VISERYS I

King's Landing, 101 AC

There was no joy to be felt in the days that followed his father's death. There were instead arrangements to be looked over, appearances to be made. Always clad in the black of mourning. Always with the eyes of hundreds scrutinising his every step.

His father had been a great man, in every single aspect. Tall, powerfully built, with a cleverness that most did not expect from a man of such martial prowess, and a charm that followed in his every breath, word, and step, none could have denied Baelon the Brave had been worthy of the Iron Throne. He rode Queen Visenya's dragon as gracefully and as ably as he wielded her blade, marks that denoted only the finest of dragonlords even in the days before the Doom itself.

And yet, as he stared at the golden urn, so exquisitely made and so richly inlaid with gems, Viserys could not help but wonder why it was that he was the one that still remained, while his father's body turned to ashes.

The Stranger's lapis lazuli eyes seemed to outshine even the Maiden herself in the lavish Sept of the Red Keep. They seemed to judge him, even more excruciating than the Father's solemn gaze. Not even the grandness of the Sept, one dominated by black marble floors, jade pillars and windows of fine crystal, could quench the sense of remembrance that had taken place but a moon prior. Aemma had thought it foolish for him to visit it ever so often. Why make such overtures if all it would leave was a semblance of sorrow?

Was it forgiveness he sought? Or was it guidance? More than one man had said it was the will of the Gods themselves that the Spring Prince had passed, though never in his hearing. For his crime of stealing his niece's inheritance, Baelon had been rightfully subjected to a torturously painful death.

Daemon had cut the man down for his perfidy, so broken was he by his grief. Not that he was any different. Viserys wondered what they would have thought if they knew his father had never truly been as confident in his own ascension to Prince of Dragonstone as he made himself look. Prince Baelon Targaryen had all the makings of a good king, but he never thirsted for it the way others did. To him, it was a solemn duty. A burden pressed upon his shoulders by his brother's unexpected demise and his niece's youth. An obligation bestowed upon him without his knowing in front of a crowd of thousands by his royal sire.

Yet, everyone seemed to think otherwise. It had bothered Baelon that they did. It had bothered him immensely that none believed in the notion more than Rhaenys herself.

He always spoke to Viserys of the day when he would have a son of his own, one that would marry the Lady Laena Velaryon and put an end to all this unnecessary bitterness. When little Aemon had been born, that had been all the hope that he had needed. His father said that he would deliver the proposal himself, to finally end these needless hostilities amongst kin. Whence little Aemon with his eyes so much like his grandsire's, and a wail that could have shattered mountains finally wed Laena Velaryon, granddaughter of the babe's namesake, there would finally be peace.

But just like Aemon, Baelon was dead, his dreams and hopes as intangible as ever before.

And just as Aemon's did, that death left Viserys feeling empty. An urn, no matter how lavishly made, did not suit a man so full of life and vigour.

His father had always said the same of his mother's urn, always with the same sad smile on his face.

"She should be high in the skies, laughing with you both in tow," he'd told his sons once.

As should you, Viserys thought numbly.

His trembling fingers felt the cool metal again, so lifeless and devoid of warmth. For a second, he thought he could almost feel the warmth of still hot ashes in an urn baked in the heat of the sun. Yet, just like wind, such things never came twice.

His reflection was distorted and vague, the finer details smudged by the mirror of the polished gold. On his right lay a pattern of gems that showed Vhagar writ small, marvellously made by an expert's hand, on his left the growing smudged shadow, slimmer and shorter than he, but with clothes just as dark.

"My prince," came Otto Hightower's even voice, his head bowed in greeting as he approached the young man. He wore black as was custom, though Viserys could spy hints of colour from the former Master of Laws's garb. A half-cloak of deep green velvet, with a doublet of black silk rife with ivory buttons wrought in the shape of the famous lighthouse of Oldtown. It was hardly the most vibrant of clothing choices, but the interlocking array of golden hands that was looped over his neck seemed to demand to be seen.

The sight of it on him felt wrong. It had been his father's for so long it seemed like though Viserys knew it had barely been a year.

"Lord Hand," the words felt foreign in his mouth, "I had thought you would be with my grandsire."

"His Grace, our great king, has been rendered tired by his many labours as well as his grief, my prince. I have sent mine own daughter to see to his care. He is fond of hearing her read to him," Otto announced solemnly.

