just get the bastard’s head on the walls,” Lily told him. A moment later, she thrust out her hand, the gold dragon gleaming in her palm. “Take this back. It wouldn’t be right, charging for ‘elp.”

“I couldn’t,” he replied, moving his hands back from her outstretched one. “Consider it payment for disrupting your evening.”

He saw emotions war on her face for a moment before she finally gave in with a sigh.

“Too damn noble,” she told him. “Someone’s gonna fleece you good if you ain’t careful.”

Behind him, he heard Symond’s intake of breath. He ignored it, favouring Lily with a smile.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he told her.

“Well, I won’t be the one to do it. I owe you a night, Your Grace. Whenever you should desire.” There was that purr again. He wanted to clear his throat, quite suddenly. Yet even that could not distract him from his victory. A noble lord yelling at a woman days before she was murdered? That bore investigating.

And if I can prove he owns the knife? All the better.

Chapter Text

The knock on the door awoke him before the light of dawn. He came awake fast, his hand finding the hilt of the knife by his bedside, before his eyes adjusted and he realised there was no intruder. He was alone. Rhaena would be with the twins, perhaps Elissa had joined her the previous night to attend to her.

Sighing, he rose from his bed, keeping the knife close as the knock sounded once more. As silently as he could, he turned the key he had left in the lock of his door and stepped back once again.

“Enter!” he called, ready to face whoever had chosen to intrude upon his morning.

The man who entered was dressed in black and red livery and greeted him with a respectful bow. He wore no weapons that he could see and the face was not familiar to him. Beyond the man, the rest of his rooms appeared untouched with no sign that this man had struggled with the guard outside the rooms he shared with Rhaena.

“Your Grace,” the man mumbled as he rose. “Her Grace, the Queen, sends me.”

That made him feel as if he had been doused in ice water.

What could she want with me? What game does she play now?

“Speak your message quickly, then.” He tried not to feel guilt at the way the man flinched at his harsh tone. If he was Tyanna’s creature then he would know well to fear the anger of a royal. At least Ceryse was only likely to have her servants whipped when her wrath was stirred, death and worse awaited when Maegor and Tyanna were angered. What did they say about him? What did they fear he might do?

“Her Grace sends to you the list of those that have engaged in treacherous actions against His Grace, King Maegor,” the man began and now he froze. His breath froze in his lungs until he felt almost dizzy. He had not believed… but of course she would. “She has requested they be arrested and entrusted into her custody as soon as action is able to be taken.”

Heedless of the effect the man’s words were having on him, the man presented him with a tightly bound scroll, sealed with wax and his uncle’s seal. He took it, hoping the man would not see how gingerly he held it. It was heavier than it had any right to be.

How many names has she given me? How many does she wish for her cells?

He moved past the messenger, turning his back on him and feeling it prickle with unease as he did so, and dropped the scroll upon the large table that he, Rhaena and the children used to break their fasts upon. Then he turned back to meet apprehensive eyes, even if their owner was trying his damnedest to appear calm.

“Thank you, good sir, you may tell the Queen that I shall give the matter my full attention,” he replied, proud at how unconcerned he sounded. No doubt it would be relayed back to her. Would it infuriate her? He had to be careful, so why did he feel so giddy at the thought of her frustration? No, he would have to control himself. He was so close to having the Watch obey him and him alone, he could not risk her turning Maegor now.

Yet as the messenger bowed and all but fled his rooms, he could not wonder if that was the point of today. He dropped himself into his usual chair and studied the scroll. Did she know he would be split by his duty and his conscience? Did she wish to bait him into defying her? Did she wish to use it to pry the Watch from him once more?

With a heavy heart, and hands that felt like lead, he retrieved his knife, ran the flat of the blade under the wax and unsealed the scroll. The parchment unravelled, spreading across the desk and his heart stuttered in his chest. Names upon names, those of women and men, noble and smallfolk alike. No crime next to their name, just the expectation that they should die based on her word alone. Had Maegor even seen this? Or had she affixed his seal to it and kept his uncle blind to what was ordered in his name?

No, he was even more certain now, this was a test.

I will need to be careful here. Will Maegor back me if I refuse? I know not…

No, he would have to wait for Rhaena and Daemon at the very least. A quick decision, made before dawn without those who similarly staked their lives upon his victory, would win him no friends - especially if he should make the wrong choice. Yet as he sat in the half gloom, as darkness gave way to grey, he could help but wonder if he had any choice but to refuse.

He had worked too hard to banish her men, he had worked too hard to forge some connection with the people of King’s Landing - perhaps it would not stop a riot, but that seed may grow into a tree one day. Bending to Tyanna’s whims now would see the ground he had planted it in become poison, and what trust he hoped for in the future strangled in its grave.

A bump pulled him from his thoughts and his hand found the hilt of his dagger once more. He waited in the silence, his blood singing and his heart pounding, until he heard the creak of a door and small footsteps echo until they were muffled by a rug. Alertness left him then and he smiled as a small figure appeared. Steadier than her sister by far, young Rhaella froze when she saw him. Her face went from shock and surprise to horror, then she cast her gaze to her feet and sniffled, knowing she was caught.

He rose and went to her, dropping to his knee, and placing a finger beneath her chin.

“Come now,” he told her gently. “You are in no trouble.”

“Mama will be angry,” she sniffled. He bit back the smile at that. She would, for she would wake with only one child in her bed, and although her worry would fade when she found her, it would give way to annoyance that Rhaella had left.

“Well, we shall let mama be angry at me, then, shall we?” At his words, her sniffles faded and she smiled. “Were you heading for the nursery?”

“I wanted my dolls,” she whispered. He did smile then and she returned it, sensing she had gotten out of trouble this morning, at least. “Why are you awake, uncle?”

“Some scallywag awoke me with a letter,” he told her and she laughed.

“Get mama to tell them off,” she ordered and he found himself laughing, feeling light, as if the worries of earlier were gone, even as she fixed him with an imperious look she might have copied from Rhaena for how close of a match it was.

“I am not brave enough to wake your mama when she is asleep. Come, show me your dolls.”

The Father knows that even when my pranks were at their worst I only made the mistake of waking her in the early morning once.

He smiled again at the memory of her fury and how she’d chased him through their rooms, the way mother had scolded them both for raising so much noise…He lowered himself into Rhaena’s normal seat as Rhaella let out a shout of joy and began ransacking her chest of toys. Smiling at the sounds of her joy, he let his eyes drift close.

Only to open them to morning light streaming in and Rhaena’s bemused features. Behind her, Rhaella has drawn a tired looking Aerea into her game and they were making some effort to be quiet.

“Apparently you had a letter,” Rhaena asked gently. “Anything I should be aware of?

The reminder made him sit up straight and her bemused expression became grim.

“Ah,” she breathed a moment later. “Let me have a maid watch them, and then we shall break our fast and speak of it.”

“Thank you.” It was all he could say as his thoughts returned to their earlier speculation with renewed vigour and force. He rose from the chair and grimaced as his body ached. Rhaena huffed a laugh at his discomfort, but it sounded as distracted as he was now and he stretched the stiffness from his legs and arms. He left her giving instructions to the girls’ nursemaids and ambled towards the table, the paper he had left there surrounded by a rich feast. Platters bearing sausages, boiled eggs, sides of bacon… the smell of warm bread was enough to make his mouth water despite his worry and he spied honey and preserves and steaming hot porridge.

He dropped down before the letter and set it aside, forcing himself to focus on the food. Although he was at least truthful enough to acknowledge he was doing it solely to spite Tyanna once more, whether his seeming unconcern with her letter would get back to her or not.

Rhaena gave him a puzzled look as she took her own seat but then seemed to shrug, and set about dispatching food for the twins. They would no doubt be overjoyed that they could eat and play at the same time, unlike other mornings where Rhaella would be allowed only one doll with her at the table. The food was as good as it smelt, as it had always been within the Red Keep. Even if he was not often in the mood to appreciate the cooks and the kitchens, he could at least acknowledge that Maegor had never tried to starve him.

“Brother, I would know the cause of your dour mood,” Rhaena finally asked. He finished his mouthful and cast a baleful glance at the letter. She followed his gaze with a frown, reaching out and plucking the letter from where he had set it down. Her brow furrowed in puzzlement, only to clear and her features become horrified a moment later.

“Gods be good,” she breathed. “She means to have you take them all?”

He reached for the chilled juice and poured himself some, taking the time to marshal all of the thoughts that lined up to be noticed.

“I can not do it,” he finally admitted and refused to feel shame. “I can not, I will not, send these people to die in her hands.”

Rhaena met his gaze and then gave him a rueful smile.

“’Tis not I that will scold you for it, brother,” she told him, her smile becoming fond. “In truth, it brings me wild joy to hear you cleave to what is right, and not what he has taught you.”

He did not need to ask who she referred to.

But it always comes back to that, doesn’t it? He will kill me if I push too far, but how far is too far changes like the wind.

“Will you support me?” he asked. She reached across and drew him in for an embrace, awkward with only one arm, but he sank into it nonetheless and he could almost pretend that Tyanna and Maegor and all that had befallen them did not lurk outside the doors of their rooms.

“Daemon will as well, I think,” Rhaena mused as she drew back, a thoughtful look replacing the fondness. “He makes no mistake as to the danger of pushing Tyanna, but he is no fool about the power of the mob either. We may need their goodwill one day…”

Then she sighed heavily, letting the letter fall from her hands.

“If only our father had understood that,” she murmured. “Their hatred for their mistreatment runs deep. It seems all my charity wins me is a cessation of hostility rather than goodwill.”

It was as if someone had struck him aside the head and he let his juice clatter to the table, spilling over the side to pool over the darkened wood.

“Then perhaps we do use the list,” he told her. “But not for her, but for us.”

She stared at him for a moment, confused, then smiled slowly as if she were a cat that had just been served a saucer of cream.

“I have the reach,” she told him. “The smallfolk would appreciate the warning.”

“And they would appreciate our work in protecting them.” He was quite sure his smirk would match her own.

I will have to get rid of Hugh now. If I fail to, he will let Tyanna know of my warning and the less she can prove, the more Maegor will doubt her words…

“Take it,” he said finally. “Warn them. My Watch will not move to help Tyanna, and she will be left without real power within the city.”

Chapter Text

“An act of desperation, your grace,” Darklyn told them smoothly. “You’ve done a fine job of stripping her eyes and ears around you. Now she seeks to rouse Maegor against you.”

The Darklyn lord seemed genuinely amused at that. He forced a smile, but he would be lying if he did not feel some relief. He might feel more if he could claim to be the architect of her slow fall from his uncle’s good graces, but the true mastermind stood before him, smiling as if he was a kindly old man. Perhaps he might be able to believe it if the man’s stare was not so intense, not lacking the joy the smile would imply.

He would make no bones about it - Darklyn struck at Tyanna, and he was merely an annoyance, nipping at her heels. An annoyance she kept stopping to attempt to deal with, only to weather more strikes from Darklyn.

“You understand our concern with that issue, Lord Darklyn,” Daemon replied. “I have no desire to lose my head or be strangled as poor Alys Harroway was.”

“If I thought she might succeed I would advise you differently. Both Lord Celtigar and I will speak for you. With yourself, Lord Velaryon, he will have three members of his council telling him this is Tyanna’s issue.

“And will Butterwell and Benifer fall in line?” he asked, cutting off whatever his uncle had been about to retort. He had no desire to be reduced to a second in front of Darklyn. The man reminded him too much of Tyanna for him to allow any weakness.

“Butterwell cares only for his sums. As long as you bring him the Lannisters, he will sing any song you desire.” Darklyn stopped, then his mouth quirked into a smirk. “He knows he will lose his head should Maegor find there is not enough coin for his stables.”

“Benifer will not risk being the lone dissenter?” he asked, although he suspected he knew the truth. Maegor had killed three of Benifer’s fellows. He would avoid his notice, say what was required and make no issue where he did not need to. Evidently, Darklyn was well aware of the pointlessness of his question.

His mind went unbidden to Grand Maester Gawen. The man who had taught him to read and write, who’d taught him his sums with a patient smile. The man who had worried and fretted over his father, grieved his death keenly… a man more loyal to Aegon than he was. A man who’d lost his head for speaking an inconvenient truth in Maegor’s presence. Would Gawen speak for him? Gawen whom his grandfather had trusted to raise the walls that even now stood around King’s Landing - able to shelter it from pirates and armies, but helpless to protect from those already within.

I am brooding. Where is that glee I felt this morning? Let me feel it again, so that I may use it to drown out my fear.

“Although that does remind me of a somewhat pressing matter…” Darklyn drawled and he could not say what made him feel as if he should be on guard, but he felt quite suddenly that he should. Darklyn still wore the pleasant half smile that did not reach his eyes, he had not moved or shifted his posture… “Lannister.”

“Has Ser Tyler given affront?” he asked. Tyler had steered him well in the search for Larra’s killer, but the man seemed too false for him to ever grow comfortable in his presence.

“Does the man ever leave the brothels to do so?” Daemon laughed, but he could tell his uncle was hiding suspicion.

“Affront to none but Butterwell,” he told them. “And not leaving the brothels is the issue. He still has not presented himself to sign his father’s agreement.”

“After we handed over all that coin…” muttered Daemon.

“I will put Rhaena on to him,” he promised. “She will have him dragged here and set right.”

“Your sister-wife is a formidable woman,” Darklyn said in a tone that made him want to shudder.

He opened his mouth to answer, but as if she had been summoned by the mention of her name, the door swung open and his sister stepped inside. He knew from the look on her face that something was wrong - a frown furrowed her brow and her mouth was set into unhappiness. Had Tyanna discovered their attempts to warn those upon the list? Had Darklyn been wrong?

“My princess,” murmured Darklyn a moment later, bowing low. Rhaena paused upon seeing them gathered there, her grim look not lifting.

“Lord Hand,” she replied, her tone even. “I was not aware you were joining us this eve?”

“Alas, I am not,” Darklyn answered. “I merely stopped by to discuss matters of the Watch with His Grace.”

“A shame,” she lied. He knew Darklyn must have seen it, but the man did not even bat an eyelash. Instead he bowed to them once more, made his goodbyes and left as quietly as he had arrived. The door stood open for a moment and then Olyvar Bracken, today’s watcher, closed it with a nod to him, returning to his hallways vigil.

“I detest that man,” Daemon declared in the silence that followed. “If he wasn’t so damnably good at rousing our queen’s fury, I’d have him killed.”

“In normal times I might protest that, uncle,” he told him. Yet he could not stop picturing those intense yet dead eyes.

It’s as if they can bore into your mind and read your thoughts.

“In normal times,” Daemon repeated. Then he turned to Rhaena, who was watching them with that same grim look. “Your warnings may not be needed after all, Rhaena. Darklyn believes Tyanna to be raising trouble with Maegor to little avail.”

“Oh, she is raising trouble, but not for our uncle.” The words were delivered in a dark tone and for the second time today, it was like freezing water doused him.

“Did she-” But Rhaena held up her hand, forestalling his worried words.

“It’s not me she makes a mockery of,” she finally said and he could see now that she was furious. “But you, brother. For the Watch have set themselves to gathering up those upon your list.”

“What!?” At his outburst, she nodded.

How!? How had she done it?

He had removed her men, he had been sure those that remained were loyal… hells, he’d even sent Ser Hugh on his way this day. Now she turned his long awaited victory to ash in his mouth. He stepped away from them, raising his hand to his mouth. He needed to think. He could still fix this if he could only think.

“Lad, calm yourself.” Yet it was Rhaena’s hand on his shoulder that made him stop.

“My own men and women protest your innocence,” she told him gently. “Poor Sam is still there, marshalling our retort.”

“How?” he finally asked, and he hated that his voice sounded as broken as he had when Tyanna had first plucked him from his cell.

“Some trickery, no doubt. Yet…” Daemon paused. “Hold on, were you not there this afternoon? Did you not see them coming and going?”

“No,” he protested. “Perhaps I was too focused on Hugh… how could I have been so foolish!”

“Something seems off here,” Daemon murmured a moment later.

“She used my men-” Then he froze, even as Daemon’s brow furrowed.

But has she?

How many of her men had he stripped from his ranks? Enough to ape his own orders… He recalled, very suddenly, that he had used accusations of theft to strip a fair few. Had Ser Harys told the truth when he professed his innocence of the theft? Had she had hers take what they could…

Had this been her plan all along? To destroy his power here with the same smallfolk he sought to shield? To… If it was possible, he felt frozen in that moment. Dread and horrid realisation.

Mother have mercy… she meant to kill me… A mob, as nearly took my father. Maegor would never look beyond what answer his rage gave him…

“Viserys? Are you well? You’ve gone pale as milk, boy!” Daemon was gripping his shoulders now, concerned eyes that mirrored his own in colour trying desperately to meet his gaze.

“She… she means to kill me…” he mumbled. The shock wearing away now, and he was ashamed to find his hand trembled when he raised it. The world did not seem true… Tyanna had finally decided to remove him…

“How? Viserys?” Daemon stopped then, surrendering him Rhaena’s embrace. He wanted to laugh when she burrowed her face into his shoulder, as if it were him comforting her and not he losing his nerve like that scared boy in the cell once more.

“Damn me,” Daemon finally growled. “That you should see it… so she has you set to go the way of your father, has she?”

And Daemon’s voice made him stop his gibbering and look, for it was like steel, vicious and raw. A quality he had never heard from his uncle before. Rhaena pulled back, but her grip did not leave his arms as she watched him too. Their uncle began to pace, his eyes flat and unfriendly, his lips peeled back into a snarl.

“Damn her, I’ll not give up another nephew,” he snapped. Not at them, for his uncle was not in this room right now, snapping and snarling at someone not even here. “Give me a few days before you venture forth from the Keep, nephew, I shall put an end to her plot now. Rhaena, I will need your men-”

“Anything,” she swore. Then she peered up at him. “We will not let her win now. Strangle this plot in its cradle and send the message clear that we shall not suffer her much longer.”

