Chapter Text
The men linger restlessly at each side of the painted table, their hands folded together in a stern hold.
Their voices overlap, like thread, spiralling together into a continuous hum– and amidst it all, stands Rhaenyra herself; bare-faced and dull-eyed.
“It is yet unclear how the Keep itself was breached.”
The queen’s stillness draws the room into a precarious balance, as though the very walls of Dragonstone held its breath with her.
Viserra keeps her eyes on the painted table, tracing the coastline of Westeros with her gaze, taking in each city and stronghold, each boundary that now holds a different weight. War has reshaped them all somehow, she thinks. Has shifted the current of their ascendancy.
“The boy’s head was severed from his body.”
She sits in silence, her gaze taut and strained. Beneath the table, her hands grasp nervously onto one another.
She had felt something coming, that was sure.
But not this. Never this.
”And they are accusing me of having a hand in this?” her mother asks, though the answer is as clear as it was when the raven arrived with the news of Jaehaerys’ death that same morning.
Of course, they accuse her. They have no choice but to.
The Greens will forever aim to sully her hands, no matter whose blood they are forced to use.
The boy will become a martyr. Everyone knows it– a relic of what was, and what could have been, flaunted and paraded through the streets. Elated guardsmen will urge those witnessing the procession to condemn the Dragon Queen for her wicked doings, and they will do so gladly.
They, too, will yearn for justice.
”We must double our guard here and in Driftmark,” her mother says then, lifting her chin, though a certain wariness remains remnant in her tone. ”There will be swift retribution, in one form or another.”
”I have seen to it, your Grace.”
Viserra glances away, still silent.
Before her, her brother steps forward, a newly found elation in his step.
”Let me fly out on Vermax,” Jace declares. ”Rhaenys is needed in the Gullet, and I can watch for movements.”
His words bear a charming boldness and valour. Like the fervent, kingly boy he is.
But such words are feeble against their mother’s resolution.
”No.”
Lord Bartimus leans forward, then, steadying his arm against the table. His eyes are shrouded in worry.
“It must be said that the damage to our position is immeasurable at a time when we need loyalty to our cause,” he says, his head bent.
“But it is a lie,” Rhaenya ushers, her eyebrows furrowed. There is a meek desperation which elates from her skin, of want and confusion and fear. “Having lost my own son… that I would inflict such a thing on Helaena, of all people. An innocent.”
She is met with silence.
The men surrounding the busy table glance about warily. Though usually impatient to utter their disapproval, the council seems strangely reserved.
No one dares to voice what they truly believe. To mention the pending truth; that it, in fact, does not matter if it is a lie.
Whoever did this, did so in Rhaenyra’s name.
Innocent or guilty, it matters not. She will have to bear the faults of this sin, and every sin it leads to.
“The death of Prince Lucerys was a shock and an insult,” Ser Alfred speaks at last. “A mother so aggrieved might, naturally, seek relief in retribution.”
Viserra watches her Mother rise from the chair.
“Are you suggesting that my grief drove me to order the decapitation of a child?”
“I merely thought, perhaps, an action taken in haste.”
The Queen’s gaze narrows, the violet of her eye hardening like stone.
She stares at Ser Alfred as though she were awaiting something from him. Some acknowledgement, or fear, or surrender– anything.
But the old knight offers her little in return. His gaze remains cool and passive. He fears neither for her nor by her.
Rhaenyra’s expression sours, and the slightest flicker of defeat blooms on her silver features.
She sits down again, a passive sigh escaping her lips.
Viserra glances away from the scene, her eyes wary.
Inside her chest, a growing unease spreads.
The Queen’s council remains heavy with silence, the tension in the room coiling like a spring. Viserra shifts her weight, her fingers still entwined beneath the painted table. She glances at Jace, whose knuckles are white as they press against the wood, his resolve betrayed by the faint tremor in his stance.
If rumours were to spread throughout the Realm, the consequences would be fatal.
Perception is the only truth that matters in war, and a mishap of this kind will not go unscathed, nor be easily forgotten. To spill the blood of children is an insult to all things holy. The kind of sin which taints your soul and heavies your heart.
Such a mark would never escape them.
Would never escape her.
She leans back in her seat, and yet her body feels stiff. Though she does not let it show, Viserra’s thoughts churn endlessly. Her mind, frazzled by an impending dread, struggles to find a way out of their situation.
To deny involvement would aid little to their cause. But to say nothing would only taint her mother’s claim further, painting her as the murderess the Greens claim she is.
