Author's Note: I'm very sorry about the delay in publishing this chapter! Work has been a bit too hectic, recently, and this chapter was trickier than most. I hope that'll be the longest delay between chapters, but please forgive me if it isn't. However, things are ramping up now. The next four chapters will see a few Jon POVs, a view from Beyond the Wall, and the introduction of the Mannis.
VISERYS I
"Another," The Prince commanded. He slammed the goblet down on the oaken table, and the wine spilled over the rim, soaking and staining the wood. This morn's vintage was particularly satisfying on the tongue; fine Arbor Gold, sweet and rich, and he approved greatly.
The servant gulped, nodded, and fled, ruby cheeks burning. That pleased him too. Servants who showed the proper respect were increasingly hard to find, these days.
"And you," He continued, now looking down, "did I say you could stop, slut?"
The girl on her knees before him stiffened, eyes wide, hand frozen on her jaw. She had not pleased him. Not at all. Why had she ceased? Because her jaw hurt? Was he not a Prince? Was he not blood of the dragon? Gods. Where did they even get this one from?
Of course, he knew where. The girl had that look to her.
She had smallfolk face.
"Continue, wench, or I'll have your neck." Viserys Targaryen ordered, leaning back with a scowl. "And go deeper. What are you so scared of? It is a cock, not a knife. It is not going to cut you."
The little whore flinched but obeyed. That was something, at least, but he still studied her with disdain. Perhaps it would be better just to leave, and deny this hovel his peerless princely patronage…but then, a man had his needs, and a man of his stock only more so, and there would only be the same poor service elsewhere. The whores in this city, this once-proud Citadel, this once shining city on the hills, were all getting poorer by the day, he was convinced of it. They just didn't train them like they used to!
It saddened him. What was the point of a world where even the whores had no standards?
Viserys mourned the depressing decline of a noble profession.
It was another thing he could put at his brother's door. After all, it was hard enough just finding one with the proper shade of silver hair. All the wretches in the brothel were all clearly of lesser stock, barely a drop of dragonseed in any of them, and so there was nothing to do but lower himself to smallfolk and the lesser, more basic whores with their blonde or brown or crimson heads. It was scandalous. It was disgraceful. It would never have happened in Aegon IV's day.
With a deep sigh, Viserys helped himself to more wine. Perhaps he could spill his seed in a few bellies to improve the pool. That would help, wouldn't it? Yes, he thought. It would be his grand gift to the future heirs of House Targaryen.
The gods only know they shall need all they could get.
When the seed was finally spent, Viserys hastily pulled his breeches up, moving to leave, whore and wine already forgotten. The day was still yet short, and he had spent too long away – in Dorne or in Dragonstone, exiled in either place – and the capital still yearned for his touch, he felt it; it cried out for the one true Dragon. There was yet more wine and women to enjoy, and more friends to make too, and it behoved the city's folk to see their Prince, to see what a true Targaryen looked like, for Viserys was a real son of Old Valyria, who knew that a Prince's place was not in books, but in wine, and women, and the world itself.
Yet it was as Viserys was lost in his world, dreaming of roasted swan and honey glazed parsnips, that he spied the Imp through a thin pink curtain in Chataya's Brothel.
Tyrion Lannister was rutting atop some painted blonde whore like he was trying to burrow inside her. His grotesque little body was slick with sweat, moving to the rhythm of the rickety bed, and his pale hair was clinging to his brow, and his arse was high in the air, like a rangy terrier mounting a bitch, and the girl was moaning, and the sound of it, compared to her blank, almost despairing state broke something in Viserys, and before he even knew it, before he knew anything at all, the laughter was coming in waves, sudden and almost overwhelming, and louder with every breath, and his sides shook as he doubled over.
"Go on dwarf!" He spluttered, breathless. "Fuck, you little Imp, Fuck! Burrow that little bitch!"
"Wha-argh!"
The two lovers parted, scrambling, the whore screaming, the dwarf falling back and almost somersaulting in his haste.
For a moment, Viserys thought he had wet his breeches.
"Prince Viserys!"
The girl was comely enough, at least. She stood there with the pertness of youth, and…she was vaguely Lannister-like too, was she not? He took a closer look through teary eyes. Hair the shade of honey, and eyes of the brightest emerald green. If Viserys didn't know better, he would swear on all the gods she looked the very image of…
"Lady Cersei," Viserys gasped. "By the gods, Lannister, you are a sick little man."
Who did the Imp think he was? A Targaryen?
The whore shrieked and went to run, only to remember her station and attempt some ridiculous attempt at a curtsey, half covered by the nearest sheet, which did nothing to protect her modesty. She had glorious breasts, pert and high on the chest.
"Unfortunate," Viserys snickered, wiping his eyes, one arm holding his belly. He was almost doubled over. "I have not actually had you yet, and now I never shall. Ruined, forevermore, now. Gods…oh, away with you now whore, leave my sight."
She obeyed quickly, and he took a second to admire the curve of her bottom as she ran.
"I ought have you flogged for taking her first," Viserys said as he turned back to the littlest Lannister.
Then the laughter died in his throat.
The Imp was standing freely before Viserys with a dark gleam in his eyes, his ugly and small naked form cast in harsh relief by the flickering torchlight. Just to glance upon his deformities was an offence to Viserys's superior gaze. What a monster, this creature was. Especially gruesome was the sight of his misshapen, grotesque, ugly, disgusting, vile, foul, horrific, horrendously offensive manhood…
…which was disturbingly large, for a man so small. Thick, and veiny and pulsing, like a baby's arm holding an apple. How was it so big?
Viserys was suddenly struck by the cruel unfairness of the Gods.
"Get dressed," He hissed, turning at once, to spare his delicate gaze from the monstrosity before him. "You stand before your Prince, heir but one to the Iron Throne. Have some self-respect, dwarf."
"Self-respect is for Princes," Lannister quipped as he turned too, in search of his clothes. "I would never presume to allow myself such in your presence, Prince Viserys. Did you enjoy your trip here today?"
"Always so clever." Impudent little Imp. He should kick him – how far would a dwarf fly, he wondered? "Not so good at pleasing a woman though, are you?"
Lannister had wine too, by the bedside table. Viserys leant closer to inspect it. Dornish Red. He scowled. Arianne had once tried to poison him with a glass of Dornish Red. Never again.
"What the gods took in height they gave back in wit," Lord Tyrion merely said. "And I do not pay whores for their pleasure, my Prince." The little Lannister was grinning at him now, thankfully dressed. "If you do, consider me shocked and highly impressed."
"I do them a bounty," Viserys sniffed. He did not pay at all. "I am a Prince."
"The gods know they're starved of them these days."
Even his clothes were pathetic. A child's garments. Embarrassing. All this talk of Tywin Lannister's cruelties, and yet he'd allowed this walking embarrassment to live. Viserys would have had him snuffed in the cradle. Or better yet, cast as the court's fool.
"They've had no true prince since my father, I imagine," Viserys replied archly. "Rhaegar would rather fuck his books, and I'm not convinced little Aegon has a cock at all."
"Ah, but Prince Aemon-"
"-is a bastard. No true Prince at all." Viserys did not want to think much on Lyanna Stark's much-changed whelp, it made his head hurt, and led him to recall the Mountain's fate and the night sky alight with wildfire. The less he thought about that, the better. "How are you even here now? Should you not still be a hostage?"
The dwarf's face closed off. "His Grace has granted me the freedom of the capital, so long as I stay within its walls. And he has even granted me a delightful new friend." Tyrion strode past him to wave at a stony-faced guard who was steadfastly ignoring the whores and patrons surrounding his person.