“I can not hide-” he croaked. It would be another thing she would use against him if she could. A craven would be worse than dead to Maegor. What could he tell his uncle? “No… we will fly tomorrow, Rhaena.”

“And the days after?” she asked.

“I will invite him to train, we…” he hesitated then. “We will bring the twins to him.”

She drew a sharp breath in then and for a moment he thought she would deny him… then she let a slow breath out and nodded.

“Rhaella, I think,” she told them. “He will appreciate her spirit, if we ensure he is in the mood to do so.”

“Should he seek to harm her, I would protect her.”

It would inflame him to be defied, but Gods be good I mean those words.

“It is decided then,” Daemon said a moment later, making him jump. His heart had calmed now and the terror that had seized him in full retreat. Tyanna might wish he were that scared boy she had so effortlessly controlled, but he was not. How could he be with Daemon and Rhaena at his side? With Aerea and Rhaella to protect? His brother had flown in defiance of Maegor and now he would too.

“When you have dealt with Tyanna’s poison, come call upon me,” Daemon continued after a moment. “I believe I know the master that forged your knife. It will be sweet to end her attempts to strike at you, and then have the smallfolk name you their defender in the next breath.”

“She will be even more dangerous soon,” Rhaena murmured. “Will you be safe?”

Daemon gave them all an easy smile as he moved for the door, as if the prospect of the Queen in a fury was a charming afternoon on the lake.

“Worry not for me, niece,” he said gaily. “For my association with you affords me some protection.”

Then his smile faded a little and tilted his head as if some thought had just struck him.

“Although if I should be proved a fool, and a dead one at that, make sure you set Maegor on her for it? I’ll consider myself avenged if he is the one to slay her.”

“You have our word, uncle,” Rhaena told him, a small smile on her face. “But we would prefer you alive and hale.”

“I, too, prefer me alive and hale,” he laughed before sweeping out. Rhaena sighed when he’d gone, slumping against him as if she were exhausted.

“Let us to bed,” he suggested.

“I must see to the twins first,” she replied. Then she hesitated, her eyes searching his face, for what, he did not know. In truth, so did he. If tonight was a parade of revelations, this one brought no horror, at least. He did not feel bitterness at the denial. In fact, it brought a strangled kind of relief. “Sleep well, Viserys.”

“And you, Rhaena.”

Chapter Text

“Since the prince took command of the Watch, Your Grace, the protests surrounding the new site have ended,” Lord Edwell Celtigar reported, bowing his head respectfully. At the news, Maegor’s almost sulky features did not change. No pain today, but a discontentment that had been growing in his uncle for weeks now. A restlessness that made his worse moments ever more dangerous and deadly.

He kept his face blank, pretended he was not painfully aware of every flicker of emotion on his uncle’s face, pretended he did not see the lords of the small council peering at him. Especially not Tyanna, the way her cool look gave little away. Did she already know they knew of her plot? That even now Daemon and Rhaena’s men spread tales of men so resentful of his justice that they’d allied with Tyanna to tarnish it? Somehow, he did not think she could miss such a thing.

Is her cool expression designed to send me into despair, turning it over in my mind until I go mad? Or does she yet have something planned?

The fact that were it to be designed to do so, it had succeeded bit at him. Yet how could it not, when they had yet to find the men who had taken the old uniforms, nor those poor wretches they’d dragged away to whatever fates?

“We can not afford any more delays,” Alton Butterwell informed them and attention swung to him as he looked unhappy with that. “The Lannisters have yet to release their coin-”

“And why not?” demanded Maegor, his fist crashing down onto the table, sending Benifer and Lord Alton jumping in their seats. “Have I not offered them their blasted betrothal!?”

“I- indeed, Your Grace,” Lord Alton mumbled. “But their representative has yet to sign the contract-”

“Who?” growled Maegor. He did not wince at the tone, but he wanted to.

“Ser Tyler Hill, Your Grace,” Tyanna purred, her cool look giving way to the smug satisfaction of having something she could fling at him, like raw meat drawing the gaze of a predator. “Prince Viserys was selected to negotiate, you recall?”

Maegor said nothing at that but turned his gaze to him, annoyance and frustration present. He met his gaze and did not shy from it.

Let him see me cool and confident. One does not run from a predator, it only invites them to chase.

“I have spoken to Ser Tyler this morning. He is ready to sign, he merely needs a time to meet with Lord Alton and my sister to put ink to parchment.” Not quite a lie, Tyler had said as such. Yet he’d said as such the last time Viserys had chased him down and the time before that to. Once he had escaped the jaws of Tyanna’s trap, he would deal with the Lannister knight. Challenge him to spell out what he wanted and why he was delaying the signing.

“Get it done,” his uncle ground out through clenched teeth.

“Yes, Your Grace,” he answered quickly. Maegor held his gaze for a moment, one that seemed to stretch on too long. Then his gaze swung back to Tyanna. The queen offered him a smile and something passed between them then, enough that a shiver passed down his spine. It was significant, he knew, but he did not know how, and that made him more afraid than even the thoughts of the mob she had conspired to unleash upon him.

His head swam for a moment as he tried to keep his breathing steady. Raising his gaze to his other uncle, Daemon shook his head. Barely noticeable, but he understood the message quite clearly.

Keep your head down today, his uncle was saying. He forced himself to keep his polite smile in place as Lord Darklyn spoke up.

“With the death of Joffrey Dogget, what is left of the Warrior’s Sons cower in the court of Rogar Baratheon,” he said, as if he were merely observing the weather. “We put them at less than a hundred knights and hardly their best, either. I would warrant that they will be finished entirely by the year's end. Even Rogar knows when to throw out the bad.”

“Curious, my sources suggest he intends to keep them close.” Tyanna paused then. Had her eyes flickered to him or had he imagined it? “The former queen wants legitimacy for her chosen puppet.”

She is baiting me and I cannot rise to the challenge.

He did not need to, however, because Darklyn was far from done.

“He does not need the Warrior’s Sons for that,” Darklyn sneered. “He has a new ally in Jeyne Poore.”

“A pox ridden peasant from the Wendwater. What threat is she?” sneered Tyanna in turn. So Darklyn intended for today to be a battle between the Queen and himself. Well, he would rather Lord Justin fight than him right now. Daemon had lowered his head into his books, as if whatever was written within might contain the secret to turning metal to gold.

“Threat enough with Rogar’s coin and advisors,” Darklyn replied.

“Of course the woman poses no threat to our king, it is Rogar at her back. She is a mere puppet for the Lord of the Stormlands to threaten the King’s Peace once more,” snapped Edwell Celtigar, his eyes blazing as he glared at Tyanna. “This one has not even the shred of honour that Joffrey Doggett had. She will not respond to our rightful King’s challenges, hiding in the Kingswood and she is not the only-”

“Then I will burn it around her,” Maegor snapped. “Offer pardons and knighthoods for her head - if she has no honour, then those around her will have little either. They will betray her the moment they can.”

“And the others, Your Grace?” asked Darklyn, looking back at the king. “Horys Hill, Ragged Silas, Dennis the Lame?”

“The same for them,” Maegor answered, slowly. “Remind them of my bounty once more. I will teach these fools the same lesson every time they come if I must.”

Darklyn nodded and Tyanna sat back in her chair, smug and satisfied. He noticed Alton wince, dropping his eyes to sheets of parchment that no doubt spelled dire consequences for the treasury. His mind went to King’s Landing once more - to the markets that should be full with people and goods. To those silent, empty streets.

If the rest of the Seven Kingdoms is even half as dire…

“In time the Poor Fellows will learn what the Warrior’s Sons did,” Tyanna purred. “Our king can not be defeated.”

“A shame we could not have learned of these new leaders from the knight our king captured,” Darklyn shot back. He swallowed the instinctive fear at that as her eyes blazed in outrage. “I do hope you will be more gentle with any of Jeyne Poore’s fellows-”

“Enough!” roared Maegor so suddenly that even he jumped then. The great wooden chair toppled backwards, the crack of wood on stone echoing about the chamber as they all fell silent, staring at him as he glared at them all in turn. “I have heard less bickering from children!”

Neither Tyanna nor Darklyn spoke, each eying the other as if offering to cede ground in turn for risking becoming the target of Maegor’s wrath. He turned back to his uncle, watching as he breathed. He was drawing in great gulps of breath as if he had just run half a hundred laps of the yard… he could see it then, the battle frenzy he’d seen that day the Warrior’s Sons had attacked them. The day he’d brought back Joffrey Doggett’s head. The moment stretched on and on and he felt as if his nerves stretched with, inching ever closer to breaking-

Maegor turned from them, stalking away.

“If I may report some better news?” Alton Butterwell managed to squeak after a few moments more.

“Speak,” Maegor barked.

“I’m pleased to report that tariffs from shipping through the Stepstones have risen after our campaign there.” He did look pleased as well, ridiculously so. Viserys supposed any extra money in Alton’s coffers warranted celebration in these grim days. Yet Maegor did not answer, still too busy glaring at something they could not see.

“Now, if only we could have done with the murderer at large in our streets,” Tyanna sighed, as if the existence of the man genuinely pained her. He stiffened without meaning to before catching another warning look from Daemon.

“I am close to him,” he argued. “I have his description now, a nobleman. I need only-”

Maegor moved, impossibly fast… and a moment later his uncle’s hands were on his collar, pulling him from his chair. Surprise sent him limp for a moment and then he braced himself against the floor. Maegor grunted at the sudden resistance and he pushed backwards, hoping to break his uncle’s grasp.

His heart pounded wildly in his chest, even as he heard several dismayed cries at the sudden violence.

In the next moment, he was seeing stars as his uncle’s fist struck him. Then he was hauled and slammed against the wall, all breath leaving him as his vision, still spinning from the blow, was filled by Maegor’s enraged face.

I wonder if this was the face Aegon saw, before he died.

The thought was irreverent, odd. He felt nausea surge in his stomach and his ears ring. He could not brace himself again, not with how Maegor had him pinned.

A forearm against his throat made him gasp for air and Maegor hit him again when he kicked at him furiously.

“I grow tired of this, boy!” Maegor spat. “I have indulged you long enough! I have given you your toy soldiers! I have given you my mother’s dragon! All I require from you, boy, is an heir!”

The pressure was removed as suddenly as it had come, yet Maegor gave him no time to enjoy the air he had instinctively gasped for because he was thrown down roughly and violently a moment later.

“Stop playing these games fit for a whoremonger!” Maegor bellowed. “Nobody in this city cares for a few whores! Give me an heir, do the one duty I have asked of you!”

Then Maegor grabbed his tunic once more, hauling him to his feet and pulling him close once again. He gazed into those violet eyes, wide and mad with rage, as Maegor gazed back. After a moment, he felt Maegor’s grasp loosen and pulled back as soon as he could, staggering but staying on his feet.

“Do your duty, or I will give you the fate your mother condemned you to, and start again with the boy she seeks to hide from me!”

In that moment, anger overwhelmed the fear.

In that moment, he wanted to kill his uncle.

Chapter Text

He awoke with Rhaena at his side, sleeping peacefully in the dawn light. He wished he had slept as peacefully as she seemed to, instead a fear and anger made his waking hours miserable and his sleep disturbed, if he even managed to drift away for a scant few hours.

He lay there for a long time, eyes unwilling to close again, yet his body not willing to let him rise. In her sleep, Rhaena snorted and then rolled away from him. He watched her back for a moment, eyes tracing the red lines the sheets had left in her skin. Finally, feeling as if his body were made of stone, he forced himself to rise and leave her to her rest.

He felt odd, as if his skin were not his own. In the few days since the council meeting, his old fear had returned, and he had…

No, best not overthink my shame.

If he were to live, if he were to survive this, he could not wallow. As his uncle Daemon had said the previous night, he needed to act.

And he meant to.

He tried to draw that certainty around him like armour, but his attempts seemed paltry. Instead he shivered, gooseflesh rising on his arms as the servants drew him a bath. He hoped they did not see, it was not as if the rooms he shared with his sister was cold-

Stop it.

He forced himself to focus on the here and now, on what could be done, as the servants informed him the water had been drawn. It was not the steaming hot he preferred, more tepid than warm, but it served. He washed quickly and was out before he began to truly feel the cold. As the servants dressed him, he allowed his mind to return to the council once more.

Yet not to wallow, but to remember. To etch his uncle’s words into his mind. His uncle required an heir from him.

Well, he was attending to that now.

Maegor would see that as a duty he was owed, and he needed to impress his uncle swiftly, before Tyanna could entrench herself in her victory. Lord Justin may be an ally for now, but he could not risk becoming too entangled with the Lord Hand If he did so whilst Tyanna had any power left, she would use it to topple them both. As long as she believed they were divided…

What then could he do?

The murderer would have to wait… the realisation sat like a stone in his chest, but he could not deny it. His uncle would see it as him chasing distractions in the same way his father had - just because it wasn’t feasts…

I was wrong to assume because blade and armour were involved I could act with impunity.

Breathlessness stole over him for a moment and he forced himself to stop and breathe. Around him, as if sensing his agitation, his servants slowed.

Three Velaryon men, one from Darklyn.

He still could not let slip too much weakness.

“My apologies,” he spoke and they resumed their work, although their movements seemed… warier.

If he could not secure the murderer, he had to solve another of Maegor’s problems. Jeyne Poore was a long way from King’s Landing, he had no doubt he would be denied any flight that took him that close to his mother. Burning a few septs? Even the thought brought a sour taste to his mouth.

And I play the fool once more, missing what stands in front of me.

“Fetch me my cloak,” he commanded as they finished dressing him. “And my blade.”

He had no doubt his uncle Daemon would know he was abroad and armed by the time the sun was fully risen and Darklyn would know soon after… it would worry them.

He could not rely on the goodwill and actions of others to protect his family. Rhaena, the Twins… the child he sought to make.

It was not long before he was striding down the corridor, Maladon Moore at his back. He was not surprised Maegor was keeping Tollett and Crayne away from him.

My uncle seeks to make a point. I must show him his anger has not cowed me, no matter the cost.

When Rhaena learned of his actions, she would be incensed. He encountered no one of import as he strode to the stables, trying to walk the corridors as if he owned them.

“Fetch me my mount,” he commanded the groom as they arrived. He ignored the feeling of Moore’s eyes burning into his back and instead distracted himself by trying to guess who the knight was loyal to - Tyanna or his uncle? Did such a distinction matter? She may fall out of favour at times, but he doubted his uncle could ever truly cut himself away from her.

“Your Grace.” That did surprise him, he turned to find Moore’s impassive face staring at him. “I must ask you to wait for a proper guard to be raised.”

“No,” he replied. He had little doubt any guard raised would be her men, or at least men who had no sympathy or loyalty for him. Was there still danger from the smallfolk? Undoubtedly some, Tyanna’s traps were nothing if not… intricate, he had learned, designed for one part to be dismantled as the jaws of another part closed in on you. Moore blinked as their horses were led out. He took the reins of his mount and swung himself into the saddle. Moore continued to stare at him, a muscle jumping in his jaw the only sign of his dissatisfaction. “Come along, Ser Maladon. I have business in the city, and if I must leave you behind, I will, and you will answer to His Grace for your dereliction of duty.”

He was glad he was grabbing the reins as he spoke of the threat because otherwise he rather suspected men half the city away would see his hands shaking. Moore’s calm expression collapsed into fury for a moment and the man mounted up with bad grace, scowling the entire time he did so.

So the threat of my uncle still works, even for her creatures. That is heartening.

His back itched as he wheeled the mount about, urging his mount onward.

“Might I ask our destination, my prince?” asked the Kingsguard the moment they were free of the Keep. In truth, he was glad of the distraction.

“A brothel,” he replied shortly. “Silk.”

I have a bastard to meet, and a deal to ensure it is signed.

The ride was not overly arduous and despite the several well-muscled yet surprisingly discreet men that served as guards for the brothel, he was granted entry without any issue. When he barked a command to be taken to Tyler, the young woman obeyed, with little show of fear - she merely curtsied low, murmured her obeisances and led him to a room.

He stopped before it, shooing her away and commanding Moore to remain outside. As he rested his hand on the brass knob, he recalled the council again. He recalled the sneer on Maegor’s face when he had threatened his brother. The fear and anger served as a potent brew. Enough to get him moving once more, throwing open the door with such force that it crashed into the wall and bounced off.

The room was opulent and he could see well why Tyler preferred to while away the time here and not the Keep. The man himself was scrambling from the large bed that dominated the room, wearing nothing but the easy smile that his panicked expression had transformed into upon seeing just who had burst into his room uninvited. The fact that his hand, so recently reaching for his blade, was now by his side once more, banished what was left of his fear.

If he wishes to bait me, he has succeeded.

Yet even that easy smile and the annoyance it brought him could not distract from the mess of scars that the man’s torso bore. Burns, he realised, and at least one blade. Had he earned them all at the God’s Eye?

“My prince! Welcome to Silk, finally decide to try the girls for yourself?” Tyler asked, his tone reverting to that same drawl that he was well familiar with. He slammed the door shut behind him, the force of it rattling the room itself. Tyler’s expression flickered for a moment.

“Awfully rude of you,” he pointed out. “My companion here might think our prince bereft of manners.”

There was a woman in Tyler’s bed, he realised. Dark haired and dark skinned, her eyes wide with fear as they flickered between Tyler and himself. Well, if any one power had a stake in this brothel, they were about to get a show.

Tyler made no effort to cover himself as he crossed the room towards him - the smile gone now, replaced with a puzzled look.

All fake. As if I have not seen a glimpse of the truth about him. He must think I'm a fool.

