Viserys Targaryen (103 A.C., Fifth Moon)
The Blackwater Bay – Arrival at King's Landing
The wind carried the scent of salt, and the familiar smell of King's Landing began to drift across Blackwater Bay. Ahead, the red towers of the Red Keep loomed like a crown over the sprawling chaos of the city below. Viserys remembered his grandfather's words to him once: "I wish I could rebuild this all over and make it right."
He smiled faintly at the memory as he stood at the prow, his hand resting on the carved dragon figurehead. He exhaled deeply, the city's silhouette stirring both weariness and pride in his chest.
A sudden gust hit him, strong enough to ruffle his hair and cloak. Overhead, Goynogar roared, banking in a wide arc toward the Dragonpit. The windblast from the great beast's wings struck the ship, and Viserys steadied himself with a hand on the railing, gritting his teeth as he welcomed the familiar force of dragonflight.
Footsteps behind him—light and purposeful.
Aemma came to his side and pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek. He turned his head, and there beside her stood their daughter—his little star.
Rhaenyra clutched the rail with both hands, her violet eyes alight with excitement. Her gaze was fixed on the sky, where her young she-dragon, Syrax, trailed behind Goynogar with nimble grace. The small yellow dragon had a way of gliding through the air with elegance, and her time at Dragonstone had helped her grow. He remembered the first time Syrax had taken his daughter into the sky, and how they had laughed as they soared together.
"She missed flying," Aemma said softly, glancing at their daughter.
"She always does. She's a true dragon," Viserys replied with a tired smile. "And so do I."
At that moment, Laena Velaryon came skipping across the deck. The wind tugged at her silver curls as she grinned and reached Rhaenyra, clasping her hand. The girls giggled together, pointing at the dragons and whispering in that way children did when sharing secrets only they understood.
They had grown even more inseparable since Laena came to Dragonstone. He hoped that even after both were married, Rhaenyra would keep her friendship with the girl.
Soon, they passed below the cliffs of the Red Keep. The ship's bell rang twice, and the sails shifted. The crew began final preparations for docking.
"Hold on!" called the first mate, and the vessel began to slow as it approached the long stone docks of King's Landing.
The crimson three-headed dragon on black billowed in the wind. Beneath it flew many others: the white tower on grey of House Hightower, the three yellow beehives on a field paly of black and yellow for House Beesbury, even House Velaryon's seahorse banner. And more, banners raised in honor of the Old King, and, Viserys hoped, in support of his own accession.
On the quay, a small party waited under the midday sun.
Viserys spotted him first: Ser Ryam Redwyne, tall and broad, his white hair gleaming alongside his cloak. The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard stood beside Otto Hightower, the Hand of the King, whose face wore a mask of measured patience.
At Otto's side stood Lady Alicent, clad in green silk, her auburn hair pinned in elegant coils beneath a fine veil. She wore a small smile that did not quite reach her eyes, her hands folded in careful poise. The girl had grown in the time they had been away, grown into a woman, Viserys noted.
The ship docked with a final groan of timber and rope.
Viserys straightened his cloak, heart pounding in his chest, and turned to his family. "Come," he said, offering his hand to Aemma, who took it with a gentle nod. He saw Rhaenyra clutched Laena's hand tightly, and the excitement still bubbling beneath her composed little face.
As the gangplank lowered and the dragons circled overhead, the royal party descended to meet the waiting court.
Otto bowed. "Your Grace," he said with solemn deference. "The realm grieves with you. King Jaehaerys will be deeply missed."
Viserys inclined his head. "Indeed. I will do my best to fill the hole he left in the realm, and continue to uphold the peace he forged."
Alicent dipped into a curtsy, her eyes flickering briefly to Aemma, Rhaenyra, and Laena. "Welcome home, Your Grace."
Viserys gave a faint smile but said nothing.
Ser Ryam stepped forward and bowed deeply. "Your Grace. The Kingsguard awaits your command."
"Thank you for your loyal service, ser. You served my grandfather well, and I have no doubt you will do the same for me." Viserys glanced toward the hill where the Red Keep rose.
"Let's go. I want to settle in and have a small council meeting as soon as possible, to speak of the funeral and my coronation."
From above, Goynogar's roar echoed faintly, followed by Syrax's reply.
The Small Council Chamber – Red Keep
Viserys entered the chamber slowly, his steps heavy with the weight of his first day as King. The painted table gleamed beneath the golden light streaming in from the high windows, but his eyes first went to the men who stood waiting.
Some faces he recognized immediately, Lord Beesbury, aged but sharp-eyed, still holding his ledgers and scrolls with the reverence of a septon handling scripture. Corlys stood tall in black and sea-green, his expression one of reluctant acceptance. That man will need time before he comes around to me being King.
Beside them stood two others.
