Chapter Text
Viserys I
Viserys has always enjoyed balls, hunts and tourneys. He has never been the most talented dancer, skilled hunter or fiercest warrior, but he enjoyed being with his people. Nothing brings him more satisfaction and joy than watching the peaceful and prosperous realm, and feasts, balls, hunts, and tourneys were the best chance to observe it.
Yet as the years go by, all those grand events become more and more taxing. Lords demand his attention while they scheme and question his decisions behind his back. His family’s squabbles are plain for everyone to see. Knights and men-at-arms look him with pity.
Has it always been like this? He wonders. Or perhaps, he has just got old and weary, too tired to deal with the whole lot? At this point, the only thing Viserys dreams of is saddling the horse and galloping to the Red Keep to escape it all.
He glares at Jason Lannister’s back. Now, at least, he understands his daughter and her wrath; a few minutes of conversation with the young man was enough for a hot fury to stir in Viserys’ belly. How dares he question Viserys’ decision? How dares he think himself to be worthy of Rhaenyra?
He has not yet calmed down from the short conversation with the Lannister boy when Otto appears at his side. He sits on the chair next to Viserys, and Viserys suppresses a sigh. Otto, too, tires him with his thinly veiled suggestions, with this talks about signs and omens, anything that would convince Viserys to name Aegon the heir.
With a raised brow, he turns to his Hand and waits for yet another attempt.
“What do you make of Lord Jason’s proposal?” Otto asks, glancing briefly at the table where Jason and Tyland, the Lannister twins, sit, enjoying the roasted meat and wine from Lannisport. No wine tastes as good as the one from Lannisport, the man proudly informed him a few moments ago.
Viserys scowls. “The man’s pride has pride.” Rhaenyra has been right about that. Viserys’ daughter is arrogant as any Targaryen, but in that regard, Jason Lannister outmatches even Daemon. The man’s self-importance seems almost limitless. Worse even is that the man has nothing to back it up.
“You’re not only Rhaenyra’s father,” Otto says, leaning closer. “You’re the King. She’ll do as you command.”
That is true, yet, it is not what he wants to be for Rhaenyra. He longs for the days when she was still his little girl, always eager to hold his hand, always with a smile for him. Back then, her love for him was definite and plain for everyone around. Lately, all they do is fight – more like a King and unruly subject than a father and a daughter, and he cannot help the feeling that he is failing her.
He ducks his head in shame at the thought of last night. The memory is hazy yet clear all at once; a roaring fire in front of him, heat licking his skin as he spills his secrets to his wife, too drunk to control his mouth. The burden of the kingship is heavy on his shoulders, now more than ever, as the Gods seem to test Viserys’ faith and convictions.
He has wavered and worst of all, is that Rhaenyra knows of it.
But he will waver no more, that he vows to himself, his daughter, and his beloved Aemma, too.
“It is not my wish to command her, Otto. I want her to be happy,” he says to his Hand. Otto has a daughter too. He ought to understand that. Rhaenyra’s happiness and well-being are what Viserys desires the most in the whole world. As the King, sometimes, he has to put it aside, even if it pains him, but to stifle it entirely and push her into something she does not want is impossible.
Otto hesitates for a moment before he speaks again, now more carefully. “There is another choice beyond Casterly Rock. One, perhaps, you might be more comfortable with. One...,” Otto pauses for a heartbeat, eyes locked on Viserys. He licks his lips before continuing, “closer to home.”
He dreads what idea his Hand has but asks all the same. “What do you have in mind?”
“Prince Aegon,” Otto says with a smile, nodding his head in the boy’s direction.
Viserys follows the man’s gaze, dumbstruck. Is he mad?
Aegon lets out a loud giggle as he rolls on the floor, searching for his favourite toy amidst the pillows and blankets spread for him by one of the wetnurses.
“The boy just turned two, Otto.”
“Yes, but it would cease the endless proposals for Rhaenyra’s hand.”