"Of course he did." Fool. His brother had done the same with his beloved bastard for so long. "How kind of him. And how kind of you, to stay." An even bigger fool. "I suppose selling out your own blood and noble kin gives you royal favour. Is that why you are here? Fucking your shame away?"
He took delight in how the dwarf's dark look deepened, but the scowl came and went in a moment. "Perhaps you should try it, my Prince," Lannister said instead, too lightly for Viserys's liking.
That cut a little too close to home. He considered the Imp anew with a frown. "Perhaps I did," He said eventually. "Should you believe our Mistress of Whisperers-"
Tyrion frowned for a moment, then shook his head. "For a moment I thought you were shilling some great secret. You know, I did once argue that Varys was a woman-"
"No woman is that clever – wait, dwarf, what do you know of the Spider?
Viserys misliked Tyrion's knowing smirk. "Only what I do not know of him. And I imagine the Princess Rhaenys would disagree with you on the wits of women. I find her most sharp, myself. You think she suspects you?"
"I know the little cunt suspects me," Viserys replied shortly. So much for having faith in family. His had none in him. The Dornish niece had never liked him. Her mother's influence, he'd long since decided. Elia had kept him at a distance too, after all. He looked around - one never knew who listened, after all – and knelt closer to better look into the ugly dwarf's ugly eyes. "Her first thought was to defend the bastard and argue with me when I blamed him and his traitor kin. Now, why would she do that?"
"Perhaps she loves her brother," The Imp replied lightly.
"Half-brother," He corrected. "Bastard half-brother at that – but I suppose someone should." Viserys rose swiftly and turned on his heel. The day was looking up, he decided. Cruel injustices of the gods aside, the dwarf could be good company. The usual sycophants were so boring.
"With me, Imp," The rightful King of Westeros commanded. "Your plans for the day have changed."
The gods were smiling on them as they departed Chataya's, leaving the whores and Rhaegar's spy behind. He'd sent The King's man crawling back to his brother well chastised, and now they were free to beneath a clear and bright azure sky, with barely a cloud to blight it. It was a good day for it, Viserys decided, as he basked in it all, horrible morning already forgotten, extending his arms with a sharp smile. The sun was shining high and hot, beaming on the great, good, and poor alike as he and Tyrion Lannister together made their way away from the Street of Silk. Even the smallfolk's stares barely bothered him. His own two guards, after all, would keep their dirty hands away from him.
On a whim, he turned right, eyes already focused on the huge, domed fortress at the crown of the hill of Rhaenys. The Dragonpit had once been the jewel in the Targaryen crown, the home of their mighty dragons, from Ceraxes to Vermithor and Silverwing to the greatest of them all, the fearsome Balerion the Black Dread, and with gates so wide thirty knights could ride through at once, and room so large it could seat eighty thousand, it remained something to behold, even as ruined as it was.
Its massive bronze doors had been closed to the outside world for more than a century, now, and the huge golden dome was cracked in places, like a spider's web with fraying edges, while the pit's thick walls were blackened too, enclosing naught else but rubble and dirt. It was a travesty; this, the last legacy of Old Valyria, now nothing more than the last remnants of the smallfolk's rage.
"I want my wine," He told the smaller of his guards. "Enough for me and the dwarf. Fetch it. You, the large one. Stay with me."
Tyrion stopped. "Are we to drink now? I do not like to drink too much," said the dwarf who always drank.
Viserys ignored him, and they continued on. Soon enough, the little Lannister's inane ramblings ceased, fading into the silence as he stared up at the dragonpit's dome with wonder. Viserys enjoyed that, at least. Keep your mountain of coins, he thought. One dragon was worth more than all the gold in the Rock.
They moved forward atop the inclining hillside. There were hidden entrances to the dragonpit at various points: oak-and-iron doors built into the crevices of the stone, or hidden under moss, or disguised as yet more wall, visible only to those with an idea of where to look. Viserys knew every entrance. So much of his teenage years were spent here, scrambling in this den of what was, this monument of past glories, this temple of dragonlore: this, the last legacy of old Valyria, and the great men who ruled it.
"There," He said, pointing to a door marked by a clumsy carving of the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen. Viserys had done that himself, as a boy." Kick it in." Rhaegar had clearly given word to reinforce it, the bastard. "Kick it hard."
It took four great, lumbering swings of the man's leg to bring the door down. It clattered with a crashing, echoing thud.
"Try fixing that," Viserys spat. Before them, the tunnel stretched deep into the darkness, lined with bricks, and fashioned like caves, descending into the earth. As the true knight he had always been, Viserys was unafraid. He knew those tunnels. The walls were rough, and damp with decay, and rats scurried underfoot, but it was no matter. Darkness held no fear for the Dragon.
"Large one, after you," He ordered.
"Large one." Lannister shot him a wry look as the tall guard strode through into the darkness facing them. "Does your guard have a name?"
"Probably," admitted Viserys. "But I have many men. Do you expect me to learn all their names?"
"It might be wise, given they stop other men from killing you."
It wasn't men he feared. By instinct, his left hand reached down to grope for the dagger by his side. He did not think the darkness would hide his horrible wife or her murderous cousins, but then he hadn't thought they'd have tried to kill him that time in the Lyseni whorehouse, either. Or when he'd been aboard a ship heading to Dragonstone…and the less said about that whole farce in Oldtown, the better. His princely posterior had never felt the same since.
Viserys shivered at the mere memory of that terrible time.
"After you," He demanded. If they, or any other malcontents were hiding in the darkness of the dragonpit's tunnels…well, it was not as if anyone would miss the dwarf.
Tyrion was eyeing his blade with a wary frown. "Perhaps this isn't wise-"
"I'm not going to gut you," Viserys dismissed with a wave of a noble hand. "Even as pathetically small as you are, little man, you might still bleed out on my new silks. I just bought them. " How important did the dwarf think he was? "Now go through. I am your Prince. Do as I say before you wake the dragon."
This tunnel stretched longer than most. Shadows clung to every surface, swallowing those few slivers of light intruding from behind them, and the air was thick, and heavy with silence, disrupted only by the crushing of stone between their boots. For a moment, Viserys thought of *that* night again, when the world burned, and the Mountain toppled. He shivered again, and not from the cold.
Those tunnels went in all directions, descending deeper and deeper still, to the ring of mammoth under vaults where the dragons once made their beds – but their route twisted a different way, and soon enough, they were back in the light, to the pits and its stone benches, where thousands once gathered for celebrations and coronations, such as the one for his own ancestor, the rightful King Aegon II.
Viserys strode at once towards his favourite bench, near the centre of the pit. It was perfectly placed to observe the ruins from all angles. "Behold," He ordered.
Tyrion Lannister's head was swivelling in all directions, mismatched eyes roaming everywhere, to see everything, as if to commit it all to memory. "Beautiful," He whispered. "Even still."
Even still. Viserys basked in his pride. The weight of his history was sometimes an anchor, and sometimes a fine cloak. "My father wished to rebuild it," He boasted. The image of it blossomed in his mind's eye; pristine again, piercing the sky, and thronged with the masses, and he, standing before them, arms outstretched, a crown fit for a King upon his noble brow. His sister had even dreamed it, once. A crown fit for a King, she'd said. How terrible it was, Viserys thought, to be denied that fate. "It was stupid to leave this as a ruin. It is stupid still."
They stood there, each lost in thought, taking in the weight of history before them, until the other guard came back with his wine. It was the same Arbor Gold as before, sweet and rich on the tongue, and enough for one day's drinking, even two if they drank prudently.
Viserys had no intention of drinking prudently. It would be a waste of the day, after all, if he remembered it at all.
