King's Landing, The Red Keep – 130 AC
I lay here, half a corpse in truth, waiting for the Stranger to take me, wondering when it will finally be over. The milk of the poppy dulls the pain, but it also clouds my mind, leaves me drifting in and out of dreams that are more like nightmares. The room is cold, the fire barely enough to ward off the chill that seems to seep into my very bones. The only company I have are the maesters and servants, their faces blank, their words empty. They come and go, tending to my needs, but none of them really see me. To them, I'm already dead, just a dying king they're obligated to care for until the end.
But where is my family? Where are the ones who should be here, by my side, holding my hand, comforting me in these final days? When was the last time one of them came to see me? I can't even remember. Days, weeks, months—they all blur together in this miserable existence. Why have the gods made me suffer like this? Why have they turned their backs on me, leaving me alone to rot in this bed, half my face gone, my body a ruined husk? What did I do to deserve this?
It wasn't supposed to be like this. None of it was supposed to be like this. I was supposed to be a good king, a good husband, a good father. But somewhere along the way, everything went wrong. Was it when I married Aemma? Gods, she was so young, just one and ten, and I was already a man grown. But I needed an heir, a son to secure the throne, to ensure the stability of the realm. I needed a son, and Aemma was supposed to give me one. So I did what I thought was right, what was expected of me. I took her to my bed, night after night, trying to get her with child, to give me the son I so desperately needed.
But Aemma… She was never strong, never meant to bear the burden I placed on her. I pushed her too hard, forced her to get pregnant over and over again, not letting her body recover from the stillbirths, the miscarriages. I was so blinded by my need for a son that I ignored the toll it was taking on her. She never complained, never told me to stop, but I should have seen it. I should have known. And in the end, it was my obsession that killed her. The maester… I asked him to cut her open, to take the child from her womb, and in doing so, I signed her death warrant.
I can still hear her screams, the way she looked at me in those final moments, the betrayal in her eyes. She trusted me, and I failed her. I killed her. And for what? A son who lived only long enough to draw a single breath. Was that the moment everything started to unravel? Was that the first thread in the tapestry of my life that I pulled too hard, causing everything else to come undone?
Or was it before that? Was it when I forced Daemon into that marriage? My brother… Daemon has always been a wild one, unpredictable, dangerous. But he was my brother, and I loved him. I thought I was doing what was best for him, for the realm, by making him marry Lady Rhea. I thought it would settle him, tame the dragon within him. But I was wrong. All I did was make him miserable, drive him further away from me. And yet, even after everything, Daemon was always there when I needed him. His sword was always ready to defend me, even when I exiled him, cast him out time and time again. Did I push him away because I feared him, because I saw in him everything I wasn't? Or was it because I envied him, envied his freedom, his fire?
And what of Rhaenyra? My beloved daughter, my heir, my little girl. I promised her she could choose her own husband, that she could have the life she wanted. But when it came time, I forced her to marry Laenor, forced her into a loveless union for the sake of the realm, for the sake of my own guilt. I thought I was doing what was right, what was necessary. But all I did was drive a wedge between us, one that never fully healed. Did I doom her to a life of misery because I couldn't face my own failures?
I tried to be a good father to her, to all my children. But did I ever truly succeed? I ignored Alicent's children, my own flesh and blood, in favor of Rhaenyra. I thought I was just, being fair, but was I really? Or was I just trying to hold on to the last piece of Aemma, to the dream of a son that never was? I see now how it must have looked to them, to Alicent. How could I not? But at the time, I was blind to it, blind to everything except my own desires, my own fears.
And then there's that moment, that horrible, unforgivable moment when I asked the maester to cut open Aemma. That was the moment, wasn't it? The moment when the gods turned their backs on me, when they decided I wasn't worthy of their favor. I can't escape it, can't outrun the memory of it. It haunts me, even now, as I lay here, half-dead, waiting for the end.
I wanted a son so badly that I was willing to sacrifice everything, everyone, to get one. And in the end, I lost everything. I lost Aemma, I lost Daemon, I lost Rhaenyra, and now, I've lost myself. I've become a ghost in my own castle, a king in name only, trapped in this decaying body, surrounded by the echoes of my mistakes.
