Well, howdy. It's been a while.

I am not fully impressed with this chapter (hence why it took forever) but the show must go on, right?

Thank you for all the favorites/follows, and major thanks to everyone who has reviewed so far!

Chapter Five

House Targaryen

Her thirteenth summer, she had come to Daemon with tear-swollen eyes and a fury that could have doomed Valyria twice over.

He had been reading on a balcony overlooking the Red Keep's sprawling gardens, an ancient tome written in the Valyrian language, and his fingertip had almost lovingly caressed the words as he read, following the flow of the ink that had been put down gods knew how long ago. But at Viserra's hasty arrival, his deep violet eyes had flicked up, his finger halting in its stroke.

"Beloved niece," he said as he snapped the book shut. He had been draped across a chaise, but he stood and took her in with concern, his usual teasing demeanor gone. "What happened?"

She collapsed into his arms, her chest heaving with suppressed sobs of hurt, anger. "Take me away from here!" she cried. "I can't stand it anymore! I don't care where we go – I want out!"

He grabbed her shoulders, gently prying her off his doublet. She turned away, trying to hide her blotchy face, but he grasped her chin and forced her to meet his eyes. They were dark, but there was a light within them that pulsed and flickered, erratic and unpredictable.

"Would if I could," he said softly, "but first, you must tell me what happened."

Viserra lowered her head, sinking into the warm, calloused cage of his fingers. "They're going to punish me."

"Who?"

"Mother and Father," she said miserably.

"Why?"

She screwed her eyes shut as tears threatened again. She might have felt better if they were for some type of remorse, but all she felt was her own righteous fury, her embarrassment and humiliation.

A fortnight ago, Queen Aemma had assigned Viserra two ladies-in-waiting. She had attempted to ingratiate some to Viserra before, but Viserra had always found a reason to be rid of them. Most of them were frightened of her and timid as mice, and their silent fear and judgment irritated her. But this was the first time Aemma had given her two at once, perhaps in an attempt to ease the misgivings of the ladies and alleviate Viserra's doubt. Viserra hadn't even bothered to remember the names of her ladies. They were both a bit older than her, close to Rhaenyra's age, and from houses she deigned unimportant. Viserra had grudgingly tagged along with them as they took turns around the gardens, attended educational lessons, and gossiped over embroidery sessions. The ladies seemed more inclined to speak with each other instead of her, and that had suited her well, especially since her mother seemed happy with the arrangement.

That had all come crashing down that morning.

An invitation to tea seemed dull and unexciting, but the maesters' chambers were occupied, so Viserra had resigned herself to accept. It had seemed to work out perfectly, though, for her new gown had just been delivered, a deep red number with black embellishments that felt like the embodiment of fire and blood. She had arrived at the reserved courtyard, smug and strangely eager, only to halt in her tracks when she heard her ladies whispering and giggling.

"I'd heard she was strange, but I never thought it'd be true," one of the ladies said. She was plump and had hair the color of mud. Viserra called her Toad, for when she laughed, her lips split unnaturally wide, and when she chewed, the flesh under her chin looked like a pouch. "Always catching rats in the filthiest corners of the Keep, bringing them to the maesters' chambers… I wonder what she does with them in there?"

They were talking about her, and the realization kept Viserra's feet rooted to the floor even as her blood sparked.

Viserra called the other girl Horse because of her large, flat teeth and abnormally long neck. Even her long hair resembled straw. Horse giggled shrilly behind her hand.

"Do you think she…pleasures herself with them?" she said between gasps of air. "I've heard the smallfolk lay with their goats and horses sometimes."

Toad laughed, her jaw nearly unhinging and revealing her fleshy pink tongue. "A rat's too small, don't you think? Perhaps she lets it loose under her skirts and hopes it climbs in."

Horse almost upended her teacup. As Viserra watched, hidden in the shadows, a servant appeared from the opposite end of the courtyard and deposited a fresh kettle of boiling water on the table. The porcelain gleamed.

When the servant skittered away, the girls burst into giggles again. They grated against Viserra's eardrums like Abraxas's claws on stone.

"That's why she's so quiet," Horse said, tears streaming down her face. "She's trying not to moan because of the rat stuffed up her cunt!"