They spent the next hours talking and laughing, exchanging gossip and tall tales. Willas Tyrell had never shared his wife's bed. His youngest brother, Loras, the Knight of the Flowers, was at Storm's End, supposedly sharing Renly Baratheon's. Some pretty boy-whore with raven's ringlets had been caught trying to get into the Red Keep, insistent on seeing Viserys' bastard nephew, who had ceased his whoring at brothels since Summerhall. Lannisport had been sacked by Ironborn, and now they were venturing ever further down the western coasts, laying waste to all they found. That dismayed the Imp, but Viserys enjoyed the news: "Even savages have their uses for the Gods," He advised the little man. "Your father displeased them when he dared seek to burn the dragon. Fire cannot kill a dragon. But lions can be killed by any man. Even the Ironborn."
Other tales were less pleasing. His brother had chosen to remove some of the wildfire from the city, so it was said in the taverns amongst the smallfolk. Viserys had guessed enough already. Yet one man had apparently told the Imp that his cousin knew a servant who spoke to another servant who worked for some lesser Crownlands Lord who had been tasked with sending some wildfire onwards to Harrenhal, where Lyanna's whelp was leading the amassing forces for the attack on Riverrun. Viserys had not known that, and it worried him. Wildfire was best left hidden. What was his brother thinking?
Rhaegar's mind would always be a mystery to him.
"-but I tell you, little man, my father wanted to rebuild all this," Viserys was saying now, pointing a pale finger at the smaller man as he spoke between deep swigs of his wineskin. "If Rhaegar won't, I shall do it, when my throne comes to me."
The Imp rose an eyebrow as he sipped from his own wine, sitting cross-legged across from him. He looked hardly smaller sitting than standing to Viserys. "You think Prince Aegon will lack for heirs?"
"There is more life in those stones than his seed, I bet you that," Viserys replied sharply. "And in any case, never has there been a boy less likely to make a women wet at all. And when he dies, I shall finally ascend the throne I was promised at eight."
"You might be eighty by the time you sit have that throne."
"Even so."
"Hmm. Even so. It might cost all the gold in the Rock." The Imp shook his ugly head. It looked too large for his body, and Viserys couldn't help but wonder how the dwarf didn't fall under the weight of it. "And some things are better left as ruins. Say, like Harrenhal."
"I will disagree, dwarf." Viserys swirled the sweet nectar in his cup and leant back to better gaze upon the dome. The Imp's company was always welcome when his father's merry band of slavering sycophants bored him too greatly, and there were times when he enjoyed a battle of wits against Tywin's great shame of a son.
"The Conqueror made Harrenhal a ruin for a reason," He reminded the little man. "The Black Dread burned the Ironborn savages in their beds, so all of Westeros would know the limits of the Dragon's mercy and the price of defiance." All knelt before the true Dragon. His words were gathering fresh heat as they came. "There was a point to that. It sent a message to the false Kings in the Seven Kingdoms. What message does this send, Lannister? How are the lesser lords to see our majesty, if all that remains of our dragons are the crumbling stones where they once slept? What message does my brother allow them to hear? Behold, and look upon what once was, those better days, when there were great beasts and great men who rode them?"
Tyrion waddled to jump upon one of the stone benches split in two, seemingly considering his words as he balanced, one arm in the air to steady himself. "The power of the dragons endure, even now," He remarked eventually, tones turned measured and thoughtful.
Viserys raised a pale eyebrow. "In skulls and stones?"
"In tales and songs," The Imp replied. "Those skulls and these stones remind men of better days, yes, but is that so terrible a thing? The dragons are gone, but they live still so long as men remember them, my Prince. The dead only die when none still speak of them. And so long as men speak of dragons, they sing songs of the men who rode them." The Imp gave him a long look, mismatched eyes of green and black glittering. "And so long as they do, House Targaryen stands true. As with Harrenhal. As a clever man-"
"Are you saying I am not clever, dwarf?"
"I am much too clever for that," Tyrion quipped quickly, with a sly grin. "But that is why I believe your brother leaves these ruins as they are. That, and all the coin he would need."
The true answer. "I see no power here," He decreed. Lannister, like Rhaegar, was too lost in his books to know how other men thought, but Viserys was wiser, and truer to the ways of more real men than most. "Men are cruel, and are not moved by better days, Lannister. You think the beasts in this city care for anything but where their next meal is? Do you think the Lords care for more than their lands and their sons? You are a bigger fool if you do, dwarf. Sheep are not moved by stones. Men are not moved by songs. Only by fear and blood."
Was that not he true meaning of his family's words? Fire and Blood. Fear, in the form of fire. Blood, from the last of Old Valyria. Viserys reflected on those words as they sat there, the two of them, each taking in the dragonpit, but the conversation was not yet over. "Lord Varys would disagree," Tyrion said next. He cocked his ugly head, and Viserys greatly misliked the searching gaze sent his way. "Do you know what he would say?"
Damn him. Viserys shuffled uncomfortably where he sat. The words passed his lips before he thought not to think them. "Power resides where men think it does."
A frown set into the lines of the dwarf's twisted face. "Yes," He murmured. "You speak to him?"
Viserys wished he never had. "Few in this city don't, Imp."
"Do you disagree?"
"I am a Targaryen," Viserys said instead. "You know my answer, dwarf." Power was the beat of a dragon's wings, and a thousand melted blades, and a king's crown, and seven white cloaks, and a thousand, thousand bent knees. Viserys took out his knife and ran it faintly across his palm. Blood spluttered from the cut. "That is power."
"For you, yes," Tyrion replied.
"For you too, Imp. The only reason you sit with a Prince instead of face-first in dirt or dancing in a mummer's show like the little demon monkey you are is the blood in your veins. The Gods saw you born a Lannister."
The Imp laughed at that. "Yes. I can hardly deny it. But I fear Varys is not wrong, either. Power can be many things, I think. Blood, or swords, or coins. Or even Words, well spoken, to men, well-deigned to hear them. Power is all those things, and none of them, I say. Why men do the things they do, and why they listen to other men at all. That is power. A shadow on the wall, in other words, as Varys once told me."
"A shadow."
"A shadow," Tyrion nodded. "Cast by the flames of men's own thoughts. We all dance to the dirges of dead men, and live in the ruins of our grandsires, and bleed for ghosts, and kill for verses, and call it all glory, and all the while, Prince Viserys, we remember. Gods help us, we even dream. And some of us dream of dragons, and the better days long gone, and when we look upon all these broken stones – well, men think of all that, and the dragons, and the crown, and they see the three-headed dragon, and they bend the knee. That is another form of power."
"For men like you, then." Viserys was suddenly all too aware of the scar splitting his face, Clegane's last gift to him. It stretched across his noble visage, an angry red line cutting across his nose and cheeks. His family had come close to dying, one and all, that night. "But not all men. Not enough of them."
"Mayhaps not," Lannister acknowledged. There was something knowing in his eyes, and they studied him like a book. Viserys scowled. He was a prince, not a book. "Some men just like war. But if you disagree, my Prince, why come here, at all, if it is all just ruins and broken stones?"
The Imp was getting too comfortable, he thought moodily, and it was a stupid question. He reached for more wine. Why else come here, but to mourn the dragons? If they yet still lived, there would have been no Blackfyres, and no Baratheons, either. No Rebellion, to bring ruin to their house. The Holdfast would stand tall, unblemished, and resplendent, and the Seven Kingdoms would be whole, and the Dragon's Peace would still stand, too. With dragons, his father might still sit the throne. Even Rhaegar would be happier, then, with a dragon of his own. No doubt the beast would be as boring and sad as he was.
Instead, they had this life, and this world, and these ruins. The dragonpit was nothing but the reminder of everything they'd lost. He shuffled, suddenly uncomfortable. Those types of thoughts were treason to him.
