VISERYS

"The wine cup was silver grey, and not particularly well-adorned, like most things at Dragonstone, though its handle was that of a dragon's tail which he held with his long, pale slender fingers in awaitance and stressed angst. Ser Richard Horpe sat beside him, with his quilted doublet and surcoat displaying the three deaths-head moths of house Horpe, and next to him was Ser Clayton Suggs, along with Ser Axell Florent, Lord Bar Emmon, his good-father Lord Monford Velaryon and finally the lowborn onion knight, Ser Davos Seaworth. Maester Cressen was sat clutching his quill and paper with old, wrinkly spotted hands, looking around the table with befuddled anticipation and consulting his hourglass time and time again, as if that would help with their troubles.

Lord Stannis was late to the meeting this particular day, and Stannis was never late. That was an ill sign, no doubt. The wind had blown through the windworm since early morning. That was an ill sign as well, Viserys thought. The day was dark, with clouds pressing down ahead, and little sunlight to be had. They were in the Stone Drum, covered in by thick stone walls of silent swallor, lost to the world outside. And lost seemed also Stannis to be, if he had not been washed out to sea by a sudden great wave and sunk down like an iron casket. His castellan, lord regent, protector and caretaker ever since he was little, Lord Stannis was like an image of the Father wrought in pure iron, though Viserys was sure that the Father smiled more often. The Andals in the shape of Hugor Hill had produced forty strong sons and forty beautiful daughters, if the old legends could be trusted – which, of course, they usually couldn't when it came to the lesser lines of Westeros – and Lord Stannis only ever had Shireen, though that was more than Viserys and his own wife could boast of. There was still precious little of children's laughter on Dragonstone. Viserys had hoped to fill that silence ever since the laughter had waned from his own mouth so many years ago in his youth, but today would not be the day for that, he sensed.

Lord Stannis was never late, he thought once more to himself, twisting and turning the deep lilac amethyst gemstone ring on his ring finger back and forth as Maester Cressen coughed and read the same parchment over and over again, seemingly forgetting where he had left off each time. Viserys turned the ring back and forth, fretting more for each new time in the uncomfortable sweaty heat of the sticky summer air, the humidity of which clung itself to the very air like a hot soup. Stannis... Stannis... he thought again. He could practically feel it by the sweat on his skin and the smell of the damp air which hung over the entire island like a cloud of subtropical mist. Something was wrong.

His foster father and guardian of the past fourteen years was a stern and dutiful man, a true lord whom he could look up to, despite the manner of their coming together all those years ago. Stannis had brought him up at Dragonstone as a Targaryen in his own ancestral seat, and for having been allowed at least to retain that, his own home, Viserys was forever grateful and loyal. Stannis had never ever struck him, like his own father had, nor shouted loudly at him, nor treated him badly. He had not treated him particularly well either, but neither did he to anyone else. He was a hard and somewhat cold man, much like Viserys himself, though far older, stronger, and more bitter than hippocras water in his heart. He almost pitied his dutiful captor at times, for the injustice given to him by Lord Robert, the "demon of the Trident", as the vile rebels of the mainland still called him. Viserys let his gaze turn to where Storm's End was located on the map, suddenly realising that he had sat himself down at the western side again. Why did he always do that? And Stannis would walk up and sit at the place where Dragonstone lay on the map, with Ser Davos close by at the Stormlands, while Viserys himself was on the other side, looking over it from where he was, next to Ser Richard Horpe by the Iron Islands, and then Ser Clayton Suggs and Ser Axell along the northwestern coast, Lord Bar Emmon to the right around the Bay of Seals, and Lord Monford at the place just between White Harbor and the Vale. Viserys' eyes were focused on the black letters forming Storm's End, etched in hard on the surface of the greenly painted wood by the resting gloved knuckles of the onion knight. He still felt a surge of anger when thinking of its lord.