They howled with laughter, but the only pleasure Viserra had was entering the courtyard and watching their faces go slack and pale, their laughter fading into shocked chokes. She floated to their sunbathed table, looking more serene than she felt as she grabbed an extra teacup and the kettle. Steam emitted from the opening as Viserra placed a few crushed peppermint leaves and lavender stems in her cup.

"Good morning, Toad; Horse," she said evenly, indicating each girl with a smile in their direction when she called them their false names. "It was so lovely of you to invite me to tea. Thank you for your kindness and consideration."

Toad tried for a flabby smile. Horse looked on with wild, startled eyes. "Er, of course, Princess. It's our pleasure. But my name is—"

Viserra never heard her name. She lifted the kettle and poured its boiling contents on Toad's face.

Toad screamed, lurching back in her chair as she clawed at her eyes and cheeks. Her skin was already red and blistering, and her mouth flapped as she screamed and screamed.

Viserra turned to Horse. She was frozen in her chair, watching Toad writhe and desperately wipe at her face in horror. Her lips went bloodless when she saw Viserra staring at her.

"P-Princess," she gasped. "Princess, please, I'm so sorry—"

Viserra dropped both the porcelain kettle and cup on the ground. They shattered on the stone path, gleaming like white shells on sand. The bits of peppermint and lavender scurried away on a puff of air.

"Kneel," Viserra said. She pointed at the shards of porcelain.

Horse jerked. Toad's screams of agony were momentarily forgotten.

"W-what?"

"Kneel," Viserra said again.

Something in her tone or face must have been quite dangerous, for Horse slumped out of her chair. She went to kneel, but Viserra shook her head. "Lift your skirts."

Horse hesitated. She glanced at Toad. Toad's screams had melted into pained whimpers, and she rocked back and forth on her knees, holding her mottled face. Servants had come after all the noise, but they hid in the shadows, too frightened to come closer.

"If I have to repeat myself again," said Viserra in that same even tone, "I will feed you the shards. Lift your skirts and kneel."

Horse had begun to cry. She hefted her skirts, babbling apologies and pleas, but when Viserra didn't move, Horse slowly sank to her knees. She cried when the porcelain crunched under her bones, and she cried when it cut into her skin, drawing blood. It pooled on the stone, sinking into cracks and staining the porcelain red.

That was about when Viserra had fled, fearing that the Kingsguard were on their way at that very moment, and fearing that the servants watching in silent horror and disgust would see the tears that had suddenly rushed forth as her chest, hollow when she had entered the courtyard, filled with anger and mortification.

Now, with Daemon, she released the hold on her emotions. "My ladies mocked me. So I poured boiling water on the face of one and forced the other to kneel on broken porcelain until she bled."

There was no change in Daemon's voice or expression. "Mocked you how?"

In a thick voice, Viserra recounted what had been said about her. When she'd finished, Daemon's fingers held her chin in a bruising grip.

"Look at me," he said. She obeyed and met his gaze. The sun slanted into the balcony at an angle, bathing one half of his face in light while the other remained in the dark. His eyes stared into hers, into the very core of her. For the first time in her life, she felt like someone had unearthed her true nature, strangled it out of the soil and held it up to the light, and did not shy away from it, nor bury it again to hide it.

And something she had never felt rushed in to consume her, like water finding any space it could to flood, to drown.

"What do dragons fear?" he asked.

Her lips curled back from her teeth. "I suppose you want me to say that they fear nothing, and neither should I, but dragons have fears, too. It's why they won't plunge into the sea; why they skitter back from the claws of dragons larger than them. I'm sure they were afraid when the Doom came for them, as well. So, please, Uncle Daemon, spare me."

"Cleverer each moon," he murmured, sounding pleased. "You're right. Dragons have fears, too. But when confronted with people, which is the more dangerous?"

"How many people are there?"

He shook his head. "Now you're purposefully evading the question, because you know the answer. You are a dragon, Viserra, and people like those ladies mean nothing. They have every right to fear you."

"I'm not like you," she whispered. "I'm not strong. I will always hear their whispers."

"Then hear them," he said, "and keep them close. Listen and observe, just like you did today. And then strike when it pleases you."

He finally released her chin. His thumbs reached up to swipe away the last of her tears. She kept her eyes on his lips when he spoke again.