One he knew, Maester Runciter, his lined face like old parchment. But the last man... his tabard bore a burning orange tree against smoky grey. House Marbrand.
Ah. That must be the new Master of Laws. Viserys squinted slightly, trying to recall the man's name.
"Lord Carlton Marbrand," the man said with a bow, sensing the King's hesitation. "An honor, Your Grace. It is good to finally meet you."
Viserys returned the nod, studying him. The man looked competent enough, well-groomed, in his middle years, with a lawyer's narrow eyes and a soldier's posture. Still, Viserys had never heard of him before.
"I'm sure you will serve me well, my lord," Viserys said, offering his hand briefly before moving to the table.
He picked up the seal of the King, the crown-marked rod of authority, its weight both familiar and strange in his hand. He drew a breath and seated himself at the head of the council for the first time as King.
"Let us begin. How are the preparations for the funeral?" he asked, his eyes drifting toward Otto Hightower, who stood nearest.
Otto bowed his head. "Your Grace. After King Jaehaerys's passing, his body was prepared by the Silent Sisters with the utmost care. He rests now in the Grand Sept, where the people may pay their respects."
Viserys exhaled softly. "Good. The people deserve to mourn him. As do I."
"I had hoped to visit him tomorrow, in private," he added.
"That can be arranged at your will, Your Grace," Otto replied. "The Grand Sept is guarded day and night."
"And the funeral itself?" Viserys asked.
"The procession is set for the end of this week. In two days' time," Otto confirmed. "The body will be carried through the streets of King's Landing, then brought to the Dragonpit for the burning, by dragonfire, as is tradition. His ashes will then be laid to rest in the Dragonstone crypt beside Queen Alysanne, as per His Grace's will."
Viserys nodded solemnly. "Good. He loved the Queen very much. As for the will, let's discuss that after the coronation and funeral preparations are settled."
Then looked to Runciter. "Have we heard from my brothers and sisters?"
"Some, Your Grace," Runciter answered, his voice dry and methodical. "Prince Daemon arrived in the city yesterday. His location is currently unknown. Rumors place him at the Street of Silk last evening, but nothing confirmed."
Viserys frowned, unsurprised. "My brother has always marched to the beat of his own drum. I'll speak with him soon enough."
He shifted. "What of the North? My kin there?"
"We've sent ravens to Winterfell and Seadragon Point, but replies have yet to come. The distance is far, and the weather... unpredictable," Runciter explained. "If they do respond, it's unlikely they'll arrive before the coronation unless they come flying on Balerion." That earned a soft chuckle from Corlys.
Runciter continued, "However, we've had word from Seadragon Point. Sailors and traders speak of marvels. Seadragon Holt, they call it. Prince Aemon also sent a letter a few moons past. In it, he said he had bought a number of slaves from Myr, freed them, and hired them on as glassmakers. As for the progress of the keep, it seems swift."
Viserys leaned back, folding his hands. "My brother always had a gift for vision, but sometimes he can be too bold. I've seen some of his designs for Seadragon Holt. It reminds me of the scrolls I have read about Old Valyria, yet also mixed with Northern architecture. If he can succeed, it will be brilliant. I wonder if that castle's growth is coming along this quickly."
He glanced toward Corlys, who was smiling with quiet approval. If someone knew even more, it would be him. Corlys and Aemon had always had a good relationship. "Lord Corlys?"
"I've heard the same, Your Grace," the Lord of the Tides said. "I sent ten of my finest shipbuilders there a few moons past. They report the same marvels. Your brother has ambition, even at such a young age, and now it seems he has the means to match it. Seadragon Point may one day rival Oldtown or Lannisport as the most prominent port on the Sunset Sea." Corlys noted and glaced at Hand.
"And what of my sisters, and stepmother?" Viserys asked.
"The last news from Winterfell came when we received word that Princess Visenya had bonded with Vhagar, on your brother's tenth nameday," Ruciter replied.
Viserys considered that with a hum, then straightened. "Yes... that was marvelous news indeed. Another Visenya riding the mighty Vhagar."
He glanced at Otto once more. "Now, the coronation. What word from the Faith?"
"The High Septon is expected to arrive in two weeks' time, Your Grace," Otto replied. "He will preside over the coronation ceremony personally."
Viserys nodded. "Good. As for the location, let it be in the Dragonpit. My grandfather married there, to symbolize our family's might."
"Very well, Your Grace. It will show the realm that the royal family is still strong," Otto stated with a small smile.
"Indeed, Jaehearys his days have passed, but that isn't to say the crowns strongest days are behind it." He added.
Two days later - The Dragonpit – King's Landing
He waited in the Great Doom, the hall that represented his family's might. Its great dome stood whole, the vaulted ceiling soaring overhead like the ribcage of some vast beast. Shafts of filtered sunlight poured through high slits, casting golden light upon the scorched floor below.
