"I take that he still did not make sound."

The old man looked up from the crib, having just put his hear against his silent child's chest, and shook his head, his bushy eyebrows corrugated heavily:

"That he did not, your Highness;" Viserys cringed slightly: "but he is intelligent, or at the very least, was able to understand that by hitting the post he could attract attention. Her Highness is also to praise for having noticed that."

Viserys nodded at that, but the pang of worry for his wife didn't stop, she was still mostly bed ridden after a week, even if the Grandmaester had waved any more dangers for her life after this childbirth.

He shook his head at that and smiled when the toddler looked to be much angered by the Grandmaester actions.

What a frown he had, mayhaps he looked like that when he was small.

Viserys's smile was tight, and not for small reasons.

"Do you think he can be presented to the king? I don't want any kind of situation happening, and the king is…demanding."

An understatement, but for his family saying anything else of the good king wasn't good for your continued stay.

Above all now that grandmother had died, he had become even stricter with father.

About him…
"I am sorry, Grandmaester, but did you hear anything about his grace, my father, returning from his hunt? He said he wanted something for Lucerys here;" and he rubbed the belly of toddler, much to the child's annoyance and his own glee, being able to finally do that again: "But I still haven't heard him returning. He is becoming old, after all."

"Old doesn't mean frail, your highness;" there was a smile on the Grandmaester lips: "and Prince Baelon is still only of fourty-four years. He has yet many more years, and still strength of body, to live out."

People said the same about uncle Aemon, but still death struck him, and Father was feeling more and more pain, at least he said so.

And a hunt was still dangerous, and useless, even if Daemon dragged him into them far too many times.

Viserys shook his head, and he started stroking his son little tuff of hair, and prepared to move him to his mother with the crib.

A sting in his gut at thinking of Aemma, but he soldiered on while two servants prepared to take up the crib itself, and a midwife took his son in her arms, with experienced care and a sad smile.

Elys, was her name, Viserys thought.

Aemma chose well.

"If your highness concerns still persist," there was a wry smile on the old man's face: "I will be here, not unlike I was the last two times you visited me."

There was a small cough coming from Viserys's throat, which he tried hard to hide.

But the lack of sound from his son was still concerning. He remembered, and remembers still, how Rhaenyra was, the little spitfire.

Made the midwives mad with the crying at night, making so that there was little possibility of turns for them.

Or for him and Aemma, to be truthful.

"Thank you, Grandmaester."

Viserys bowed slightly, while the Grandmaester turned back to his own studies.

"Oh, my prince;" The Grandmaester added when the prince and his entourage were starting to move out: "Some of my own acolytes found an interesting text on the Syreans, maybe from Lucon Syrean Ghiscarian. When you can find the time, and I advise you do, we will translate it."

There was sudden excitement from the young prince, who knew the importance of the masters of war in the time, above all if it was from the Salt-maker.

If they were lucky, it could be something about his circle of artists.

If they were really lucky, a description of their tower, there was none they could find other than "beautiful" and "above all others".

Maybe even if there were already talks about how the moon became two!

Viserys shook his head from the thoughts, and with a quick bow to the old maester to his studies, his back straighter than before while they moved towards Aemma's room, the guard and the servants around making quite the ruckus while the child looked around bewildered, but no crying came.

His child was staring around, somehow.

And taking on the tapestries, turning his head as much as he could while being a newborn to look around.

Or maybe it was just his imagination, being overworking due to the still present worry, the words of the maester, and the excitement of being a father again.

Maybe he would follow the advice of his old teacher.

So focused was he in his musings, that the presence of a different whitecloak in front of the door, thinking that he would be Ser Westerling, and that Rhaenyra had run off her lessons again.

But he had hair, and his beard was white along with that hair, and his face was grave and full of wrinkles, as old as Runciter.

But his presence hardly filled Viserys with happiness.

"Ser Redwyne, good day to you."

Viserys was barely able to keep the anger out of his voice at his presence, but he knew what would come on their head at the minimum amount of disrespect.

"Your highness." He was curt, and much more direct than anyone else.