"Accept your punishment with your head high," he told her. "Do whatever your Mother and Father say. But you acted like a dragon today. Remember that."

He pressed a light kiss to her forehead, retrieved his book, and vanished into the gardens.

She touched the spot where he'd kissed her and smiled.

Viserra had grown tired of the Small Council some time ago.

It was peculiar, she thought, that six months ago she had been desperately tunneling Maegor's passages to eavesdrop on her father's council, and now she had her own seat at the table – even if only an honorary one. But she'd been given her own marble at her request like all the other members, an amethyst and quartz beauty that made her chest swell with pride whenever she placed it into her slot in the grand table and angled it so the sunlight caused it to splash glittering refractions across the white marble. She supposed she had Rhaenyra to thank for that, though.

Her sister sat near the head of the table on King Viserys's left. In the half-year since their father had crowned her heir, she had settled into the role naturally, like a dragon taken to flight. The set of her shoulders and spine had become stiffer, straighter, and a fierce pride bloomed in her eyes that Viserra had never seen before.

"Is it so bad to want the throne?"

The words had kept Viserra awake for weeks. Was it possible, she wondered, that in all her years spent cultivating her own ambitions, she had never realized that Rhaenyra had done the very same?

Rhaenyra listened intently as Lord Beesbury droned on much like his namesake, and Viserra stifled a yawn. She'd thought council meetings were supposed to be exciting affairs and had blamed her father's lackadaisical disposition on his grousing and complaining afterward, but she was beginning to realize that he may not have been exaggerating, after all. She imagined half of the sessions would be sufficient as ravens.

"Thank you, Lord Beesbury." Otto Hightower's voice snapped Viserra out of her daze, and she glanced around Maester Mellos to see the Hand of the King smiling pointedly at the Master of Coin. "As always, your services to the Crown are much appreciated. The King and his council anticipate next month's report of expenses."

Lord Beesbury smiled in return, seemingly unaware of the insincerity that dripped from Hightower's every word. He dipped his head and shut his heavy ledger, and there was a beat of silence around the table as everyone shook off their stupor.

"Well," King Viserys said. He spread his hands as he looked around the table. "Are there any other matters to discuss, or shall we adjourn for the day?"

"There is the matter of the Stepstones, Your Grace," said Corlys Velaryon from Viserra's right. He sat opposite the King at the other end of the table, and he had been brewing like a storm since the council's start. Now he seized his chance to speak. "Four ships have now been lost because of this supposed Crabfeeder. The last carried my banner."

He let the words sit like a low rumble of thunder over the table. Viserys sat back, seeming to refrain from sighing, but Otto leaned forward.

"The Crown will compensate you for your ship and crew and make an offering to the men's families. But if you are suggesting another course of action, Lord Corlys…"

The Sea Snake slammed his fist on the table, and though Viserra did not startle, her muscles tensed.

At last, things were getting interesting.

"I do not want compensation," he hissed. "I want to burn out this Crabfeeder and seize the Stepstones by force, like we should have done months ago!"

"A war with the Free Cities is the last thing the realm needs," Viserys said, weary.

"These pirates are not the Free Cities."

"Who do you think provides them with their ships and tender?" he countered. "No. I will not risk open war with the Free Cities."

"Then what reason does the Crabfeeder have to fear us?" Lord Corlys said. His lip curled. "The King's own brother has been allowed to seize Dragonstone and fortify it with an army of his goldcloaks. Daemon has squatted there for half a year without even a protest from the Crown. The Crabfeeder openly defies us, mocks us—"

"I will caution you, Lord Corlys, to mind yourself when speaking to the King," said Otto quietly, but his words carried as if he had shouted. Rhaenyra's eyes took in everything, her gaze constantly scanning the table, but Viserra had gone very still.

She glanced down at her hands where they rested on the table. Daemon's ring glinted upon her finger, and she found herself unable to breathe. It was the first mention of her uncle in months since his banishment from court. Last she heard, he had, in fact, gone to Runestone, but rumor was that he had not stayed more than a fortnight. Resentment filled her at the thought, and Lord Corlys's words fed kindling to that furious fire. She had not known where Daemon had been for the simple reason that no one had bothered to tell her, least of all Daemon himself. All her ravens had come back unanswered, and there had been none from him. He had abandoned court, but more, he had abandoned her, and Lord Corlys had driven that stake home in her heart.