Viserys gave him a thankful smile, feeling grateful. Even he found it hard to spend time with his grandfather while dealing with his own grief. That the young Lady Alicent would be so kind to spend hours of her time tending to him was most appreciated. "That is most kind of the Lady Alicent and yourself, Ser Otto. I myself intend to bring my daughter to see him on the morrow. To hear you've gone to such great lengths to ease his pain lightens my heart immensely. My grandsire could have chosen no better man to succeed my father."

No matter what Daemon says.

Ser Otto bowed his head in thanks, the Hand's chain clinking softly as he did so. "You humble me markedly, my prince. As a second son with aught to bear, I find no greater pleasure of being to serve the realm in all ways that I can. I pray that I may serve you as ably as I serve His Grace, my prince."

Viserys frowned at that, his forehead creasing. "There is no certainty that I will be the one succeeding my grandsire."

Otto gave him a look touched with pardon. "Forgive me, my prince. It is just that this has been the much accepted, and dare I say, much desired sentiment among all who have heard of the matter, your younger brother included. They say he spends many a night in the bowels of the city, toasting to your ascension with the men that he has gathered."

Viserys' frown deepened. He did not know whether to be exasperated or upset. Daemon had never been one for subtlety or for reticence. He would have to deal with his brother for that later. "It is such remarks that continue to divide Houses Targaryen and Velaryon, Ser Otto. One would think they would wish for nothing more than for us two great powers to join forces once more in hopes of warding off something as foolish as a civil war." He shook his head, one heavily bedecked finger stroking the silver-gold hairs of his moustache.

The Hand gave him an affirming nod in agreement. "Indeed my prince. Your wisdom surpasses your youth by much. Your own grandsire was no different at your age, the stories say. Were you to ascend, you would be as noble a successor as your father would have been."

Viserys only smiled warmly at the compliment, clapping Otto on the shoulder. The shorter and lankier man almost fell over from the force alone, though Viserys only laughed heartily. It was good to know there were still some honest men in a city that seemed so full of vipers. "You humble me, Ser Otto. Still, if I am ever to be king, you can be sure to have a place on my council. Though… I would hope you could put an end to these rumours. I do not want to deepen this conflict that has afflicted my family for so long."

"A most wise choice, my prince. I will ensure that such… hearsay be put down without question."

With a final bow, Otto Hightower left, still ever so dignified in his gait. Viserys could not help but feel his heart lighten after meeting the man. He would be a loyal and able Hand to whomever succeeded his grandsire on the Iron Throne. Still, the thought of having to deal with Daemon drained him. His brother had never been even-tempered, even as a babe. He had been prone to outbursts and dastardly stunts from his youth, and time had only emboldened him. Their father had said it was their mother's blood that made him so. Viserys had to agree.

Viserys had been only seven namedays old when she had passed, but he still had fond memories of a free-spirited woman with a lopsided smile and mismatched eyes. Her death had shattered their father despite his attempts to hide it, and Daemon as well. And now with their sire's death, Viserys could only expect things to worsen. Already Daemon had been caught drinking himself senseless and bedding half the whores on the Street of Silk since their father's sudden death. Where Viserys turned to family for comfort, Daemon turned to seedier methods.

Would that mother were here indeed, he thought morosely. Mayhaps she would have been able to put an end to Daemon's impetuousness and Rhaenys' cool courtesy. Not even his father had been able to end Rhaenys' self-imposed exile on Driftmark. It irked Viserys for her to think of him in the same manner as some petty lord focused on naught but furtherance. While the prospect of being king was definitely appealing, he did not think it integral to his life's purpose the way Rhaenys, or rather, Corlys did. His love for his family would always trump even the loftiest of titles. The talk that he was already heir upset him for that reason.

The decision was hardly as resolute as everyone that knew him seemed to claim. There were well over a thousand lords - great and small - set to attend the 'Great Council' as it was being called. His cousin was hardly without her own supporters, though it would be her son who would be the main contender on the late Prince Aemon's behalf. Nay, Viserys did not like to ponder on such things overlong, for these matters oft left a rancid aftertaste in its wake. All it would do was remind him of sadder things he would rather lock away, memories of a broken family and of dead children, most of whom never came to fulfilment. Spending time with the little light of his life, his sweet Rhaenyra, seemed far more agreeable than discussing political machinations amongst lickspittles. Politics were not of his liking. Yes, Viserys much preferred bringing enjoyment to his loved ones than indulging in petty quarrels.