All was quiet, even the smallfolk seated upon the higher benches made no sound, out of respect for the man who had brought the realm peace.
To many's surprise, Vermithor, the Bronze Fury, had emerged from his lair first. His claws scraped against the stone as he settled beside the massive pyre built at the heart of the pit. His wings remained tucked close to his body.
Behind him stood his mate, Silverwing, her silvery-white scales still catching the sun with brightness. The great she-dragon stood still, watching.
Viserys stood on one side of the pyre, with Daemon and Aemma, who held Rhaenyra's hand tightly. The little girl was silent, her violet eyes darting between the dragons and the great bier of wood and oil.
Across the pyre stood Princess Rhaenys, regal in her mourning blacks, flanked by Corlys Velaryon and their children. Laena clutched her mother's hand, saddened with grief like all of them. Laenor was just as still.
Then the wailing began. From beyond the pit, as the procession came up the hill toward the Doom, the cries of the people rose like wind. Raw, heartfelt grief made into sound. Jaehaerys had ruled for over fifty years. He was the only King many had ever known.
Viserys listened, and in his heart, a question whispered: Will they cry for me like that, when my time comes?
A hush fell over the Doom as the carriage carrying his grandfather rode through the gates. The gathered people began to sob.
At the front walked Ser Ryam Redwyne, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, flanked by his brother Ser Addam Tarth. Their cloaks of white hung heavy in the still air. Behind them rolled the carriage, drawn by six shadow-black horses, its frame carved with dragons and crowned with golden torches.
As the carriage passed into the sacred hall, Vermithor rumbled.
The sound rolled through the stone like thunder, deep and mournful. The Bronze Fury had known the Old King. The beast bowed his head low, and Silverwing followed.
The carriage halted, and six silent sisters of the Faith stepped forward. With practiced reverence, they undid the straps that held the body of his grandfather.
His body had been prepared in the old way, wrapped in layers of black and red silk, with golden embroidery of dragons, the crown, and the seven-pointed star. His face was hidden, but Viserys did not need to see it to remember. He knew the lines of wisdom, the eyes filled with regret, yet also with love for his family, even if it was private. Sorrow, now fixed in his memory.
The silent sisters laid the body on the pyre.
For a long moment, no one spoke.
Viserys took a deep breath and stepped forward.
"My grandfather, your King," he said, voice ringing clear beneath the dome, "was the greatest King this realm has known. He gave us peace, order, and dignity. He forged bonds between houses, faiths, and kingdoms. His reign was not marked by conquest, but by reconciliation and unity."
He paused. "If I can rule with even half his grace, I will count myself fortunate. Let him now rest with his beloved wife and the children who were taken from him too soon. Let him find peace. And let us all honor his legacy."
His voice echoed through the hall.
Then the Crown began to speak, "Bless King Jaehaerys. Long live King Viserys. May he rest. Bless the Conciliator."
A brief silence followed. Then, Viserys turned toward his grandfather's dragon.
He lifted his hand. He wondered if the dragon would do as he asked. "Vermithor… Dracarys."
The ancient dragon opened his jaws. A blast of fire orange and bronze shot forth and engulfed the pyre. The flames leapt skyward, licking the dome, casting flickering shadows across the mourners.
Beside him, Silverwing let out a powerful roar, as if giving a final note of mourning and farewell.
The fire blazed high. Rhaenyra pressed her face into her mother's gown, and Aemma gently stroked her daughter's hair. Viserys did not look away.
His grandfather had returned to fire. Soon, he would rest beside his family on Dragonstone.
As the flames burned, Vermithor turned, slowly, heavily, and began walking toward the gates of the Doom. People stepped aside as the great dragon passed. Silverwing followed.
With a mighty beat of his wings, Vermithor strode forward. With a few more great flaps, the dragons took to the air. Silverwing followed. The dome trembled slightly as they rose into the sky.
Viserys glimpsed them soaring eastward, toward Dragonstone, where both dragons had been born.
Aemon Targaryen (103 A.C. Fifth moon)
Seadragon Point – Outside the city walls.
Two days passed, the raven had come.
His grandfather was dead.
When the letter was placed into his hands, he had not spoken. He had walked alone to the cliffs above the sea and wept where no one could see him. Then, he wrote a reply. Few had touched his life like King Jaehaerys had. Not just as a King, but as a teacher, a grandfather, a man whose wisdom had shaped his own ideals. He had thought him unshakable. Eternal. But all men must die.
All save him, perhaps. The undead. The thrice-revived. He thought as he stared toward the pyre. Four shapes waited upon it: three living, bound in chains, and one unhatched, nestled in the embers of fate.
Aemon's eyes lingered on the egg, one of the eggs of Vhagar's clutch. One of them had turned to stone, yet even if turned to stone, he felt the small form of lingering heat in the egg. The other two, Balerion had assured him, would hatch in time. But this one, this stubborn stone egg, would need fire and blood. That was the truth of their house. Fire and Blood. Words not just spoken, but lived. That was the price of birthing dragons from stone.