"What if you were to send dragon-riders, Father?" Rhaenyra said suddenly. Every eye turned to her, but she did not cow. "It would be a show of force without need for an army and would serve a warning to those who would pose as enemies of the realm."

"No," the King said again, and Rhaenyra looked visibly disappointed. "I have spoken. Envoys have been sent to Pentos and Volantis to find common cause, and I believe this conflict will be resolved peacefully. The Stepstones will be settled in time."

Lord Corlys shoved back his chair and snatched his marble from the table. With a last thunderous look, he stalked from the chambers, leaving the rest of them in awkward silence.

"Rhaenyra," Viserys said with fake cheer, "would you stay behind a moment? You, too, Ser Harrold." The Kingsguard nodded.

The King turned to the rest of them. Viserra tried to catch his eye, but he glanced over her as if she were a piece of furniture. Her mouth tightened. "We shall speak again on the morrow. I believe we are adjourned for the day."

Lord Beesbury, Maester Mellos, and Lord Strong, the Master of Laws, got to their feet and bowed. Viserra and Otto were slower to rise, and they lingered as the rest filed out. Viserys flicked his hand, already turning to Rhaenyra, and after a stiff bow, the Hand of the King left.

Viserra collected her marble, and it clicked against the Valryian-steel of her ring. She cleared her throat. "Shall I stay as well, Father?"

Viserys blinked, clearly surprised she was still there. "Oh, no, that won't be necessary." He gave her what he thought must be a fatherly smile, but all Viserra saw was condescension. "It's a small matter; one your sister can easily manage herself."

Viserra glanced at Rhaenyra. Rhaenyra lifted her shoulders in a helpless gesture. Viserra tried again. "Then perhaps there is another small matter that I could handle myself?"

"Ah, no. I don't believe there is." Her father gave her another placating smile. "Perhaps the Grand Maester may have work for you?"

She looked at Rhaenyra again, not exactly begging for help, but challenging her sister to see if she would even offer. Rhaenyra adopted the same expression as their father and said nothing.

"Very well," Viserra said through her teeth. "I'll leave you both to it."

She walked briskly to the doors, her skirts swishing between her legs at every long, controlled stride. She would not give them the satisfaction of seeing her storm away like a petulant child.

Once she crossed the threshold, Ser Lorent appeared and shut the doors behind her with a respectful nod to the king. He turned to her as she dropped her marble into a small pouch at her side and cinched it shut in one frustrated tug.

"That bad?" her guard asked. "Er, Princess, I don't think you should do that."

She had immediately pressed her ear to the closed door. She flapped her hand, but she knew it was in vain; no matter how much she strained, the doors were thick, fitted for shielding the chambers from spies and eavesdroppers and fortified against adversaries in case of siege or attack. After a few moments, she stepped away with a heavy sigh that bordered on a groan.

"What is the purpose of including me on the council if they conduct all their affairs behind my back, anyway?" she asked, giving the doors a sour look.

"Are you asking rhetorically, Princess, or should I say the answer? Because I fear you already know it."

Six months ago, she might have demanded his head for speaking to her so informally, as if they were equals – or, gods forbid, friends – but that was before everything in her life had been ripped up, root and stem, and burned on the same pyre as her mother's corpse. They would never be friends, but Viserra was short on confidantes, and at least the Kingsguard was in her service for the most part.

"Because my sister is the heir," she said, stressing the enunciated words in a childish voice. "Of course, I know that. How could I forget? All the lords of the Seven Kingdoms came and swore their fealty to her at her coronation."

"I'm glad you at least remember that much." His voice was equal parts teasing and sarcastic. "You had already been well into your cups even before the feast. I thought you were going to be sick during the ceremony."

"Did you have a contingency in place if I had?"

"I would have offered my helm. It would have been a shame if you had ruined Princess Rhaenys's gown."

Viserra caught herself smiling before she wiped it off her face. She had never bantered with anyone before except Rhaenyra or Daemon, but she found herself engaging in more and more of it with Ser Lorent. Had she truly become so desperate for company?

