Chapter Text
The first golden rays of dawn crept through the ornate windows of his bed-chamber, and Viserys summoned his personal attendants, allowing them to assist him in his morning ablutions.
As the heir to the heir to the Seven Kingdoms, his every move will be scrutinised, and he knew he must present an impeccable image to the courtiers and the nobility.
The man-servants presented him with an array of sumptuous garments, each more ornate than the last. He selected a doublet of the finest velvet, its deep burgundy hue accentuated by intricate gold embroidery. Pairing it with a crisp white shirt and well-tailored breeches, he would say he cuts an imposing figure, the very embodiment of nobility and power of the Targaryen family.
He stood patiently as they brushed and tended to his hair, ensuring not a single strand was out of place. He had taken a hot bath last night, with strong herbal oils and scented soaps his aunt Gael recommended.
He turned his attention to the ornate accessories that completed the ensemble – the signet ring that bore the three headed dragon crest of his family, and the regal Gold cloak draped over his shoulders.
A deep rumble that resounded throughout the whole keep made him flinch, and he put his pale hand at his chest, his heart beating wildly, disturbing his usual morning routine. A high pitched sound followed, this one he recognised as his brother’s misshapen dragon’s. Caraxes’s roar ever makes him uncomfortable, the tune grating in his ears.
“Viserys,” his Aemma called out to him, and he turned to see her walking towards him, her pale hair neatly braided in her scalp, with ruby red stones embedded in her hair, making it shine. He liked it this way, and personally asked his aunt Gael to gift her these stones. It was his grandmother’s, who had been given these by her own mother, Alyssa Velaryon, and who in turn was gifted these stones by Visenya herself, who most likely got these from her own mother, Valaena Velaryon.
Such storied jewels must not collect dust, so he had requested those from his aunt, and she had given these to her on the day Rhaenyra was named. She had a sly smile when she asked her to pass down these stones to their daughter, when she came of age.
His chest puffed up, when he saw his wife, and he embraced her gently, gifting her a soft kiss on her brow, careful not to disturb her braids.
“Have you prepared for the return journey, my love,” he asked his wife, as she still struggled to speak high Valyrian, the language of their forebears. He was appalled when he learnt she did not know their mother tongue, and was ashamed when he only knew of this fact three years after their wedding, on the day they buried their first son.
He was grief stricken, and his brother consoled him, and he asked his wife something in their tongue, and his brother was the one who noticed this truth. They had gone to their grandmother, but she did not let them speak to her or their aunt, and they did not talk with Rhaenys, pride warring with them, so only he could teach her, as Daemon was sent away to the Vale.
He was angry, back then, for he finally got the one thing his brother could not have, a Valyrian Bride, and she did not even know how to speak their tongue.
He had written to his aunt in secret, for he did not want this shame to spread anymore than it already had, and asked for her help in giving Aemma her lessons. She had acquiesced, and since then, did her best in helping his wife in learning their tongue. There wasn't anything he could do, as his wife does her duty, and duty often let her be bedridden, trying to carry the next heir to the Iron Throne and the promised prince full term.
He had been burdened with this glorious purpose, the promise of greatness, as his grandfather chose him rather than Rhaenys, by giving his father the inheritance, and this secret. His father had passed this secret to him in turn, and he would one day pass this secret to his son.
He had wanted to ask his uncle Vaegon, if the king had shared the Dream with him, but the maester-prince’s unpleasant countenance and conduct had shown him to not be worthy of this. So he had decided not to share this secret with his own brother Daemon, for if his Grandsire did not share it with his spare heir Vaegon, then he has no right to share it with his unpleasant brother in turn.
He loves his brother, with all his faults, but his overbearing presence and unmannerly exploits, and his bloodlust, had left him to have no choice but to consider him unworthy of the secret. He usually would share everything with his dearest brother, for their father had asked him to swear, on the memory of their mother, on her deathbed, to never abandon his little brothers.
He could not save his youngest brother Aegon from the Stranger’s grasp, but he would never abandon his Valonqar. He would always give him the second chance with open arms.
“Husband?” his fragile wife called out, and he looked down, and hummed.
She sighed, and looked out towards the window, the dark ambience and the rough mountains of the Dragonstone Isle looked back at her. She looked peaceful, looking out towards the sky like that. She turned towards him once more, “Would I be expected to run the Red Keep?” she asked him.