He is serious. Viserys almost cannot believe it, and yet there’s no trace of humour on Otto’s face. He cannot help himself – he starts to laugh.
“Betroth them,” Otto tries again, but Viserys interrupts him. This has gone too far.
He glowers at his Hand. The anger he has felt after a short conversation with Jason Lannister brewing inside him anew. “I came here to hunt, not to be suffocated by all this fucking politicking,” he seethes. He has enough of them all – Jason Lannister and his twin who whines about the Stepstones all the time, Otto Hightower and his brother with their not-so-subtle hints. Damn them all.
They have tested his patience and reached its limits. Otto, at last, seems to realise it, for he scurries away before Viserys gives into a temptation to send the man to the Seven Hells.
He is alone again; perhaps that is for the best if even his most trusted advisor insists on playing on his nerves. He pours himself more wine and gulps it down quickly. The room is hazy with smoke and the scent of roasted meat and mulled wine, and loud, as the gathered nobles chat and laugh and call for toasts. After all, it is a celebration even if Viserys’ mood is far from celebratory.
There was a time when such sight would delight him, but now, it only makes him feel lonely.
For a second, he thinks he sees a flash of silver hair in the far corner of the room, but it’s gone as quickly as it appeared. An illusion it must be, for he knows that Rhaenyra is still angry with him. What should he say, so she would listen to him and understand that her well-being is of utmost importance to him? That seems like a question without an answer. His previous attempts have failed, leaving his daughter even angrier than she has been before and even more reluctant to take his advice.
Rhaenyra has to marry, but Viserys doesn’t know how to make her see the need for it without outright commanding her as her King.
He longs for Aemma. She would have known what to do and what words to use. Alas, he lost her by his own doings. Viserys is alone, humbled by his hubris and the foolish desire to be something more than he is.
He downs another goblet of wine as he looks around the room. Perhaps it would be easier if he at least had Daemon at his side, but Daemon is on the Stepstones, fighting the foolish war over rocks and pebbles. Viserys is left only with his young wife, a slip of a girl who has even more trouble reaching through Rhaenyra than he does.
What would his father say if he saw him now? Or his grandsire, who has been the greatest King in history of the Seven Kingdoms? Those questions trouble him more often now than at the beginning of his reign. Every time he contemplates possible answers, his stomach fills with dread.
He drinks more. It would be prudent to stop while he is still not too far gone, but Viserys is desperate to numb his guilt and sorrow. The celebrations continue, but he is an intruder to this feast, shackled to his Throne and his crown The Old King has never told him how lonely it is to be the King. Perhaps he did not know; Jaehaerys had his Alysanne, after all.
Lords and ladies grow louder and bawdier with the wine flowing freely into their cups. The bards are singing. Perhaps, if he gets drunk, it will be easier to pretend everything is gay and merry and no trouble looms over his head.
Perhaps, if he closes his eyes, he can fool himself into believing he is young again and surrounded by his family.
Lord Lyonel walks by the daise, heading for his youngest son, but pauses as his eyes meet Viserys’. He stops in front of him and bows his head. “Are you alright, Your Grace?” he asks. A frown appears between his brows as he eyes the goblet in Viserys’ hand. “I heard we’re to have an early start tomorrow?”
The sooner this pitiful charade ends, the better, Viserys thinks, eyes sweeping over the tent. He keeps his thoughts to himself, though. “You have daughters, don’t you, Lord Lyonel? Were they as defiant when it came to marriage as my daughter?”
Lord Lyonel nods in confirmation. “I have two – Lysa and Jeyne,” he says with a slight smile. “Fortunately, they’re still too young for marriage, though the time is fast approaching. To my horror.”
Viserys chuckles. “I wish for you to have better luck than I do. A truly great Targaryen King I am. Powerless over mine own daughter of seven-and-ten.”