The dwarf's company no longer felt so welcome either. "I am proud of my House," The Prince sniffed instead. The wine tasted sour now, too. "More than can be said for others. Some men like war, you say. Some men like betraying their own kin, as well. You dare lecture me on what you or the Spider think power is. Enlighten me instead on why you would sell out your blood so easily, then. I would much prefer to hear you speak on that."
Much to his chagrin, the Imp chucked once more. "I did not think it would be you who would lecture me, on this," He said.
It was the wrong thing to say. How dare he? The dragon stirred, sudden and swift, snarling in his belly, and his blood was boiling in an instant. "What do you mean by that, dwarf?" Viserys hissed.
Lannister stood, for all that it helped him, hands out straight to placate in the face of the Dragon's fury. "I meant only-"
"That I am a traitor to my House? Lies! Foul gossip!" His wroth was on him, and suddenly, Viserys was suddenly clutching his knife. It was cold against his red palm. "I have never turned my cloak on my own House! I was not the son who betrayed his father!" That was Rhaegar. He and the Imp both!
"Prince Viserys, you are among friends here-"
"I have no friends, only fools. You dare, you dare-"
"I dare do nothing," Tyrion backed away now, frowning. "Prince Viserys, I only meant-"
"TO CALL ME TRAITOR!"
"I did not mean to suggest you ever betrayed your father. I only meant-"
"You only meant to say I betrayed Rhaegar! That I plot against him as you have plotted against your brother, against Jaime and his bastard spawn. I am not the one who turned cloak against his kin, dwarf. I am not the one who sent them to their deaths!"
The dwarf's face closed off, and he turned away from Viserys, fists clenched. Viserys readied his knife. He could cut the dwarf where he stood for his insolence. It would be no matter. No one would miss him, and Viserys could get new silks. Paid for with Lannister gold. They would pay for their insolence with fire and blood, and coin!
When Tyrion spoke next, however, his voice was soft, and shaking. "I was trying to save them."
The Imp had never seemed so small.
The sight and sound of his sudden dismay sent the dragon slinking back to slumber, as swiftly as it burst to life, and in an instant, Viserys felt curiously placated, as if someone had doused the flames of his fury with a shroud of ice water. He moved to clutch the little man's shoulder, turning him, so he could better see Lannister's ugly face.
"By damning them," He said.
"Yes," The Imp whispered. He avoided his Prince's gaze. Shame had made itself at home in his face. "I…the children. They should not suffer for their parents. My brother, Jaime, I-"
"You have damned them all." Viserys released his grip and sat down again, much calmer now, and glanced up to see sunlight bursting through the gaps in the dome. "Rhaegar cannot save any of them," He advised, as if they were now discussing the weather. "They will all die."
He would be happy to see it. They had burned down their home and dared to attack the Dragon. They deserved nothing but death.
Tyrion was shaking his head. "The King promised-"
"The King does not keep his promises." Viserys knew that too, all too well. "The King cannot. They will die. All of them. Your father, too." And then, just like that, he knew why the dwarf acted as he had done so, in telling Viserys's brother the truth of it all. "As you wanted. You despise your father, yes?"
The look on the dwarf's face was the only answer Viserys needed. "You hate them all," He continued. "You want them all dead."
"No!" Tyrion said vehemently. "No. I love the children. I love my brother. I was trying to save them. They left me with little chances and no choices. I did what I could. I love them-"
"But not Lord Tywin or Lady Cersei," Viserys said, wisely.
"I love them too," He denied.
"You hate them more."
And suddenly, Viserys understood the Imp, far better than he had before. "You hate them as they surely hate you. They left you here to die, and so you returned the favour." He suddenly found himself feeling a strange kinship with the little man. "After they pulled that stupid stunt and sent the bastard in Tully's place without caring for how you would be hostage or worse, what else could you have done? I see it now dwarf. Well done. I am impressed. You may even be granted Casterly Rock if my brother wishes it."
It was the sort of foolish, sentimental thing his brother might do.
For some reason, Lannister looked disgusted. "I did not – I was-"
"There is no fooling me," Viserys reminded him. Perhaps the Imp really was as clever as Rhaegar deemed him. Little Lannister even looked a little taller, stood on the rocks as he was. Viserys reached out to pat his deformed shoulder. There was a pitiful look of self-loathing etched on the dwarf's ugly face, and it delighted Viserys to see it. That was the way to learning, he thought.
"Let us drink more, dwarf, and you can forget all about betraying all your blood and all the people you love in the world."
-
The day grew older, and they grew drunker.
From the dragonpit, they went to one tavern, and then a second and a third, and through the haze, Viserys found his bliss. There were no assassins in the shadows, and no whispers in his ears. Aerys and Rhaella were but names, lost in the haze. Princes had responsibilities and sweet sisters and brothers who didn't look you in the eye, and paths and plans and plots and problems – but now, all that ceased to be. There were no secrets to be had, no nightmares to flee, and he need not think of yesterday, today, or tomorrow. For Princes, days crept by, minutes stretched in and drawn out, until hours felt like days and days like years…but drunkards cared only for wine. For them, time slipped its leash. For them, days could fly by between one bleary blink and the rest.
Viserys lived, for days like these.
Lannister was as deep in his cups, too. It was probably why they found themselves in the middle of the street, cast against the dying sun, debating the looks of a dog.
"I tell you," Lannister said, pointing a shaky finger at the beast. "It has the look of a Stark."
Viserys shot it another sceptical glance as he rested a hand against the nearest wall. The world was too dizzy to focus. The little runt was a grey and mangy thing, with skinny legs and flea-bitten fur and a long and solemn face, and its barks were high, and shrill as it brushed a blistered paw against its nose. "How many Starks have you seen?" He asked doubtfully. "I do not recall them having fur."
Although, mayhaps they do. The only time I did see Starks, I was rather more focused on them burning and choking.
"Prince Aemon has the look of a Stark, does he not?"
So he did. Viserys grimaced, as he always when forced to recall his bastard nephew. "So my mother always told him." The dog neared closer, sniffing the air, tail wagging more quickly now. Dragons had no needs for dogs. "Go," He ordered. "Leave us."
Annoyingly, the dog disobeyed, continuing instead to follow them throughout the city, dodging every kick or swipe from the Prince and his protectors to return and stalk them, always a few yards behind.
Tyrion was delighted. "We should name it! Since you look so Stark-like – Winter! I shall call you Winter. Prince Viserys, behold!" He ran, guffawing as the dog followed. "Look! Winter is coming!"
The dog was not their only new friend. A merry band of fools joined their party, too, in time, much to his chagrin. Some begged Viserys for bread or coin or his royal brother's favour, but they were warned away easily enough, with only a cut cheek or three. Others gathered to bear witness to his wisdom, as was their proper place, and soon Viserys was delighting them all with tales of his peerless courage, and all the ways he had avoided the Dornish assassins, and even, when they had begged enough, how he kept the Mountain away from his sweet sister on *that night*, and how later, when all but the Targaryens were dead, he led his family to safety through the tunnels, armed with nothing but his wits.
Now they were in one of the merchant manses, surrounded by his father's supporters. Viserys spied Crownlands nobles like Lords Blount and Gaunt and Pyne, and other Lords and old friends besides, including his father's favourite pyromancer, Rossart, whose company was always more chore than pleasure. They each gathered around him, laughing, while Winter had moved to rest against the roaring fireplace. Their talk was boring. Stupid and inane, full of the usual flatteries and sycophantic simpering, and Viserys grew quickly bored. He lifted a silver spoon and immersed himself in the distorted reflection within instead. A stranger glanced back, with a great angry red scar drawn across his nose and cheekbones, a sharper, less comely, more broken Rhaegar Targaryen.