He does not understand why she would ask this, as the wife of the heir’s heir to the Iron Throne, it is her duty to run the keep. “Yes, my wife,” he still answered her question. She is blessed, to have such a mindful husband like him. He shudders to think what other brute could have been handed her hand, her Valyrian blood mixing with common mud-browned people.
“You will be expected to run the Red Keep, efficiently and effectively. Though if you feel it is a bit much, then I would gladly ask for my dear friend Otto, to help you in your affairs and be your steward.”
The HighTower second son, Otto, is an honourable man, whom he had befriended and won over with his charm and stubbornness. The man is a great politician, and honourable enough not to be corrupt. He would need an able hand to run his realms when he inevitably takes over from his father, may the gods let it be a long time from now.
His wife looked terrified at that, but he shushed her, and patted her back softly. She need not do anything but her duty, to provide him with a son, and a brother-husband to their daughter, Rhaenyra.
“I—” she started, but her fear choked her, not letting her talk. She took a deep breath, and he waited for her, wanting to hear her concerns. He is such a good husband. His father had raised him right, unlike his brother. He wonders what went wrong with him, to not appreciate their father’s match. His brother is ever greedy, never grateful.
His wife clenched her fist, her knuckles turning pale white in the action. “Perhaps…” she started once more, before stuttering out, “Aunt Gael will help me with the endeavour, if we ask.” she said, and continued, “the keep needs a female touch,” she looked determined, her eyes beholding his, and she did not look away as she said her piece. “And Otto may be an Honourable man, but he isn't one of us.”
He paused at that, for his wife brings out a valid point. The man isn't a dragon like them, and while he enjoys his presence and their friendship, his duty as the next head of house of the Dragon, after his father, required him to put their family’s concerns and interests first, his duty to the realm next, and his friendship and wants last. He would do that, for he is a dutiful son and an able prince of the Blood.
“You are right, Aemma,” he acknowledged wife with a smile, after a beat too long. She gave him a relieved smile, making him want to tilt her chin. He did so, and locked gaze with her blue eyes, her blues softer than his aunt’s and not so otherworldly. “I will request our aunt's help in managing the Red Keep, and she would not deny us.”
He kissed her forehead once more, and softly pecked her lips, savouring her sweetness. He is grateful to have her as his wife, no matter her inability to give him a son. He would not hold it against her, for he would have his son, one way or another. For it is written in fate, by the gods themselves, that only his own son, his blood, will carry the torch, and the weight of legacy will be passed down through him.
“Nyke jaelagon naejot umbagon kesīr, gūrogon dohaeragon īlva kepa.” his sister said to him, firmly. She remained unmoved to his pleading eyes.
I wish to stay here, taking care of our father.
His sire had decided to stay in Dragonstone, away from King's Landing. As the heir and the Hand of the King, he could not afford to leave the realm in someone else’s hand. He understands, more than most, what it would do for a man of their blood to lose their better half. But, it would not do, to let grief consume you, and fall into a depressed pit.
He had asked earlier for Gael to accompany him to King’s Landing. He was very much delighted, at the prospect of ruling the capital of the Seven Kingdoms together. But the dream turned to ashes, when his Gael refused to so much as to move away from their father, citing the need to take care of him.
He is an old man, and The King of the Seven Kingdoms, he has an array of man-servants and dozens of maids and hundreds of men-at-arms to do his bidding, why should she take care of him personally? He did not want to voice out such a question, but his eyes had expressed his opinions well enough.
His Gael had ignored his pleas all day, and he needs to be in the capital, as it had been a sennight since they stayed away from the centre of power. The realm needs a good head, to run properly, and with their father being cooped up and refusing to leave Dragonstone, it is up to him to take care of the affairs.
“Se dohaeragon kostagon gūrogon dohaeragon zirȳla, ao jorrāelagon daor jenigon,” he whispers to her, holding her shoulders with both of his hands tightly, refusing to leave her until she saw reason. “māzigon lēda nyke naejot se dārys tegorīr, kesā hae ziry konīr, kīvin zijo.”
The servants can take care of him, you need not bother. Come with me to the King’s landing, you will like it there, I swear it.