That, and judgment.
The man bound before the pyre had been a master stonemason. Respected. Trusted. Until his treachery was laid bare, caught selling the secrets of weldfire to outsiders. Worse still, he had taken the sacred oaths, one written in blood and said in front of the weirdwood. He had broken them for the promise of gold. Sadly they the buyer didn't know his employer. So that tail, for now, was cold.
Aemon had wrestled with the decision for days. The mason had a wife. A son, barely nine, the same age as Olly had been, once. And they had begged. Gods, how they begged.
"Spare the boy, spare my wife, take only me," the man had pleaded, on his knees, his cheeks streaked with tears.
But Aemon had made a vow of his own. He vowed that if this sacred oath was broken, the traitor's line must be ended. If he didn't do it, his words and his oaths would mean nothing. Then people wouldn't trust his word, wouldn't respect him.
And so they were sentenced. Together. And the promise he had made was fulfilled, even if it made his stomach turn. He walked to them now, solemn and slow, and stood before the pyre.
"If you have words to say to one another," Aemon said, voice low, with as much authority as an eleven-year-old voice could muster, "speak them now."
The boy whimpered, clinging to his mother. The man whispered to them both, soft words of love and comfort, and of regret. Aemon's chest ached as he heard them. The child's crying was quiet. The woman held him close. The man kissed them both and closed his eyes.
Aemon turned away.
He walked a few steps away and turned, looking toward Balerion, waiting behind the pyre, eyes glowing like molten gold in the dimming dusk. Around them, hundreds had gathered: smiths and sailors, farmers, stonecutters, and many more of Seadragon Point's people had come to see him dispense justice. Ser Harrold stood among them, face pale, jaw clenched. Ser Jeffery and his uncle stood beside him. They all knew. The mason's guilt was not in question.
But this judgment would still leave a scar. He would be killing a boy and a wife for the father's actions. Something he would have been killed for himself, had it not been for his uncle.
"They watch you," Balerion whispered in his mind, the voice deep and low as thunder. "Be like the kings of winter. Be like the dragons of Valyria. Be resolved in your actions."
Aemon nodded. He looked out over the sea, where the wind tugged at his cloak, then back to the pyre. His voice was steady when he spoke. "Dracarys."
Balerion opened his jaws. The roar was deafening. A torrent of black fire, streaked with gold, erupted and engulfed the pyre. The screams were brief. Dragonfire burned hotter than any forge, merciful in its swiftness. Flesh melted in moments. The stone egg, nestled at the pyre's heart, began to glow.
And Aemon stepped forward.
Gasps rippled through the crowd. Cries of alarm rose from his uncle, his guards, and the people. "No! Prince Aemon!"
Some knew of his invulnerability to fire, others didn't. Yet this was a blazing pyre, ignited by dragonflame. Still, he knew he would be fine. His faith in Balerion did, and something in his heart did. So he walked on, eyes locked on the fire.
The heat hit him like a wall. It licked at his clothes, seared the hairs off his skin and head. His boots smoked. So he was in flames, yet still he walked. Into the flames.
Screams echoed behind him.
Inside, the world was heat and light, yet no pain. The fire roared like a living thing. He knelt on his knees beside the egg. The bodies of the family were still chained to the post, but iron waste starting to melt the bodies themselves, where blackened husks. But there, amid the ash and embers, something moved.
A crack split across the egg's surface. A shimmer of red light poured out.
A tiny claw emerged. Then wings.
The hatchling let out a broken, rasping cry as it slipped free of the crumbling shell. Its scales were deep blood-red, laced with vibrant purple striping. Smoke curled from its nostrils. Its eyes opened, slitted, gleaming, violet.
It saw him.
And it crawled to him.
Aemon reached out, trembling, and gathered the dragon into his arms. Its tiny claws pricked his chest. Its heat was immense, but he held it close. He rose, legs unsteady, flames curling about him.
When he stepped from the pyre, silence met him.
Then a cry.
"He lives!" someone shouted.
The crowd surged forward, half in awe, half in fear. Ser Harrold was the first to reach him, tearing off his cloak and wrapping it around Aemon's scorched frame. The small dragon hissed at the touch, but did not bite.
"My prince," Harrold whispered hoarsely, "never do that again."
"I'm sorry," Aemon said, voice raw. "But sometimes… sometimes we must risk the a burn to earn a fire." Harrold and his uncle came up close, just sighed in relief, and he chuckled.
He turned to the gathered crowd, the infant dragon clinging to his shoulder.
"Seadragon Point," he said, "meet Jaefyre. In honor of our departed King."
And the dragon lifted its head and cried, a shrill, high-pitched sound like a song of birth and death all at once.
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