Time is of the essence, and yet their time is slowly ceasing.
They must find who did this.
They must or else everything will have been in vain.
They must–
Her grip suddenly tightens.
Before her, across the table, she feels the weight of two eyes watching her.
Daemon’s stare remains unstirred and undaunted as it meets hers. He leans back in his chair, his fingers splayed across the edge of the painted table, claiming it with a possessive grip.
The fragility of the council does not seem to reach him. Rather, his expression appears as imperturbable as it always manages to be. Cool and without yield. Undisturbed by the portents of war. Undisturbed by…
Her eyebrows furrow, her gaze narrowing.
He seems to appraise her with that same predatory calm. As though he were dissecting her growing surmise, without permission and without fear. He shifts slightly, a corner of his mouth curling upward—not quite a smile, but rather something else.
Viserra does not look away.
She wishes she could say something. To speak clear and strong, like she’s always desired.
But she knows this is not the time.
Daemon has done something. Has broken the already fragile thread which their fates depend on.
She sees it now. But perhaps part of her has always known.
Her breath comes shallow as she forces herself to sit still, her back straightened, her fingers locked beneath the table like iron. The moment stretches, the painted table before her feeling less a boundary and more a chasm that separates their silent accusations.
The room remains heavy with the weight of unspoken truths. The men, though still speaking in low, urgent tones, seem to fade into the background. It is her step-father’s gaze that pins her, that keeps her tethered to this moment. That silent, serpentine smirk makes her stomach churn.
Perhaps he is testing her. Perhaps he is daring her to speak.
But Viserra is not alone in her discovery.
Beside her, at the end of the table, her mother watches him as well.
And the look on the Queen’s face tells her all there is to know.
-
“She didn’t do it,” Jace mutters, his tone laced with dissatisfaction whilst he paces through their shared study.
Viserra stands still, leaning against the wooden table with her arms crossed.
“I know she did not.”
“The Hightowers will not wait for an answer,” he ushers. “They will seize this opportunity and paint her as a tyrant.”
“They already have,” Viserra replies, her voice quieter but no less resolute. She watches Jace pace, the lines of tension in his shoulders drawn tight. “The greens need no truth to make their case. They do not care for the boy, but rather the victory his bloodletting will lead them to.”
Her brother halts, his jaw clenching as he turns to her. “And what of us? Are we expected to sit idly whilst the kingdom turns against us?”
“There is nothing we can do now, you know that.”
His expression hardens. “Are you joking?”
“Why would I be joking?” She tilts her head. “The tides are precarious enough. If Mother’s position falters, we lose everything—our family, our cause, our lives.”
Jace’s pacing resumes, his boots tapping against the stone floor. “So what do we do? Watch as they slander her? As they slander us?”
“They’ve always slandered us, we’ve never known otherwise!”
“This is different.”
“I know it is,” she says, her eyebrows furrowed. She lets her arms fall to her side. “Do you really think I like this any more than you do?”
“But you don’t do anything about it, do you?”
“What can I do, Jace?” she exclaims, taking a step forward. “You want me to burn King’s Landing before they have time to burn us? Believe me– I wanted to.”
Her words aid little in settling his ire. He halts.
“And what stopped you?”
Her lips press together, almost as though she were taken aback by the question.
She thinks of the tears that once burned in her eyes. Of the wind swirling wildly around her.
Of snow against skin. Of skin against skin.
She exhales feebly, turning her head.
“Promise did,” she says. “Promise of what is to come.”
“Such patience will get us nowhere,” he huffs, stepping away from her once more.
“No, but reason might,” Viserra tells him, her fists clenching. “We have enough madmen in this family. You needn’t make one of yourself.”
Jace tilts his head, almost in warning.
“You speak of him?”
Of course, she does.
Who is there ever to talk about, if not the rogue prince himself?
“Yes.”
Her brother sighs deeply, turning away.
He does not answer her claim.
“What?” Viserra continues, her voice strained as she steps towards him and searches his gaze. “Do you think I overstep?”
“All you ever do is overstep!”
“That’s not true.” Her expression sours. “Did you not see him in there? Did you not see how he looked at me?”
She cannot tell if he’s naive, or just dumb.
“So that is who you suspect?” he asks, his tone laced with irate doubt.
“I know it’s him.”
He scoffs. “Of course you do.”
“Daemon will act as Daemon sees fit, we all know it,” she ushers. “And if he believes his actions will strengthen our position, he will not hesitate to take them.”