How his father had tried so hard to put an end to those quarrels! How it filled him with sorrow to see his dear niece turn him away! And he had died without accomplishing anything. All his death had led to was a promise of more discontent in its wake.

No, Viserys could not let his father's legacy end like this. Looking down at his father's urn one final time, Viserys made a decision. He would not let the sting of their grandfather's rejection tear their family apart any longer. He would write to his cousin and invite her to dine at Dragonstone, the ancestral seat of House Targaryen, while he put his father's ashes to rest besides those of his mother. The House of the Dragon had remained divided for far too long. Now was the ripest of times to heal wounds instead of allowing them to fester.

Heir or no, Viserys knew he could no longer remain but a watcher. It was his duty to finally intercede in these affairs. His and Aemma's sorrows had long dominated their lives, yet now he could no longer afford such lethargy.

Prince Baelon had always said every ruler needed a firm resolve when it came to all decisions, one not built upon by self-aggrandizement and conceit, but just integrity. From what Viserys had gleaned from his meetings with those given positions by his father, the new Hand included, it seemed that he had attracted men made of the same stuff as he. He could already picture his brother's mocking laugh in his head, something that had become so much more familiar as the years had passed. But still Viserys did not let it deter him as he finally turned away from the Stranger's grim gaze. Viserys could only hope he was born of the same make, no matter the fool his brother thought him to be. Balerion himself had chosen warriors - kings - for his riders. The Conqueror himself has ridden him.

Why should Viserys be any different from those men?

LAENA II

Driftmark, 101 AC

"What do you think?" Laenor asked the moment their mother had slinked away, his lips curled into an ever so familiar smile. The door had barely been closed whence he had all but lost his usual composure to turn to face her, eyes alit by this most unexpected news: an invitation to Dragonstone from their mother's cousin. Mother's face had not deferred from that of the Lady of the Tides, but Laena had thought she'd heard a hint of conflict in her voice. Not that it surprised her; she had been acting all different since her uncle had passed and left the realm heirless. No doubt it concerned some form of "subterfuge" as Laenor was wont to say, something that Laena thought tiresome and unneeded at their age. She would much rather they spend time swimming and playing than trying to win an uncomfortable throne. So, she just shrugged at her brother's question, not particularly enthused to tear away from her sewing.

"I suppose it has been long since we called on Dragonstone," she said with a sigh, threading sea green thread through the fabric, "I can scarce remember how it looks like to be truthful. It is more a blur than anything. But again, it is hardly something I would regard as notable, little brother."

Laenor stood up to his full height with a snort that told her all he thought of her belief, his pale blue tunic falling once more to his knees. Silver stitching wrought seahorses along the collar and the hem, with silver waves edging his sleeves, as pale as the silver-white hair that fell to his chin. There was a sense of eagerness about him. In the way he stood. In the way he spoke. Always there was an edge of zeal that seemed so unnatural for someone as composed as Laenor Velaryon. A golden bracelet of opals hung around his wrist, a sapphire ring clinging to his forefinger. Both gifts from his recently passed seventh nameday, Laena recalled.

"To see how pretty Dragonstone remains is not what I am referring to, sister. Not at all. Laena, did you go through the book I had Maester Edmund sent to your chambers?" His tone was exasperated.

Laena only focused her eyes onto the murals that lay above Laenor's bed, feeling guilty. Not even the merlings that stared back at her deprived themselves of looks of reproach. Laenor's stern gaze forced itself back into her line of sight, steely and unyielding.

"Did you?" he asked again in an accusatory tone, lifting one tired eyebrow upward. Laena flushed.

"I went through it a bit," she mumbled half-heartedly, wishing she had chosen to spend her time with her other brother instead. Rhaenyx was unfortunately busy mooning over his first wooden sword, swatting at all he could hit with a trail of cats in tow. Their father had said he was already a knight-in-making, the second coming of Ser Corlys Velaryon, Lord Commander of the Conqueror's Kingsguard, something had only inflated his ego even more. Not even Laenor's snide comment on him having to swear off women worked. Rhaenyx was still too childish to think of girls as naught but "annoying" per his own admission. Something Laena found it hard to believe given he clung onto her skirts like a little kitten himself.