That last thought made it exceptionally easy to punch him. Tyler staggered backwards with a cry of dismay, the woman in the bed wailed and he was left wanting to whimper at the pain in his hand and cringe at the sound his fist had made as it impacted Tyler’s face.

It put him in mind of Amos, of how he had felt that day. The feeling of not being in control, the feeling of-

“I have had enough of your games, Tyler,” he told the man as the Lannister in all but name shook his head as if he could shake off the results of the punch.

“Damn you! Might you have presented your case a little less like a thug from Flea Bottom?” Tyler hissed, no trace of his easy drawl now.

“If you stopped behaving like a common lowlife running from his debts, I might have done,” he snapped. Tyler shot him an ugly look, his hand cradling his jaw. He met his gaze head on, put all his anger and discontentment into it.

“You dare-” Tyler’s response broke off as he raised his fist again. “At least let me put some clothes on!”

“I won’t be here that long,” he told him icily. “I have one simple message. Sign that document by tonight, or I will have no choice but to render a complaint to Casterly Rock. Atop Vhagar.”

Tyler swallowed thickly at his words, all mute fury as he seemed to think over how real of a threat he was.

“Fine,” he sighed.

“It is not a threat, Tyler, it is a promise.” Mayhaps he was going too far when he laid a threatening hand on his blade, but if getting Tyler to sign the damnable agreement necessitated punching him a thousand times more, he would happily do so.

“I will sign it. The moment you are gone, I will dress and attend to Lord Butterwell.” There was a note of resignation there and he allowed himself to breathe for a moment.”I do hope you were not as brutal with those young ladies as you were with me.”

At the reminder, Lily’s face flashed through his mind.

“I had no need to chase them down for information. When they made a promise, they delivered upon it.” Tyler winced at the words and he wasn’t sure if it was an affection, whether his words had found a sore point or whether his face pained him once more.

“Your words hurt,” Tyler told him. “Still, that implies you do have some knowledge of our killer. See Larra, did I not say our prince would have him soon enough? No drolling dolt, but a sharp mind. Tell me, so that Larra may put the minds of her sisters at rest, who has fallen under suspicion?”

Nobody. Yet I can not tell her that. Nor him, for all I have just struck him and threatened him, he seems genuinely pleased by the promise of an end to it.

“A noble reachman from Oldtown who has recently devoted himself utterly to the Seven.” At his words, Tyler tilted his head back and laughed.

“Maiden’s tits, him? I never thought he’d have the balls!” he chuckled.

“What?” At his words, Tyler’s smile died. “You know him?”

“You do not?” asked Tyler. “Seven hells, you are serious…”

“The name, if you would.” He might have been shorter with him, but the man was serious for once, the mask of being unaffected and perpetually amused gone.

“Glendon Cockshaw,” Tyler told him after a moment. “Seven Hells, he was famed for it once. When your father ruled he was scarce, found away from the court in brothels, carousing and… other things.”

Tyler paused, then glanced down, as if realising he still had not put on clothes. With a wry smile, he snatched a sheet from the bed and wound it about himself. The whore, Larra, watched them both through apprehensive eyes - as if she could not decide whether to relax or brace for more violence.

“He caught the pox,” Tyler continued, after clearing his throat. “Half the city knows he’ll never sire an heir now. He fought for King Maegor, so his ramblings about the Seven are ignored.”

“Perhaps they should not have been.” He had never heard of this Glendon Cockshaw before, but he would be damned if the man did not know him by the end of the day. “Sign the contract, Ser Tyler.”

He did not give him a chance to reply, to crack a joke or make light of it. Ser Maladon still awaited him when he left and he ignored the suspicion in his gaze. As they exited the brothel and remounted, the suspicion became annoyance as he wheeled his mount not to ride back to the Keep, but to make for the guardhouse.

Chapter Text

“Prince Viserys!” That was Benjen, grinning at him as he stepped. Although his smile faded to serious mien when he saw his face. “What news? We thought you attending to matters as the heir?”

“Matters here have taken precedence. Glendon Cockshaw.” Benjen paused at his words, as if he didn’t quite understand them. Then, after a moment, Benjen’s smile returned as a slow and nasty thing that took him right back to the days Benjen was Maegor’s squire and his tormentor.

He is an ally now. My ally. I mustn’t blame him for those days.

“Well, well, well,” Benjen marvelled. “I reckon we’ve got a few lads here that sore want a word with him. Still, Cockshaw are a noble Reach house. Will the king allow us?”

The question sent a spasm of anger through him and he took a sharp breath through his nose without meaning to. Benjen… flinched. He forced himself to relax. This was a victory and he would not spoil it now. The entanglements Tyanna was using against him were falling away - he would delive Maegor his coin and the murderer in one blow, and then reinforce his victory with the announcement of an heir, if the Gods were good to him.

“The king can decide what to do with him when we drag him before His Grace. Bring along Serjeant Alan, Raymund of Driftmark and Ser Addam Celtigar.” Benjen went to bow but stopped himself, instead turning on his heel and calling for the men in question. He watched him go, Benjen’s passage breeding a frenzy of activity. He could almost see it rippling out from him, the sudden tension and excitement. Now that he had washed the filth from their ranks, those that were left had a genuine stake in making Maegor’s Watch something more than Tyanna’s enforcers.

They wanted justice done.

He let out a slow breath, willing himself calm. Benjen soon returned, his requested men at his back. They, too, looked cautiously excited by his presence here.

Maladon Moore awaited them outside, his face still a mask of disapproval. Well, Maladon would not have time to give his own version of events to Maegor. He would drag the murderer before his uncle. He almost could not wait to see Tyanna’s face.

Do not become too gleeful, she is most dangerous when cornered and she still wishes for my blood.

The thought was sobering. Enough that he no longer felt giddy as he rode through the city towards the manse that was owned by House Cockshaw. Benjen and Serjeant Alan marched ahead of him, with Maladon Moore and Ser Addam bringing up his rear. Moore was tense but his watchmen were all smiles and easy jokes.

He wondered, briefly, if Tyanna had known of Cockshaw’s proclivities. Perhaps he might use this to score a hit against her, finally? After all, how could she have missed a nobleman stalking the poor of King’s Landing? Still, that hinged on bringing the man before the king first, and Benjen did not seem to be having much luck…

“I serve House Cockshaw, you up-jumped thief-taker,” a well dressed man in servant’s livery was informing Benjen with a sneer. “Be away with you, the young Ser is not to be bothered!”

“Let us in, old man, else we’ll drag you to the king with him as an accomplice,” Benjen drawled right back. The two men-at-arms in red, white and yellow moved as the servant scoffed, momentarily rendered speechless by rage. This wouldn’t do, not when he was so close to his goal. He stepped to Benjen’s side, Serjeant Alan falling back.

“Stand aside, by order of King Maegor. If I do not have Glendon Cockshaw in chains by the sun sets, I will be forced to take drastic measures against those hiding him.” Although he’d tried to keep his tone even and matter-of-fact, some frustration had crept in. The servant looked at him, actually looked at him, and then went white, and bowed low in panic.

“Please, forgive me, my prince,” he almost babbled. “I will ensure the young Ser is available to meet with you immediately.”

They were gestured in after that, Benjen taking the time to sneer at the servant’s retreating back now.

“Must be handy to have a dragon backing up your words,” Ser Addam said after a moment. Behind him, the men-at-arms shifted uncomfortably. Good, he thought uncharitably.

“It is,” he told him. Addam laughed and Benjen grinned. Alan remained silent, glancing between the three of them, as if suddenly nervous.

Glendon Cockshaw kept them waiting long enough that he began to fear he had erred and that the man had fled. Then the servant returned, leading a man dressed in drab clothes for a noble, but could be none other than Glendon Cockshaw. It was the evident signs of pox that had given him away. Disgust rose in his throat.

Glendon Cockshaw was thin, making the wool-spun clothes he wore look almost voluminous on him, and despite the relative heat of the day and the indoor setting, he wore leather gloves. Probably because he had a rash, he realised, given it had spread to his mouth as well. His pale blond hair was rapidly thinning and his green eyes were watery. Combined with Cockshaw’s thin features, it left him with the impression that the man was on the verge of weeping, although he knew that wasn’t so, because Cockshaw was frowning at them, as if he could not understand just why they were present in his home.

“My prince,” he murmured, bowing low. “Blessings of the Father upon you, may your judgements be ever guided by him.”

He swallowed the annoyance that brought and nodded to Addam and Benjen. They moved to flank him as Alan moved to stand next to him, shackles appearing in his hands. His watchmen were stone-faced now - more tense than excited. Glendon did not miss their movements.

“Ser Glendon Cockshaw, you are hereby called to present yourself to King Maegor to answer charges laid against you.” Cockshaw had frozen, his mouth half open, and he looked almost child-like in his puzzlement. It was annoying and he wanted to clench his fist.

It would not do to not give him his dues as a noble - not for Cockshaw’s sake, but for my standing with the court.

Finally, the man seemed to shake himself out of his stupor. He drew himself up and then smiled.

“If I am summoned, I will go,” he said finally. “The Seven bid loyalty to one’s liege.”

Benjen snorted but Addam looked relieved. He could understand both reactions and kept his face neutral as he turned. Glendon followed, or attempted to, Moore was fast to insert himself into the space between them, delivering the knight a glare.

That was interesting.

The journey to the Keep seemed almost anti-climactic. None came to save their prisoner, no one confronted them, they were barely afforded any attention at all. The only surprise was his uncle Daemon and Lord Darklyn waiting for him as they reached the stables and began dismounting.

“Got your man?” asked Daemon, studying Cockshaw with a cool expression. “Lord Butterwell was keen to pass on Tyler’s information. Well done on that, by the way.”

“Indeed,” Darklyn emphasised. “Two victories - it was the work of a moment to have Maegor ready to receive you and the evidence against him. Managing it without letting her know was harder, but we have managed it.”

“The Queen is in an awful mood,” Daemon drawled, amusement writ large upon his face. “Can’t imagine why?”

“Thank you, uncle, Lord Darklyn.” Nerves flooded his stomach now, despite the men’s ease. The last time he had seen his uncle, he had-

No. Confidence, that was the key. He took a shaky breath. Behind him, Benjen and Addam watched Cockshaw carefully as he climbed from his horse with a distinct lack of grace.

“Serjeant Alan, return to the watch house. Warn them to be on alert tonight.” Alan bowed, seeming almost relieved and remounted swiftly, as if he did not wish to give anyone a chance to stay.

Wedged between Benjen and Addam, Cockshaw followed him as they made their way to the throne room, where Maegor had been sitting in judgement. He forced himself to keep his head high as they walked, to keep putting one foot in front of the other. This was the day he gained his uncle’s favour back. He had to.

The doors were open and he barely heard the announcement over the roar of blood in his ears. He felt like a puppet on mismatched strings and knew his gait must be jerky as he made his way up the centre of the throne room until he stood before the Iron Throne. He bowed, but not before he’d glimpsed his uncle’s face.

It boded well he wasn’t snarling in rage - he looked almost bored.

“Your Grace,” he said after he rose. Maegor’s expression did not flicker. “There has been a foul murderer loose in our city, killing your subjects and mutilating their bodies in defiance of your law as King. I present to you the murderer to face your justice.”

Cockshaw was shoved forward as mutterings and gasps broke out across the hall. His uncle glanced up briefly and he followed his gaze to find Tyanna stood in the gallery, her face calm and neutral. Somehow, that filled him with even greater dread than Maegor’s placid face.

“I assume there is evidence for this accusation,” Maegor drawled.

“Two witnesses, Your Grace,” he told his uncle. “And a knife belonging to the accused.”

“Two witnesses!” demanded Cockshaw, eyes angry. “I am insulted. Will His Grace allow his nobles to be accused by street dregs?”

Maegor was not happy - he had expected his uncle to listen, but if Tyanna had been filling his head with lies... He was losing him. In the gallery above, Tyanna smiled thinly. It was mockery and she knew he knew it.

“His Grace has no need to grovel for the approval of his lords, Ser Glendon, mind your manners.” Darklyn came to his rescue. Her face fell into neutrality again. He turned back to his uncle.

“A trial, then,” Maegor said with a note of finality in his tone. He swallowed, forcing himself to stay calm. He had not expected his uncle to leap for joy at this, had he? Yet he had expected something more, surely. Some acknowledgement he did not chase shadows. “It will be held seven days hence.”

“I request trial by combat!” Cockshaw called. “In the name of the Warrior, I invoke this right to be held upon the septday beneath the gaze of the Father and the Warrior!”

“That’s tomorrow,” murmured Addam, his eyebrows raised. Benjen hummed in thought. It was odd, that he should focus on such things when his uncle had gone still on the throne. Then Maegor smiled, an unpleasant sight, leaning forward on the throne, eyes glittering.

“Do you now?” he asked, his voice low and dangerous. “And what says the accuser to this?”

Oh. Shit.

“I accept.” He could do little else. It was the right answer, at least.

“I will prove my righteousness under the eyes of the Seven,” Cockshaw crowed. The hall had abandoned any pretence of order now, muttering and murmuring in shock and surprise.

“Then you will remain a guest within the Keep this night,” Maegor told him and Cockshaw hesitated for a brief moment before bowing.

Feeling numb, he bowed as well, retreating from Maegor’s throne as his uncle settled back down, the dismissal evident.

“A good result,” Daemon murmured as he drew level with him and they watched Addam and Benjen place Cockshaw in the palace guard’s hands. “I expected Tyanna to intervene.”

“She did not need to, it would only highlight her incompetence if she did,” Darklyn observed blandly.

He peered up at the gallery to find Tyanna gone.

“Come with me, nephew,” Daemon said finally. “We must prepare for tomorrow.”

He followed his uncle, mind slowly coming back to him.

He should have seen such a demand coming. Yet this wasn’t lost. He was no slouch with the blade and Cockshaw had let himself go to seed after he had caught the pox. A proof of arms, a proof of diplomacy… it would be enough until he could present an heir to Maegor and prove he was worthy of the effort his uncle had placed into him.

Rhaena greeted him in his quarters, placing the book she had been reading.

“You punched Tyler,” she said mildly, as if it were little more than an observation. He had almost forgotten about that in his haste to employ Tyler’s information.

“I did,” he finally said.

She snorted in amusement, crossing the room to him and drawing him into an embrace that he could not allow himself to sink into.

“What is wrong?” she asked, sensing his tension.

“He’s tracked down the killer,” Daemon told her. He’d taken a step back when Rhaena had swept over to them. “A trial by combat.”

She flinched for a brief moment, her hand tightening on his shoulder until it was almost painful.

“I see,” she said after a moment. “When?”

“Tomorrow,” he told her and she frowned.

“That can’t be-” Daemon cut her off.

“Cockshaw’s a zealot but that’s all he is,” he assured them. “Now, let us order some food. All that panic this morning has me quite famished.”

His nerves did not quite settle, even after food was brought forth and he forced himself to eat at least half a good meal. He did not fear Cockshaw, so why was he so nervous? He had killed men before, he’d sat atop Vhagar as he’d done worse than kill men - boiled them alive or left them half covered in burns and begging for death.

This man had been a monster, tearing apart his victims for the consequences his own dishonour had wrought.

Rhaena and Daemon did their best to lift their spirits but he could not truly relax.

And then a servant showed Benjen inside as the sun began its descent into evening. His friend was grim and pale, as if he had seen a shade.

“We must talk,” Benjen murmured quietly as he rose to greet his friend. “There has been another body found. A fresh body, still warm when it was found.”

And Cockshaw had been imprisoned for half the day.

Chapter Text

They departed the Keep quickly and as quietly as they could, although he had no doubt Maegor would know of their leaving mere moments after they cleared the gates. That could not be helped. He had been so sure! No, he knew Glendon Cockshaw was the killer, it could be no other. The way the man had smiled, the way he had invoked the Seven, the way he had attempted to wriggle from his grasp there in the Throne room.

If Maegor discovered this… if Tyanna discovered this… Well, he has no doubt they would, sooner rather than later, given it was Ser Owen Bush at his back this night. Tyanna’s creature, if there ever was one. It’s enough to make his back itch with the expectation the man might drive a blade into it.

He needed to fix this, make it right, before tomorrow. If he was wrong, will the Gods help Ser Glendon strike him down? Will Maegor’s eyes move towards Jaehaerys as his replacement? His swirling thoughts, of his brother subjected to the same horrors he had been and of what Tyanna might do should he falter, or Seven forbid, his uncle, make his hands tremble, and so he grips the reins of his mount so tightly that his knuckles turn white.

“We left to secure your witnesses,” Benjen was telling him as they rode, yet he could barely focus on him. “We had some trouble contacting the woman, the brothel mistress.”

For a moment, it annoys him that Benjen can not remember the woman’s name. A single smallfolk was a single smallfolk, no matter what else they were. Yet gather enough of them and they would fell kings. His father could attest to that.

Then again, I can not recall her name either.

“Were there any witnesses?” he settled for asking his friend. Benjen shook his head.

The streets of King’s Landing were dark and damp around them, the promise of rain in the air. If they felt unfriendly in the day, they feel almost dangerous at night. When was the last time he had travelled these roads with so few at his back?

“I left men asking those in the area,” Benjen replied stiffly. “I saw the body, my prince. It was exactly like the others.”

“He must have some accomplice in his crimes.” Yet in his heart, he feared the man did not. What if he had gotten it wrong?

“Not long now,” Benjen says, and he hears the man’s doubt ringing as loud as his own. He does not lie either, for they are soon before a warehouse. It’s close to the docks, far from the woman’s brothel, and for a moment he wonders how she even came to be here.

It is certainly quiet enough here that this murderer could take his time.