"Dwarf, tell us a joke," demanded one of the sycophants, sometime later. Perhaps it was hours. Or minutes. He didn't know, or care. Instead, he looked down at his cup with regret. It wasn't his first, or fifth, or even tenth. What time was it? When did the day end, and the night begin? He didn't know. It seemed like the sort of question Rhaegar would ask himself. He scowled.
The Imp stood dramatically, slamming his own tankard on the table. "Well, I once walked into a brothel with a honeycomb and a jackass-"
"Not that one," Viserys grumbled. His own cup was without wine. Didn't they know he was a prince? "That's one shit."
He waved his hand to beckon one of the tavern wenches. "You, servant. My cup's…my cup's…" He looked down at the cup, suddenly lost. There was a word for not having any wine in one's tankard. He knew there was. What was it? "It's…"
"Your cup is empty, my Prince. Would you like some more?"
"Yes!" Empty. He knew there was a word for it. "More wine, wench."
He barely noticed Lord Staunton grasping for the servant girl's arse, old fleshy fingers wiggling. "Come here, girl, give me a kiss-"
"You heard the Prince. A better joke, Imp. I hear you know them all."
The dragon burst to life, and Viserys turned away to squint at the nearest sycophant to his right. How dare he make demands of Viserys's dwarf friend?" Who the fuck are you?" He snarled.
"My King?"
"Are you hard of hearing as well as wit? Who the fuck are you?"
"I…have I done something to offend you?"
"You woke the dragon!" His blood was blazing, now. "You dare make demands of your betters! The Imp might be a monstrosity, a dwarf, a deformed disgusting little demon monkey, but he is a Lannister. He is the son of a High Lord. What are you? I will have you killed, you…" Viserys frowned, suddenly uncertain, and he blinked blearily. For a moment, there were two simpering sycophants instead of one. "Which one are you again?"
This sycophant frowned, and bit his lip. He had a young man's face, with barely a hair across his cheeks, and a sigil of a crab sewn onto his doublet. "My…my prince?"
"What's your name?" Viserys demanded again.
"My Prince, you know my n-"
"If I did, I would not be asking. Your name. What is it?"
"It's old Celtigar's boy," Tyrion explained. "The younger one. He's a good lad, aren't you?"
"I…yes, thank you Lord Tyrion, but-"
Viserys leaned closer. He did recognise the sigil after all. A Celtigar. "Crab cunt," He spat.
"My Prince?"
"Crab cunt!" He pointed a long, pale finger at the sycophant. "What's your name, crab cunt?"
"…my Prince, I am…err, I-"
"Crab cunt has forgotten his name," Viserys noted to Tyrion.
"No, my nam-my name is-"
"I don't care what your name is." Viserys stumbled to his feet. The world was suddenly shaking. "I now name you Crab Cunt." He extended his arms wide, feeling his scar stretch as he laughed. "Behold. My friends! Behold…the Crab Cunt!"
The men erupted, a chorus of laughter and echoing chants, and Celtigar shrunk in his seat, eyes wide and cheeks flushed, and Viserys felt happier, if only for a moment. That was good. It was noble to put a man in his place. Proper, princely behaviour. He rested his face on his fist, which was better than resting his face on his face, and then….
And then, the next he knew, they were talking about cocks.
"-dwarf, is there enough cock for a woman to even wrap her mouth around? Little cock, little man."
Viserys started, blinking rapidly. What time was it? Meanwhile, the Imp was laughing. "Why don't you send your lovely wife over here to inspect it for herself?" He asked.
"I don't have a wife." It was Lord Manning. He was a very fat man with extraordinarily little neck and skin the colour of puce, as red as the Sea Lion on his sigil. Viserys was not surprised he lacked for wives.
"Get married, then," Tyrion said, shrugging.
"Mayhaps I'll wed that lovely sister of yours," The Fat Man replied. "She is widowed now, yes?"
The Imp took a deep swig of wine. "She'd be widowed again if you wed her."
"My father wished for me to wed her." It took a moment for Viserys to realise he was the one speaking. He had now taken to staring at the bottom of his newest cup. There was something small wriggling away, long in the dying, drowned by the wine. It had many legs. "She was to be my Queen."
Rossart nodded at that. "Prince Viserys was his chosen heir," He explained softly to Tyrion, as if Viserys had not told him a thousand times before. "The Prince was to succeed him, not his brother. The False King."
Cries erupted, as they always did.
"FALSE KING!"
"BASTARD KING!"
Viserys almost laughed. Lannister suddenly looked wary, eyes narrowed. Even deep in his cups, his wits remained. "Worry not, little man," Viserys consoled him, slurring only slightly. "Rhaegar will forgive you your presence, here."
Just not mine.
"Still," The Imp said, more cautiously now. "The Spider…"
"Knows everything," Lord Blount blustered. "As he always does."
"Though not what events took place at Riverrun," Another one of the sycophants complained. "No-one seems to know that."
"Tully is dead," Rossart said. "What else matters?"
"As I heard it, Tywin Lannister is not claiming so."
"Of course he doesn't," said another.
"As I heard it too. Lord Tywin writes near daily to the King." It was a new voice from an old face. Viserys clenched his jaw. The Bastard of Driftmark. Aurane Waters was half-brother to Lord Monford, who sat on Rhaegar's small council of small men, but like the other bastard in Viserys's life, this one too walked the world as if he were a Prince and not an abomination. Waters had the look of Old Valyria, at least, handsome with the same silver-gold hair as any Targaryen, but he resembled Rhaegar too closely for Viserys to ever be fond of the man. "For the King's eyes only, he wrote. Begging for clemency. Many well-written spiels informing the King his true foes are far closer to home. Look South, he says. Obviously, they have all gone unanswered."
Tyrion was staring hard at Waters now, gaze unfocused. Viserys only shook his head. "And how do you know this, bastard?" He asked sharply. The world was a little clearer, now.
"My brother," Waters replied, as if it were the most obvious truth in the world. "Lord Tywin keeps writing. Raven after raven. My brother claims him desperate."
"My father is many things, but never desperate," said Tyrion. "Or, at least, he would never allow any other man to think him so."
"So what game is he playing?"
"His own." If smiles could cut, Tyrion Lannister's would have killed a man. "Always just his own."
"You think it was him, though, do you not?" Waters leaned forward, eyes alight. "As you claimed to the Small Council-"
"You know a worrying amount about discussions in the Small Council-"
The door slammed open with a thud, and silence reigned in an instant, just as a shadow of a man loomed in the doorway. For a moment, Viserys thought it a giant, and fear flooded his veins, but it was not the Mountain, or Martell's bodyguard, or his wife, or her cousins, or any man in their employ.
It was a worse man still: one of the Kettleblacks. The middle one, as ugly as his two other brothers, with a hooked nose and a cruel shine to his eyes, and a sword bought and owned by the most dangerous men in the world.
In a moment, the world grew sharper still. Viserys stood, and tried desperately to ignore the shaking of his legs.
Oh shit, he thought.
Oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shit.
"Leave us," He ordered. It came out more a whisper than a shout. The men only stared. He clenched his fists and tried again. "LEAVE US! NOW! ALL OF YOU!"
"My Prince." The larger of his two guards was eyeing the man warily, hand on his blade. "Who is this man?"
"No business of yours," Rossart replied softly. "You heard him. Obey your true King."
"But my Prince-"
"Leave us," Viserys said. "You are dismissed for the night. Imp –"
"Will stay," said Kettleblack. He stood with arms folded and a scowl so deep it might have been carved into his face like stone. Viserys half-suspected he'd come bawling from his mother's womb wearing it. The sellsword's eyes swept the room, passing over Viserys's band of fools and flatterers alike with equal contempt.