That left her with Laenor who had scarce left his chambers other than for a trip to the library, seeking out some book so ancient that the film of dust that coated them could have added a hundred extra pages to them. Laena saw no real use for it, but Laenor was strange in that way. Almost always he had a book in his hand. Would that he did not try to force such tedious tomes upon her.

"Laena," her little brother said, ever stern, "You know you've been behind on your lessons of late."

Laena's cheeks flared a deeper crimson. "All you did was send me a book thicker than mine own head, probably written by some old Archmaester who has been dead a thousand years now! And it was hardly about numbers now, was it?!"

"One thousand and fifty three years, sister," he corrected, tapping his foot anxiously on the carpet, running a hand through his hair. There was a frustrated look on his face, one that always seemed to be directed either at her, Rhaenyx, or Seasmoke. Laena could not tell who was on the receiving end of it the most.

"And the scroll was hardly of the Citadel," he chided, "This one was of Essosi origin, written by the hand of Haegon of Tellos."

Laena scrunched her nose. "Then some old Valyrian scholar a thousand and fifty-three years dead!"

Laenor did not find it as amusing as she did. Instead, he sent her a withering look of disappointment.

"Must you antagonise me?" he asked with a sigh. Laena had to give him a sly smile.

"Must you bombard me with ancient relics containing 'knowledge of the greatest import'?"

That at least earned her a most reluctant grin.

"Point taken," Laenor replied, placing one hand on either side of his hips, "But that treatise in particular was a true font of knowledge in regards to… pertinent issues of sorts. That of which this forthcoming visit may be key in placating."

Laena Velaryon only stared at him blankly, rightfully confused. "Pertinent issues?"

"On the rivalries of the noble houses of the Freehold and how they conducted themselves during such dangerous times," Laenor stated without pause, walking five paces to the left before turning five more paces to the right, like in a trance. The daunting sight of a thick stack of books resting upon his neatly organised desk seemed to cast its dark shadow over her in agreement. Not even the familiar smell of the sea breeze wafting through open stained glass windows could distract her.

Still, Laena's blank stare did not waver. "But they're all dead. Why worry about them?"

"Dead!?" Laenor's voice pitched as he threw his arms in the air, exasperated. "Dearest sister, you still have much to learn. Have you not made note of the increasing number of dragon-riding branches in these most subpar of western lands? Of how our family, us Velaryons, are all but a separate Valyrian dragon-riding house of our own. How this Great Council will undoubtedly cause even more discord between our two families, all but landing us back to the days when the forty families of Valyria fought for complete dominance over each other! Do you understand why it is imperative that we ensure that we leave not a single stone untouched in order to survive this damnable and nigh on inevitable conflict in the making?"

"...Yes?"

Laenor's body slumped forward as he stared at her incredulously, his mouth slacked open. His lilac eyes blinked profusely, as if there were some dust in his eyes. Laena was beginning to think that mayhaps she had not quite followed his line of thought. Scratch that, she did not even want to follow it.

With nary a further word said, Laenor walked past her and let his body fall limply onto the downy featherbed, simultaneously grabbing a pair of goosedown pillows and shoving them over the back of his head. He lay face down with his face mushed against the deep blue silks of his sheets, not saying anything. His silk clad pillows seemed to swallow his head whole, leaving not even a hint of silver-white hair shooting up from underneath.

Laena watched, more than a mite confused and quietly beginning to worry that Laenor was attempting to suffocate himself to death out of sheer vexation. It was enough to make her stand up warily, her sea-green silk dress crumpled from sitting on the floor, and to warily poke him in the shoulder. The pearls of her gown had left indentations on her knees, leaving her aching muscles even more sore. Her worry, however, was greater.

She sorely hoped for a response. Mayhaps a word of encouragement. She could definitely feel his muscles still working. Or well, she hoped they were.

She did manage to get a sign thankfully. Though she had hoped for more than a yell loud enough to make her fall back onto her bottom in shock, as well as the use of a rather muffled but still most improper term. That his immediate response after setting his attempted hangman's rope was not to help her up, but to go to his desk and pull out a large scroll only made her feel even more dread.

It seems she would learn about these boring things - this subterfuge - whether she wished for it or not.