The thought brings the taste of bile to his mouth and he casts it away as he swings himself from the saddle of his horse. Two of his men stand alert at the gates, their faces cast into shadow by cowls, and he is strangely glad for that. If Benjen had raised the alarm, he would not have time to figure this all out. He will thank him later - Hugh’s position has been unfilled, and he can’t think of any better than Benjen to take it in this moment.

The warehouse is deathly quiet as they enter. The only sound is his, Benjen and Ser Owen’s footsteps. They seem to ring horribly loud on the stone. The body isn’t hard to see. It’s been left in the only bit of the warehouse lit by the moon, it naturally draws the eye and it’s enough to send his thoughts swirling once more. Ser Glendon had killed in alleys, taking whomever would take his coin and stabbing them when they prepared to… No. This felt different. Wrong. There was pride in this. Great pride.

He tastes bile again, regretting his earlier meal bitterly, as he goes down on one knee next to the body. He can agree with Benjen’s view, the body has been savaged, butchered. There is enough left of her face that he knows it’s her, her eyes staring out, the remnants of horror echoing her face-

He sees stars as something hit him hard, sending him reeling into the blood-soaked stone floor. The surprise renders him unable to act, unable to rise, for a brief moment. He hears Owen Bush’s cry of fury, hears more bellows of men and the pounding of feet. He manages to get his hands beneath him, has himself half pushed upwards as the world spins around him when a boot smashes into his ribs, sending him over once more, onto his back this time.

He finds himself staring up at Benjen.

That can’t be Benjen.

Gone is the jovial look, now all that remains is a rictus of hate on his face.

He wants to weep.

The fighting ends, sudden and quick, with a crash of armour. He dares not look away from Benjen to see what has become of Owen Bush. They stare each other down, breath coming fast to them both, until he is hauled to his knees by two men. The sudden movement makes him groan and he hates himself for it - yet stars dance behind his eyes and he feels the damp on the back of his head trickle beneath his collar.

He does not think that it is the tavern keeper's blood.

A boot smashes into his chest and he wheezes, chokes on spit. Then it happens again. And again. Someone is groaning and shouting, and it takes too long to realise it is him as he curls into himself, raising his hands above his head.

I’ve been here before.

The realisation is enough to pierce his shock, his numbness, and anger follows. Pure. It banishes the pain and he flails awkwardly, catching Benjen’s boot as it comes down again. His once friend pulls from his grip quickly, but it is enough for him to break whatever rage Benjen had been in. The man staggers back, his traitors forming a ring at his back, and he pushes himself to his feet, blood roaring in his ears. Benjen is panting. So is he.

“Well?” asks one of the men. He thinks he recognises him. Thief and rapist.

“Now you do Tyanna’s bidding, like the good little dogs you are,” he snarls and his voice is rough, more fit for his uncle than he. It feels appropriate. He gropes for his sword and several of the men start forward, then freeze as he manages to pull it free. His fingers feel too big, too awkward. Benjen’s boot must have caught them. It doesn’t matter. They draw their swords too.

Benjen doesn’t. He’s still staring, his lips drawn back in a snarl.

“I should never have warned you,” he finally says. “I should have let Amos beat you into nothing. You’re worthless. Less than worthless. A traitor!”

It shouldn’t hurt, but it does.

Everything was a lie.

He draws in a shaky breath, anger rather than pain making him tremble now.

There are too many.

Warrior grant him strength, he’ll take as many of the bastards with him.

“Kill him!” Benjen screams, the order echoing in the quiet air. He moves to ready himself as Benjen’s men shuffle forward. They’re unsure. Good. He smiles and meets the gaze of the closest. The man flinches, and satisfaction blooms in his chest.

“I’m not my father,” he promises them. “I’m going to die killing as many of you as possible. Who wants to be the first to die!?”

They stop to hesitate again, and Benjen steps forward, glancing at them wildly.

“Are you fools? Kill him! We are ten and he is one!” Yet they still glance at one another.

“You heard your master. Kill me! Come on! Fight me!” He wants it. He wants it now. He won’t die running. He’ll die like Aegon. He’ll die better than Aegon. He’ll die making his enemies bleed.

Benjen surges forward and two follow. His vision narrows until it is nothing but his enemies. A flash of steel, a blow turned aside that almost makes his arms go numb. His breath coming in harsh pants. Another joins, moving behind him and he strikes, forcing the man back only to narrowly avoid a mace blow. He stabs that one and earns a scream of pain and a little more room.

Am I screaming?

He is but he can not bring himself to stop. Benjen charges again and he stabs at the man’s face. Benjen curses, knocking aside his sword. He fails to knock away his boot and his one-time friend staggers at the impact. The hit is solid, satisfying. One of his former men charges him a moment later. A mistake.

He thanks his uncle as his blade goes through the man’s neck.

How like that fight on the Dragonmont so long ago.

How odd he should think that now.

He locks blades with another. These aren’t knights. They’re thugs. They’re too used to fighting men who will run at the sight of them. His fist blossoms with pain but his opponent hits the floor with a groan and does not rise.

“Cowards!” Benjen is screaming. “Kill him!”

A charge now. Pain is beginning to win against the fury.

“Lay down your weapons!” For a moment, his heart sinks as more watchmen stream into the warehouse. The glimmer of victory so cruelly snatched away as twenty or so more men surround their ring.

Ser Hugh steps forward, his sword in his hand.

“The last man to drop his blade I will drag to the Black Cells myself!” Ser Hugh bellows.

It’s not relief he feels bubbling up within him when he sees Benjen slump in defeat, his fingers loosening on his blade, even if he is not quite ready to drop it as the first of his men have begun doing so.

Damn him. Damn him to the Seven Hells.

He feels as if he may be in a dream as he steps forward. Benjen has just a moment to see him, to be surprised. He wants to take his blade and run him through. This traitor, the man who’d said he was his friend.

He can’t.

So he hits him hard. Benjen’s head snaps backwards and he slumps. The clang of blades and maces and clubs ring out as Benjen drops like a stone to the floor.

“Chain them!” Ser Hugh calls, sheathing his own blade and stepping forward. “Prince Viserys.”

Words catch in his throat as he looks at the man he had so unceremoniously stripped from his Watch. Where do his loyalties lie? Had he saved him simply to better position the dagger to his back? Had he only stepped in because he saw Benjen’s thugs losing their nerve and getting ready to break?

“We will see them to the Red Keep,” Ser Hugh intones when he does not, can not, speak.

She will know…

“No!” Ser Hugh freezes. He spoke too loudly, half his men have frozen as well, their charges not yet properly in chains. “No. Take them.. Somewhere. Just for the night. Tell no one. Let no one see them.”

“Someone ordered this,” Ser Hugh says.

“Someone did.” He will not give the man the satisfaction of the accusation if he is, indeed, Tyanna’s loyal dog. Ser Hugh gazes at him, then nods, slowly.

“Take them to the Mud Gate. Keep a five man guard on these traitors!” Ser Hugh shouts. His men go into action again. The Watch acting on the commands of a man he had stripped from its ranks. After tonight, he will not be able to do so again. It makes his teeth ache.

“How did you find me? How did you know?” He doesn’t want it to sound like an accusation, but it does. If it bothers Ser Hugh, the knight does not show it.

“Your lady.” Rhaena? No. Rhaena would not go to Ser Hugh, how would she even… “Her woman.”

The clarification is delivered alongside a nod to the body. The tavern keeper.

The whore? She had sent Ser Hugh to him? That thought is accompanied by something bitter.

She has a name. If she has truly saved him, he should use it.

Lily. That slender girl, pretty and fierce.

The thought stuck in his mind. He knew what he wanted now. He knew where to go next.

Numbly, he turns away from the knight and staggers away. The night air is cool, the last of his rage draining away as his watchmen’s voices become murmurs with distance. Pain sings throughout his entire body. His face, his ribs. Thrice in his aimless stagger about the streets does he stop to lean upon a wall or gate. Anyone watching must think him a drunk. An easy target for any cutpurse or thug.

No challenge comes. What had been her name? The tavern keeper who’d been slaughtered? Had Benjen done it? His friend… had never been his friend, had he? Tyanna’s always. Bastard. Fucking bastard. He will not weep, not for a man so undeserving of it. The woman’s tavern was silent, no sounds of merriment. There should be, it was wrong there was not. It’s not Maegor’s doing, though, but Glendon Cockshaw’s. He’ll put that right. He will. He scarcely knockson the door, hissing as pain lances from his knuckles to his elbow, before the door opens to reveal a pale woman. She gasps when she sees him, reaching out for him, and he welcomes the touch like a man dying of thirst would welcome water.

His head aches fiercely. His ribs ache even more, if such a thing were possible.

“My prince! What- I thought they would reach you in time! No, no… Merrell?” Merrell. That had been her name. He closes his eyes and lets his head rest on Lily’s shoulder, Merrell’s body clear in his mind.

“Dead,” he croaks, and does not have the heart to tell her how and why. “I’m sorry.”

“No need to be. The bastards that did it?” The edge to her voice stirs some of the anger in him again, and he opens his eyes to meet hers.

“They will be dead,” he promises. She nods, bringing a hand to his face. Pain blossoms in the wake of her touch. He should leave here, go and see the maester.

Tyanna would know then. A small part of him, a part that is still standing despite being battered and bruised, is looking forward to her realisation she has failed and that he still lives. It’s enough to stir him from exhaustion, enough to make him realise there is a different type of excitement in him now, something else making his blood sing.

“I’ll stay the night,” he decides and kisses her.

Lily…

Chapter Text

Dawn is beginning to light up the sky and despite the heaviness in his limbs and the sleep in his eyes, he knows that he must go. Lily is so warm next to him and as she stirs, murmuring softly in her sleep, his resolve almost breaks. What a fine thing it would be to never rise, to hang his uncle and the court and just stay here with Lily, a bastard of a lord of little concern.

Then he remembers Rhaena and the twins, and the softness of the morning leaves him. His body protests, aching bitterly as he clambers to his feet, clumsy and ungraceful. Lily is awake a moment later, her dark eyes on him as he moves, groping for his shirt and then his doublet, and finally his boots.

“I will pray for you, my prince,” she tells him as his aching fingers fumble with his boots.

Praying is what got us into this mess.

It’s a dark thought. He casts it aside.

“I did not say so last night. I owe you a great debt. I would have died had you not sent Hugh.” He means it, and she smiles like a cat that has caught a songbird, all slow and satisfied.

“My prince did a fine job of thanking me,” she purrs, and he shivers. Her eyes light up with delight at the reaction, and he reaches for his sword belt before he makes any more missteps with this woman. He wants her again, if he is being truthful. He wants to take her away from this tavern so close to Flea Bottom and dress her in furs and silks and gems. Rhaena would kill him, of course, so he says nothing of his wants. “If I still have a place here, my door will always be open to you.”

“Why would you not?” he asks. Lily gives him a smile that looks wrong on her face. Small and sad.

“Merrell is dead, my prince, and it won’t be long before it’s noticed. Someone will take this place, be it the crown or whoever has pull with the Watch,” she tells him with a sigh. Indignant rage bites at him for a moment and he banishes it with irritation.

“The Watch is mine,” he says, more harshly than she deserves, memories of Benjen’s betrayal flooding through his mind. “You have it, I am the Crown and the Watch both. If any seek to gainsay me and take it from you, I shall kill them.”

A moment later she has stepped around the bed to drop a kiss to his lips, all fierce passion, and he pulls her close again.

I fear I have just been played. What of it though? It is one tavern, better she has it than some bastard that will hurt them. I have had my fill of hurt.

And so he says nothing as she draws away, her eyes bright and her cheeks flushed.

“How about that?” she marvels. “Me? The mistress?”

Be my mistress, he wants to say, but he doesn’t, because that is unwise. He does not know her and he can not move now based on want, not when he has so narrowly escaped one trap. It does not seem clever to give Tyanna what she needs to bait another. That she will know about Lily seems a good assumption, but let her think she is little more than a whore to him… for now.

The streets were abandoned as he began his long trek through them, aching and angry at the pain. It’s only when he grows closer to the Red Keep that several men burst from a side street, their armour painfully familiar. For a moment, he goes for his blade and then he sees Ser Addam Celtigar at their head. Ser Addam, at least, he knows is loyal.

“My prince!” Ser Addam cries. “We thought the worst… none knew where you had gone.”

“Traitors struck, and those traitors’ heads will soon adorn the walls.” Hadn’t he once promised only the worst would suffer so under him? It seems a laughable promise now. Let them die and let them die slowly. It would be a fitting fate if they met that end at Tyanna’s knives, although perhaps she would have some loyalty and give them a quick end. “Do you recall the tavern where we received the information that led us to Cockshaw?”

“I do, my prince,” Ser Addam says.

“Send men there. The keeper is dead and I would ensure the new woman keeps the tavern and does not see it stolen. Orders of the prince.” If Addam suspects the truth, or if any hint of his deliverance of the orders has given it away, nobody comments. Ser Addam gives a nod and two men break away, moving back towards where he had just come from, and his heart rests a little easier.

“We feared you dead, my prince,” Addam confesses after men are sent for horses.

“Hugh saved my life. It seems he is not the traitor we thought him,” he replies and Addam nods, his features troubled.

“I patrolled with Benjen. I drank with him. We drew swords together.” Then Addam spat at the ground. “A clean death is too good for such a turncloak. I saw him before dawn. Hugh has made short work of him. He begs for the Black now.”

“The Black,” he repeats dully. “I’ll see him hang before I let him escape.”

Nobody answers that as the horses finally arrive and he and a small honour guard swing themselves into the saddle. Yet his mood has begun sliding into blackness and he feels both too big and too small for his own skin. He itches in his clothes, everything feeling uncomfortable. It serves only to make his pain worse, and he thinks he understands his uncle in that moment, for if someone said the wrong thing to him now, he could well see himself becoming angry with them. That thought alone is enough to spur him onward towards the Keep, leaving his guard to pick up their own pace, lest he leave them behind.

Raymund Mallery awaits him as he dismounts, his face curious but cautious. He wasn’t sure what that boded. Did Maegor know of the ambush? If he did, did he know it was Tyanna’s workings that had seen it done? Had he lost his uncle’s protection? Perhaps he was only thinking these things because of the pain and his black mood.

“His Grace feared for you,” the knight finally said, falling into step alongside him. “When you did not return.”

“I spent the night with a lady,” he replies as if it is nothing and less than nothing. “It was a pleasant diversion.”

“Ladies of that type often are,” Mallery replies, and then falls back. Ser Addam takes his place, his expression wary.

“I will go, my prince. Ser Hugh will require aid when it comes to… ensuring the ranks of the Watch are up to the task of guarding this city.” He’s suddenly grateful that Addam did not reveal the truth aloud. He isn’t sure if Mallery is Tyanna’s creature or not, not in the way he knows Owen Bush and Maladon Moore are.

“Good. Give him my thanks,” he replies. Owen Bush had been there and had been felled quickly. An act? Had he let the blow come? Or was he truly that useless?

“Warrior guide you, my prince,” Addam murmured before departing, and it was a sobering reminder of what today would bring. For a moment, he debated on asking Mallery how Owen Bush fared. Mallery had not mentioned his brother, nor had he mentioned the ambush. That served him well for now. He could decide what was to be done after he had put Cockshaw in the ground and proved his Watch was not merely for show in front of the court and in front of Maegor. When they reached his rooms, a long look saw Mallery drop back to stand by the door, a smile he did not know how to decipher gracing the knight’s face.

“Viserys!” He was barely through the door when Rhaena flung herself forward and pulled him close. He buried his face in her shoulder and wanted with all his being to feel safe. Yet he did not dare. If he did, he would collapse. After everything that had happened, how close Tyanna had come… he could not allow himself to drop his guard until after the trial.

But Gods, I want to.

“I’m here. Well enough. It was Benjen.” Rhaena drew back, grief that he could not let himself feel on her face.

“Tyanna?” Although she need not have asked. He nodded and her face became like stone.

“Can you fight?” asked Daemon and he nearly leapt to realise that his uncle had been in the room all along. His face was drawn and tired, and something like guilt touched him then. Not enough to regret his night with Lily, but enough that he knew he should have sent word.

“Yes.” He doesn’t feel like elaborating, and Daemon doesn’t push him.

“Good. It will not be long now. You should prepare,” Daemon tells him. “There’s a rumour that you have fled, and I would not like to see any declare it the truth.”

Rhaena’s grip on his shoulder is like iron and she only lets him go with some reluctance when the grooms come forward, waved on by Daemon, as if they had simply been waiting for his uncle’s word. Perhaps they had, and guilt bites a little deeper as he follows them to where a tub of lukewarm water sits. They set about stripping him, and Rhaena hisses at every injury and bruise that is revealed. For a moment, he is reminded of their first meeting after Rhaena’s capture, and he isn’t sure whether he wishes to laugh or weep. He settles for glaring at himself in the silvered surface of the mirror.

He needs anger for today. Not fear, not grief - anger.

So he pictures Merrell and he pictures Tyanna and Benjen and Hugh as they dress him again. Perhaps Rhaena senses his mood, because she does not speak as they make their way from the Keep to the ground in which he will fight Glendon Cockshaw and prove the man the murderer he is. Even the twins are subdued, Rhaella keeping close to Aerea as if she fears her sister will be taken from her. Despite a few turns to spare before the trial is to begin, the grounds already throng with people from petty lords to men of Great Houses. He spies Tyler at one point, two women hanging off his every word as he speaks.

Ceryse is there too, although Maegor and Tyanna have yet to arrive. He wonders if the Hightower Queen does not feel as embattled as he some days, for she could not have missed what Tyanna had done to Alys Harroway, and she must know that it would not belong before the woman, desiring to be Maegor’s only Queen, turned her attention to her final rival.

