Computer still hasn't been fixed so updates are still sporadic and rare. Once again, my apologies.

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129 AC

Viserys

The King of Westeros sighed and rubbed his eyes in exhaustion as he sat through another small council meeting. In recent months he had begun tiring even quicker than he had before and it took considerable effort on Viserys part to do so much as climb the steps to the Iron Throne. He was dying. Viserys knew it wouldn't be long until he met the Stranger.

His reign had been a good one. Twenty six years of peace and prosperity, the only conflict that had been seen was Daemon's war for the Stepstones and the subsequent fighting against Dorne and the Triarchy of Lys, Myr and Tyrosh. The only house's who actually took part in that war though were the house's of the Narrow Sea like his Velaryon cousins, the Celtigar's and the Bar Emmon's. The Vale had, of course, had it's never ending problems with the Mountain Clans, the Starks had been hit by small Wildling parties once or twice and the Marcher Lords had always had to repel Dornish raiders ever so often. But overall, his realm had enjoyed two and a half decades of peace under his rule, to add to the fifty five his grandfather gave them. Such peace had not gone to waste. The small debt owed to the Iron Bank from the Faith Militant Wars had been paid off years ago, and the Crown's treasury was overflowing with gold in spite of the lavish feasts and tournaments he liked to throw when they could spare the expense. By all acounts it was a similar story everywhere.

He only wished his own family had been as prosperous as the realm. Oh it was wide spread to be sure. His line was secure for centuries to come, what with three sons and five daughters, along with eight grandchildren and two niece's. But the family was divided still, despite his best efforts. Lucos Ryder had been a miracle sent by the gods, but his presence had only shifted the loyalties of Viserys' youngest son. Aegon and Aemond still hated Rhaenyra and her children and now that hate extended to Daeron too. Blood, it seemed, wasn't that important to them; they thought only of their own ambitions. Truly, their actions only served to convince Viserys further that Rhaenyra would be the better ruler. While she may not be the most gentle or kind hearted person in the world, she at least knew how to rule. Aegon had no such talent and while Aemond could be great at ruling during wartime, he would be crushed by politics in peacetime, not helped by his cruel streak. It would be Maegor all over again.

The plump king coughed into a handkerchief, grimacing a bit at the blood that dotted the pale white cloth. He quickly tucked it away, out of sight of his Councillor's. He was dying and he feared what would become of his family after his death. Shaking away such thought's, Viserys quickly focused on the report being given by his Master of Laws. Jasper Wylde was not his first choice for the position he had to say. The sour looking man was dreadfully dull, with a low monotone voice that was awfully good at sending people to sleep. He was enthusiastic in his work, Viserys knew, even if he didn't sound it. Too enthusiastic, given that the man oft got caught up in his reports and forgot to bathe properly leaving his dark hair lank and his body to be covered in sickeningly rich perfumes to hide his odor. Still, he was the man most capable for the job out of all those Viserys had seen. Pausing, the King amended that thought. The best after Daemon, but Viserys knew his younger brother was too wild and free to be happy as Master of Laws and he refused to put him back on the council anyway, after the events that led to his exile.

It was at times like these that Viserys wished Lyonel Strong were still alive. The late Lord of Harrenhal had been Viserys' third Master of Laws, replacing Daemon upon the prince's exile. He had been quick witted and always had a jape ready on his tongue; ones he'd never failed to amuse Viserys with; but he could turn stone faced and cold in the blink of an eye when needed and was always ruthlessly efficient at his job. It was those traits that saw him elevated to Hand of the King after Otto Hightower had been fired in 109 AC. Lyonel had unfortunately died in a fire at his keep while managing his affairs there, along with his oldest son, Harwin. He wondered who had started that fire, and if he might be able to repay them in kind before his own death. Viserys knew that many suspected him, but he knew that he had done no such thing nor ordered it done. Rumored grandfather to Rhaenyra's children or not, Viserys had enjoyed having Lyonel as his Hand and would never have wasted such talent needlessly.

Personally, Viserys had his suspicions about Larys Strong being behind the fire, perhaps on the orders of Daemon or even Rhaenyra herself. Lyonel's second son was regrettably clubfooted, and as such hadn't many prospects for him. The only viable option had been to become a maester. That had changed though when he became Lord of Harrenhal, one of if not the most powerful seat in the Riverlands, and later Master of Whispers. Looking at the dark haired young man, Viserys felt a chill go down his spine. Strong was one of the people Viserys feared the most. The brown eyed spymaster was cold and cunning. He seemed to be able to tell you anything about anything, and when his unnatural eyes met yours, it felt as though he knew all of your secrets. Yes, Viserys concluded, that man would be more than willing to kill his father and brother.