His mirthful expression flickered when Viserra looked away, but before either of them could say anything, the doors opened, and Rhaenyra stepped out.

"Lurking again?" she said when she spotted Viserra loitering outside. She grinned as Ser Harrold joined them, shutting the doors behind him again. Viserra wondered why her father wanted privacy in the council chamber, but Rhaenyra stood on her tip-toes, forcing Viserra to look at her.

"Waiting," Viserra corrected with an unimpressed look.

Her sister shrugged. "Kind of the same thing, honestly." She clasped her hands behind her back and rocked on her heels. "Oh! Ser Lorent, how lovely to see you again."

Lorent inclined his head. "Good day, Princess. The pleasure is all mine."

Rhaenyra ignored Viserra's glower and linked her arm through hers. "Speaking of Kingsguards, Father has asked me to handpick our newest member," she said to Viserra as she tugged her down the corridor. "Ser Harrold is to be named the new commander after Ser Ryam's unfortunate passing."

"A daunting task," said Viserra. "He banished me so he could tell you that?"

Rhaenyra's playful grin faltered. "Well, there were other things said, too."

Viserra waited for her to elaborate, but she didn't. "Such as?"

"Tedious things," she said airily. "I wouldn't want to bore you."

Viserra's gut seized, as it was wont to do lately. Ever since the night she had eavesdropped on her father naming Rhaenyra his heir and telling her of Aegon's prophecy, she had watched them both carefully. Outwardly, she played the part of supporter, lending her hand in truce to Rhaenyra a few weeks after the coronation and making a big show of shedding her initial reluctance. She had waited, wondering if either her father or Rhaenyra would eventually tell her of the prophecy, or at least let it slip, but the two kept it closely guarded. It made her imagine what other secrets her own blood were keeping from her.

"Are you choosing the next Kingsguard now?" Viserra asked as they descended multiple staircases.

"Father said they've all assembled in the inner courtyard," she said. She snuck a glance over her shoulder where Ser Harrold and Lorent walked before she leaned closer to Viserra. "I hope there's a handsome one like your Ser Lorent."

Viserra recoiled in disgust. "He's not handsome," she said. "And in case you've forgotten, they're celibate."

"Who said anything about sex?" Rhaenyra said, and Viserra's face went red. She suddenly wanted to flee. "Maybe I just like to look."

"Don't talk about…that…so openly," Viserra hissed under her breath.

"Practicing to be a septa, are we?"

"It's not proper."

"I hear other lords discussing it all the time. Why shouldn't we?"

Viserra untangled herself from Rhaenyra. "I have work to do in the maesters' chambers. Pick someone who knows how to use a sword, at least."

"Enjoy your time alone," Rhaenyra said with a wag of her eyebrows and a pointed look at Lorent before she sauntered away with Ser Harrold.

"I hope they're all ugly and bald!" Viserra called after her.

She was still in a mood when the doors to the maesters' chambers clanged open, rousing her from nearly dozing off at her workstation and landing face-first in rat intestines. She didn't sleep much anymore, and with council business taking up more of her hours, she had begun to cram twice the amount of research into half the time, with little to no results.

Her eyes strained a bit before coming back into focus on Alicent Hightower standing nervously in the middle of the room. Viserra was momentarily taken aback before her eyebrows scrunched. She was too tired to muster a full glare.

"Princess," Alicent greeted with a small curtsy. "I wasn't expecting to see you here. It's late."

"You're here," Viserra pointed out. She rose to her feet and barely concealed a grimace when her back creaked and popped. "The maesters have all gone to bed."

"Ah." Alicent frowned. "Well, I'll return tomorrow, then."

"What do you need?" Viserra nodded to Alicent's hands. She cradled them gently to her chest, and there was a furrow of pain between her dark eyes. "Burn ointment? Bandages?"

Alicent hesitated. Viserra thought she might leave, but she came closer and unfurled her fingers stiffly. All of them were red, each nail having been chewed down to the quick. The middle finger of her right hand was the worst, though. Pus had crusted in the shredded skin around the nail, and the skin itself was puffy and an angry red.

"I thought it would go away on its own," the girl admitted quietly, "but it keeps getting worse."

Viserra shucked off the apron she wore over her gown, and after washing her own hands with a pitcher and rag, she gestured to Alicent's. "Let me see."