"If any man here speaks of my presence tonight," He said, voice slow, and low, "you will find yourself cut, root and stem. Some of you know my masters."
Some of them must have, for they fled too quickly for comfort – heads low, eyes averted, moving with the haste of men who did not wish to hear more than they ought. The rest followed soon after, frowning and muttering, until at last the manse stood near-empty, save only for the three of them, Viserys, little Lannister, and Osfryd Kettleblack.
Without his guards, Viserys felt naked, and afraid.
"Prince Viserys," Kettleblack greeted, then. "Lord Tyrion."
Viserys said nothing. Even as the man sauntered deeper into the manse. Even as he reached to grab Viserys's own cup, and brought it to his lips. "Good wine," He said, after a drink. "Though I prefer Dornish Red."
It took all his restraint not to cut Kettleblack where he stood.
"I fear we have not met," said Tyrion.
"We have now." Kettleblack's eyes roamed the room. "I bring a message, Viserys."
Lannister's eyes were darting between the two of them. "Prince Viserys," Tyrion said slowly.
"Prince Viserys," Kettleblack repeated. "A message, as I said. From our mutual friends."
"Who are?" Tyrion asked.
Viserys dug his nails into the palm. "Not in front of the Imp," He protested. "This is madness. Why are you here? If they see-"
"You must leave," Kettleblack said. "We all must. All three of us. It is not safe in the city. There is a ship, set for Pentos-"
"Pentos?" Tyrion laughed. "I cannot go to Pentos."
"The gods don't care for what you want." Kettleblack stepped forwards, cruel gaze locked on the dwarf's own. Stern warred with the wary. "Your Lord Father has abandoned you here and we are left to pick up the pieces. I have orders."
"From whom?" Tyrion retreated, tensed now. He stood, eyes darting, fists clenched, ready to run at a moment's notice, and Viserys noted the bulge of a knife in his small breeches. Good. As Viserys had his own. Perhaps, with fortune, and surprise…
Kettleblack was smiling now. Viserys preferred him scowling. "Men more powerful than your Lord Father."
"But surely not as rich," Tyrion said, with a grin of his own. Viserys saw right through it. "I have gold. Lots of it. More than they could ever have. Whatever they are paying, I shall double it-"
"You could double it ten times over and it won't be enough," Viserys hissed. "Shut up, dwarf. Kettleblack, you idiot, Rhaegar has spies everywhere-"
"The Spider has spies everywhere," Kettleblack corrected. "And by the time the King finds out-"
"We agreed, we agreed-"
"You agreed certain promises in return for security against the Martells. It is time to pay those promises, Prince Viserys."
"What have you done?" The Imp's accusing tones were poison in his ears. If Viserys closed his eyes, he could almost hear a different voice, Rhaella's, softer and no less biting for it, uttering the same words.
"I cannot leave," Viserys insisted. "Nor can he. Rhaegar-"
"They are not worried about Rhaegar."
Then who? "This is madness, I will not leave just because they demand it. You make me and I shall tell. I will. Rhaegar will be most interested to know. And he shall forgive me, in the end. He has but only the one brother, now. Then where will you be?"
"With one Targaryen less to kill," Kettleblack said simply, striding closer, until his nose was almost touching Viserys's own. "You can leave. You will leave. My Prince, you have been granted more than enough time here. These plans have been afoot since that night Maegor's Holdfast burned. There has been too much chaos. Ever since the attack on the King's son. We must reassess. We still do not know who tried…WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT?"
Suddenly, it was cold.
As one, they turned. Beside him, the candles died, and he shivered, as a chill rippled through the manse, pricking his arms, piercing his skin, and sending ice down his spine. A man stood before them, where there was none before. A man made of shadow; dark wisps, given form, standing tall, and cruel, with black eyes smiling with malice.
It was impossible. It was evil. It was the Stranger.
Those smiling eyes were looking at Viserys as it raised an arm, holding a sword of smoke, and for a moment, time stilled.
For a moment, Viserys was a child again. His father was screaming righteous fury, and the smell of burning flesh was in his nostrils, and the cries were deafening his ears, and he just wanted it to stop, make it stop, please, for all the gods, make it stop. Rhaella was holding him close, and Viserys was weeping, longing for the press of her soft palms against his wet cheeks, but she refused to look at him, just like Rhaegar, and he was going to die, he knew it, as he had never known anything at all, and….
The shadow moved, arms raised, dark blade in hand, ready to strike, but as time froze, Tyrion Lannister did not. With a sharp burst, he pushed, quickly, just enough, and Kettleblack stumbled in front of Viserys, just as the blade, black and formless, cut through the skin and sinew of the man's neck to sound at all. Blood burst from the wound, a crimson waterfall, and Kettleblack fell, collapsing like a mummer's puppet with its strings cut, his body crumpling one way, and his head, the other.
The shadow dissipated like smoke before him, and for a moment, each man just stared at the other. And then…
"RUNNNNNNNN!"
For once in his life, Viserys listened. He ran. As far, and fast as he could, even as the air stabbed his lungs with every breath, even as fear bathed him whole with every moment, even as his legs screamed in vain protest. He ran. There was no stopping. Out the door, turning left, heart slamming in his chest, blood pumping, eyes wide, breaths ragged, suffocating on his fear, feet sliding as the heavens opened above them.
Behind, the Imp could barely keep up, little legs stumbling, eyes wide in panic. He barely seemed to notice the bloody head in his hands.
"WHY DID YOU PICK UP THE HEAD?"
"I DON'T KNOW! PERHAPS BECAUSE I JUST SAW A SHADOW KILL A MAN!"
Madness. The whole thing was madness. What was this? He had to run. Onwards. To safety, to sanctuary, to the Red Keep, to his brother. The Stranger stalked them, and none escaped it forever, but Viserys wanted only one night's respite, only this night, only now…
"FASTER!" He rasped. His feet nearly slipped on the slick cobblestones. "There could be more!"
"My legs are not so long as yours!" With a tumble, Tyrion Lannister pitched forward, tripping up again, knees crashing hard into the cobbles. The head fell from his hands and rolled. Its lifeless eyes seemed to stare at Viserys in horror. "Seven hells, I am trying!"
Viserys felt underwater, drowning in the dread, because something was coming for him, something had tried, some monstrosity, some horror from the seven hells, looming from the dark, and he had to run, run before he became one with the shadow, run because he was a fool, he had always been a fool, as the seasons turned, as blood turned to ink and boys into men and men into ghosts…
He skidded left, frantic. "My horse!" He called out. "Imp, quickly!"
To safety! Thank the gods for his horse. His guards had left it nearby, ready to return him home. He reached out, fingers grasping, but the horse was spooked too, and with a nervous cry it fled his grasp to flee, leaving only dust in its wake. "No no no no!"
Viserys turned around again. No. Not now. He had not spent so many years avoiding his wife's hidden blades to fall now. No! Ahead, the Red Keep loomed. So close. The spooked horse was racing to it, too, snorting and whining as it galloped away in front of them. The mangy old dog from before followed, barking frantically. Even in the dark Viserys could spy the whites of its eyes.
They ran on. Only a little further. Surely someone was awake, surely someone would be awakened, even with most of the Court gone to Harrenhal. Servants, guards, someone. There were flickers of flame ahead, in some of the windows…
He tried to ignore the slickness of his skin. Water wed with sweat, and blood.
"Faster!"
Every shadow was now a foe. The Stranger hid in the darkness, and in every corner there sheltered its kiss, and his father, and his mother, and Viserys was not ready to face any of it, or any of them, not now, not ever…
"Ah," said the voice. "The dragon wakes."