Why hasn't anyone come to see me? Why hasn't anyone from my family come to sit by my side, to hold my hand, to tell me that it's going to be alright? Is it because they hate me, because they blame me for everything that's gone wrong? Or is it because they're afraid, afraid of what I've become, of the man I've turned into?
I don't know. Maybe it doesn't matter anymore. Maybe nothing does. The Gods have seen fit to punish me, to make me pay for my sins, and there's nothing I can do to change that. All I can do is wait, wait for the end, and hope that when it comes, it's quick. I don't want to suffer anymore. I don't want to lie here, half-alive, half-dead, wondering where it all went wrong, wondering why I couldn't have been a better king, a better husband, a better father.
I just want it to be over.
But as I lay here, drifting in and out of consciousness, I can't help but wonder… If I had the chance to do it all over again, would I make the same choices? Would I still marry Aemma, still force her to bear my children, still push Daemon away, still crown Rhaenyra? Or would I find another way, a better way, to live my life, to rule my kingdom, to be the man I always wanted to be?
I suppose I'll never know. The Gods have already passed their judgment, and all that's left for me is to wait, to suffer, to die. And maybe, in death, I'll find the peace that eluded me in life. Maybe then, I'll finally be able to forgive myself, to let go of the guilt, the regret, the pain. Maybe then, I'll finally be free.
But until that day comes, all I can do is lie here, alone, forgotten, and wonder… When did it all go so wrong?
With that last, bitter thought still lingering in my mind, the darkness took me. I felt myself slipping away, the pain finally easing as the milk of the poppy did its work. My body, that pitiful, decaying shell, seemed to fade into the background, and for a moment, there was peace. A quiet, cold peace that I had been craving for so long. It was over—my reign, my suffering, my life. I had hoped, perhaps foolishly, that the end would bring some comfort, some release from the burden of my failures. But it wasn't to be.
In the darkness, I saw a light. It wasn't the warm, welcoming light that the septons spoke of, the one that leads to the halls of the ancestors or to the acropolis of the Fourteen Flames of Old Valyria. No, this was something else, something colder, more distant. A vision, sharp and clear as if the gods themselves had decided that death wasn't enough of a punishment for me. They wanted me to see. They wanted me to understand.
And so I watched, helpless, as the Dance of the Dragons unfolded before me. I watched my house—my blood, my children—turn against each other, driven by ambition, by greed, by the very madness that I had tried so desperately to keep at bay. They became kinslayers, murderers of their own kin, and the sky, once filled with dragons, turned black with their ashes. The blood of my house spilled across the Seven Kingdoms, staining the land, the rivers, the very air with the curse of betrayal.
I watched as the dragons, those magnificent beasts that had been our birthright, our pride, were slaughtered, one by one, until the last of them fell. They died not in glory, not in battle against a worthy foe, but in the madness of a war that should never have been fought, a war that I could have stopped if I had been stronger, wiser, braver. If I had made different choices.
The vision didn't spare me. I saw the pain, the loss, the devastation. I saw the cities burn, the people cry out in terror, in agony. And I knew—oh, Gods, how I knew—that it was all my fault. Every death, every tear, every drop of blood spilled was on my hands. I had failed them, all of them. I had let my family, my house, my kingdom, spiral into this nightmare because I hadn't the strength to hold them together.
And then, as the last dragon fell, as the fires died and the world was left in ashes, I saw him. Arrax, the King of the Gods, a creature more majestic, more terrifying than any dragon that had ever lived. His scales gleamed like polished white stone, and his eyes—those golden, pitiless eyes—bored into me with a gaze that seemed to strip away every lie, every excuse, every shred of dignity I had left.
He spoke, not with words, but with a voice that echoed through my very soul, a growl that shook the foundations of whatever remained of my spirit. "You," he said, and the word was a condemnation, a curse. "You brought this upon them. Upon your house. Upon all of Westeros."
I tried to speak, to beg, to plead for mercy, but the words caught in my throat. There was no defense I could offer, no excuse that could stand before that gaze. I had done this. I had brought ruin not just to my house, but to the entire realm. Without the dragons, Westeros was doomed. There would be nothing to stop the White Walkers, the ancient darkness that would cover the land in ice and death.