“Don’t die,”, is Rhaena’s final, breathy plea to him as she kisses him. He wants to assure her he won’t, but the words die in his throat and she leaves to take her place in the royal box, the twins glancing back at him in confusion and worry. He thinks of Benjen again and makes his way to a tent, the Targaryen banner hanging outside denoting it as his. More grooms are inside, and they soon set about fastening him into his armour. He checks each piece, he isn’t sure he trusts any of them anymore, but no piece is loose or improperly fastened at least.

He’s worn armour plenty before, but never full plate in anything more than a sparring match. That realisation, more than a desire to grow familiar with its feel, spurs him into pacing back and forth around the tent. Anger isn’t winning over fear anymore, and he feels as if he might come right out of the armour, right out of his own skin. Sweat prickles uncomfortably across his brow and body and he forces himself to still, although the lack of movement only compounds the feeling. He does not wish to shame himself, not here or before the ever-growing crowd outside.

Is my uncle there yet? Does he know?

When they finally come for him, he feels as if he might vomit, and only the lack of food that morning stops him from doing so. His hands shake as they hold out his shield. He takes it and nearly fumbles it, catching it a moment before it fell from his grip entirely. He almost fumbles as he straps it to his arm as well. He checks the blade at his side. The sword and shield are a familiar comfort, at least. Maegor’s training has seen to that.

There is a cheer from the ground as he steps out before them, but it seems a weak and pitiful thing compared to the tourneys his father used to host, where the smallfolk would pack the grounds and cheer so loudly for their favoured knights that you could tell who had won and lost all the way from the Red Keep proper thank to the roar as each tilt was fought. He risks a glance at his uncle and finds the man unreadable. No, he is wrong. Maegor is angry, as he often is, but he does not know what has made him so angry this time. Is it himself? Tyanna? News of last night? He knows not.

And worrying about it now will see me die.

The thought is like ice, and Glendon Cockshaw steps out to a boos and jeers. So, the crowd has a favourite. That should cheer him, but it does not. The man seems much less pathetic this morning, a great mace in his hands, although he has forgone a shield. He has faced maces before, Maegor had insisted, and had come away with more than his fair share of bruises. Once, a man had knocked him witless. He feels as if he is in a dream as they both head toward the royal box. Maegor still looks angry as they stand before him and he focuses on his uncle rather than his sister and the twins… or Tyanna, who sits beside Maegor with a placid look upon her face. Maegor stands, and the crowd goes as near to silent as any crowd gets. His uncle’s gaze sweeps over them all, lingering on him as if weighing him.

“Let justice prevail,” is all Maegor says, though, when he does finally speak. The crowd remains silent until his uncle throws himself back into his chair and then they give his words a cheer anyway. Glendon Cockshaw is muttering something, and he can not bring himself to care which prayer the bastard has chosen as he turns and takes his place, Cockshaw following a moment later.

He’s shaking as he draws his sword and he hopes nobody sees. Cockshaw takes up an aggressive stance, bringing his mace up and he wishes, quite suddenly, that he could see the man’s face. Is he confident? Scared? The horn blows and those thoughts vanish as the sound has barely finished echoing away before Cockshaw moves, intending to deliver a mighty blow. He doesn’t even try and take it on his shield, moving back out of the man’s reach.

Cockshaw keeps coming, though, and when he tries to do similarly to another strike, the edge of the mace catches his shield. He had not moved fast enough, pain and fatigue making him slow, and even as glancing as the blow is, he nearly stumbles. The crowd jeers and hisses and his heart pounds so loud that he can barely hear them.

He can not stay on the defensive.

So he waits for Cockshaw to attack again, but he hangs back as if unsure. Is he waiting for some kind of response? Perhaps he has realised that a counterattack will come. He circles Cockshaw and Cockshaw turns with him, and he knows he is being watched just as intently as he is watching. Finally, the knight moves, an overarm swing that would crush his armour if it connected, and he brings his sword up, stepping aside as the blow comes.

Cockshaw is better than many men and he does not let the mace hit the muddy ground. When he slams his shield into the murderers helmet, the mace is half ready to swing again. At least until he staggers from the shield blow and the mace dips. He doesn’t give the man time to recover, aiming a blow for the ribs. Except he is still too slow because Cockshaw throws himself backwards, staggering to avoid the swing. Cockshaw’s footwork is all gone though, as is any momentum he was using to control his weapon, and he forces his opponent back once more with another vicious swing.

He’s panting now, and so is Cockshaw. The other man is trying to get some space, backing off as fast as he dares, and he does not intend to let him have it. The mace makes for a poor defence but it holds under his blows, the steel of his blade biting into the wooden shaft as he rains blows down upon his opponent, giving him no space or quarter. It is all Cockshaw can do to stop the blade hitting his armour, and so he is wholly unprepared for a strike to his knee from the shield marked with the three headed dragon.

Cockshaw cries out and goes down on his knee, bracing the tip of his mace in the mud in an attempt to rise, but he does not do so fast enough, and he brings the blade down on Cockshaw’s shoulder, earning another cry of pain as the man staggers upright, swinging wildly with his mace. He dances back, feeling light on his feet, feeling his blood singing. It feels like it did the night before. Only now, victory is within his grasp, unlike last night when his very life hung in the balance. Another wild swing and Cockshaw is off balance, and so he hits the man’s helmet with his shield once more and rains a few more blows down, one on his already injured shoulder and another vicious blow to the ribs. As Cockshaw fights for space and ground, he kicks him into the dirt once more. On his back, Cockshawcan not bring the mace up to defend his face and torso. His armour will protect him from a stab but not from the blows.

Yet he has been over confident, and a moment later Cockshaw’s hand wraps around his foot, pulling him off balance and then the knight is on top of him, attempting to tear the helmet from his head as Viserys swings his shield again, knocking free Cockshaw’s helmet. The man rolls away, shoving himself to his feet and lunging for his fallen weapon.

He follows his opponent, only pausing to kick the fallen helmet far away. He can see now that there is blood on the knight’s face, streaking down beneath his armour. He barely has the mace in his hand, half turned to defend himself when the blade follows that blood and finds his neck. There is a moment of pure horror when he fears the blade will not go far enough, when he fears he should have simply cut away at the man’s face instead, but then Cockshaw groans and a torrent of blood follows the sword. It’s as if the world suddenly surrounds him once more and he staggers, the cheer of the crowd almost making him dizzy. He looks towards the royal box and finds Rhaena, pale but beaming, and Tyanna, the Queen looking as if she has smelt something foul. Maegor stands, and the crowd cheers again.

“The Seven have judged this man guilty of murder. Take his head and put it atop the walls so that King’s Landing knows.” The crowd cheer again, and he finds himself using his sword to brace himself from falling as the men march out and seize the corpse that had been Glendon Cockshaw by the arms.

He deserved worse.

That thought again. That bone deep conviction. Benjen, Cockshaw…

“My prince?” There was a groom nearby, his face worried as he held out his hands for the shield. Too tired, he thrusts his arm out and the groom took the hint, unstrapping the shield from his arm. He had to wince as he caught sight of it. Cockshaw’s glancing blow had left a deep groove in it and for a moment, he pictured what would have happened had any one of those blows landed. Then he follows the groom back to his tent, too tired to picture it any further.

Yet if he had wanted rest, he was to be denied, for he found Maegor and his queens awaiting him. Rhaena too, who immediately stood and came to his side. Tyanna still bore her disgusted look and Ceryse seemed disinterested, barely sparing him a nod before her gaze drifted elsewhere.

“It seems my training was not wasted,” Maegor stated. “A good show, worthy of my heir.”

Once I would have rejoiced in that.

Yet he felt too tired to even hate his uncle for the presumption, and so he settled for nodding. If Maegor noticed, he did not remark upon it, instead stepping close and bending at the waist until he and his uncle were eye to eye.

“Owen Bush had an interesting tale to tell when he returned to the Keep. Ser Hugh, your man, backed his claims.” It was a statement, not a question, and so he nodded again, unsure of what his uncle wanted from him. “I see.”

He wanted to shiver at the deadly promise in those words as Maegor rose once more, almost… drifting back to Tyanna’s side. She stiffened as he stood next to her, raising a hand to her hair and brushing it out of her eyes. It should have been a tender gesture but between how pale she had gone and the expression, absent of any emotion, on Maegor’s face, it seemed more like a threat.

“Tell me, how were you imperilled so with a kingsguard at your side?” The tone Maegor speaks in is deceptively mild, as if it is a minor question that he asks, his hand still entangled in Tyanna’s hair, stroking some of the dark locks between finger and thumb.

His uncle wants an answer for this, and so he gives it.

“They struck at him first. He was not prepared.” Maegor nods at his words.

“That is what Ser Owen testified,” he murmurs, as if his attention is entirely consumed by Tyanna, and not the near murder of his nephew and heir. “This will not happen again.”

His uncle’s tone goes from mild to steel in an instant, his grip tightening until Tyanna winces and is forced to tilt her head. Rhaena crowds closer to him and he feels her hands on his arm as she sucks in a surprised breath. Ceryse is watching them all like a hawk now, even as she backs off. He wished he could follow her example, but he knows his uncle wants him there, still and watching.

A lesson.

“Do you understand me?” he whispers, and it is not to him that his uncle is speaking to anymore, but Tyanna. Maegor’s other hand is on her arm now, tugging, and she is almost on her tiptoes to avoid the promised pain as he uses the grip he has on her hair to pull her even closer. “There will be no more of this. Should my heir die, you will die. I will make your death slow and painful, and I will make you regret every hurt and torment. You are no dragon, girl, and you will remember it.”

Then he breaks her arm. It almost takes him a moment to realise what has happened. It seems Tyanna needs that moment herself, because a sickening snap follows his hissed threats and silence follows that until she wails, loud and keening, and drops as Maegor steps back from her. Rhaena flinches violently and he knows he did as well. Maegor watches his queen as she tries to claw back her composure, clutching her arm even as her face is pale white. Tyanna is proud above all, he knows, and she does not wish them to see her weak.

Then Maegor steps away from her, a pleasant smile on his face once more as he claps him on the shoulder hard enough that his body screams in protest.

“I hear congratulations are in order, for another matter entirely. I am proud of you, my boy.” The words fill him with confusion and Maegor sees it and… looks almost embarrassed. “Ah.”

“I had not…” Rhaena begins, but Maegor shakes his head.

“It is my mistake,” their uncle answers, looking actually apologetic. “I should have known you would not have told him yet.”

“Told me what?” he asks, feeling the fool. Rhaena manages a small smile and almost physically turns him, her hands resting on his shoulders.

“I believe I am with child,” she finally says. For a moment, it is like the world has fallen away. It is just him and Rhaena, and that smile that he knows is fake. A child? His child?

His child?

“A son for House Targaryen, I know it,” Maegor says proudly.

And for the second time that day, he does not know whether to weep or to laugh.

Chapter Text

Gulls cry, the waves lap the boat, and Rhaena sighs, one hand resting on her stomach, her eyes flickering closed. His eyes linger on the swell of it for a few moments before his gaze drifts upward to the sail above them, to the clear sky. No dragons whirl above and no ships approach, although he can see them in the distance.

“See? There’s no issue, my prince.” Had Elissa Farman spoken to him thus at the beginning of Rhaena’s pregnancy, he would have taken insult. Yet if there is one thing he’s learned about his sister’s beloved in the moons since Rhaena announced she was with child, it’s that Elissa has little sense of propriety with those she is closest to. Now it was only something of a delight to watch he poke and prick at Rhaena until her foul moods, brought on by the court as much as pregnancy, gave way to exasperated fondness. It was different comfort than the one he could provide, and it had been a revelation to find himself not resenting it but appreciating it.

“You have me convinced, Lady Elissa, now you must only conquer the rest of the court.” Elissa gives him a broad smile and turns her attention to the mass of ropes, adjusting some and leaving others. He had not given ships much consideration when he had sailed to the Stepstones, save for how well they burned beneath Vhagar’s flame. Besides, he doubted the war ships of House Velaryon compared to Elissa’s simple pleasure craft.

“Conquer! I should think you already have that quite in hand, my prince,” she laughed. “Especially since the Queen has-”

“Enough,” Rhaena groaned. “I simply want a day where we do not speak of politics or the court. A nice, simple, relaxing day.”

“Well, I think we can manage that for our princess, don’t you?” Our princess. For a wild moment, he wishes to ruin it all, and then he catches sight of Rhaena’s soft smile and Elissa’s mischievous one. A sigh leaves him before he can stop it, although he doesn’t know whether it’s relief, annoyance or simple exhaustion.

It would not do to grow complacent.

He knows that Tyanna will strike sooner rather than later. He knows in his bones that this pregnancy has not been a reprieve, but an uneasy truce - she knew more than anyone how dimly Maegor would take any schemes or incidents that occurred close to Rhaena and their unborn child. Her arm had healed, but her pride had not, and the moment he had an heir, Tyanna would turn her gaze to him once more, and he had to be ready for it. And if it was not Tyanna then it was the Watch that consumed his free hours - between patrols, overlooking arrests, ensuring the rot did not creep back in…

“We should have brought the twins,” he mused when Rhaena gave him a stern look.

“And risk Rhaella falling overboard?” asked Elissa. Rhaena snorted and shifted into the shade cast by the sail.

“I should take them swimming,” his sister sighed after Elissa’s snickering had trailed off.

“Not in the Blackwater.” He knew well the amount of refuse and worse floating in the Bay.

“Not in the Blackwater,” Rhaena confirmed, her mouth quirking up into a smile. “Ah, I’ll be happy when this one finally comes.”

“Is she giving you trouble again?” Elissa asked, moving past them to fuss with something or other.

“She?” asked Rhaena, before shooting a sly look at him. He turned his attention to the waves, smile fighting a way to his face at her small snort of laughter. “With the way he fusses and kicks, this will be a son.”

“I say a she,” Elissa declared. “Care to wager money on it, dear heart?”

“Five dragons,” Rhaena jests right back. “And what of you, Viserys?”

What of him? Did he want a son? A daughter? He had not thought much on the issue in the past few moons, always there was some other task to devote his energy to, and yet, in the dark of night when sleep would not find them, he did dream of a son. A son he could name Aegon, a son he would make king - named for the man who should have been king.

“A son,” he decides, and Rhaena looks triumphant.

“Very well, I know when I am outnumbered,” Elissa laughs, waving her free hand in surrender. “But if this child is a girl, you’ll be honourbound to name her for me!”

“Not a chance,” Rhaena tells her. “I want some hope of her not being a terror.”

Elissa cackles again and he finds himself smiling and letting himself lean back.

It’s been too long since I have simply… been.

He’d have to see Daemon and Ser Hugh when he returned. Yet try as he might, he could not summon much enthusiasm for it, not when the sun was warm on his face-

“My prince!” His eyes snapped open, the fog of sleep blown away by a wind of panic as his hand dropped to where his sword was not. For a wild moment, his blood thundered in his ears, his breath coming loud and fast - where was his blade? How could he have- “Viserys!”

The world snaps into focus. There is no one here but three of them. Elissa still stood at the rudder, although gone is her gleeful expression, now her brows are furrowed, her gaze flicking between him and Rhaena, concerned etched into features that did not seem built for such emotion. Rhaena is upright, no longer leaning against the side of their boat. Both hands are cradling her stomach and she looks as unhappy as Elissa does. Neither seem panicked - his gaze goes to the Bay around them and finds little unusual. Ships still come and go in the distance and the sky remains free of dragons.

“I’m sorry to disturb your much needed sleep,” Rhaena tells him in a tone tight with- Understanding strikes like thunder and he nearly topples from the bench in his effort to reach her, heart pounding and panicked for an entirely different reason now. She laughs, although it is short, a grimace fighting its way to her face as she leans forward slightly. “Say nothing of your worries before we embarked.”

The tone is all warning, and it takes him a moment to realise what she is referring to - his fretting before and after they had climbed aboard and set out for their day of rest on the waves at Elissa’s insistence. It is enough that his panic breaks, it is enough he can breathe again. He lets out a shaky laugh all the same, and she smiles once more.

“I will wait for a more appropriate time,” he promises, voice and hands trembling, and she shoots him a look that promises retribution for the teasing. He reaches for her nonetheless and she allows him close, their hands curling together. What should he do? What can he do? “Are you in much pain?”

What do I know of childbirth? Precious little, heedless even of mother’s troubles.

Perhaps it is a testament to the situation that such a thought even occurs to him, and then fails to elicit the usual unease.

“Not right now,” Rhaena answers. “This is simply the beginning. I have time.”

“Her waters haven’t broken yet,” Elissa observes, her focus on steering them to King’s Landing. “Although it won’t be long.”

He nods, for lack of anything better to say, and Rhaena leans close to him, settling on his side as she shifts in discomfort once more. He remains frozen, his hand in hers, and once again feels loss. Superfluous. Then he feels a fool.

“What do you need from me?” he asks. Perhaps that should have been his first question. Rhaena doesn’t answer straight away, and he fears he has misstepped, and then she groans in pain again and he wraps his free arm about her. She sighs and leans into his shoulder.

“This is fine for now,” she murmurs, then speaks in a louder tone. “How long, Elissa?”

“Not long. I can already see your white shadow lurking on the docks.” He thanks whatever gods might be listening that it is Jon Tollett at his back today. He does not know what he would do if it were one of Tyanna’s creatures, or even the old and doddering Harrold Langward. Owen Bush might have earned Maegor’s disfavour for his poor showing when Benjen had turned, but Maladon Moore still held his confidence.

It seems entirely too long and yet no time at all for Elissa to steer them close enough to disembark, Ser Jon half lifting Rhaena from the boat with his own help. Rhaena lets out another hiss of displeasure as she is loaded into the waiting carriage. He follows, Elissa at his back, and Ser Jon wastes no time or words, merely mounts swiftly and barks out a command to proceed to the Keep as fast as they can.

“Your sword,” Elissa says in the silence that follows, and he almost doesn’t hear her over the rattling of the wheels on stone. Bewildered, he stares at it for too long, no doubt looking the fool. “Didn’t think you would want to leave it behind.”