She tried to get out of his grasp, but he would not let her. He likes her like this, in his arms, listening to him. His eyes had taken a darker hue, and he did not notice how oppressively he was handling her. Neither did he notice guards looking at each other, and two of them running out of the room.
“My prince,” Ser Clement called out to him, but he ignored him, looking at the treasure in his arms.
“Ivestragī nyke jikagon, bisa tȳne, lēkia,” she said to him, her blue eyes on fire. Her eyes look vast, and he wants to drown in them, or fly through them, it does not matter. He will have her.
Let me go, this instance, brother.
She looks at him defiantly, and gods, his blood runs straight to his cock, hardening them. He would like for her to keep looking at him. He wants to hug her, kiss her, defile her, and make her his. She would be a spectacular queen, like his mother had been to his father. He could not wait for her to be beneath him, in their wedding bed.
“Jaelan ao naejot sagon lēda nyke,” he says, his tone final. He had ever expressed how he felt towards his sister, but never told her, and now feels like the right time. “Sagon ñuhon,” he admitted to her, suddenly feeling afraid. He does not wish for her to not look at him. He wants her to be his Rhaenys, like Alyssa had been his Visenya.
I want you to be with me, be mine.
Her eyes widened, and lips gaped open, and gods, he wants to take a forbidden bite at that, wants to know how it tastes. Would it be sweet, he thinks to himself, like she is? She stood there, looking shocked. Ser Clement rushed towards them, but appeared to hesitate to harm a prince of the blood.
The door burst open, yet he did not let go of his sister, for who would dare to tell him otherwise, to not take a taste of his own sister?
“Nādrēsy,” he heard his son’s voice, and he turned around to see Daemon striding into the chamber, his long pale hair undone, and Dark Sister unsheathed. He watches his son unhesitatingly charge at him like a raging dragon, but thankfully, Ser Clement had the presence of mind to parry the attack, his sword’s edge facing Daemon.
Bastard
He frowned, leaving Gael to fully give his attention to his deranged son. It would not do to attack your father in broad daylight, he must have lost his touch with his son, for him to be this impulsive.
“What are you doing here, Daemon?” he asked his son in a stern voice. He saw Gael take a seat, a hand in her heart, looking baffled and confused. Poor thing, he thinks, his son must have frightened her. He will protect her from his son, and show her his worth.
“Nyke henujagon ñuha sodjisto mērī syt mēre tȳne, se jā rȳ zirȳla, hae iā ribazmoqitta jaos,” his son said, panting heavily.
He showed his disappointment in his face, for a prince should not speak such unseemly words. His son paused for a moment, and gave him a disgusted look in return.
I leave my aunt alone for one second, and you pounce at her, like a mad dog.
“Daemon,” his Gael called out, sipping water from the chalice the maids had given her earlier. “Sheath that fucking steel.” she cursed, and he gasped, turning to see her glaring at both of them.
His face widened when she came forward, and slapped him in the face, making it burn. He placed his palm where she had slapped him, and he felt his heart beat faster than ever before, making his blood pumped up. He had only ever felt this with Aly–
“Gaomā daor emagon se paktot naejot renigon nyke mijegon ñuha mazōregon,” she spat out, her face turning red with exertion. Her hair gleamed in the morning sun, turning it a pleasant gold that would turn any Lannister cunt green with envy.
“Gaomagon ao shifang?” she gritted her teeth at that, and he nodded his head without meaning to. She walked past him, her maids, Ser Clement and dozens of guards following after her. She gestured something to Daemon with her hands, and he furiously nodded his head, smiling a mile wide, showing his sharp white teeth.
You do not have the right to touch me without my assent, do you understand?
She left after that, not turning around to see his purple eyes glaze with lust. His son seemed to have noticed it, though, as he rushed forward and punched him heavily in his other cheek. That wouldn't do, he thought, and slapped him back, less sharply than intended, but the sound rang around, echoing in the empty hall.
They both stayed still for what seemed like an infinity, with both their hands clutching their cheeks, before his son took a deep breath and faced him. His face expressed such a deep loathing, that he staggered a step back for a moment, before he glared right back.
“Kostā sagon iā rhaenagon vala, yn iksā iēdrosa ñuha tresy,” he started slowly, intending to hammer this into his stubborn head. It wouldn't do for his son to challenge his authority. “Pendagon bona.”