I collapsed to my knees, the weight of my sins, my failures, crushing me, breaking me. I sobbed, great, wracking sobs that tore through me, but there was no comfort, no release. Only despair, only the endless, gnawing realization that I had doomed not just myself, but everyone, everything I had ever loved.
Arrax watched, impassive, his golden eyes cold and unfeeling as I wept. There was no mercy in that gaze, no understanding, no forgiveness. Only the cold, hard truth of what I had done.
And then he spoke again, his voice a thunderclap that echoed through the darkness. "This future," he said, "was stopped. Not because of you, not because of anything you did, but because of the Gods and because of Lucerys. We worked together to avert this disaster, to prevent the destruction that your choices would have brought."
For a moment, a fleeting, desperate moment, I felt a flicker of hope, of relief. The vision I had seen, the nightmare that had played out before my eyes, wasn't real. It hadn't come to pass. My mistakes, my failures, hadn't destroyed everything. Maybe, just maybe, there was still a chance for redemption, for forgiveness.
But Arrax wasn't finished. "You, Viserys, son of Baelon, king of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, are still guilty. Guilty of bringing your house to the brink of ruin, guilty of weakening the realm, guilty of crimes that nearly led to the fall of Westeros. For this, you are sentenced to the fourteen hells."
The words hit me like a physical blow, knocking the breath from my lungs, the hope from my heart. Hell. That was to be my fate. Not the warm embrace of the ancestors, not the peace of the afterlife, but eternal suffering, eternal torment. The punishment for my sins, for my failures, would be as unending as the consequences they had nearly brought upon the world.
I wanted to scream, to protest, to beg for mercy, but I knew it was futile. The gods had judged me, and their judgment was final. I had failed as a king, as a husband, as a father, and now I would pay the price. There was no escape, no redemption, no forgiveness.
As the darkness closed in around me, as the vision faded and the cold, unforgiving reality of my punishment settled in, I felt nothing but despair. I had lived my life trying to keep the peace, trying to protect my family, my kingdom, and I had failed. And now, in death, I would suffer for those failures, for all eternity.
Viserys the Peaceful, they called me. But there would be no peace for me, not now, not ever. Only the unending torment of knowing that I had failed, that I had brought my house, my realm, to the brink of destruction. Only the knowledge that I had been the architect of my own doom, and that of everyone I had ever loved.
And so, I was dragged into the darkness, into the hell that awaited me, with the echoes of Arrax's voice ringing in my ears, and the weight of my sins heavy upon my soul.
When I opened my eyes, the first thing I saw was my chambers in the Red Keep. The familiar sight was like a balm to my troubled soul, the rich tapestries, the warm glow of the hearth, the ornate furniture that had once brought me comfort. For a fleeting moment, I allowed myself to believe that perhaps Arrax had shown mercy, that the gods had changed their minds, that I had been spared the torment I so feared. Maybe, just maybe, I had been sent to the Fourteen Heavens, to reunite with my family, to find the peace that had eluded me in life.
But as I looked closer, that hope began to wither and die. The air was thick with something oppressive, something dark. The servants moved about with their heads down, dressed in black veils, their faces obscured as if they were attending a funeral—my funeral, perhaps. But there was something more, something far more sinister. The floor… the floor was smeared with blood, fresh and glistening, like a trail leading me deeper into the nightmare.
My heart began to pound in my chest, that fleeting hope crumbling to dust as I forced myself to follow the trail. It wound through the room, a macabre path that pulled me forward against my will, like a moth to a flame. And then, as I moved further, the blood became more than just a trail. It became a grotesque river, dotted with the tiny, lifeless bodies of babies—so many babies, their tiny forms cold and still, their faces pale and blue. My breath caught in my throat, my stomach turning as I realized what I was seeing.
My children. My sons, my daughters, all those precious lives that never had a chance to grow, to live, to love. They were all here, every last one of them, victims of my obsession, of my relentless pursuit of an heir, a son who could secure the future of my house. Each tiny corpse was a testament to my failures, to the countless times I had forced Aemma to endure the agony of childbirth, never once stopping to think of the cost to her, to them, to our family. I wanted to look away, to close my eyes and shut out the horror, but I couldn't. I had to see it, had to face the consequences of what I had done.