At the very least this whiteshield was that.

"What brings you here? Doesn't his grace still have state matters?" Viserys asked, moving to cover the midwife holding his son from the knight.

"There are no more important duties for the king than to see the coming generation of kings and for a Valyran to see the new dragon rider."

Viserys almost snarled at the great lack of another important part, but he pushed it down and continued with the line of question:

"Why then didn't he wait for the formal presentation? The babe could still…not survive."

The pang of fear, and loss, and anger at the old king who was probably inside the room was strong in his heart, but the cold man in front of him simply said:

"The king has heard many rumours, and wants to see for himself the truth behind them."

This time Viserys did snarl, but he knew could do nothing more than nod and let the kingsguard announce his name to the ones inside.

"Your Grace, prince Viserys, alongside prince Lucerys, have arrived."

Aemma looked towards Viserys, and her shoulders untensed, a small breath coming from her lips from the bed she was in, her knuckles white.

Her handmaiden, one noble bastard, her name was Alys Stone, was standing close to her, clutching the hem of her skirt tightly while avoiding looking at the third person in the room, and being prepared for a foolish action.

He was old, wrinkles deep on his face, his purple eyes spent at the wearing of time, his formerly white hair tending towards grey, and a smile on his face, and a simple cane with a dragon on the top to help him walk.

It wasn't kind, it was calculating, mired to show and not make feel.

That was the truth the Targeryens knew about Jaehaerys Targeryen.

Viserys knew that, like many, many of his family knew, and had known, that.

Then the strong voice came out, untouched by his age:

"Grandson! I wondered where you had been, I still haven't seen your son since he had been born!"

Viserys bit the inside of his cheek, and his nails drew blood against his palm, and tried to not tremble in front of him, and then he spoke, bowing his head to not look at the king:
"The birth wasn't an easy one…grandfather… and we wanted to wait to see if…if he could survive."

It was in part truth, but a smaller one.

"So did say your wife." But the old man had seen the greater part, the hidden truth, so he continued, his smile as warm as the fire of his dragon, or the warmth that comes from being outside in winter for too long, and equally deadly: "But;" the man continued, his voice calm: "Other voices are heard at court, mainly ones that talk of one dragon, black as night and with eyes of blood, being now born, and its rider being a child who doesn't cry. Are those voices true, grandson?"

Viserys bit his cheek, and felt the iron in his mouth briefly, but he had to answer, lest his son be put in even more danger from the purple eyed monster:

"They are true, to a certain point. The dragon, from the last of Vhagar's and Balerion's clutch;" his heart felt a bit at that: "is now in the Pit, but our son isn't dim-witted, nor is he stupid."

Viserys had to add that in the end, knowing that the cruel man was thinking exactly that, and if the old man had said that, he would become the highest sinner for their subjects.

"I am not a fool, child. I can see that he is not, with Lucerys staring at me since he was brought in, and paying attention and being awake while being mere days old."

Viserys did turn towards his son, and he found that the small head, slowly and as much as a newborn could, turned towards him, his deep purple eyes open and now looking at him.

It made him smile, then he remembered the situation and focused to the danger again, his liege now looking with that fake smile:

"But now I am aware of the situation, from my own family nonetheless. And you still have time, either for the child to get better, or to produce another heir, with the child being a Kingsguard in the future."

Aemma's eyes widened and paled even more than usual, while gripping the sheets tightly.

The handmaiden was glaring at the man, while Viserys could hear shuffling and clanging from behind him.

Viserys, instead, went to a very far place, that had been in this very castle, where he had to hug father and Daemon, while his littlest brother was brought to a Maester as fast as possible, and his mother's face was covered.

He could feel the cold sweat, the dry mouth, the drum where his heart was.

He and Aemma had finally done their duty, and they would have to do it again?!

"No!" a voice thundered, and all the ones in the room turned towards Viserys, and he could hear movement of boots and hands and see them on hilts, and of sudden inhales of breaths, and his own voice shouting that.

That was when he felt his throat ache, and that his mouth was open, and the eyes of his wife wide and her throat moving up and down with each dry gulp of air.