Wylde was still prattling on about the disturbance's the city watch had dealt with in the city since the last meeting "...and last night Ser Gwayne Hightower and his men had to break up a fight on the street of silk between some of Lord Rosby's men and Lord Darklyn's,"

Viserys suppressed a groan. Two of the most powerful lords directly sworn to him had both come to court in the previous week to settle a dispute. Apparently there was a small holdfast just on the edge of Rosby land who's last Lord had died without issue. Rosby claimed that since the holdfast was in his land, it should fall to him to grant it to whoever he pleased however Darklyn had sent a garrison of men to secure the keep, claiming that the last lord's grandmother was a Darklyn, giving him the best blood claim on the land. In all honesty, the keep was a simple wooden hall atop a hill with a palisade wall around it and a small village. This wasn't really a matter of value, but one of pride. Each Lord had arrived in the past few days with several dozen men each to petition to the King.

And now those men are fighting each other.

"Blades were drawn and one Darklyn was killed and another injured along with two Rosby's. One member of the City Watch was injured subduing the fighters," Wylde intoned, glancing at them all "With winter's arrival many peasants have entered the city for refuge. The City Watch cannot deal with the amount of people currently in the city; they need more men,"

"More men requires more rations, more armour, more weapons and more pay," Viserys reminded him, his voice sounding weak even to his own ears "How many more men does Commander Largent request?" He knew Luthor Largent, the man had been a close companion of Rhaenyra during their childhood. He was only a few years older than Viserys' daughter.

Wylde blinked "Not Commander Largent, your grace, he insists that his men can handle the unrest. Ser Gwayne and the Queen made the request for a thousand more men to compliment the current fifteen hundred, your grace,"

Viserys scowled. Gwayne Hightower was a skilled fighter there was no doubt but the man had no notion of strategy, economics or politics. He seemed to believe he could overwhelm the criminals with numbers and damn the expense's. He was only Largent's second in command because of Alicent's influence. As for Alicent...Viserys had loved her once. Perhaps not as much as he had doted upon his first wife, his beautiful Aemma, but he had loved her. He had ignored how she treated his heir and grandchildren. She was angry that her son was not to be king, he understood. Her treatment of Daeron though, after he became involved with Ryder; not that she knew that, he didn't think; and started to defend his nephews from Aegon and Aemond and the rumors surrounding Harwin Strong and Laenor Velaryon, was inexcusable. She had sent the boy to Oldtown, to squire for her cousin Lord Ormund. She claimed it to be a reward for winning some squires tourney some ten months ago, but the whole court knew it to be a punishment.

Turning to the oldest man there, Viserys asked "Would our treasury be able to support such an expense, Lord Lyman?"

Lyman Beesbury was the oldest man in the room by a good two decades at least. A man of ninety years old, he was completely bald now save for a few thin, willowy strips of white hair that adorned his temple's. He was forced to walk hunched over a cane, and his voice little more than a croak. Beesbury was not only the oldest man in the room but had used it more than any other currently alive, perhaps even ever. He had become Master of Coin for King Jahaerys in 60 AC after the death of 'old' Tyran Reyne. Reyne had been in his sixty-fifth year when he died. Lyman had been a young man of two and twenty namedays and had served until Jahaerys' death and then stayed on the council long enough to see Viserys comfortable in his throne, before quietly requesting permission to return home. After forty four years of devotedly loyal and able service, Viserys had no right to refuse. The old man deserved to die in his own home, in his own bed surrounded by his family. Yet after fifteen years and three failures of replacements, Viserys had been forced to beg for the man to return. Lord Lyman had done so without question, and had since completed a fifth decade of serving in his position.

"It can, your grace," Lord Lyman croaked, giving the answer Viserys already knew "Taxes have all been met, trade has been better than we predicted; Braavos and Pentos was quite eager to acquire arms and armour, of which our own Blacksmith's make in finer quality than the Free Cities, as well as a large export of grain and other foods; and as long as now feast's are held until winter has passed, we should suffer no shortage of food, exempting us from having to buy import more. Even with the cost of a thousand more City Watch, we should be making profit,"

Viserys nodded, and stroked his chin thoughtfully "Tell Ser Luthor he is to recruit five hundred more men to help him keep the peace,"

Wylde flinched slightly, no doubt imagining Alicent's anger when she learned that she had been denied half the men she requested "I will send a page at once, sire. Hayford!" he barked, the first change from his monotone he had displayed since entering the room, and the twelve year old Jaime Hayford, serving as a page and cup bearer for the council, rushed over. Wylde hastily scribbled down the King's instructions on a sheet of parchment before sealing it using the King's seal, before passing it to the boy "Take this to Lord Commander Luthor Largent at the City Watch barracks,"

The boy nodded and with a mumbled 'Yes my Lord' he was gone.