The trail of blood and bodies led me to the center of the room, where I saw her. Aemma. Not the vibrant, beautiful woman I had married, the Valyrian princess with silver hair that shone like the moon and eyes that sparkled with life. No, this was the Aemma who had died in agony, broken and hollowed out by the years of suffering I had inflicted upon her. She stood there, pale as death, her eyes sunken and rimmed with dark circles, her face a mask of grief and pain. Tears streamed down her cheeks, silent and endless, her white nightgown soaked red with blood. And then there was the wound, the hideous, gaping wound in her stomach where the maester had cut her open, the place where I had sacrificed her for the hope of a son.
"Aemma," I whispered, my voice trembling, weak. The sight of her, like this, cut through me like a knife. This was the woman I had loved, the woman I had sworn to protect, and yet I had been the one to destroy her. I wanted to reach out, to touch her, to beg for her forgiveness, but I was frozen in place, paralyzed by guilt, by shame.
She looked at me, her eyes filled not with the love and warmth I had once known, but with cold, unrelenting anger. Her voice, when she spoke, was as sharp as the blade that had opened her womb. "Why, Viserys?" she asked, her words dripping with accusation, with betrayal. "Why was Rhaenyra never enough for you? Why did you make me suffer so much?"
The question hit me like a blow to the chest, knocking the wind out of me. I tried to speak, to tell her that Rhaenyra was enough, that she had always been enough, that I had loved her with all my heart. But the words died in my throat, choked by the weight of the lies I had told myself for so long.
"Liar!" Aemma's voice rose, fierce and filled with a bitterness that cut through me like a sword. "If Rhaenyra was enough, if you truly loved me, then why did you take Alicent to your bed? My corpse was not even cold, Viserys! My body was still warm from the life you drained out of it, and you took that whore into your bed! You betrayed me, Viserys! You betrayed us all!"
I staggered back, the force of her words like a physical blow. She was right. She was right about everything. I had told myself that Rhaenyra was enough, that I loved Aemma, but the truth was far more twisted, far more damning. In my desperation for a son, I had discarded Aemma's love, her sacrifice, as if it were nothing. And when she was gone, I had sought comfort in the arms of another, in Alicent, never once stopping to mourn the woman I had destroyed.
I had thought I wanted to be with Aemma again, that in death we would be reunited, that I would finally have a chance to make amends, to show her the love and devotion I had failed to give her in life. But this… this was not what I had wanted. This was torture. This was hell.
I fell to my knees before her, the weight of my sins pressing down on me like a mountain. "Aemma," I sobbed, the words spilling out of me in a desperate plea for forgiveness. "I'm sorry… I'm so sorry… I never meant… I never wanted…"
But she only looked down at me with those cold, dead eyes, her tears still falling, her anger still burning. "Sorry?" she repeated, her voice hollow, empty. "What does sorry mean to the dead, Viserys? What does it mean to the children you took from me, to the life you stole? What does it mean when it comes too late?"
I had no answer. What could I say? There were no words that could undo the pain I had caused, no apology that could bring back the lives I had shattered. All I could do was kneel there, broken and defeated, as the full weight of my crimes bore down on me.
Hell, I realized, was not some fiery pit or endless torment. Hell was this—being confronted with the consequences of my actions, with the pain and suffering I had caused, and knowing that there was no escape, no redemption. Hell was seeing the woman I had loved, the woman I had destroyed, and knowing that I had brought this upon myself.
Aemma turned away from me, her form beginning to fade, to dissolve into the darkness. "You wanted to be with me again, Viserys," she said, her voice echoing as if from far away. "Well, here I am. Here we are. And this is what you've made of us. This is what you've made of me."
I reached out, desperate to hold onto her, to stop her from leaving me again, but my hands passed through her like smoke. She was gone, leaving me alone in the darkness, surrounded by the blood, the bodies, the weight of my sins.
I collapsed onto the cold, bloodstained floor, my sobs echoing in the empty chamber. This was hell. And I knew, with a terrible certainty, that I would be trapped here forever, reliving my failures, my betrayals, my crimes, over and over again, with no hope of escape, no hope of forgiveness.
And all I could do was suffer.