She tried to ignore the other girl's presence as she took Alicent's hands into her own. She was no maester by any means, but Maester Mellos had allowed her to help every now and again when he was short on bodies, so she knew basic things, particularly the differences between the numerous herbs, ointments, and salves he kept.

Viserra placed her thumb atop Alicent's finger. The flesh throbbed and was hot to the touch. She pressed down and Alicent winced. "Does that hurt?"

"A bit," she said. "It's not a sharp pain; more of a dull one."

"Small infection, then," Viserra surmised. "You were right to come when you did; a few more days and it might have spread, or rot could have set in if you weren't keeping it clean enough. Might have had to amputate it."

Alicent blanched. "Oh."

Viserra whisked to the maesters' stores and searched the shelves before she found a small tincture. After grabbing a roll of bandages, she returned to Alicent and gestured for her to sit in one of the empty worktable chairs. She complied, and Viserra pulled up another, ignoring the distinct awkwardness of offering her help to Rhaenyra's lady-in-waiting when she usually tried her best to not acknowledge the other girl's existence at all. She could have sent her away. Why hadn't she?

Viserra unscrewed the lid and wrinkled her nose at the pungent salve within. Using a small metal spoon, she slathered the thick mucus-like substance on each of Alicent's fingers, paying special attention to the infected one. She let it sit while she busied herself cutting the bandages into small strips, not speaking or looking in Alicent's direction.

"It feels better already," Alicent offered kindly. Her voice was quiet, but it wasn't as apprehensive as before. "Thank you, Princess Viserra."

"Infection can be deadly," she said gruffly, remembering Abraxas and his rotting claw. "Rhaenyra might have thrown me into the black cells if I had let you go without aid."

A small smile lifted Alicent's mouth. "I don't think she would do that to her own sister on my account."

"I would do it." Viserra set down the shears and gestured for Alicent's hands again. "If she hurt someone close to me."

Alicent said nothing, but Viserra was certain she was also thinking of how that list was exceedingly brief. Alicent cleared her throat delicately.

"I saw Rhaenyra before coming here," she said. "She told me of the new Kingsguard she had selected. Ser Criston Cole from the Dornish Marches. In the Stormlands."

"I know where House Cole is from," Viserra said. Alicent must have taken her pulled face for confusion instead of mild incredulity. "They're a vassal of House Dondarrion at Blackhaven. Surely there was someone from a greater house?"

Alicent shrugged. "She said nothing of why. I remember Ser Criston from the tourney, though. He was the one to unseat Prince Daemon in the final tilt."

Viserra's hands spasmed as she wrapped Alicent's fingers. "Oh? That must have been after I left."

"Yes, I believe so." Alicent shifted uncomfortably, and Viserra finished wrapping her right hand in the silence that followed. She was on her left hand when Alicent spoke again.

"I'm truly sorry about that day," she said softly. "I never meant for that to happen."

"Don't," Viserra said. She refused to meet Alicent's gaze. "Just – don't speak of it again. Ever."

"Of course, Princess. I only meant—"

"I don't care what you meant." She finished tying off the last of Alicent's bandages with a sharp jerk, and the other girl winced. "He is gone, and I am here, and that is all. Ask Maester Mellos to change those for you tomorrow evening. Now get out."

Alicent looked at her with something akin to sympathy, and Viserra suddenly wished she hadn't put the shears so far from her reach.

"You should go to him," Alicent said. When Viserra lifted her head, she immediately ducked her own. "I'm sorry, Princess. That was out of turn. Thank you again for your help. Goodnight."

Before Viserra could decide how to react, Alicent had turned and fled. Her hands flexed, and Daemon's ring tightened and then relaxed around her finger. She looked at it for a long moment, and then the door Alicent had left from.

Finally, after a long, ragged sigh, she got up and blew out the candles in the chamber, one by one.

Dinners with her father had become a rare occurrence, but it seemed the King had roused himself from his miniature-built Valyria long enough to invite both Viserra and Rhaenyra to sup with him the next evening.

Viserra felt like a crone as she ascended the stairs to her father's chambers. Her back was stooped and sore from the night before, and fatigue put her almost parallel to the floor. After tending Alicent Hightower, she'd retired for bed, but again, sleep had eluded her. She'd fidgeted well past the hour of the owl, trying to pluck out Alicent's words from where they had burrowed underneath her skin.