“And is that so wrong?”
“It is when it puts our mother’s claim at risk.”
Jace's expression tightens at her words. His jaw works as if to hold back a retort, but the frustration in his eyes is undeniable.
A silence falls over them, thick with the unspoken history between them—of shared blood, of lost promises, of betrayals both real and imagined. Viserra lets the quiet stretch, allowing her words to hang in the air.
His expression falters slightly, and his hand soon rests on the holster of his sword. His face, burdened by an internal war of its own, is cast in the dim light of the room. Still young and still bathed in the light from the fireside.
She watches as he stands there, his posture rigid but weary, a mixture of determination and uncertainty woven into the lines of his face.
“I will speak with him,” he says at last, his voice softer.
She shakes her head slightly.
“Mother already is.”
He closes his mouth, exhaling through his nose.
“He will not like it,” he says.
She presses her lips together, frowning. “He won’t,” she agrees. “But it won’t change anything.”
“Won’t it?” Jace takes another step towards her. “What if she turns him away? We need him.”
Viserra stares at her brother for a moment, her expression inscrutable. “We don’t.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“He has wounded our cause, Jace,” she says. “Who’s to say he won’t do it again?”
“He and Caraxes are the only ones in this place to have known battle!” her brother argues.
She crosses her arms again, stepping closer to him. “We have dragons as well.”
“As though Mother will ever allow us to partake in any fighting.”
“She might yet be persuaded.”
Jace lets out a dry laugh, shaking his head. “And who will do the persuading? You?”
Viserra lifts her chin. “Perhaps.”
“And you truly think she’ll listen? After what happened to Luke?” he steps away from her with a low sigh. “You think I don’t know what he is? I do. But without Daemon—”
“Without Daemon, we have less blood on our hands,” Viserra interrupts sharply. “And fewer whispers of tyranny to haunt us.”
Jace looks at her then, truly looks at her, his expression unreadable. “And what of you, Vis? What blood will stain your hands if you keep pushing like this?”
His words surprise her more than they ought to. Still, she forces herself to see past it. To wash the fear and shame off, until only she remains. Still and quiet.
“Doesn’t matter,” she whispers. “Better mine than Mother’s.”
His eyebrows furrow.
“You don’t mean that.”
“I do,” she says, her tone flat.
But when Jace steps towards her and grabs her, the stoicism is washed from her face. He takes hold of her arm and brings her face close to his. His breath flushes against her face, invading the invisible space between them.
“Don’t ever say that again,” the words empty from him, coarse and unrefined.
At first, his words sound angry, but then, as her gaze meets his– she realizes it’s something else.
The rawness in his voice, the grip of his hand, the faint tremor in his expression—it all speaks to something unspoken, something fragile and buried. Viserra feels her heart tighten as she looks up at him, her breath caught in her throat. His eyes burn with an intensity she’s seen before, but not like this.
She remains quiet, even as he lets go of her and steps away. Between them a coiled silence unfolds, thick and unyielding. Her beringed fingers find each other once more in a crooked embrace.
“Do you understand?”
She does not answer. Instead, Viserra watches her brother for a long time, her eyes tracing the tense line of his shoulders. The stiffness of his posture.
He has always been the more idealistic one, driven by an immense sense of duty and honour and reverence.
Perhaps that is why she admires him. Perhaps that is why he must be king.
After all, part of her feels as though Jace is all that remains to her now.
He is the heir and she is his sister. Bound by blood and womb.
She has other siblings, of course. Younger ones who have not yet been tainted by the world surrounding them. Though she loves them dearly, they are strangely indifferent to her. Their existence is not a mirroring of her own. Their lives have not yet sprung from their wanting grasps.
But what Jace is, she is too. What he has experienced, she has experienced as well. Despite their quarrels and disagreements, she feels a tremendous amount of loyalty to him. An unyielding willingness to help him succeed. To see him survive, to see him live, to see him rule.
Perhaps half of her died with Luke, that is true.
But the other half lives, still, in the brother standing before her.
“We ought to rest,” she says at last, her voice nothing more than a drowsy whisper. “I have a suspicion tomorrow will be a long day.”
Jace stares at her, his eyes remaining hidden in the candlelight. As dark as hers.
“I don’t sleep much,” he says.
“Me neither,” she exhales quietly. “But mayhaps it is time we tried.”
Jace says nothing at first, his eyes distant as he watches the flames dance in the hearth. The crackle of the fire fills the silence, a constant reminder of the turmoil they are living through.