I do not, even if this is no foe I can fight with the blade.

He takes it with trembling hands and then turns back to Rhaena, pulling her into his lap as she clenches her jaw tight, her eyes fixed on the carriage floor. Her breath is coming in sharp, short hisses through her nose, and he caresses her arm as best he can. Rhaena says nothing and he suspects that’s not by choice but by necessity, lest she make some noise that indicates her pain and signals her predicament to any who are listening for it. Their new position has left enough space for Elissa to sit beside them now. For a moment, he rebels against the notion. Then Rhaena grimaces once more, screwing her eyes closed and he makes his decision. He meets Elissa’s eyes a moment later, but the woman hesitates, her eyes flickering between them. Apprehension - had Rhaena said something to her?

This is not the time to muse on that. She wants Elissa as much as she wants me right now.

“Please,” he says, and it’s enough. Elissa moves, taking Rhaena’s other side, and his sister lets out a sob, resting her head onto Elissa’s chest, leaving her sprawled out over the top of both of them.

“Sweet girl,” Elissa croons. “All will be well, stay strong for Viserys and I. You can do this. You were made for this, sweet girl.”

“We are right here,” he tells her, adding his own voice to it, and she laughs.

“How improper,” Rhaena murmurs. “My lover and my husband comforting me as I labour. If it is twins again, I will geld you.”

“Was it like this last time?” he asks, suddenly curious and knowing it was the worst possible time for him to be so. Rhaena snorted, but at least she did not begrudge him the question.

“You mean was I fawned over in such a manner with the twins? No, Aegon had other matters to attend to, although Melony remained by my side.” Her last word is choked off by a gasp and it is a moment before she speaks again. “Still too far apart.”

“What is?” Elissa asked, but whatever answer Rhaena intended to give is forestalled by their carriage coming to a halt and Ser Jon throwing the doors open to reveal a courtyard that is a riot of frenzied activity.

Did he hire an army of midwives whilst we weren’t looking?

They had prepared for it, of course. Their uncle Daemon had assured them Tyanna would have no purchase, not that anyone thought she’d dare. Still, he had trusted his uncle to see to matters, trusted Rhaena to make her wants known to him. This seemed like an awful lot of people.

“Merciful mother,” Elissa mumbles before they are forced to navigate Rhaena’s exit from the carriage. They follow her out, tumbling ungracefully as women sweep forward to pull Rhaena with them.

“All will be well, nephew, worry not.” Somehow he should not be shocked that his uncle Daemon had arrived so swiftly.

“I should go with her,” Elissa says, staring after the mass of women that are beginning to disappear.

“That is… unwise,” uncle Daemon says. “Best you stay with the twins. Viserys and I will alert the king.”

The king. Maegor.

He had not even thought of his other uncle’s reaction to this. He drew a deep breath.

“Will you comfort the twins, Elissa?” he asks, feeling strangely numb and light-headed in a way he had not since his first months as Maegor’s heir.

“I- of course. Of course. Be safe, my prince. Rhaena will have my head if something happens.” She sets off, her gaze fixed on where the mass of women had disappeared not a few moments earlier. They watch her go and he forces himself to take another, painful breath. How is he supposed to focus on his uncle when Rhaena is-

“Let us go,” uncle Daemon says gently. “You must be the first to deliver the news. Strike whilst the iron is hot.”

“Of course, uncle,” he rasps, feeling as Elissa must have felt, like he should be pursuing Rhaena and staying by her side for what came.

There is little I can do about that now. Our course is set.

Chapter Text

“A boy, my prince,” says the woman as he staggers, dazed, into the birthing chamber. In truth, he can barely hear her over his son’s reedy cries. Rhaena lies atop the bed, her hair tangled and sweat-slicked, but he barely has time to check she is awake and breathing before the wailing bundle is placed in his arms.

A son.

For a few moments, he simply stares at the boy - confusion, numbness. Is this his? His son? His Aegon? Then the babe’s wail breaks as he splutters and coughs and panic lances through him, more biting than he can recall it ever being. But as quickly as the coughs had started they end and he feels dizzy.

He stares down at the babe again, at the face scrunched up in unhappiness, and realises a tear has traced its way down his face without him realising it.

This is his son.

His and Rhaena’s son.

He moves, not feeling quite in control of himself, like he is a puppet on strings, all jerky and imprecise. Rhaena has been sat up now, she’s awake, although her head lolls against her shoulder as she breathes long deep breaths that speak to her exhaustion.

“A son,” he rasps and she smiles, a true and bright smile that makes his heart ache.

“Elissa owes me five dragons,” she mumbles finally. “Our son.”

“What… what did you think to name him?” He hates how his voice breaks. “I thought perhaps Aegon.”

His name is Aegon. Our Aegon. For the Aegon that should have been.

Rhaena’s smile becomes sad and she raises her hand, gesturing to see her son. He obeys, lowering the bundle until she can gaze on an unhappy face.

“Aegon,” she murmurs. “Yes, I would like that.”

He laughs then, happiness, he realises, as more tears escape him, following their earlier fellows path.

“Our Aegon,” he tells her. “Do you-”

He barely gets through a few words before she thrusts her arms out. He places their son in them as gently as he can, and Rhaena beams down at him.

“Our Aegon,” Rhaena murmurs after a while of their silence, broken only by Aegon’s wails. He watches as she brushes a thumb over the babe’s cheek, heedless of his sobs. “He would have… he would have approved. He’d be proud, Viserys. Of you. He’d be honoured at the name.”

Tears threaten again and he swallows them this time, rising for simple need to do something, anything, rather than confront her words for what they are.

I need… I need-

“I will make the announcement,” he tells her and hopes she can not see how she has shaken him. Yet he knows she can, for her look is one of pity. He spins on his heel and leaves, feeling much like he did earlier - a puppeteer guiding his body rather than being truly himself. He stops when the door swings shut behind him, trying to banish Rhaena’s words from his mind. He tries to focus on the sound of her cooing to their son, of their son’s wailing dying away to be replaced by sobs as he finally comes to terms with the world around him.

His son.

Aegon.

He screws his eyes shut and tries to banish the image of his brother, grinning and covered in mud after training, a lance in his hand and a teasing remark upon his lips. He’ll do better for this Aegon. This Aegon will be king. He’ll protect him from Maegor, from Tyanna, from Rogar Baratheon and- and Alyssa Velaryon.

He follows a familiar path to the king’s rooms, barely acknowledging the ancient Harrold Langward at the door. He barely hears the announcement of his presence.

Maegor rises from the seat he had occupied moments ago, crossing the room in two quick strides and the world comes crashing back into sharp focus as if he were atop Vhagar once more, her flames burning ships and men alike.

“A boy,” he breathes, and Maegor stops still and meets his gaze. For a moment his uncle looks neither happy nor sad… merely thoughtful. He barely has time to consider that, another of Maegor’s moods he has yet to figure out, even if he knows him as well as any but Tyanna now, before that thoughtful look vanishes and his uncle gives a bellow of delight. The noise has him fighting not to flinch, fighting to stay still as Maegor closes the difference and pulls him close into a one-armed embrace that has him reeling.

He can not recall this closeness from his uncle before except-

He banishes the small council from his mind.

“His name?” Maegor asks in a jubilant tone, one he had heard so little from him before.

“Rhaena and I have chosen Aegon,” he tells him, and for one moment, he hopes Maegor will challenge him on it. That he will protest, perhaps even demand a name that honours him in turn. He does not know what he would do if Maegor did, yet he hopes he will all the same. In the moment where Maegor considers this name, it feels as if ants have been loosed upon him and within him, crawling beneath his itching skin, some kind of restlessness falling like a mantle around his shoulders.

Breathe. Rashness will only aid my enemies.

“A strong name,” Maegor says finally, his grin still in place. “A warrior’s name. I hope he will bear it as well as those who have borne it before.”

The moment passes and Maegor steps back, turning to the others in the room, and it’s then he realises there are the remains of a meal upon the table, and that Ceryse still sits there, sipping wine and staring into nothingness. Tyanna has moved away to stand by the window and when she meets his gaze, a self-satisfied smirk flickers over her face.

That’s right, our truce has ended now.

He meets her smirk with a nod of acknowledgement. He knows not what she plans but he could hardly do more to guard against her than he, Darklyn and his uncle Daemon have these past few moons.

“It is joyous news, my king,” Tyanna says as her gaze moves on, smirk becoming a smile. Ceryse echoes the sentiment a moment later, distracted.

Well, he supposes wine must have been available for most of the day if she is already like this. Both she and Tyanna are well dressed in furs and satin today, although while Tyanna looks at ease, happy to play the doting wife to a proud… great-uncle, Ceryse is gripping the stem of her goblet in a white-knuckled grip. Is it a reminder of her own inability to give Maegor his desire? He will not exactly wish she could have children, but he finds he pities her in that moment, recalling the way Rhaena had smiled down at their son. Perhaps it might do for him to call upon her, see if she might be a useful addition for their growing alliance. The support of at least one of the former queens for his bid for kingship would be no small prize.

“You will make the preparations,” Maegor tells Tyanna, moving close to lay a hand on her shoulder. Her smile becomes sharper and he wants to ask, but the moment dies as Maegor whirls once more, looking triumphant. “We will have a feast to celebrate! Tonight! See to it, Ceryse!”

At his command, his first wife’s lip curls, but she rises all the same, favouring them all with a nod before she vanishes from the rooms. He imagines she might be grateful for it, the way Tyanna is smiling right now, all sweetness and venom.

“His Grace has been anticipating this day since the moment your lady wife fell pregnant,” Tyanna purrs, stepping forward to rest a possessive hand upon Maegor’s chest.

“Indeed,” Maegor says. “Another son for our house. Another future dragon rider. Another anchor that will see you rise to be king.”

“Although the prince may have his own in time,” Tyanna says snidely. He doesn’t react, he won’t let her have the satisfaction. She has it wrong anyway, he doesn’t fear Jaehaerys. Jae had been a boy, a child. His mother had offered him safety and he had taken it - he would not begrudge a child that. His mother, his mother who it seems had sought to have Maegor slay him with every choice, that is whom he laid the blame on.

But Tyanna knew that and that jibe, he realised, had not been for him. Maegor’s face darkened at her words and he stepped back from her grip. From the speed she let go, she had been expecting it, and he forced himself to focus as Maegor paced.

“I will not hear word of the Velaryon whore nor the children she has ruined this night!” he finally barked, face twisted in annoyance. “We will have a feast, we will celebrate.”

Why did she do that? Poke him into a worse mood, and for what? Surely she must know it would take too much to direct his foulest moods at me this day?

“Then let's not speak of them,” he says and Maegor’s attention swings to him. “When will you see little Aegon, uncle?”

“Soon, no doubt you wish to spend time with Rhaena and your babe alone.” He does not bite his lip as Maegor answers. Good political sense tells him Maegor should see the babe, that the babe should be real to him, but he wants to take this refusal and wrap it around himself, justify his reluctance to allow Maegor close to his child.

“We have plenty of time for that,” he says, keeping his tone light, as if it is no great thing when it is. “Come and see him, hold him for a few moments.”

Maegor shifts for a moment, then his annoyed expression gives way to one almost… sheepish.

“I agree with the prince, husband,” Tyanna purrs. “This little Aegon is your grandchild in all but name, is he not? You have been a father to the young prince and he wants you there to be the first to meet his own son.”

For a moment, the world stops and he bites the inside of his cheek so violently that blood pools in his mouth and all he can taste is the tang of it and the bitterness of her words on his tongue. Maegor has gone almost… soft. Emotions, complicated and simply… too much, tangle in his breast, and he forces himself to breathe, to swallow and to force his mind to work once more.

If her goal is to have me off-balance, she is succeeding. What is her game? Tyanna is not the type to play the sycophant unless it furthers her own goals.

“Indeed,” he rasps and prays that Maegor mistakes it for sentiment rather than a result of a pressure in his chest that keeps threatening to rob his lungs of their function. He forces himself to take measured breaths as Maegor steps away from Tyanna and closer to him and for one hysterical moment, he realises Maegor almost looks afraid. “I would be honoured uncle, truly I would.”

And Maegor stares at him as if someone had managed to club the king over his head again, almost dazed.

“Very well,” he finally says, tone rough. Guilt bites at him for a moment as he realises just how much Tyanna’s words had affected Maegor. Then he shoves the sentiment away to join the teeming mass that still threatens to distract him. “I will see the babe. Then the feast.”

“And then whatever comes next,” Tyanna finishes with another self-satisfied smirk.

Chapter Text

“It is time, my boy.” He blames the lack of sleep and Tyanna’s strange pleasantness putting him on edge and unable to sleep for the fog in his mind. The fog that obscures the meaning of his uncle’s words. He knows his face shows his confusion now.

Maegor is sat at the head of the table in the chamber the small council meets in. He is smiling, genial and utterly relaxed, as if his comment was nothing more than an observation of the weather. He’s even taken leave from the sombre colours he favours, wearing a doublet of thick green rather than scarlet or black.

“Time?” he asks and feels the fool. Still, his uncle is in a good mood by all signs and he has much more leeway at times like these. Maegor doesn’t even frown, he just leans forward and seizes the pitcher of wine on the table.

“Bring me two goblets, Viserys.” His uncle’s smile has not left his face and he moves to obey his command, letting his body’s memory guide him as he tries to pull his mind into the present. The rest of the small council have not arrived yet. Barring Tyanna perhaps, they would not dare be late for a meeting - even a routine one, which this was not, as he had been informed as dawn broke this morning. That meant this time before the meeting was for him and Maegor alone. His uncle had stated it was time, as if he should know, and yet… his mind found nothing.

Am I being a fool here? Does this have something to do with Aegon?

He took the goblets back to the king and Maegor gestured at the seat next to him. He sat, feeling as if a blade were pointed at him ready to strike… only he had no clue when the strike would come from, or where it would be directed. His uncle had none of the tension in him he had come to associate with immediate violence, and that worried him almost as much as his lack of knowledge did. He would not be so calm and pleasant in his demeanour if Tyanna had struck against him, but nor did he think any scheme of hers could bypass what work he had put in with Uncle Daemon to hinder her without any warning whatsoever. Besides, Maegor had set her a task and she would be busy with that, unless…

She was so pleasant last night. Almost as if she knew something I did not.

“Does this relate to the Queen’s appointed task?” he asked as Maegor poured the wine. His uncle paused and then smiled, indulgent and proud, before moving to fill the second goblet.

“Clever,” Maegor grunted after a moment, before setting the pitcher down. “Like the woman you were named for and whose dragon you now ride.”

His uncle’s face had taken on a misty-eyed look as he took a goblet and leaned back. He did not speak, it was never wise to interrupt Maegor when he spoke of Queen Visenya.

“She would have approved of the man you’ve become. You’ll do better than I did, you’ve got a cunning to you. I… I am all brawn, all fight, mother always said. Problems go away when I hit them, but what of the problems I can not see? What of the problems I can not prevent? Tyanna may have been playing her games when she persuaded me to spare you but… it was the right thing to do.” His uncle’s smile is…

He takes a drink of his wine and crushes the churning of emotions deep into his chest. He can not afford to be distracted here. Maegor intends to set something in motion, something Tyanna is pleased about.

“I am grateful to Her Grace for her mercy,” he mumbles into the wine.

“And less grateful for her games I’d warrant. Do not fuss, boy, I know my wife well.” Maegor frowns. “Perhaps I have given her too much of my favour in the past. Mother… warned me of that. It was easier to let her run loose before you came along. It will not be so going forward. You will take my place one day, Viserys, and she will not change that. Yet I did not invite you to speak of her.”

“No, uncle,” he says. It’s safer ground. He watches as Maegor drains his goblet and places it to the side before rising to his feet. His features and eyes are suddenly serious. He knows there is no danger in that frame, and yet the screaming in his mind, that there is something he is missing, only increases.

He will reveal it soon. Remain calm, remain composed. Whatever trap is here can be navigated from as long as I do not make a rushed decision.

He repeats those words in his mind like a prayer. It doesn’t help all that much, but it fills what seems to be the eternity before Maegor speaks again.

“When Aegon rebelled, I wanted to exterminate Aenys’ line.” Maegor’s voice is grave, as if he is making some shameful confession. As if he had not already known, as if the entire Seven Kingdoms had not known what Maegor had likely intended when he usurped the throne. “It was my mother who counselled against it. ‘Kinslaying is no decision lightly taken’ she told me. ‘Produce a son first, two if you can. Only then look to Aenys’ line to see if such action is needed’. Tyanna was pregnant, as was Alys. I assumed it would matter little. I would have two children before long. Then I discovered the truth of it.”

Yet he can not speak, because Maegor’s speech has already revealed too much and he knows, knows in his bones now, what Maegor believes it is time to do. He sits, frozen and useless in his chair, unable to speak and unable to move, and Maegor whirls and begins to pace.

“Perhaps it is my punishment, for defying the gods so. At the time, I believed I had no choice. Aenys was dead, Aegon besieged - from what I remembered of the lad, I had little hope he would be the king that would bind these realms under Targaryen rule. I was wrong, I believe that now. He was more like you than Aenys, he was no craven and he was a fine leader of men.” Maegor nodded. “But I killed him. If my lack of heirs of my body is to be my punishment for that, then I will accept the gods’ judgement.”

Say it. Stop ranting, stop excusing yourself and say it.

Something bitter floods his tongue and he bites his cheek hard enough to draw blood, but Maegor has not noticed, seems somewhere else entirely as he paces like a caged animal.