If Viserys had been king, he would have killed Robert long ago for his treason and had Stannis rise up to Lord of Storm's End instead. Together they might have made a powerful alliance, Viserys allowed himself to think at times, though just now he remained under the eyes of Stannis, not a king in truth, if still by blood, as the Northern Usurpor, the Wolf King, Eddard Stark, sat on his father's trone in King's Landing and the fat, treasonous whore-monger Lord Robert Baratheon sat down in Storm's End on his fat arse, siring bastards and trueborn children alike while Viserys' family line had been mingled out for generations and now trembled/lingered on the holy sacred womb of his noble Velaryon lady wife. At least the king had been senseful enough to send the Kingslayer, Jaime Lannister, to the wall for what he did. All the same, Viserys would lie awake thinking on how to take his vengeance. Having the man executed for his crime would have been the right thing to do of King Eddard.

At least he was the lord of his own castle now, Viserys thought. When he had turned sixteen, he had been proclaimed Lord of Dragonstone and Stannis had been officially demoted from his regent to only serve as his castellan, though titles meant little and the truth between them the more. Stannis still watched over him the same as he had when he was little. If only I could father my son at last, he thought, then I will be grown in his eyes... But the gods were slow to answer their prayers, just as slow as Stannis was today. It was all stranger, the entire situation, far stranger than any ordinary man would have the patience for, but he was no ordinary man. He was the dragon, and a fool all the same. It takes a fool to remain sane here, though... And surely only a fool would father a child into this strange world of deceit and injustices where he, the rightful king and lord of Dragonstone both, barely held sway over his own keep in comparison with the younger brother of the bastard house of Baratheon. Orys Baratheon had been loyal to his forefather Aegon. He supposed that Stannis was loyal, but neither had he had a choice in the matter. Was one a fool if one blindly trusted the hand that shackled and fed oneself? Perhaps, and perhaps not... But a fool to father a child on Dragonstone while still feeling half a prisoner at times, yes. So he supposed that he had to be one. Stannis was certainly not, however, and neither had he fathered any living sons as of yet. His thoughts kept turning in his mind like the currents of the vast ocean outside, like the fumes of smoke from the Dragonmont flowing and enveloping themselves in smoothly slender shapes...

He thought of his poor sister, Daenerys. She was all alone and afraid, still after all these years a ward stuck at Riverrun under the guardianship and null tutelage of Lord Hoster Tully and his son Lord Edmure. She had not even been allowed to see the Sea again since the last time she was allowed a visit to Dragonstone, four years past. How she had loved coming there, to their home, and how he had loved showing her around. How innerly he wished, and longed, that the might take her there some day again and show her all the things that were his, and theirs together. All the things which she had all the right to, as a true Targaryen. But instead she was under the wardenship of the trout, thought Viserys, and came into his maddening thoughts again. He was not oft ill-tempered, not in truth, but once those thoughts came over him, at was as if a volcano in his mind, and he had to take it with ease, drink a cup or two of sweet dark wine with cloves and calming herbs, and sit down and not speak to anyone for an hour or two, until it came away.

He knew that he had to bring her into the family and find a suitable match for her as well, someone of the Dragon's blood. A Velaryon, obviously. Possibly a Celtigar or a Dayne or someone else, as well, but there must be some reason as to why his forefathers had so seldom mingled with the Celtigars, he thought to himself time and time again at perusing the old family lists in the library, and as for the Daynes, he knew that his father would not have wanted a drop more of Dornish in their bloodline, violet eyes or no. The Velaryons it was, then. And there were a surprising amount of them when one truly looked, but none fitted his sister better than one from the main line, of course, and thus the choice had been clear from the start: his good-brother Monterys Velaryon, the young son of Lord Monford Velaryon, was by all means the perfect match for his sister. He was a silver-haired young boy with violet blue eyes of purest highborn Valyrian blood and stock, his shape vaguely resembling that of Viserys himself when he had been a boy.