Viserys groaned into the plush red carpet. The ache was relentless. A thousand little men were punching and kicking inside his head, and the pain pulsated at his temples like a drum. He looked up.
It was the hair he spotted first; it shone, translucent in the light, with hair like beaten gold woven with silver, atop a man whose face was thunder. That face was also so much like his own, but softer, longer, and more handsome. Rhaegar.
The First of His Name. The King. The brother.
The cunt.
"Rise," His brother commanded cooly. "Now, if it pleases you."
For a second, he was a boy again, watching through his fingers, fearing his brother's distant scrutiny, but the fear faded as quick as it arrived. That was the least of his worries. There were still sick coating his lips, and something worse, nestled in his heart. The world was dizzy, and dirty, and wrong, and the dragon longed for little else but slumber, but still, Princes never got what they asked for.
"One moment." Unthinkingly, he checked himself. His chest was aching too, and so too were his arms, and his belly, and his…with sudden panic, Viserys quickly reached down to grasp at his bottom, only to sink back to the ground with relief. No, nothing there. That was good. There had been no repeat of Oldtown.
Viserys rolled onto his back and moved to sit, only to immediate recoil and moan in horror at the bright sunbeams shining through the high, narrow windows of the Red Keep's Great Hall. His princely eyes had never known such torture, and the little men at his temples punched and kicked all the harder for it.
"You should call him Your Grace-" began the Hand, the cuntly Connington.
"It matters not what he calls me." Rhaegar cut in swiftly. "I have long since lost faith in my brother's regard for proper respect." His Kingly face was the very image of disgust. Through the haze of fluttering dust, hovering like butterflies in the sunbeams, Viserys saw Rhaegar, Aerys, and Rhaella all.
"You deserve this," His Grace continued. "And more, besides."
A woman's laugh, as harsh to his ears as a whip to the skin, echoed through the hall and Viserys groaned anew. Bad enough, to wake like this to his kingly brother…
"A sight for sore eyes, to be sure." His damned niece. The Dornish bitch. Viserys opened bleary eyes to see a sharp, cruel smile on the cold, comely face of Princess Rhaenys. "A feast, even."
It took a dragon's effort just to sit up. "I gather you had much fun, yesterday," The King continued. His iron tones could bring snow to the desert. "Certainly, if the throne room is any indication."
What? Oh.
Viserys didn't want to look. What had happened? There were only flashes of the night before. Wine, women, friends, and fools and…
Oh.
"Ah," He murmured. The terror returned as if never gone.
"Yes," replied Rhaegar.
Fuck, thought Viserys.
The first thing he spied in his weary pained haze was the horse. It was a fine silver beast, to be sure. Resplendent in the sunlight, lean and strong and taut with muscle; Viserys had always liked that horse most. It was a nameday gift from his mother, the last before she died, and he'd named it Dārys, for only the noble tongue was fitting for such a noble steed. Four men were now leading it away from one side of the hall to the other, towards the tall oak-and-bronze doors that separated this most vaunted of chambers from all others. His gaze slowly followed the horse, and then, just as surely, shifted the other way, rightwards, to the legacy it left behind.
The horse had shit on the steps of the Iron Throne.
There it was. A whole pile of it, runny, mud-brown, and stinking, dripping down the steps like a waterfall.
Horror warred with nausea in his belly as he stared, noble lips ajar: a waterfall of shit, on the Iron Throne. Before he knew it, a laugh broke free of him.
Rhaenys followed his gaze and chuckled too. "I almost think it improves it," She said, dark eyes bright with mirth. "Bathed in the blood of the Conqueror's foes, and all his heirs besides, and now, too, a horse's shit. I think it rather fitting. How about you, dear nuncle?"
"That is not helpful, Rhaenys," Rhaegar replied sharply.
Viserys spotted the dragon skulls next.
Two of them were completely destroyed. Copperish and green fragments of bone were scattered across the floor near the furthest walls. Those were the last remains of Skyros, he recalled. Skyros, the dragon of Jaehaera, daughter of Aegon II, and the Last Dragon, dead during the reign of Aegon III. Viserys rose shakily to his feet, aghast at the sight. The legacy of House Targaryen now laid discarded, destroyed, vacant eyes staring unseeing above, and he was dismayed.
His own royal father had once had a man burned before the whole court just for daring to touch the last dragon's skull. And now…
"That is rather unfortunate," The King agreed, reading the horror writ plain in his face. "The Last Dragon, most of all. I will need to see it mended, though I doubt it will ever be as it once was."
"Mended, from your coin, naturally." Rhaenys added. She looked happier than Viserys had seen her for weeks. It was revolting.
So too was the head, already foul and rotting. It was perched perfectly on one of the straighter, jutting blades of the Iron Throne, and as the steel drank in the blood, vacant eyes stared out, following Viserys as he stumbled towards it.
"Unfortunately I do not know him." Rhaegar said, more concerned now. "I do not suppose, daughter, that you do?"
Her laughs faded. "I know his type." She reached out and cautiously prodded the fleshy cheek. "The type to be better off dead."
There were also pools of blood, and vomit throughout the hall, and a raven flying in the rafters, screeching 'corn' repeatedly, and a grey, mangy dog just running back and forth, tail wagging furiously, being chased by guards. Its shrill bark was enough to wake the dead, and it gave no surrender, leaping and bowing, racing through legs and under the small council's table, running and running and running, this way and that, never to be caught.
Viserys felt an odd kinship to the beast.
And in the middle of it all, Tyrion Lannister stood small, hair wild, face as pale as snow, watching them all warily.
"YOOOOUUUUUU!" Viserys stumbled to his feet, arms already grasping to choke the dwarf dead. "DWARF! THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT!"
The Imp stepped back, mismatched eyes wide. "Mine? You-do you not recall?"
"YOU AND YOUR STUPID WHORE SISTER-" And then, the nausea struck, quick, and sudden, and Viserys stopped, twisting just as the sickness shot up his throat and out his mouth. In a moment, he was retching, and hating himself. Fresh, stinking vomit cascaded down from his royal lips; royal sick, winding majestically onto the plush red royal carpet floor.
"Disgusting," Rhaenys declared delightedly, somewhere behind him.
"You are disgusting," He spat back. "Dornish Bitch."
"And utterly disgraceful," She continued, as if he had not spoken at all. "Such behaviour is unbefitting of a true Targaryen. You should be ashamed, Nuncle."
How dare she, how dare she?! "You, you dare-I am, I am-"
Rhaenys only laughed again. "Kneeling in your own vomit? Shaming your mad father? Being a disgrace to House Targaryen?"
"DORNISH BITCH!"
"Enough," The King declared firmly. "You will not speak to my daughter that way, Viserys Targaryen."
Yet even in his anger, Rhaegar looked beyond him. As he always did. His brother never liked looking at Viserys.
He had asked why, once, in a weaker moment, a younger one. Why does he always ignore me? Why? I am his brother! His only brother!
Rhaella had only sighed, and cupped his cheek with a cool, gentle hand. You are your father's son, she had whispered into his ear. Viserys hadn't known what that meant. He still didn't. Of course I am! And so is he! He looks more like father than I do!
It was only later, after she was gone, that he realised his mother had always looked beyond him too.
Rhaegar was talking again. "…want to know exactly what happened here. Let it be said that you both are most fortunate there are so few to bear witness to your shame. Were more of the court still here, you would be the talk of the realm in days. Perhaps you still will be."
Viserys felt his cheeks flush hot again with shame, and he moved to stand, trembling with the effort, only to collapse again with a yelp. Shame warred with rage in his heart as his legs betrayed him as he crumpled, as Kettlleblack did, and his hip struck the stone floor with a worrying thud. Somewhere above him, Rhaenys laughed again.