You may be a married man, but you are still my son. Remember that.
He walked away, his earlier hardened cock having softened a touch when his son dared to punch him. He will have to slap his son out of his rebellious phas–
“Emā ojūdan se paktot--” he son says softly, but he hears it all the same. He turned back to see him come forward towards him, and they paused before each other. You have lost the right--
“Emā ojūdan aōha paktot, naejot bodmagho nyke mirros,” his son’s eyes turned tearful, and he felt uncomfortable to see his son like this, so vulnerable. Makes him remember all the time he had failed him as a father. “skori ao geptot nyke naejot morghūljagon isse se Vāle.” he finished at that.
You have lost your right, to teach me lessons, when you exiled me to rot in the Vale
He palmed his son's throat, as he is willing to teach his son his lessons on the hierarchy of their family, if it meant being harder on him. He gripped his throat harder, and his son choked, trying and failing to breathe through his mouth. The veins on his pale hand became more visible, and he put more pressure on his grip, and he looked straight at his son's violet gaze, wanting to hammer this lesson into his stubborn head.
“Iksā ñuha tresy,” he whispered to his son, “kesā rȳbagon naejot nyke.” You are my son, and you will listen to me.
“Jiōragon bona ezīmagon aōha bartos,” he tightened his hold on his son's throat, the fury bubbling in his belly, a dangerous thing that he usually keeps to himself. “iā morghūljagon sylugon naejot jiōragon bona.”
Get that into your head, or die trying to understand that.
His son looked furious, but he did not bow down his head in submission. His son tried to punch him in the face, but he removed himself from the fist’s trajectory, and moved back a little. His son kneed him in his balls, and the pain sent shivers all throughout his body, but he stayed firm, only the blood pumping through his veins let him stand straight.
The grip he had on his son's throat was now painful even to him, and his son passed out, face pale grey. “Guards,” he called out loud, the sound reverberating the empty chambers.
Dragonstone gentry came rushing into the chamber, a dozen of man-servants already before him. They wore high quality black and red clothes, showing the Dragonstone’s superior finances. “Take him to see the Maester, and confine him to his bed-chamber.” his command was met with low bows and ‘yes, your grace', and the guards took one look at his fainted son on the ground, and looked to themselves.
They then carried his son up and gently placed him on a wooden table, taking special care not to jostle him up, and carried the table out of the hall. They moved fast, and before he could blink, they were out of his line of sight.
He sighed, and palmed his balls, the pain sent tingling sensation all throughout his body once again. He could not focus on anything else other than the pain. He walked slowly, but he could not take a step more, as the pain was debilitating, so he sat down taking care not to sit on his balls, and removed his breeches.
He whimpered, and scrunched his eyes close, tightly shut. He would have to see the Maester himself, it seemed.
“Daemon,” he heard a soft, melodious voice call out to him, and he opened his violet eyes to see his aunt standing so close to him. He reaches out to her, his goddess, but she shushes him, and calls out to the Maester.
He coughs, but the action caused him such pain, that he willingly closed his mouth shut, a first for him. He heard the grey rat before he saw him, his chains clinking as he walked, the noise a nuisance to him. He groaned, before coughing out once more, his aunt rushing to soothe his throat with her hands. He exhaled a hard breath, huffing as he did so.
His aunt stood by his side, intertwining their palms, as he let the Maester do his thing.
“How is my nephew, Maester Edric?” His aunt asks the chained man. He gives her a humm, and turns his back towards him, as he leaves to his table. He only now realises that he is in his own personal chamber, the one his aunt had given him for his stay in their ancestral land.
His personal room is nothing to scoff at, with a luxurious four-poster large bed that would let five grown men sleep comfortably, with black duvet made of silk, its heavy wooden frame carved with intricate draconic motifs and crowned by a canopy of rich, burgundy velvet. Plump, embroidered pillows and a sumptuous duvet covered the mattress, most likely she had gotten it from Corlys.
The dark tiles were clean, with nary a dust that could be spotted by naked eyes. An intricately patterned rug covered the polished stone floor, its rich, lighter colors and design added an element of warmth to the otherwise red and black themed chamber.