Go to him as if it were so easy. Go to him as if either Viserra's or Alicent's father would allow her. Go to him as if he hadn't torn out her heart and trampled it beneath his boot.

A wrong step made her back muscles twist in pain, and Viserra had to pause with her hand on the rail, her other reaching behind to rub out the sudden knot.

Lorent, ever in her wake, was quick to notice her discomfort.

"Should we return to your rooms, Princess? You could take dinner there after you've a hot bath. A bad back's a nasty ailment."

Viserra swore under her breath and straightened. "I'm fine. I'm not going to ignore an invitation from the king."

"He's also your father," Lorent pointed out wryly. "I'm sure he'd understand. You need rest, Princess."

"What I need," she ground out through her teeth, "is to see my father. Everything else can wait."

She started up the stairs, and after a few steps, Lorent's armor clanked behind her again. She kept her eyes downcast, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other, so she was not aware of anyone else until Lorent said "Good eve, Lady Alicent."

"Oh, hello, Ser Lorent; Princess Viserra."

The soft voice made Viserra's head snap up. Descending the staircase in the opposite direction was Alicent Hightower. She clutched a large tome in her arms but still managed a decent curtsy. White bandages made her fingers look like claws. Viserra immediately averted her eyes, uncomfortable.

She marched on without another word or glance. Lorent followed her with a muttered apology. It did not occur to her to wonder what Alicent had been doing near the king's private rooms at all.

If Lorent disapproved of her ill manners, he said nothing of it. They were silent until they reached Viserys's chambers, where Lorent joined Ser Harrold Westerling guarding the door. Viserra entered her father's rooms.

The apartments were smoky and stifling. Nearly every candle and sconce was lit, dripping light over the replica stone Valyria that dominated a large portion of the bedchamber. Viserra waved a hand in a vain attempt to dispel the clouds of incense and smoke, her eyes pricking with water as she walked farther into the room, toward the adjoining vestibule where her father hosted private meals.

Three small windows overlooking King's Landing brought some reprieve as Viserra entered the vestibule, and she inhaled deeply, tasting salt. Viserys was already seated at the table; half of the wine carafe was already gone as he turned to greet her.

"Viserra," he said warmly, reaching a hand toward her.

"Father." Viserra offered her own hand and was surprised when her father bent to kiss the back of it. Perhaps he'd already had more wine than she thought. "Thank you for hosting us tonight. Is Rhaenyra on her way?"

"Shortly," he said with an indulgent smile. "The heir arrives on her own time, apparently."

Viserra claimed the seat on her father's right. A servant poured her a glass of wine while others brought forth steamed clams and oysters, powdery bread, and figs drizzled in honey. When Viserys made no move to eat, she followed suit. She fiddled with her napkin and silverware as the silence stretched.

She could ask now, she thought. It was just the two of them alone. She had played the scenario over in her mind, but for some reason, she had always expected Rhaenyra to be there. But perhaps her absence was more ideal.

Viserra shifted in her seat. "Father—"

"Sorry I'm late!" Rhaenyra breezed into the room with a broad smile. She stooped to kiss Viserys's cheek before taking the seat across from Viserra.

"A good reason, I hope?" Viserys said, but his eyes twinkled fondly. "You don't look like you've been on dragon-back."

"Ser Criston was keeping me entertained with stories about the fighting in the Stormlands." She popped a fig into her mouth and spoke around it. "He's a vivid storyteller. And experienced with a sword. He will make a fine addition to the Kingsguard."

"Precisely why I let you choose," said Viserys. Viserra made a face into her goblet. Fortunately, neither of them saw.

As the three steadily made their way through the first course, Rhaenyra saw apt to include Viserra in the conversation, and Viserra immediately regretted it when Rhaenyra said, "Alicent told me she saw you in the maesters' chambers last night, and that you treated the injuries on her fingers."

Viserra occupied herself by using a piece of bread to soak up the leftover honey on her plate. "She had an infection. I didn't want her to give it to you. You might have given it to me."

"You know how to treat wounds?" Viserys said. He looked surprised. "When did you learn that?"