He loved the boy dearly, and always took good care to mention it to him. With their union, the bloodline of the Targaryens would once again be secured for a generation or two into the future, and he could rest assured that they would be all looked after well by himself and his lady wife on Dragonstone and Driftmark, Viserys thought. Lord Stannis would most likely approve of the match as well, though he spoke little of the matter. When Viserys had first mentioned it to him, Stannis had said something about birds of the same feather oft flocking together, and Viserys took that as a good sign. Stannis himself had married Lady Selyse Florent, to make peace with the Reach after the war and bring them into the fold. She was not a very nice woman in truth, Viserys supposed, but he had never had any troubles with her. She only shared her husband's marriage bed a few precious time each year, and held great grief inside her for that.

Just as he was beginning to make a fourth round of thinking inside his snirkling head, loud steps of iron clanking off stone were heard coming from the stairs and the corridor outside. It was Stannis. The lord castellan of Dragonstone walked with heavy and hard steps into the Chamber of the Painted Table, sitting down with a loud thud in the chair and immediately nailing his gaze towards all those who sat at the table.

"I beg apologies for mine absence", he said, his thin lips parted in broad articulation.

"I am sure you had a good reason", Viserys assured, waving his hand dismissively at the table, though in truth he was nervous to find out the reason.

"There has come a raven from King's Landing", Stannis said.

Maester Cressen turned towards his lord and master with a worried look on his face.

"What?" the old maester said. "A raven, just now today?"

"Yes. You need not fret, Cressen. Pylos had it shown to me only an hour ago."

Maester Cressen kept his gaze focused on Stannis, his eyes flickering with confusion, then disappointment and denial, but finally he lowered his head again, clearly sad that he had not been there at the rookery to bring the news to his lord in time. Young Pylos spent more and more time with the birds these days, as Cressen required at least half an hour to ascend the steps from the rookery to the Stone Drum before the many meetings, with his bad knees and all, and another half hour to rest properly from the ordeal.

"Any contents of importance?" Viserys asked, still dreading the answer.

"Only if the murder of a Hand and the future of the Seven Kingdoms counts as important", said Stannis wryly.

"What?" Maester Cressen trembled with his wrinkly chin. Viserys felt as though a shock of lightning had just descended upon him from above.

"Jon Arryn is dead", said Stannis. "His fever took him this night, or so the King tells me."

"Lord Arryn? The Hand...?" Cressen said, still clearly trying to overcome the trauma of not having been present when the letter came, and now struggling to come to grips with its contents. "But he... Surely he...-"

"He made it through the last fever without a problem, aye", said Stannis, "but he is old, and so he did not make it out of this one. The days have been hot, and without much swallor, as I'm sure they have been in King's Landing as well, but still... There are things about the manner of his passing which seem suspicious to me. First the attack on Princess Daenerys at Riverrun, and now this... Aye, it is suspicion in me, as I feel it, and for good reason."

They all sat quietly for a while at those words coming from Stannis's mouth.

"Did the King write this to you himself?" Ser Axell Florent asked.

"Yes, King Eddard wrote it to me with his own hand. I recognize it well enough."

There was silence again for a moment at that.

"Did he-... Did Lord Arryn seem fine the last time you saw him?" Viserys heard Ser Clayton Suggs asking.

"As fine as the pyp of a spring apple", Stannis shrugged, "though an old one, wrinkled and feeble."

"So what are we suggesting?" Ser Clayton asked again. "That he was... poisoned?"

Stannis seemed ill troubled by it, but admitted.

"My thoughts had gone precisely there, in truth, Suggs, aye."

"Poison?" Ser Axell Florent exclaimed, shocked. "But who would have wanted the Hand dead?"

Stannis was sitting still without saying a word, refusing to elaborate and gnawing at some residue food inside the corners of his mouth. Viserys sensed that he did not wish to go any further but since he had mentioned the first, he must surely say the second as well.

"Well then! Who is it, then? Who could it be? Some Dornishman perhaps?" Ser Justin Massey said.

"Someone from Quentyn Martell's party? His uncle is known to all men as the Red Viper, after all."

"I always heard that poison was a woman's weapon", Lord Bar Emmon declared. "But what woman would be capable of such things at the court of the Red Keep, my lord Stannis?"

Stannis let his weary eyes close, only for an instant, and then opened them to stare right at Viserys.