"What a pity; it seems we are now missing a cup bearer," the arrogant and eloquent voice of Tyland Lannister drifted across the table, as the blonde leaned back on his chair and sipped his Arbor Gold. The man was dressed in rich red and gold colored clothes, complete with knee high black leather boots trimmed with gold fabric. His long hair was well below shoulder length and the golden locks glimmered in the light shining in through the window behind him, while his cheeks were perfectly clean shaven.

Looking at the man, one wouldn't assume he would be capable for the role of Master of Ships. He simply didn't look the part. But then appearance's could be deceiving, as Viserys well knew. While Tyland had never led a fleet in battle, he had made several adjustments to the trade ships at Lannisport that enabled extra space for storage and the brother of Lord Lannister had even designed his own complex system to make such storage more efficient. These adjustments allowed them to export a larger quantity of goods and supplies from Lannisport, and when he heard about it Viserys had made note. As such, when Garth Hightower died nine years previously, it was Tyland Lannister that Viserys had given the seat too, amid protests from his other advisers. He'd ignored them and was glad he had; Tyland had almost doubled the amount of ships they could have in dock at any time and made similar improvements on the King's Landing fleet as he had on the Lannisport ships, both of which benefited them in terms of trade.

That didn't mean that Tyland's attitude didn't infuriate Viserys at times.

"I'm sure you can manage to pour your own wine, Lord Tyland, you are, after all, a grown man and the pitcher is within your reach. Unless it is not cup bearing you want the boy for?" Grand Maester Orwyle was remarkably good at putting men like Tyland Lannister back in their places. His words were usually quite vicious and biting. In his robes and chains, with spotted hands and the balding head, he did not look intimidating. He could verbally spar with the best, though and oft won the debates he entered.

Lannister went red at the insinuation. His teeth ground together and his hand tightened around his cup. A silence fell over them as they sat in the aftermath of Lannister's humiliation.

Viserys coughed again and once more hid the evidence of his illness in his by this point stained handkerchief. He looked around, Wylde had been the last to have any issue's to raise. Plans had been made and any important information had been delivered and he had either already responded or would do so later, depending on urgency. With that in mind, the King rose from his seat at the head of the table, trying to speak as clearly as he could "My Lords, you have your task's. If we have no other business for the day, my Lords, I'm afraid must beg my leave,"

As though his word were some sort of prompt, all of the table's occupants began to rise.

Viserys could feel the eyes of his Hand on him as the men stood and gathered their reports and papers. He had known the man on his right had been watching him for the whole meeting, most specifically when he coughed.

Otto Hightower was Viserys good-father, the father of Alicent and the uncle of Lord Ormund. He was one of the older men in the room too, with his steel grey hair and thin frame. While he may not be someone Viserys would like as a person; there was a reason he'd been fired from his post once before; he was good at his job. He was greedy, manipulative and ambitious, there was no doubting that and while that made him someone Viserys felt uncomfortable being around, it also made him an ideal candidate for being the Hand of the King.

The other ideal trait was that he knew when to keep his mouth shut. Hightower mentioned nothing about the blood he'd been coughing up.

Leaving the council room, Viserys made his way back across to his personal chambers, flanked on either side by one of his white knights. It was Ser Criston and Ser Arryk today. Both capable and loyal knights; he knew they could not save him from death now, though. Upon reaching his chambers, he nearly growled in frustration when he caught sight of who was waiting for him. There stood his wife, beautiful as ever, with her two oldest sons standing around her. Ever since Aegon's birth, he had been pressured to name the boy his heir, and everytime they asked he always refused. He would do the same today, of course, but he would be grateful for the opportunity to just go to sleep. He felt so tired and heavy.

It was always a risk going to sleep, now, Viserys knew. He might simply not wake up. Those thought's led him to wish his daughter were here, his brother and youngest son too along with the rest of his family. But Rhaenyra and her family were on Dragonstone, waiting for Rhaenyra to give birth to a sixth child that Viserys knew Rhaenyra hoped was a girl. Her husband, children and cousins were with her. Daeron was stuck in Oldtown. Viserys could order them to come to him, he knew, but to do so without reason would arouse suspicion. Somehow, though, he could not bring himself to reveal his health problems to his family. Perhaps he still hadn't accepted it after all; he still wanted to meet his newest grandchild, see his descendants grow up, be there when his children finally make peace as he still believed they would.

Sighing dejectedly, Viserys prepared himself to reject their demands no matter reason they threw at him. It was always the same anyway; Rhaenyra is a woman, Rhaenyra is Maegor with teats, the Velaryon boys are bastards (he tended to grow wroth then and order them out). It wouldn't sway him this time.

Rhaenyra was his heir. She and then Jace after her would sit the Iron Throne. No matter what Alicent tried to do to stop her.


Not really fond of that ending, but I couldn't get it to flow any better.

This chapter was basically just the last bit of filler before the story really starts. Next time we have: the Kingmaker!