The room had large ceiling sized windows, made of stained glass from Myr, and it casted a kaleidoscope of colours across the chamber. The curtains and shades were a colour of cream white, made of a type of fabric he could not identify. It was soft to touch, and it covered the whole of the window panes. Might be from the East, imported with the help of Corlys again.
Ornate tapestries adorned the walls, their vibrant hues and intricate designs lending an air of grandeur to his private quarters. It was meticulously woven, and while he was not well learned in the finer arts of stitching and knitting, even he knew they should have taken months or even years to have been completed. Scenes and visuals of dragon battles and a landscape of sky-touching towers were seen, and he had asked a maid who had done such a fine job weaving the masterpiece.
They answered that his aunt had drawn the picture herself, and asked thirty of the Dragonstone's best dressmakers to weave the tapestry, and it had taken three years, the whole summer, to create it.
He had almost teared up, becoming emotional, until the servants said it wasn't even the best of masterpieces created by the team. He tried to interrogate them, but the we're tight lipped, and he left them at that, unwilling to get on his aunt's bad side by being rude to her servants.
He coughed again, wanting his aunt's attention, and she turned to him with a concerned look. She filled a glass with water, from the decorated table set to the side of his bed, and handed it to him. He tried to gulp it down in one go, but again, his throat would not let him, so he had to adjust and slowly sip it like wine. The water was luke-warm, and quenched his thirst and gave comfort to his most likely damaged throat.
She softly brushed his hair as he did so, and he closed his eyes, basking in her warmth. It is so worth it, he decides, to get choked by his father, if it makes him close with his beloved.
The Maester cleared his throat, the sound causing his aunt to take her hands away from his long hair. She crossed the distance, walking past his unnecessarily large, ornate wardrobe, its carved doors concealing his finery– his velvet doublets, the silk shirts, and the breeches, all made of the finest wool.
They both were murmuring something, the exchange going past his head, as he could not hear what the fuck they were talking about. Most likely about him, and his recent loss against his father. Reminder of that incident makes him to go red in his face, and he feels the embarassment coursing through his veins.
He was shamefully choked, by his own father no less, but he does not know why he thought his father would not have it in him to discipline him. He had forgotten, what it was to feel like, standing before his father to get punished for going against his authority.
It wasn't anything new, as his father had always taught him to respect the older members of the family, the draconic hierarchy and balance that should be maintained, especially within a family as chaotic as the Targaryens. But, the blood in his veins, running hotter than most of his family, always let him be rebellious, and this attitude had been corrected multiple times by both his father and his grandsire.
He rues the day his grandsire will pass away, and passes down the fire to his father, for as the head of the House of the Dragon, and being the rider of the now largest dragon of the known world besides, his word would be the law. He could not stop his father from claiming what he wants. He is terrified of what would happen, when he would have to go against his own head of the family to save his aunt, from the greedy dragon’s maw.
He really hopes his grandsire would not die, as while the man had their hotter blood, he is also the shell of a man he had once been, the grief and madness that caused due to his mate passing away had broken him, and he is more lenient with him than ever before.
The Maester seemed to have finished his spiel, as he turned and left the room, leaving him and his aunt alone. In his private bed-chamber. The fact caused his palms to go clammy, and his heart race.
He sees her sigh, and she turned to him once more, looking tired. She walks to him, taking a chair with her as she does, and places it at the side of his bed, and takes a seat. He smirks at her, trying to charm her, but it is a moot point, as she most likely knew what happened back then. He desperately tries not to show how much that bothered him.
They stayed silent, passing the moments quietly, taking in each other. “Nyke gōntan daor gīmigon kesā jaelagon naejot umbagon lēda nyke mērī, isse ñuha tistālion,” he wiggled his eyebrows as he said, his throat hoarse, breaking the silence. His aunt gave him a side-eye, looking vaguely annoyed.
I did not know you would want to stay with me alone, in my bed-chamber.
“The Maester said you were a bit roughed up, but in one-piece.” She snarked back, her hands rubbing her temples. He does not know why she is not talking with him in High Valyrian.
“Do not,” she started, and they both looked at each other. “Do not, ever, try to play the knight in shining armour, with me, ever again.” She accentuated each phrase, pausing between words to emphasize the importance.