"Aye. Who? Perhaps we should let Prince Viserys answer that question."

"Me?" Viserys was taken aback by the sudden focus towards him. "I haven't been near the Red Keep for more than a year."

He shot the question away from him, best as he could. He did not particularly appreciate when Stannis was playing his strange games. And right now he felt as if he had been dragged into something which he had nothing to do with at all. What on earth is the matter with the man?

"That is of little relevance. The Small Council is much the same, as well as the Red Keep, and King's Landing as a whole. A man of true leadership and wit need not spend more than one or two minutes in the company of someone to get a taste of his or her character. Perhaps your staying away from it all here at Dragonstone will have made your mind clearer to it than mine, and less muddled by the daily goings-on of us who deign to sit on those chairs all day long and chew the cud of taxating brothels in Duskendale, qualms between Bracken and Blackwood from the Dawn Age into the morrow and the endless bunny hole of drunken poachers in the Kingswood. I have raised you close as a son, and I would trust none more than you in matters such as these, Viserys. You are grown up in the capital yourself. You saw your father's deeds with your own eyes, and all else which transpired before you were old enough to count to six-and-ten. A rearing such as that in the Red Keep, one castle most of all built on lies and deceit, is something priceless, and one which few men in the land alive still possess, as I have told you before. Now you will tell me, before I lose my breath on this: Who in the capital would be willing to murder the Hand, Lord Jon Arryn?" Stannis said again, eyes upfordering towards Viserys.

The prince of Dragonstone felt a little bit dizzy at the sudden words of approval streaming from Stannis's words. In a man like Stannis, such an outburst of appreciation would be the equivalent of teary eyes for a lost son. Instead they were the innermost compliment the lord castellan of Dragonstone could muster, tersely quipped between his gritting teeth and lantern jaw in an airshot struck right at the island-bound Viserys, as some sort of test of his manhood, or so he felt it to be. He steadied himself to try and give some semblance of a decent answer. To think, when for once it was demanded of him that he be part of it all, and not just a null spectator inside his own forefathers' keep. This is my moment. I must at least try and tell him something of value.

Prince Viserys Targaryen harkled his mouth and arose from his seat, speaking clearly and proudly, with noble articulation so that all men could hear. I'll show you who is afraid of standing up for himself and talking, you sour old iron codpiece.

"I dare say that the Red Keep is one reasonably well kept, compared to that of my Father's days, but nonetheless, there are always scheming and intrigues going on in a place such as this. Who, you ask, could want to murder the Hand of the King? Some would no doubt say that it was us, I or you, my lord, or someone close to us, for my own claim on the Iron Throne. But I assure you all lords gathered here at present, that my hands are clean in this. And neither have I any knowledge of who might have done it. Jon Arryn was a fine enough man, but he was slow-paced and mild-mannered, by all that I have seen of him. More so in a city as peaceful as it has been during the reign of King Eddard. In this particular case, it seems that the King's peace is a weakness towards the safety of Lord Arryn. Poisoning him would have been just as easy as taking caramels from a child, so long as it was someone who could have access to his food or wine. But who could have access to those things... I cannot know until I go there again, if I am indeed ever allowed by my lord captor to do so."

The table held quiet at that, and Stannis lowered his gaze towards the table only marginally, clearly either distraught at the speech he gave, or else considering his words at length. After a short while another knight quick to talk spoke up. It was one of Stannis's favourites, nonetheless. A stagman.

"It is obvious. Any poor servant boy or girl might have poisoned him", said Ser Richard Horpe. "There is not much telling to be had about that. The question is not who did it, but why? And it would most like serve for it to be someone on our side."

"Side? Is that the way of it already? Are we not on the same side as the King?" Ser Axell said.