“King Jaehaerys ruled over half a century of peace while his children drove him to the edge of madness... his daughters, in particular.” Lyonel’s smile grows wider. “It is tradition, Your Grace.”
It is comforting to remember that his wise grandsire has faced the same trouble and been as hopeless against it as Viserys feels. A sigh escapes his lips, and he looks at his Master of Laws with gratitude.
“Do you wish to hear my opinion on the matter?”
Gods no. Viserys can imagine what it would be. The feeling of gratitude disappears like a puff of smoke. “Should I guess?” He says, not even bothering to hide his annoyance. “You believe that your son, Ser Harwin “Break bones,” the strongest knight in the Seven Kingdoms, is the best match for Rhaenyra.”
Lord Lyonel looks down to hide his smile. “You flatter me, Your Grace, but no.”
His words are a surprise. Viserys straightens in his chair and looks at the man with more attention. He motions for the man to continue.
“There are, in truth, two matches that would serve well for Princess Rhaenyra. The son of the Sea Snake, Ser Leanor Velaryon, is the first. Some years ago, I counselled you to take his sister to wife. My reasoning remains the same. Laenor is of pure Valyrian descent; he shares blood with your cousin, Princess Rhaenys. He is the heir to the wealthiest house in the realm and a dragonrider. The breach between your houses has not narrowed since I last spoke of it. It would do much to assuage Lord Corlys of any slights – real or imagined. Although,” He hesitates for a moment, looking away.
Viserys nods his head. “Although?” he prompts.
“There are rumours about Ser Leanor that, if true, might be a cause for concern.”
Viserys remembers Ser Leanor from when Lord Corlys sat on his Small Council as the Master of Ships and his family lived at his court still. The lad was still a child back then, but Viserys knows him only as a courteous and kind boy, brave and promising in the training yard. Whatever rumours Ser Lyonel talks about, Viserys is unaware of them.
“What rumours?”
Lord Lyonel winces. “Some whisper about Ser Leanor’s preferences, if you know what I mean,” he confides in a whisper, careful not to be overheard. “It might not matter, but if the rumours proved true… Princess Rhaenyra needs to secure her own line. She needs heirs.”
Oh . Viserys thinks when the meaning of Lord Lyonel’s words hits him. It’s unexpected, but Viserys understands how that could become a problem. He puts down his goblet and rubs his face. “You said there are two candidates. Who is the second?”
At this, Lord Lyonel becomes even more nervous. “The second is your brother, Your Grace, Prince Daemon.”
Anger flares in his chest. “Daemon is married,” Viserys replies without missing a beat. It is an old argument. When she was still by his side, his beloved Aemma suggested the match a few times, wanting her daughter to be the Queen. Viserys made it so that Rhaenyra would one day be a Queen in her own right. His daughter has no need for Daemon. Yet, he is so used to the answer it slips from his lips fast and sharp like a whip.
“Prince Daemon is a widow,” Lyonel reminds him.
He forgot. The raven brought the news three moons ago. Lady Rhea Royce died in a hunting mishap, leaving Runestone with its lands to her cousin, Ser Gerold. For a moment, he feels shame, having forgotten his good-sister’s death, but in truth, Lady Rhea was a stranger to him. She and Daemon have been estranged since the first day of their marriage, and Viserys never got to know his brother’s wife.
Without prompting, Lord Lyonel continues, “Prince Daemon is of pure Valyrian descent; he’s the son of the Spring Prince, the grandson to the Old King. A dragonrider and a renowed warrior tested in battle. The smallfolk have a lot of love for him, and many nobles, too, have great respect for him. And their children would bear the name Targaryen.”
“I thought,” Viserys starts, tightening his hands around the armrest to keep his voice calm. Even a thought of Daemon fathering children on Rhaenyra sends him into a blind rage. He takes a deep breath. “The Council wanted me to name Rhaenyra my heir to keep Daemon away from the Throne, did you not?”
“Not the whole Council, Your Grace,” his Master at Law reminds him.