“Nyke sepār jaelagon naejot dohaeragon a–,” he was interrupted, “Gaoman daor jorrāelagon aōha dohaeragon,” she said to him, in their mother tongue.
I just want to help you. I do not need saving.
“Eman iā zaldrīzes sir, kostan sōvegon qrīdrughagon lo jaelan naejot,” she said, and he blinked at that, not having thought of that before. He is proud of her, to claim a dragon as old as Silverwing, but, to think she can just leave if she wants to is unthinkable to him.
I have a dragon now, I can fly away if I want to.
“Gaomagon ao hae ñuha kepa?” he asks her, and the question cause him such grief, because he would not know what to do with himself if she really loves his old man. Do you like my father?
His aunt looks back at him, baffled and mouth opened, before laughing out loud.
He waits for her to finish, shaking his legs in place of pacing. He could not wait for her to reply, but he does not want to hear her answer at the same time.
“Yes, I do,” she said, and his heart stopped for a moment. He felt his soul rot inside out, before she continued, “Yn gaoman daor jorrāelagon zirȳla se ñuhoso hen lentor jorrāelagon pōja lentor.”
But I do not love him the way our family loves their siblings.
“I do not understand what went wrong,” she whispered, “this should not have happened.” She continued, like she is confessing something. He is so confused. All in their family knew of his father's less than subtle feelings for his aunt. How did she not notice that?
She snorted, and Oh, he had said that aloud, didn't he?
“Baelon was supposed to only ever love Alyssa, their love should be the legendary tale, told until the end of times,” she glanced at him, and he does not know what it is supposed to mean. She sighed.
“That, was not supposed to happen.” She murmured to herself, but he heard it as clear as the day, sitting close enough to each other as they were, to even hear the other's breath.
“Ivestragī īlva daor ȳdragon se qogror,” she continued, “Baelon ēdas geptot se tēgembōñ lanta tubissa gō,” he smiled wide at that, and his aunt grinned, eyes glinting with mischief. “He did give the Maester a visit before he left.”
Let us not speak of the matter, Baelon left the Island two hours before.
He smirked, before giving her a toothy smile. She laughed, her voice echoing throughout his private quarters and in his heart, and he laughed along with her, not minding the pain in his throat. They stopped, and he smiled softly at her.
The only thing he could hear was the dragon’s roar in the background, and his heart beats in his ears. He feels content, for the first time in three years. He does not have the old hag’s disapproving looks and his old man’s disappointed face to ruin his day.
“Viserys came by to visit you earlier,” his aunt informs him. “He could not see you, as you were out cold, so he left,” he frowned at that. “but not before he left you a letter.”
He can count on his bumbling brother to not disappoint him. He feels the happiness bubbling in his throat, and he coughs. His aunt rushes to fill up his chalice with water once more, and he takes in the warmth of her presence.
“Will you be leaving for King’s Landing?” He asks, and he wants to know that. He would not stay in Dragonstone of she leaves, no matter how much he likes the Isle.
“Yes, I will be,” she says, and he feels disappointed, but not surprised. She only stayed in the Isle because of the old hag, and now that she had dropped dead, there's no reason to stay cooped up in this dark stone. “But,” she continues, “only temporarily.” He looks at her, his face surprised.
“Your brother had asked for my help in running the Red Keep, and I do not wish to leave my father all alone in the Isle,” she paused at that, and that is news to him, for he did not know the king is staying back. “I shall be traveling to and fro to King’s Landing and back the next few moons, until Aemma gets to know how to run a keep.”
He blinks, before a large smiled bloomed at his face. That means his aunt would be flying Silverwing lot more than anyone else in his family, and as a proper prince and nephew, he would escort her all the time. No one could stop him, not with his father being busy as he will be, running the realm in his grandsire's stead.
“Keligon bona,” his aunt chided him, softly knocking at his head. His grin only widens into a smirk, and she laughs at that. Stop that.
She sighs, but stand up and brushes her skirts, smoothening out the wrinkles. “The maids will bring you your supper for the night,” she started, “and you are not to wake up until you recover.” She commanded.
She smiled before giving out a soft Take Care, before giving him a hug. His body softened, and he leaned into her, taking in her scent. She gave one last kiss to his brow and took her leave, softly closing the double doors as she went.
He feels content and happy, and no one would ruin his good mood, not even his father.
He is home.