Rhaenyra laughed. "She's been a regular sight in the maesters' chambers for years now, Father, remember? All her rats?"

"Oh. Yes, I think I do now. Vaguely."

The honey stuck like bile in Viserra's throat.

The servants brought in platters of roasted, buttered vegetables, legs of seasoned chicken and pork, and tureens of various sauces and oils. She ate in silence, collecting her wits and waiting for an opportunity to speak. When the conversation lulled, she seized her chance.

"Father." She set down her knife and fork and faced the king squarely. "I wish to go to Dragonstone. To speak with Uncle Daemon."

Rhaenyra froze, her goblet halfway to her mouth. Her father's jovial expression clouded. "What is there to speak with him about?"

"I know he did not mean his words," she said quietly. "He is family; and besides, Dragonstone is Rhaenyra's, not his. If I could convince him to return to court, or even Runestone—"

"He sits at Dragonstone," Viserys said, "to mock me further. To spite me. But he shall never receive a rise out of me again. No. Let him stay there and congeal in his jealousy, his misery."

"Then allow me to uproot him." She planted her hands on the table. "Lord Corlys is right; letting him retain Dragonstone weakens the Crown's rule."

"Viserra," Rhaenyra said warningly.

Viserys's gaze had darkened. "He will make you a hostage. Word has spread that Rhaenyra has supplanted him as heir. He has already spat upon the pyres of my wife and son. Do you think he would not use another of my children to grab back the power he so desperately covets?"

Viserra's fingernails dug into the table's woodwork. "He would never. I know him, Father. Perhaps better than you do."

His eyes flashed. "You overestimate your worth. Daemon holds nothing dear. He has made that quite plain."

"You are wrong. Let me speak to him, and I will prove it."

"No." Viserys's grip tightened on the stem of his goblet. He took a deep drag of wine and shook his head. "No. This conversation is finished. Finish your meal."

Viserra lurched from her seat. "On dragon-back. I will fly Abraxas and bring a retinue of loyal household guards. If it is my safety that worries you so—"

"I said no!" Viserys slammed his empty goblet on the table, rattling the dishes. "He seeks to undermine me; he always has – you will be nothing more than a pawn to him to use against me—"

"The man who raised over two hundred men-at-arms to defend your claim to the throne?" Viserra spat. "That man? Your brother? Who wanted to make you King?"

An ugly purple vein throbbed in her father's temple, and Viserra thought it might burst before Rhaenyra spoke.

"I don't think it's a bad idea, Father." She shrugged when both Viserys and Viserra spun toward her. "He might listen to her. If you are concerned she will be made a hostage, then perhaps we send someone with her. A respected noble or knight; not someone who will antagonize him, like Ser Otto. A person he knows he cannot intimidate or kill."

Viserra stared at her, stunned. She had not expected Rhaenyra to side with her. She had prepared herself for a protracted argument, but her sister had somehow floored Viserra and their father at the same time.

She seized her chance.

"Lord Corlys," she said, turning back to Viserys. He gazed at her with an inscrutable expression. "Send Lord Corlys with me. Daemon respects him enough, and he is a member of the council. He would not dare take up arms against him."

Viserys glanced back to Rhaenyra. "You really believe this is wise?"

"Dragonstone is mine." She sniffed. "And the lords will keep whispering about it until something is done. I say she should be allowed to go. Perhaps we can send terms."

Viserys looked thoughtful at her counsel, and a pang went through Viserra. How must it feel, she wondered, to be looked upon as someone to take seriously rather than scorn?

"Very well," he said. "The council may draw up terms tomorrow. This is not a promise," he warned Viserra. "If the council cannot agree on the matter of your safety, then you shall remain here, and we will find another course."

Viserra bowed her head. Anger had sparked to life within her again at Rhaenyra's intervention, but she tempered it, dampened it. It had gotten her what she wanted, hadn't it? There was no reason for her to be so furious, but it roared within her all the same, defiant and indignant.

She looked up. Across the table, Rhaenyra winked as she sipped from her cup, but all Viserra saw was a staircase, winding up and up, so high into the smoke and shadows that the top was entirely obscured, and Rhaenyra had just taken a step upward, leaving Viserra alone at the bottom. And she felt, in her heart, that that was the last time they would ever be on the same step.

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