Viserys narrows his eyes, glaring at the man. Yet he is right. Otto and Mellos were the ones who spoke the loudest about the matter, arguing that, under no circumstance, Daemon could inherit the Throne. Now, their loud voices speak for Aegon. How quickly men change their minds and hearts. Though, perhaps Viserys should not be surprised. Aegon is Otto’s grandson, after all. It is only natural for him to wish for the best for his grandson.
“Prince Daemon is a free man once again, and he made a friend in the Sea Snake. If he was to marry Lord Corlys’ daughter, that might cause trouble for the crown.”
Why is it always Daemon and Lord Corlys? Why does every problem of his always revolve around those two? He slumps against the back of his chair, and a heavy sigh leaves his lips. The crown slides a little on his head as he shifts, and he has to catch it before it falls off his head. If that happened, Viserys would never hear the end of it.
“Daemon will not allow Rhaenyra to rule. He would be the King in everything but a name. Perhaps Ser Leanor would be a safer choice,” he mutters. Yet, the whispers about his cousin’s son are a reason for worry. If they are true… A loveless marriage is the last thing he wants for his daughter. Rhaenyra deserves better; Rhaenyra deserves to know love as passionate and all-encompassing as the one Viserys shared with Aemma. She deserves a husband who will cherish her every thought and smile, someone who will put her safety and happiness above everything.
“Three years ago, when Prince Daemon stole the dragon egg, Lord Otto sailed to Dragonstone to take it back. The confrontation between your Hand and the Prince got heated quickly. It was Princess Rhaenyra who prevented the bloodshed that day,” Lord Lyonel says. He takes a step forward, eyes never leaving Viserys as he speaks. The man has always impressed Viserys with his quiet confidence and wisdom, but this time, Viserys does not like what he has to say. “The Princess came on her dragon, spoke briefly to your brother, and Prince Daemon gave back the egg and ordered his men to disperse without a fuss. Forgive me, Your Grace, for being blunt, but... Perhaps you’re underestimating your daughter and her ability to keep Prince Daemon in check.”
Perhaps that is true. Viserys remembers his beloved Aemma as she argued for the match, claiming no one would love Rhaenyra more than Daemon. There’s some truth to that. On the many occasions he had a chance to observe his brother and daughter, not once has Viserys noticed Daemon treat her unkindly.
But would that continue if Rhaenyra was to become Daemon’s wife? If she had the power to command him?
No. Viserys cannot allow it. For years, he has witnessed his brother disrespecting Lady Rhea with words and actions. If Daemon had ever dared to speak of Rhaenyra the way he talked about Rhea Royce, Viserys knows, without doubt, he would kill his brother.
“The match would strengthen Princess’ claim, and having Prince Daemon as her Consort might silence those who still are disgruntled by the idea of a woman inheriting the Iron Throne.”
This again , he thinks with a sigh. The lords from all over the Seven Kingdoms came to King’s Landing to pledge their allegiance to Rhaenyra. Yet, not even four years later, Viserys still hears whispers of their discontent.
Do they all think him so weak and foolish to make such a decision on a whim?
“Princess Rhaenyra needs a strong match,” Lord Lyonel finishes, perhaps noticing Viserys’ darkening mood. He backs away a few steps. “Ser Leanor or Prince Daemon are the best choices, Your Grace.”
With that, the man bows and leaves Viserys with a whirlwind of thoughts. A loveless marriage or one where Rhaenyra would be disrespected, disregarded and used – is that really his only choice?
He only wants to see his daughter happy. Does he ask for too much? Must he be the one dooming her to a life full of misery?
Viserys closes his eyes and leans his head against the chair, tired and more worn out than ever. Heavy is the head that wears the crown, he thinks.
He downs the rest of his wine and stands on unsteady legs. Tomorrow, he will think about it more. Tonight, he only wants the sweet oblivion that sleep has to offer.