“You will be my heir, Viserys, and your Aegon after you. Yet that bitch has forged your brother into a knife aimed at your back. She will seek to poison and wither your reign if she is allowed to go free. By all accounts the boy already styles himself as the next king, has promised marriages to House Baratheon and more. How long I have wanted to fly there, to burn Storm’s End down and slaughter the traitors that would sell my mother’s legacy to those fat, useless priests and the sheep who only keep their pitiful lands and titles because my father allowed it!” Maegor was snarling now, his eyes burning. He realises, quite suddenly, that like Maegor, he is on his feet.

His body feels weightless, a contrast to his head that feels as if it’s made of lead. His heart is pounding so loudly that it must be some intervention of those same gods Maegor so hates that he can even hear his uncle ranting. It is hard to breathe, even harder to sort through the maelstrom of emotion and instinct that serves to fill him until he feels it may explode from him, consuming Maegor utterly and laying waste to the small council chamber, to the Red Keep itself. His hand is shaking. Startled, he glances down and finds the one that isn’t shaking curled around the hilt of his sword, the knuckles white.

“It is time, Viserys, to take steps to prevent the poison spreading. Treason could be tolerated whilst there was no other heir, when the whelp may have had a higher calling than the puppet he is, but there is Aegon now and more, in time. Rhaena’s girls as well,” his uncle states. “Tyanna has begun preparations, stand with me as I make my announcement. Ride with me to Storm’s End and let us end this together.”

His uncle has hardly been so verbose in all the time he has known him. It takes until his vision starts spinning that he realises he has forgotten to breathe and he takes a harsh breath. It’s like a knife in his lung and his vision swims before righting itself, but that hardly matters because in his mind, he is in the training yards again with Amos grinning down at him and then it changes and Amos is staring up at him in horror through a ruined face and his hands are covered in the boy’s blood.

And then it is Jae’s face, Jae as he was, whose face is ruined and staring at him. Jae, who was just a boy. Jae, who is still just a boy.

“My brother, he is not… he is innocent. It is my mother, it is Rogar Baratheon.” The insistence is thin, a weak defence when he needs to be strong, but how can he be strong when Maegor has finally turned his attention to Storm’s End, when he wills Jaehaerys dead and gone. And Alysanne, gods, Alysanne will be there too. Even younger, she used to bring him flowers and beg him to tell her stories. He startles as Maegor lays a hand on his shoulder.

When did he move? Fuck! What should I do? He will want an answer now. I can not-

He needs control. He needs Rhaena and Uncle Daemon, together they can come up with something, surely. They can save Jae and Aly, and convince Maegor somehow that they are not a threat with his mother gone. Yet even as he thinks that, he knows he can’t. One look at Maegor’s face confirms it.

“I understand,” Maegor says softly. “I could not have… even Aenys at his worst, I could not have slain him. I will not ask you to. If the boy surrenders, I will send him to take the Black, he will have to be gelded, of course, lest his pups threaten your Aegon, but mercy can be granted.”

His emotions still and his mind empties as if they have reached some point of despair that they simply can not continue to function under.

Pity.

His uncle pities him.

His uncle who murdered his brother. Who would have murdered him. Who will murder Jae.

Maegor removes his hand and smiles as if he feels his little speech has had the desired effect. Perhaps it has, for he does not feel that despair anymore. He is not filled with panic and need anymore. It’s something else, more a pressure than a thought or feeling. A spike of pain shoots through his hand and he realises he has hold of his sword again. It’s enough to steady him slightly. Too let him focus as Maegor speaks again.

“As for Alysanne, well, the Faith have been demanding I send a girl to them, but if you’d like you can take her to wife. I leave the choice up to you.” He says it like it is a favour, a boon he is granting him.

A false mercy, a choice that is no choice at all.

The pressure ignites in him, a ball of white hot rage that makes his vision swim once more, that makes his breath explode from his body, that makes him tremble and shake.

It is odd, what he is aware of as he rips his sword free of its scabbard. He’s aware of sweat prickling across his body, of an almost ache where he’d banged his knee the other night against a table, of the way Maegor looks surprised and then confused and then-

The blade is ill-aimed. He should have stabbed his heart. Instead it sinks into Maegor’s gut, as his thick doublet does little to halt the sword and he wore no chain or armour. Why would he? Maegor had won, after all.

But a blow to the gut doesn’t kill him straight away, and no sooner has Maegor registered the attack then his fist swings up, striking Viserys’ face and sending him reeling back from the blow.

He takes the blade with him as he hits the wall, the impact forcing the breath from him. His uncle is still standing, staring at the growing stain of blood over his doublet as if he cannot comprehend its presence. With a trembling hand, Maegor dabs at it, raising his fingers to the light so that the scarlet there is starkly visible against pale skin.

Then the king falls back into the table and sinks to the floor.

Chapter Text

Anger drains from him so quickly it leaves him light-headed and dizzy, staring as Maegor sinks to the floor. His uncle’s expression shifts from expression to expression and his mind, normally so quick to decipher them, refuses to provide him with answers. For one, seemingly endless moment, he stares at his uncle and his uncle stares at him. Horror makes him numb, he cannot think.

And then the door flies open and in rushes Owen Bush, his own sword drawn and the moment ends as Maegor grunts in pain, twisting to face his Kingsguard. There is no mistaking what Bush must be thinking. His king was bleeding on the floor, and he stood with his blood stained sword still held in lifeless fingers.

I am a kingslayer and a kinslayer.

There is no disguising what happened, no time to lie - in one moment Bush has made a move to stand between him and Maegor, and in the next he is advancing with his own sword raised.

“The Queen’ll have you for this,” Bush growls.

Tyanna. He’d forgotten about her. What an absurd notion, to forget about Tyanna. Yet he knows what she’ll do to him. To Rhaena. She’ll say this was a conspiracy, she’d take Daemon and Tyler too - maybe even Ceryse. She’ll take Aegon, she’ll take Aerea and Rhaella - she’ll pit them against Jaehaerys. Panic seizes him, the world narrowing and he raises his blade. It’s instinct, an instinct drilled into him by the man who still bleeds onto the stone floor. He wants to giggle at it all. Maybe he should thank his uncle.

Owen Bush pauses as the blade comes up, a frown furrowing his brow. His own blade is low and ready, and he knows Owen and Tyanna are well-matched. Bush’s slow advance had more to do with letting fear sink in than any caution. Why would he be cautious? He is one of the more talented Kingsguard and Viserys wears no armour.

Why would I wear armour? This was supposed to be a small council meeting.

He remembers how easy the blade sank into Maegor and bitterly regrets not opting for at least chain under his doublet. They might have mocked him for it but he had borne worse.

“Perhaps I should just kill you myself,” Owen mused, breaking his increasingly manic thoughts as they tumbled over one another. Then he strikes hard and fast and it’s all Viserys can do to dive out of the way. Bush snarls and moves again, impossibly fast for a man so heavily armoured, and all he can do is keep retreating as the man pursues.

Could he make it to the door? He could not win, he knew that. Perhaps if he were a few years older, perhaps with a few more dozen fights of experience. Yet he doesn’t have those, this is here and now, and Owen Bush is going to kill him. He doesn’t bother attacking back, unless he strikes Bush’s head it would be useless to even try and punch through that armour. Desperately, he glances around. Maegor has Blackfyre strapped to his hip, still in its sheath. It might save him, if he could reach it and draw it.

Yet that seems unlikely, impossible even. Maegor still draws breath, for all his eyes are beginning to lose focus and his skin grows increasingly pale. He has little doubt that even if Bush were incautious enough to allow him to reach the king, Maegor would fight him for the blade. Perhaps a blade to the gut had weakened him, but Maegor had always been strong. Even if he held Blackfyre in his hand and turned the tide, unlikely as it was, Bush would simply summon the guard and he would be fighting an army alone.

“No way out, boy,” Bush growls, forcing his mind from Blackfyre to the man intent on his murder. “If you behave yourself, I’ll kill you here and now.”

And if he didn’t, he’d be handed over to Tyanna, was the implication. He needed to think, strength of arm would not see him live through this.

“Will you?” he asked through a stiff jaw and a numb tongue. His voice sounds odd to his ears. Bush halts and tilts his head, a quick and nasty grin gracing his face.

“Think you can best me? This isn’t the training yard,” the man snarls.

“You haven’t raised the alarm,” he bites out. Bush’s smile only grows. “Where are the guards? Your brothers?”

“Perhaps I want the glory of killing you myself.” He knows then that Bush is playing with him once more, that he wants to drag out whatever this has become as he decides whether killing him here and now would be worth not handing him over to Tyanna and suffering her wrath for denying her the pleasure.

“Maybe you’ve grown tired of a mistress out of favour,” he bargains. “I can make you Lord Commander.”

It’s a bluff but Bush buys it, clearly thinking he is desperate enough to try and bribe him, clearly thinking that smothering his hope would be more fun than the usual routes of torture.

“An int-” Bush doesn’t get much further through his reply because the moment Bush lowers his sword to make a show of thinking over the bribe, he stabs at his face, vicious and quick. Bush bellows in anger and pain, but he knows the moment he sees the scarlet line open up on the Kingsgaurd’s face that it is not enough. The man saw his attack coming, he started moving too soon. He’ll leave a scar, but it will not kill. It will not save him.

Bush snarls again, low and like an animal as blood pours from his face. This time when Bush comes, he knows he has no chance of stopping him. He dodges a blow by the sword only to receive a kick to the ribs that leaves him reeling and breathless. He gasps for air as Owen strikes again, unable to move as the sword swings toward him. Desperately, he raises his own sword and the impact makes his arms numb as the blade is ripped from his hands by the force. Bush follows up with a gauntleted blow to the face that sees him hit the floor. His face feels damp and he knows the man has drawn blood.

Choking and gasping, he stares up as Bush stands over him. The man looks thoughtful as streams of blood ooze from the slice on his face. It’s a clean cut, one that starts at his jaw and ends at his nose. A little higher and it would have taken an eye. A little lower and he might have struck his neck. He curses himself as Bush nods to himself.

“The Queen will have to be satisfied with the other pests,” he tells him before kicking him in the chest. Breath is forced from his lungs seconds after he had forced it to return and he chokes and gasps again. Dimly, he hears a clatter as Bush rains blows down on him. He tries to curl up to protect himself, but Bush seems to know just where to hit to make it hurt regardless of his efforts. He loses track of time, loses track of everything, until only the pain and the knowledge the next blow is coming fills him.

He knows Bush is talking. He cannot hear him, can barely hear himself.

Until it stops.

For one moment, he knows in his bones that Bush has stopped because he wants him to feel that flame of hope once more. Then the Kingsguard makes a sound, small and weak - he is not even sure he heard it at first. A wet gurgling sound that he would more associate with- Filled with dread, he risks uncurling.

Bush is still on his feet, but there is a streak of blood down his armoured form. He watches, panting in pain and fear, as the man opens his mouth prompting more to pour from his mouth. Then he falls, hitting the ground and going still and he knows the Kingsguard is dead. Darklyn stands behind him, his dark eyes on the corpse. After a moment, his gaze shifts and their eyes meet.

“Ah good, you are awake. I was quite sure he wouldn’t have killed you, but this would be much harder with you knocked witless.” Lord Darklyn’s words are light, as if he were commenting on a bout in the training yard and not… His eyes flicker to Maegor. The king’s head is thrown back, his skin a ghostly white and his eyes are closed. Something close to- no, not regret. He would not regret this. Lord Darklyn must have followed his gaze.

“Alive for the moment. I assume it was your doing.” There is nothing he can say to deny that, yet Darklyn is not Bush. Darklyn can be reasoned with. His lack of passion - he has no love for Maegor, only love for how high he can rise using him. He thinks he is quite content with being used by one man if it keeps Rhaena and the children safe.

But not if he grows too greedy.

That voice sounds like Maegor.

“He wants to march on Storm’s End. He wants to kill my mother, geld my brother and have me rape my sister.” Then he refuses to look at Darklyn’s thoughts on that as he pushes himself into a sitting motion. The world tilts and rolls around him and bile rises in his throat. He is quite thankful, suddenly, that he did not have time to eat this morning.

“So, he was waiting on an heir,” Darklyn is musing when his wits return and the room stops spinning. His whole body aches and pangs and standing up seems like a task too far, a task fit for a hero of legend instead of him. “The Queen intimated as such, but one can never be sure with her. Remarkably clever of him, I wouldn’t have expected it really.”

“It was his mother’s advice,” he says thickly. Darklyn nodded, as if he were not struggling, instead the Hand’s eyes were on Maegor. He could see now, following Darklyn’s gaze, that Maegor’s chest rose and fell still.

“Ah yes, that’s more understandable.” Darklyn turned toward him then, dark eyes meeting violet, whatever amusement at Maegor’s… decision, whether feigned or genuine, completely faded from his face. “This was unwise, despite Maegor’s threats. It would have been better to agree and consult us. I suppose when one is young, allowances can be made. I trust you do not intend to yield the throne now?”

The throne? The throne his mother wanted Jae on. The throne Maegor had rendered unpalatable to many in the Seven Kingdoms. Would the throne let him sit it? A kingslayer and a kinslayer.

Maegor is not dead yet.

And yet he could not be allowed to live, he knew that. If Maegor recovered, he would kill him and anyone he loved. Then he would take Jae, solely to spite him.

“I’ve come this far,” he says aloud, startling himself. Darklyn smiled thinly and offered a bony hand. He takes it and lets the lord haul him to his feet. He nearly falls again. If sitting up was painful, standing was near unbearable. He grits his teeth and breathes hard as his body screams at him.

“What happened here?” He freezes, but Darklyn doesn’t. His other uncle steps into the room, staring from Maegor to Darklyn to him in stunned horror.

“Our king happened,” Darklyn replies.

“Viserys? Are you well? Damn your schemes, Darklyn, he needs to see a maester,” Daemon hisses and it seems he only blinks and his uncle has crossed the floor, hooking a hand under his elbow and wrapping the other around his shoulders. He groans as his body explodes with pain again and Daemon hisses before half-pulling him to the table. He collapses gratefully into a seat, eyes screwed shut as the sharp pain fades into a dull ache.

When he opens them, he finds the king’s eyes open as well.

“Traitors,” his uncle whispers.

“You get the servants you deserve,” Daemon says simply.

“Perhaps-” Maegor pauses, chokes and he realises his uncle is trying to laugh. Except it’s as if he does not have the strength to do so, his laugh more a pained wheeze. “Perhaps I have the heir I deserve as well.”

“Perhaps you do,” Daemon says, and then Darklyn steps forth and thrusts Owen Bush’s blade into Maegor’s gut, Maegor groans and the lord, dead-eyed and unperturbed, seems to twist it. The king jerks, his legs spasming as he tries to twist himself away from Darklyn, but that only serves to widen the wound.

And hide my own crime.

He stares as Darklyn pulls the blade almost experimentally.

“Stuck fast,” he comments. “That’s good.”

Maegor is dead. The thought strikes him and leaves him reeling. Maegor is dead. The man who killed Aegon, the man who usurped his brother’s throne is dead. Maegor is dead. The thought thunders around his mind like the wind until he fancies it resembles those great funnels that Daemon had told him about. Until it’s all he can think, any other thought swept away by the roaring force and might of it. Maegor is dead, he’s dead and-

“My aid will come with a cost,” Darklyn is saying when he comes back to himself.

“A cost worth paying, I’m sure,” Daemon says. “Name your price.”

“A refreshing candidness. A position on the council, a royal legitimisation for my daughter, and a city charter for Duskendale.” Daemon huffs and he forced himself to focus. A seat on the council yet he had not specified the position of Hand. A legitimisation - that was nothing. The city charter, though…

“I will deliver the position and the legitimisation immediately,” he says thickly, and Darklyn turns to him. “The city charter waits. You will get it, I swear it.”

“My nephew is astute. A council member shifting positions with a new king is not surprising. A young king agreeing to legitimise a bastard, swayed by the earnest pleas of a father is also quite forgivable, but all that and a charter? They might wonder what we have to hide,” Daemon says, shooting him a warning glance. Perhaps he should have tried to negotiate. Yet Darklyn had chosen his demands well, nothing too objectionable, and done at a time when they needed to act instead of argue. Done at a time when his head and body were fuzzy with pain.

“Your terms are agreeable,” Darklyn murmurs. “I will summon the Kingsguard and the council at once. After all, there is a murderer among their number, and her time has finally come.”

Chapter Text

“No! NO!” cries Tyanna. If he did not know her better, he would say she was actually grieving for his uncle, slumped in place with a pool of dark blood beneath him. Not that Tyanna cared, sinking to her knees before him, fingers reaching for Bush’s blade, still stuck in the king’s belly. Grand Maester Benifer followed, laying his hand gently on Maegor’s neck before facing his fellow councillors and shaking his head gravely.

He seems smaller now.

“Seven Hells!” swears Lord Alton Butterwell. Then, seemingly lacking anything better to say, he repeats himself. The others are similar, when he can bear to look at them. Accusing gazes drifting from him to the king and to Owen Bush’s form.

“You!” Tyanna cries. “You! Kinslayer! Kingslayer! Seize him! Loyalty to your king demands it!”

For a moment the room remains frozen, and then Maladon Moore starts forward and the room explodes into bellowing and shouting. His world spins and it is only his uncle’s hand on his shoulder that keeps him in his chair. For a moment, it looks as if the Grand Maester will move from Maegor’s side to attend to him, but he seems to think better of it a moment later.

“Do not be foolish, Ser Maladon,” Darklyn says smoothly. The man has not even raised his voice, and yet the noise falls silent. Moore stops, glancing at Tyanna as if waiting for instruction.

“He does not even deny it,” she hisses, raising an accusing finger, coated in Maegor’s blood. Blood he’d spilled. Yet Darklyn had saved him from that, at least.

His tongue feels thick and heavy in his mouth as it opens. “I did not kill our king. I could not.”

The councillors glance at one another - he hears his uncle hum in approval, so low he almost misses it. He aches. He hurts. He wants to wake up and have this all be some terrible nightmare.