He, Viserys, had been the one who shouted.

"No?" And now his Grandfather was the one who answered, his smile still present and his eyes blazing: "Maybe the situation of our family isn't clear, so I will give you a little description of the current situation, grandson."

The old man pushed on the cane he had now he was on his feet:

"The Targeryens are on the brink of a civil war." The old man was moving, the tock of his cane being intermitted with the rustling of his robes on the ground: "Right now Baelon is still alive, and as you as heir, but the Velaryons could, will, push their luck again at the barest hint of weakness;" the king was beside Viserys, but didn't stop there: "the Starks have become restless after the gift, the Greyjoy will go back to their ways without a strong reminder of our own power, while Dorne is healing back from our own actions and could decide to go back to their own schemes and raids in the south;" He now stood behind Viserys, and the tock wasn't heard anymore: "The Targaryens cannot have a weak king, or a weak heir of the heir, if we want to keep our own duty, and to be able to fulfil the dream, the prophecy, my grandsire had, we need to be strong."

Viserys had to avoid trembling when the monster spoke from behind him, knowing what he had done to his own family for the greater good of the realm.

Then the monster sighed, and he could hear the metal boots behind him move, and the door open: "But, as I said, you have time. Baelon is alive and will reign long enough for you to sire a healthy heir, if Vhagar and the Mother will help you again, and you follow your own duties."

Then the tock, the plop and the heavy breath of the old monster went out of the room, followed by the silent kingsguard, who was the only on armed who hadn't slept the sword of his scabbard in the room, so sure of the control his master had on his family.

Viserys just stood there, and wanted to go out, away, somewhere where he wouldn't be able to reach again.

But the look Aemma had, that his and her servants had, made him stand there, or at the very least take a chair.

He wasn't Daemon, but the gods be damned he would try to at least be a quarter as strong as he was.

That night, in a strange fortress

Alduin was the firstborn of Akatosh.

Thur of Dovahs all.

The one who would devour the world.

And he had been beaten by barely a whelp, who had just started to understand Dovahzul.

A Dovah, yes, but half-Joor in emotions and abilities.

And with barely any years for a Joor, not even a Dovah.

And Alduin had been defeated by Dovahkiin.

And now Alduin was reborn, smaller.

Caged inside a strange, Joor made, cavern, with barely the light of the two moons entering.

Weaker.

Alduin had also seen strange Dovahs.

It was like they were…muted, less wise, and while some were inside this strange building, and Alduin could see they were Dovah, even if unable to truly speak (and that was something he would take care of, and avenge them for), many were outside, some in the city and some more on another hill.

Alduin couldn't pinpoint more.

It seemed that the…rebirth… was to blame.

But there was time.

Alduin knew that this wasn't Taazokaan, the Joores didn't dress as they should if it was, and the language was different as well.

Meaning that Dovahkiin wouldn't be able to do anything until too late.

Three bells tolled three times in the distant and in the close, all over the city, like they knew that Alduin the world eater was there.

And a roar came from the closest cavern, where the biggest, and most annoying Dovah, was of this strange land, and Alduin cringed, as much as a Dovah should cringe.

Then there were the tremors, and a Dovah far larger than normal entered, bronze and green of colour, and zeroed its, and Alduin would use its for now, when it still couldn't talk, green eyes on the firstborn of Akatosh.

Then, with the background of the three tolls of the bells, the Dovah moved far faster than its size really should and surrounded the far too small Alduin with its body, not letting the small black Dovah move, only squawk, as much as Alduin would swear otherwise.

Alduin did try to move, due to the need to at least show that the helplessness wasn't there, but the enormous Dovah only pulled tighter, a mournful sound coming from its throat.

Aware at that moment that to reach, and surpass, the previous limits of power as when Dovahkiin fought against the firstborn in Sovengarde, Alduin simply huffed and didn't say anything, not that he could in this small body, and let the strange Dovah squeeze him, as much as an indignity it was.

Dovahkiin would have paid for this, in any case. Alduin could wait.