"I am on the side of my liege lord, Ser Axell. It is to him I owe my sword and life. And he chooses to follow the king, so therefore I do as well. I only meant that the common people outside of Blackwater Bay do not love us very dearly, and many will be sure to strike their blame at us the first moment their thoughts begin to wander. There has already been rumours about who might have tried to take Riverrun. The castle itself holds little value. It is barely larger than The Red Keep, if even that. Most would agree that it is an action taken either to kill, capture or take and free Lady Daenerys. Thoughts of suspicion and betrayal have already been raised towards us on that account. His Grace was there visiting her only a year ago, after all. And the people's thoughts do go wandering and wondering about it, high lords and peasants alike..."

"Is it not in fact our own minds that are so quick to wander, my lords?" Lord Bar Emmon interjected. "I am certain that the King will go the bottom of all of this as soon as he calls for a meeting about it. I say we do not have to sit here and speculate any more than we already have. Are there instead any other things of importance to take up today? Something which concerns our own lands, perhaps?"

"The King is too blind, and altogether much far too kind for his own good", said Stannis, his jaws clenched together in frustrated concentration and shooting sharp arrows of judgment all across the table with his eyes. "He is an honourable man, no doubt, but a blind one nonetheless. He has chosen to close his eyes to the ill goings-on around him for the sake of sleeping better per a night. I can hardly blame him, but the people will surely find a way to do so, if he is not roused from his blunders. For the Princess to risk abduction at Lord Hoster's own seat, and then the Hand of the King dies over a night... This is a fearsome thing."

"Fearsome, aye, if it is indeed poison, but why are we discussing this now? The raven came only an hour ago, you say. Then let us find the time to dwell on this and wait until the King decrees some action or other to be taken", Lord Bar Emmon [ ]ed. "Else we are found guilty of putting up a separate Small Council. Something which is not to be taken lightly by His Grace, be he blind or not."

"Blind..." Stannis repeated, scoffing. The sound echoed through the air and towards the dark grey walls of the Stone Drum. "Men will oft make themselves blind, I have found, so as not to face the terrible truths which they lie awake thinking of at night... The realisations that even a truly just man can make a terrible mistake, just the same as a criminal can make a hero's deed once in a summer."

He spoke of Davos Seaworth, no doubt, as everyone understood. He did not have to sneagle his way for the lords' eyes to turn to the commonborn smuggler's knight. Stannis continued, unphased. "In times of war, things of great importance are done, often very quickly, and often things which can hardly ever be undone..." Stannis was grinding his teeth back and forth, as the crashing of the waves outside started to louden themselves again. "It is for that precise matter that I have decreed that we are having a meeting over it all instead."

Lord Monford raised his voice, harkled himself and said, "I understand your concerns, my lord, but I fear that I must take a different stance. On behalf of my good-son, Prince Viserys, I should like to propose that we lay down our voices at this and end our meeting timely, so that we are not to meet some questioning by His Grace about holding separate meetings regarding the affairs of state."

Viserys Targaryen was two-and-twenty years old, as he felt the years growing inside him at the very moment. He was the lord and heir of Dragonstone, whether in the invisible chains of the King or not, and he did not particularly wish for his Velaryon good-father, nor any man, including Stannis himself, to go out and claim to talk with his voice, but neither would he have a mind to argue with Lord Monford over it. He was more or less right, after all, he thought. This was all beginning to seem more or less conspiratorious.

"The King has entrusted me with this information by the writing of his own hand", Stannis said, with annoyance brewing once again deep inside his iron chest. "If he did not want me to think for myself, and only fight and follow orders, he should have sat my brother Robert on the position instead. And even he would only be good for one of those things", he grumbled. "I shall think. And I shall take my time to think about this properly, until I hear something more from the King. Until then... You are all dismissed. See to it that you also use your minds, instead of flapping around like lost ducks before such a message. It falls to us who serve the crown to try our best and uphold it."

Viserys only harkled himself, waiting for Stannis to give him the word, to at least be allowed to finish the meeting on his behalf. The sour man did not even grace him with a sight, however, and instead banged his fist into the oaken board of the table and declared the meeting adjourned.