Why had he stabbed his uncle? For Jae, for Alysanne. He had to live. He had to-

“Bush intended to kill me,” he continued, letting his eyes close as the very air seemed like knives being driven into it and then up into his skull. “I was… no match. Maegor… if I had not been there… In his own way, he wished to save me.”

Wasn’t that the truth? That his uncle had wanted to save him, not from Jae but from his mother and what she was forging Jae into?

“Are we to believe that an honoured knight of the Kingsguard turned upon the king?” asked Tyanna, her tone almost… beseeching.

“Not so honoured,” he heard Symond Crayne spit. His friend- He opened his eyes and found the knight of the Kingsguard had moved to the corpse of his brother in arms, a look of disdain on his face.

“Just so, Ser Symond,” Lord Celtigar spoke up. “Well, it’s no secret, is it? As Master of Laws I can attest that King Maegor asked me for documents surrounding the founding of the Kingsguard! It is my belief that he wished to have Ser Owen struck from the White Book after his dismal display protecting the prince!”

“Hm, yes… yes, I recall… something of that,” the Lord Commander muttered. He had been staring in silence at Maegor’s corpse, yet mention of the White Book had roused him. The ancient man seemed to be unsteady on his feet shifting back and forth every now and again as he stared.

He risked looking to the other white knights. Tollet was with him, almost literally, as the knight had chosen to move slowly around the room to flank him. His face showed his concern. Viserys knew he must look a state.

Moore was easy to place as well, his hand still on his blade, appraising the room as if to ascertain the most dangerous men. Mallery and Bracken… they had been steadfastly neutral in that past. He had hope they would follow whatever was decided here, and turn on Moore if it was needed.

“Why are we entertaining this farce?” hissed Tyanna, standing suddenly. “Summon the guard! Take this kingslayer to the cells! YOUR KING IS DEAD! MURDERED!”

Her last words rose to a bellow.

“That the king is dead is not in dispute,” spoke Grand Maester Benifer finally. “It is who murdered him that is. Now I must examine the prince!”

He steps past Tyanna and for one wild moment he thinks Tyanna will lunge for the man, but instead she rocks back, glancing around the room with wide eyes. Benifer reaches him a moment later and silence reigns as the man pokes and prods at him, mouth thinning and making occasional thoughtful hums.

He is won to our side.

The realisation is sharp and makes him wheeze. Benifer pauses in his examination, frowning. Celtigar, the Grand Maester, his uncle and Darklyn. They needed Butterwell and the neutral Kingsguard still, but…

“I must insist the prince rest as soon as possible,” Benifer concluded. “But do not sleep!”

“He will have no rest!” spat Tyanna. “He will be in a cell!”

“Let us start with what is known,” Lord Edwell Celtigar cuts in, raising a hand. “Lord Hand?”

“I heard the process of a beating and grunts of pain. Neither Prince Viserys nor Ser Owen were armed. Maegor had fallen there, Ser Owen’s blade within him. Prince Viseryss blade had fallen nearby.” Darklyn began. Eyes swung toward his sword. A sword on which there was too much blood to have been the sole cause of Bush’s one cut. “I dispatched Ser Owen with my own dagger and gave my aid to the prince. He was in great distress.”

“One can imagine,” Grand Maester Benifer said kindly. “He has taken one or two blows to the head!”

“And did the prince state what had happened?” asked Lord Edwell.

“It was somewhat disjointed. From what I could gather, Bush had attacked him first and Maegor had intervened.” Lord Celtigar made a gesture as if he were considering Darklyn’s words.

“Thank you, Lord Hand,” he finally replied. “Lord Velaryon, have you anything to add?”

“Little that the Lord Hand has not already covered,” his uncle said after a moment of consideration. “My nephew was barely conscious when I arrived and, as the Lord Hand said, in quite some distress. Once we ascertained he was not mortally wounded, we called for yourselves.”

“This is an outrage,” Tyanna whispered. “An outrage! You may play all the games you wish, my lords, but I will not. Ser Maladon, take him!”

“If you take one step, brother, I’ll take your head,” Ser Jon Tollet murmured, his own sword flying free of his sheath. As if some signal had been sent, the Kingsguard all drew their swords. Ser Symond moved to his side as well, sparing him a tight smile. Mallery and Bracken took up a side near Langward, the ancient Lord Commander.

Ser Maladon, his sword held low, glanced about, as if considering his options.

“Well, I never!” grunted Butterwell. “Such crassness! You Ser are a knight of the Kingsguard! A failed one, close friend to a kingslayer, and now intending to become a second!”

The room tensed at that.

He said the quiet part out loud.

Even Lord Butterwell seemed surprised at what he had said, looking almost puzzled for a moment. Then he drew himself up to his full height and seemed to almost expand.

“That’s right!” he said. “King Maegor is dead, and it was his intention for Prince Viserys to follow him as King. Loyalty to my King, Lady Tyanna, demands I bend the knee to King Viserys!”

It was overdone and showy… likely because he had been the last to declare his allegiance amongst the councillors.

“Treachery,” Tyanna spat. “I will not allow it.”

“It is not your duty to allow or disallow,” Darklyn cut in.

“Besides,” Lord Commander Langward cut in. “Look at the boy. He’s a boy. He couldn’t have stabbed the king in the gut. In the back maybe, not the gut.”

Silence followed the somewhat… odd cut in. A sense of offense welled in his breast, but… well, it was true. He had fought Maegor many times, and many times his uncle had put him in the dirt, or worse.

“The honoured Lord Commander makes an excellent point,” Lord Edwell said after clearing his throat.

“Indeed,” the Grand Maester said. “Maegor was a fearsome fighter, and prince or not, had someone approached him with a blade he would not have been caught unawares. He was as talented with a blade as without one.”

“So you throw duty aside for sycophantic fawning,” Tyanna declared. “I will not hear it. There must be a trial, one honest! A trial by combat!”

“Will you try and interfere in this one too, Tyanna?” asked Daemon deceptively mildly. “By setting your lackeys on the prince to deliver a beating, perhaps? That really did not please the King.”

The silence that followed… his mind felt thin and stretched and ragged and full of holes, but even he could see the goal of that statement. All that remained was the accusation.

“He said he had given her too much favour.” He hates how little effort he has to put into his tone to make it plaintive and almost whiny. “That she would not be allowed to play her games going forward.”

“The King asked me about the business of poisons,” put in Grand Maester Benifer. “Their effects on the body and such.”

“And Ser Owen was her creature, no true Kingsguard,” spat Ser Symond, directing a glare at Ser Maladon. “Just like this one, who seems so eager to spill our new King’s blood.”

Tyanna blinks, long and slow, and then laughs. There is no joy in it. It is a bitter thing that fills the room, and he wants to squirm as the strength seems to leave her body and she slumps backwards against the wall.

“I see,” she hisses. “Ser Maladon, to me.”

She has scarcely finished speaking when Maladon begins moving. His eyes go to where his sword lies on the ground, stained with Maegor’s blood. He won’t reach it in time, and what good would he be against Moore anyway? Daemon’s hand feels like a vice grip on his shoulder as he is wrenched from his seat by his uncle. His leaden feet nearly send him sprawling again as the world seems to slow down.

“Moore, you traitor!” howls the elderly Lord Harrold, advancing forward, his face contorted in rage.

He may actually be the only one who truly believes Tyanna responsible.

Ser Olyvar and Ser Raymund sweep forward at his side - glancing warily about as if they themselves are still unsure. Jon and Symond step by him and five Kingsguard face off against one. Ser Maladon looks chagrined, but it does not seem to have affected his readiness.

“Don’t make me kill you all,” he growls, the first time he’s spoken. “This is fucking lunacy. The Queen’s the only one speaking sense.”

“I have tolerated your disloyalty too long!” The Lord Commander shrieks as if he has not heard him, charging forth with his blade raised… and then he is toppling back, a bloom of scarlet at his throat, and the four men move in with shouts and cries, whatever hesitancy they had lost at the brutal attack on their Lord Commander. Lord Butterwell bolts for the door, shrieking for the guards.

The white knights circle Ser Maladon, leaving him no escape, and every time he shifts and moves they move with him, allowing him advantage. Blades flash out, clashing and then withdrawing - not a stalemate, for Ser Maladon is breathing hard and his knights are not. It is brutal, how they move in complete harmony, each blow forcing Ser Maladon back or exhausting him just that bit more, until his back is against the wall, Tyanna forced to shift to avoid being trampled underfoot.

The chamber falls silent, only Ser Maladon’s heavy breathing to be heard.

“You can still lay aside your blade,” Lord Celtigar says calmly. “It’ll be the Wall, but you’ll keep your head.”

Ser Maladon snarls, a noise like an animal. He brings his blade up once more. Licks his lips and for a moment, he thinks the Kingsguard knight might actually be considering the offer.

And then three things happen in quick succession, and he can only stand there, clasped in his uncle’s grip as they do. The door bursts open, Targaryen men streaming in, an array of weapons all pointed at Ser Maladon.

The white knight responds with a bellow and a leap forward, plowing into Ser Jon. The two knights tangle and a moment later there is a sickening crunch as Ser Jon falls and Ser Maladon staggers, struggling to regain his footing.

Ser Symond moves so quickly, his aching eyes almost don’t see the silver arc of the sword swing. Yet swing it does, and makes a bloody ruin of Ser Maladon’s face a moment later.

The Grand Maester rushes forward to where the Lord Commander had fallen-

No, Jon is there! You can save him!

But even as he thinks it, he knows he is wrong. He tries to pull himself free, but Daemon’s grip remains steadfast and instead he watches as the Grand Maester murmurs some words to the Lord Commander and then reaches to close his eyes.

“Guards, seize the former Queen,” Darklyn says coldly.

Ser Olyvar Bracken does not give them a chance, catching Tyanna’s wrist himself and wrenching her violently to him. Ser Raymund follows soon after, seizing her other arm. Dazed looking men come forth and take her, none too gently.

“To the cells with her,” Lord Edwell follows up.

“I’ll arrange for a few of my trusted knights to follow and keep watch over her,” his uncle says slowly, finally, finally letting go of his shoulder. “We wouldn’t want any misplaced loyalty getting in the way of justice for our King.”

He wants to run to Jon’s side.

Instead, his legs crash out from under him and he falls.

Chapter Text

Mercifully, his uncle catches him before he strikes the floor and makes a fool of himself before his new small council. He hears Tyanna curse once and manages to raise his head to see her finally pulled from the room, looking small and frail between the bulk of the guards that had seized her.

The thought of the men before him being his is odd, strange. He looks to them as his uncle hauls him back to a chair. They do not look at him like he is their king.

Why would they? They have power over me in this moment.

He is not a king crowned, but a supplicant. They may have sided with him, but he’s not their only option. He is not their king until they crown him and bind their fortunes to his… and even then, what stops them from finding a new one?

“Jae-” When he tries to speak his brother’s name, all that emerges is a wheeze. “War.”

“We’ll discuss it later,” Daemon murmurs. “Do not worry, I have saved one nephew, I won’t forsake the other.”

“My lords!” Daemon calls after a moment and gazes turn to him. He feels too large for his body, convinced the men are studying him, waiting for him to make a mistake, act wrongly- something that will make them turn- “Much has happened, my lords. A King murdered by a Kingsguard on the orders of a Queen! The Lord Commander slain. We have but three white knights left.”

Symond straightens when Daemon says that, his eyes meeting Viserys’ - his face full of determination. He must know, he must know what he did and yet-

“And a war on the horizon,” Lord Celtigar said, quietly. Eyes swing towards him and the man flushes, then raises his head defiantly to meet their eyes. When it is his turn, he does not want to meet that defiant gaze, but his Master of Laws seeks him anyway, and so he forces himself to nod in acknowledgment and hopes Celtigar believes his reluctance to be borne from pain.

What good is this charade? They know. They only follow me because they believe Jae’s strings are already held.

Bitterness floods his mouth, a sour taste on his tongue, and Celtigar continues.

“When Storm’s End learns of Maegor’s death, they’ll declare for Jaehaerys,” he tells them in a firm tone. “And the Hightowers will rise with him.”

“Queen Ceryse-” starts Butterwell, then pauses, no doubt recalling the Queen in question, perpetually drunk and bitter.

“Ser Olyvar, go to the Queen and place her under guard,” Darklyn says finally. “Ser Symond, accompany Prince Viserys back to his quarters, gather his family there with him.”

It should be him taking charge and yet he could only sit there, like a lump, as the two men move at Darklyn’s command. For them, Darklyn is still the Hand.

Nor is he wrong that I am still a prince.

He risks a glance at his uncle, whose gaze is on the men of the small council.

“I will collect some things from my solar and then attend to the prince once more,” Grand Maester Benifer speaks up. “I have managed only a cursory examination, but given his unsteadiness-”

“Very well, Grand Maester,” Darklyn says. “Lord Celtigar, have the bells in the city rung. Lord Butterwell, alert the guard. No one is to leave or enter the Keep.”

“We will meet tomorrow, after my nephew has had time to rest,” Daemon cuts in. Silence and stillness falls for a moment, until Symond starts forward and the rest recall their given tasks.

“Come,” his uncle murmurs. “Can you walk?”

Can he? He stands with some difficulty, aching and miserable, gripping Daemon’s forearm tightly.

“Come now,” Symond murmurs. “I can’t have a second king die on my watch, imagine that entry in the White Book.”

Symond’s words make his guts twist. He is no king yet.

“Rhaena would kill me if I died,” he manages to say. The jape is weak and not very funny - but Symond snorts anyway.

The jape that came to his lips with little thought makes his guts twist again. Rhaena… what would she make of this? Him, a kinslayer. A kinslayer in spirit, if not in deed. He had killed Maegor, even if it had been Darklyn that had ended his life. The wound he had dealt had been fatal…

She would be mad with worry besides that, when the bells started ringing and the guards in Targaryen colours swarmed the halls. That realisation alone has him lurch forward, determined to reach her before she finds out some other way.

“A day is not enough,” Daemon says as they begin their journey. “But it will have to do. Things are far too dire to allow for the full rest you need.”

He wants to apologise but knows he can not, not with Benifer so close. Instead he focuses on taking one step after another… and ignoring the stares of servants and lords alike. Whispers seem like bellows in their aftermath. They see the blood, see his injuries. They’ve seen men and women come and go and have probably seen Tyanna hauled off to her own dungeons.

They will know for certain when the bells ring…

He has to get to Rhaena before they do.

The walk feels like a trek, too long and exhausting… it reminds him of the day he claimed Vhagar…

But it was no mighty beast waiting for him behind the doors to his quarters, only his sister, just starting to move about with any freedom after Aegon’s birth. Guilt claws at his throat, he knows she’ll worry, knows the girls will see him bloody and bruised.

At some point, Benifer left them, yet he scarce knew when. Just that one moment the old Grand Maester trailed them and the next he was gone. His thoughts run rampant, revisiting old memories and flitting through future wonderings… until the door is before him, swinging open.

What a sight we must make.

It’s his only thought before Rhaena, who had been crouched at Aerea’s side, rises, sees them and sweeps forward with a low cry that brings his guilt crashing back like a wave washing away all before it.

“What happened?” she gasped, reaching for him.

“King Maegor… is dead,” Daemon says, guiding him further and finding him a spot before the fire to sink into. Aerea meets his eyes, a frightened look on her face. Rhaena stares at them, aghast, as if hoping they are playing some cruel trick…

And when the mirth does not come, her face falls. Daemon reaches out and beckons one of her servants. The woman, who had been staring at him, hastens forward and ushers little Aerea away as Rhaena almost staggers her way to stand before him.

His eyes meet hers and he knows she knows, knows in his gut she knows what he did. And yet, no disgust marks her face. He, a kinslayer and kingslayer…

He reaches for her and she takes his hand, bringing it to her cheek.

“Tell me,” she finally says.

“Owen Bush ambushed Viserys,” Daemon says. “Maegor defended your brother and-”

Daemon stops and lowers his head, as if it all grieved him.

“Was it Tyanna?” Rhaena asked in a trembling voice.

“We believe so,” Symond said gravely.

“She’ll grace the cells until we have the truth of it,” Daemon told her. “Ser Symond, will you order some boiled water for His Grace?”

The White Knight bowed and disappeared. Daemon and Rhaena watched him go.

“We don’t have long,” his uncle finally murmured, bending low as if making some motion to inspect his wounds. Rhaena joined him, making a concerned sound.

How are they both able to do this so easily?

Yet his musing did not last long, for his uncle was speaking again in a low and urgent tone. “The small council aids us yet, but we must strike quickly. Storm’s End will press Jaehaerys’ claim before long. They will abandon us if they see a chance to defect, for they will prefer-”

“One better suited to their morals,” Rhaena suggested as their uncle paused, as if reaching for the correct words. He knew what they meant. One not tainted with incest. Not a kinslayer, not a kingslayer.

“Quite. Regardless, tomorrow we must move quickly. Announce your intent to fly to Storm’s End. Alyssa will see sense, I am sure of it, if you stand before her once more and swear to keep Jaehaerys and Alysanne safe.”

“Is it up to our mother?” asked Rhaena, a look of distaste on features, as if she wished to say more but could not. “Or has she lost control of the beast she created?”

“Your mother-” The door opened and Ser Symond reentered, a servant following with a tray. “Mention this to the Grand Maester when he returns.”

His uncle followed up by pressing his thumb into a small spot above Viserys’ ear without warning and making him wince and hiss in pain. Daemon rose and Rhaena followed, although she still clutched his hand in hers, as if she were afraid of letting him go.

“Get some rest, Viserys,” his uncle told him seriously. “Tomorrow… tomorrow you must be at your best.”

What his uncle meant was clear.

Today, I can be a lump. Tomorrow I must be a king.