At last, he turns away, his feet carrying him to the far corner of the room, where a heavy tome lies open on the table. His hand hovers over it, tracing the edge of a page as though it could offer some sort of comfort or clarity, though neither is forthcoming. The storm inside him rages on, but he is learning, as all of them must, to bear it silently.
Her heart stirs at the thought of what is to come. If she is to be a part of this world, she must act with cold calculation, with ruthless clarity. The kingdom, their cause—everything hinges on how well they play their parts. And for all their shared bond, and shared curse, and shared blood– she knows Jace cannot lead without her strength, and she cannot lead without his.
“You sound like Baela at times,” he murmurs at last, much to her surprise.
Viserra lifts her head slightly.
“Good,” she hums. “I like Baela.”
A fierce, bold girl. As a dragonrider must be.
Jace gives her a wry look. “She’s more free than us in this.”
“Mayhaps,” she hums. “But she could lose as much.”
“Still,” he shrugs. “I don’t hear any protests of her involvement.”
“Which should gladden you,” Viserra murmurs. “She plays an advantageous part in aiding our cause. She will be a good fighter. And a good Queen, too.”
Her brother glances down at her words, a small smile pulling at his lips. “Right.”
She tilts her head, her eyes drifting slightly. “Though hopefully it’ll be years until then…”
“And what of your betrothed?”
The question immediately reawakens her focus. She blinks, the shift in conversation catching her off guard. Her arms tighten across her chest.
She has tried not to think of it. Has tried so desperately to–
“What?”
Jace stares at her, the smile on his lips remaining. He appears humoured by her reaction, almost delighted. He brings his arms behind his back.
“I was with Mother when she received the news from White Harbor.” He shrugs, feigning nonchalance as he moves to sit on the edge of the table.
“Oh, were you,” she murmurs, her voice growing rather strained.
He tilts an eyebrow. “I was waiting for you to say something about it.”
“There is little to say,” she says, glancing away. “He is who he is.”
“And who is that, exactly?”
She purses her lips. “An ally, I suppose. A man of good lineage. Isn’t that enough?”
Jace chuckles quietly, as though scrutinizing her words for hidden truths. “You don’t sound very elated.”
“I didn’t know it was a requirement,” she mutters.
“No, perhaps not,” he agrees, a small smirk playing across his features. “But I suppose it’d be nice if you liked him… for his sake of course.”
Her gaze narrows. “Don’t mock me.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t dare.”
Viserra shakes her head, letting out a short huff. "You dare often enough," she mutters, though her words are tinged with faint amusement. She steps away from the table, her fingers brushing the edge as she moves, her thoughts already pulling her elsewhere.
“At least he’s not old and fat.”
She pauses mid-stride, her lips twitching into a reluctant smile. "A ringing endorsement, truly," she replies dryly, casting a sidelong glance at her brother. “The gods have truly outdone themselves, have they not?”
A curt laugh escapes him.
“Indeed, they have.”
Their words fade, but the warmth of it lingers briefly between them, a flicker of normalcy in a world turned cold. Her brother’s smirk softens into something more thoughtful as he watches her, his hands resting lightly on the edge of the table.
“You’ll manage it,” he says at last, his tone low but sure.
She tilts her head, meeting his gaze. “Manage what?”
“Whatever comes next.” His eyes search hers for a moment, and then he shrugs, as though the weight of his words could be dismissed so easily. “You always do.”
Viserra exhales. “That’s not much of a compliment, is it?”
“I think it is.”
“Ah, very well then,” she hums, turning her head away. The fire crackles softly, casting flickering shadows across the room. “You should go to bed,” she says, then.
“So should you,” he counters, though there’s no real argument in his tone. He turns, slowly making his way toward the door. “Try not to stay up all night plotting the downfall of our enemies, sister. Save some of that brilliance for tomorrow.”
“I’ll consider it,” she replies, her voice slightly lighter.
She watches him leave, the door clicking softly shut behind him, and then she is alone.
Despite the cold touch of her skin, something inside her feels slightly warmer.
-
Daemon left that same night.
Perhaps it was shame which drove him to abandon them, or it was anger.
Perhaps it was both.
His departure left her mother a quiet, stoic figure, who sat idly by the growing fireside of her enclosed chambers.
Viserra wanted to go to her, but could not find it within herself to actually do it. She felt rather trapped, dumbfounded by this sudden loss of normality.
She didn’t know whether to feel relief or dread.
-