Rhaegar only closed his eyes, as if begging the gods for patience. The sight of it only enraged him further.
"You need not stand so long as you can speak," Rhaegar declared. "I will learn the truth of last night-"
"I will tell you nothing!" Viserys rose again, desperately trying to ignore the vomit on his breeches, or the lancing pain in his side. He was of the Dragon. Dragons did not bend or bow or scrape or kneel. Dragons were not shamed. Dragons were not broken. Dragons were not browbeaten by their bookly brothers.
Dragons did what they could to survive.
"You will."
"Why should I?"
"I am the King," Rhaegar said simply.
"And I am a Prince!" He replied, fanning the flames of his own outrage. "I am as much seed of the Dragon as you are! You shall not-"
"I shall. You will tell me, or you will find yourself sleeping off your exploits in the Black Cells-"
"I am your blood! Blood of the Dragon! You would never dare-"
The King stopped him with a look. "I have before."
So he had. The fire in Viserys's heart died in an instant, drowned by the fear, and the screaming – but it was just an echo, the memory of a mad man in the dark. Viserys was not his father. He could not, Rhaegar would not, it was, it was…
"The Imp!" He said then, growing more desperate. "The Imp can tell you!"
"He can," Rhaegar agreed, more placidly now. "He will. I expect to hear his truth, and then yours."
The little Lannister shot Viserys an unimpressed look. "I shall endeavour to try, at least, your Grace."
"I would like you to do better than try, Lord Tyrion. You will attend me first. But then you, Viserys. Come to me before I leave for Harrenhal."
No. He could not. "I don't want to!"
An odd fleeting look passed across Rhaegar's face, but when he spoke, his voice stayed firm. "You are no babe of eight anymore, little brother," He said. "Gone are the days where what you want ever matters."
"I hate you," Viserys spat.
Rhaegar turned oddly sad, then. He did that often. Kings were not meant to be sad. Viserys despised him for that, too.
"I know you do," Rhaegar said. He turned to Connington. "Lord Jon, please deal with…this."
With that, he turned on his heel and strode towards the nearest door, Lannister quickly following in his wake.
Viserys did not move. He could not even find it with himself to laugh at the dwarf almost stumbling over his little legs, such was his horror and shame and rage. And dizziness. The ground felt treacherous to his person. The whole world did. It had turned traitor to him, and he kneeled once more, blinking, fighting waves of relentlessly rising nausea, and lost in his useless rage.
As he did so, servants were hurriedly cleaning away the echoes of the night before. One was frantically trying to clean the throne's steps between their gagging.
"I too would like the truth of last night," Rhaenys said curiously, after a moment. She eyed the servants with a frown before turning to reach out and pat the top of the head perched upon the Throne.. "You don't recognise this poor, unfortunate soul, do you nuncle?"
Perhaps he wouldn't, if he tried hard enough. The head bore long, matted dark hair, a drooping moustache, and that hooked, unfortunate nose. The skin was already turning the sickly hue of spoiled milk, already mottled, in the way the dead quickly turned.
Behind them, servants cried anew; the dog had now leapt onto the skull of one of the larger dragons, its paws scrabbling against the bone. It seemed to be taking delight in trying to destroy the bones.
"Should I?" He asked, eventually. Viserys never wanted to see or think of Kettleblack again.
"I would have been terribly impressed if you did." Rhaenys grabbed the head with two small hands and yanked it free from the blade. It came away with a disgusting squelch and splattering blood. Some of it settled in the steel. "This is one of the Kettleblack brothers," She declared, almost scholarly. "Osfryd, I think. The middle one. Sly, dangerous man. All three are."
"Who isn't in this city?" Scum and villains, all of them. The whole place was a den of scoundrels. Coming back was a mistake. Since his return, Viserys been nearly killed, permanently scarred, and now subjected to… last night. It was all the Imp's fault, he decided. The Imp and his stupid family, all of them, the fools, the fucking fools.
More cries came from down the hall. Uncle and Niece both turned to observe Connington marching towards some of the spear-wielding guards. "Do not kill the dog! The King wishes it alive. It is ill omen to kill inside this hall! You know his law!"
"But Lord Hand it is – hold! Where is it going now?"
"No, shut the doors-"
"Oh, the mother have mercy. AFTER IT!"
Viserys would slit the little man's throat, he decided. After sleep. After blissful, blessed rest. He just had to get through the morning. Walk to the door, walk to his brother, sprout whatever nonsense the King deigned to hear…and then, rest. That was it. He could do that. One foot before the other. That was the way. It was not so hard. One foot before the other, and then soon he would have water, and rest. And perhaps a feast. A great one, with enough grease to swim in. The damned night could all be forgotten, soon enough.
"True enough, but this one is more dangerous than most," The Dornish Bitch said next, at the worst possible moment.
"What of it?" He grumbled.
"I know him to take Petyr Baelish's coin." Rhaenys shot a curious glance at him. "You know Lord Baelish, I am sure. I had the fortune to meet him, not so long ago. Littlefinger, they call him, for the lands he holds. From the Vale."
Viserys's blood ran cold.
"Yes, I know of him," He muttered darkly, after a moment. "A small man. Lowborn. Fourth generation of a Bravoosi sellsword. Of no interest to you."
"Oh I am finding him very interesting." Rhaenys's smile was turning as sharp as any of the blades before them. "And casting an increasingly large shadow. Just look here! The head of his man, on the Iron Throne. Who would have cause to kill him, do you think?"
Shadows made him shiver. "I do not know, and neither do you," He replied shortly. She couldn't know. It was impossible. "You are not Lord Varys. You know not what you speak of-"
"Oh, but I am starting to. Things are becoming clearer, now, Viserys Targaryen. So many things have puzzled me. Why send the imposter, why kill Pycelle, why try to burn us all the same night-"
"The actions of mad men-"
"Not mad. But mayhaps, desperate. Someone was trying to distract us, if not kill us.."
Lyanna's whelp had said likewise that night, in Rhaegar's chambers. "Someone, not me."
"No," She agreed. "Not you."
Viserys forced his weary, aching body towards the nearest door.
"Don't go too far, Viserys," She called out after him.
"What is too far?" He asked. His chambers? Dragonstone? Asshai?
Her dark eyes glinted; Elia's eyes, but the look was all Rhaegar. She was on the way to knowing. She was clever. Too clever. "Far enough to never come back," Their daughter warned. "My father will hear you out, I am sure. He always does. Out of pity, if nothing else."
It would never be far enough, he thought. "I do not want his pity-"
"You should. It is the gap between the blade and your head."
The gap felt ever smaller with every moment. "What would you have me do, then?" Viserys asked.
"I'd have you tell us everything." She came closer, eyes roaming across his face. "All these years across the Narrow Sea, all those rumours of plots and plans. Do you think we never knew? That we never heard? What strange bedfellows you have found, dear nuncle. Cheesemongers and exiles…"
"What do they have to do with-"
"Everything, or nothing. Who knows? I do not. Yet. It is all a web, to me. But I think you a part of it-"
"You think me mad enough-
"I do not think you are mad. I think you are just a cunt," She said archly. "A vile, spiteful, cunt who yearns for a crown you would never be fit to wear. A vile, spiteful cunt who might be caught in that web, trapped with no escape. And if I were you – and thank all the gods, old and new I am not – I would know when I need to save my own princely neck. But I am not you, and we both know what you will do. My father does too. You still has his pity whether you like it or not. He has given you the chance to flee. Take it. Before that choice is taken from you. As I suspect it nearly was last night."
Her black gaze burned into his back as he ran, to search for a place where no Kings or Lords or Knights or Spiders or Shadows could ever find him.