Maester Cressen arose slowly, ponderously, with a tortured look to his face, as if the very prospect of once again descending all those long steps back to the rookery seemed like an impossible task. More than that, the old maester would surely have to keep his wits sharp more than ever now, with such potent news riling the castle from its foundations. If the king indeed trusts Stannis with this information, perhaps he will not see any ill will in our having a meeting of our own about it while he is in his grief, Viserys reflected. He hoped for all of their sake that it was true.

He met with Stannis on the walkway along the crenellations some hours laters at sunset, as the water lay still in a black-and-blue [ ], and small porpoises and leviathans could be seen weltering themselves in the waves far away. The sun was painting the greyish sky a strange orange red at the edge of the horizon. Stannis stood firmly planted to the right of him, a couple of steps away. The wind swept around them for a while, making their cloaks stream and flap like two slackering halibuts, but then slowly subsided, allowing for them to talk.

"You should not have brought them all over to say that. It would have sufficed with only me, Cressen and your precious onion knight if you truly have such suspicions as you claim. You know how they all talk amongst themselves," Viserys said. "Even now as they are returning to their ships, I'm sure they are whispering and scheming about it. Soon all of the Crownlands will have found out that Lord Stannis is distrusting of the king's ability to rule and keep the peace over his own court. And then what?"

Stannis said nothing at his long-suffering ward's anger. He only stared at the horizon, watching the sea and sky, thinking and grubbling in silence. And then he finally spoke.

"If I cannot even trust my own sworn men to shut their traps once in a blue moon, nor you to keep out of trouble as regards to your royal sister, then tell me, my prince, who can I trust?"

Viserys did not answer at first. And then he did.

"And do you have some clever explanation as to why you felt it necessary to mention my name as well, then? I have enough troubles as it is with clearing my name. A whole lifetime full of it, and you would try and whip it up all over again, on account of some Tyroshi sellswords rallying up the Trident to free my sister. And instead of perhaps giving some small sense of worry about her, you spread baseless accusations about betrayal and you are putting my name next to them. You know perfectly well that I am innocent of that. I – am – innocent. Why in the seven god-forsaken hells would you feel the need to say something so dangerous of the sort, especially in front of Suggs and Ser Axell Florent, the fool?" He practically spit out his last couple of words at Stannis's face.

There was a brisk swooshing in the air around them, seemingly filled up and having begotten strength by Viserys's words, as Stannis only looked at him, waiting for the wind to die down and subside again.

"And now, my lord prince, now finally you are asking yourself the right questions", said Stannis, turning away and walking back with heavy boots of lead towards the portcullis of the castle.

He could not believe it. He could not bloody believe it. The audacity of it, after all these years. Nor did he understand fully what he meant.

Prince Viserys Targaryen, lord of Dragonstone, stood still for a moment, watching the sun set across the Gullet, staring across towards the edge of the Narrow Sea. He grew angrier and angrier, maddening with the sensation for each passing moment as he tried making sense of what Stannis had said. Was it meant only to spite him, or to test him, or both? It did not matter much, as any normal man could have made it a dozen times easier for him. Instead Stannis seemed to delight in constantly vexing him in this strange manner. He was teasing the dragon's tail, thought Viserys, and he was doing it fully on purpose, as ever. The sullen man had precious few joys inside him other than the scathing glee in making to see it disappear from others. If only I had been allowed a sword before the age of twelve, Viserys thought, I could have finished you in a second with a slash of red.

If only I had a dragon like my ancestors, he thought, just one young little lanky, twisted dragon out of the thousands of stone which adorn my own castle, I could have ended you with a mere word for dishonouring me in my own halls without my permission.

If I had had but a single pot of wildfire, like my father, shining as green as the Stranger's eyes...

He coughed into the sleeve of his silver [tunic/doublet], and then breathed deep from the smoke of the island. The smell calmed him down, as it always did, made him feel better, but his fret still remained.

I will show you what I am made of, you stubborn old goat of a stag, he thought to himself, tying his fists together. I will show you exactly how much you can trust me, and what I am made of.

The sun was painting the sky red for fire and blood. The sea was a still blue and greyish black. The whales were weltering themselves, as grey and smooth as skargard cliffs. And the waves rose up in formation and crashed down again."