King Viserys Targaryen, the Second of His Name

  Running his fingers over the id-out set of tools, Viserys stopped at the chisel with the narrowest bde—the pattern on the basilica's roof demanded fine work. Pcing the rectangur sandstone bnk on the worktable, the King exhaled, distancing himself from all extraneous matters, and began scraping out the outlines on the stone along the graphite marks left the day before.

  He was undertaking the Basilica of the Forty Dragons for the third time. After the work was finished for the first time and presented to family members and courtiers, who expressed due admiration for the King's bors, Viserys noticed a heap of inaccuracies committed. One could well have turned a blind eye to them; no one else noticed them, but the creator himself saw them, for whom the too-primitive imitation of tticework on the windows and the too-rough carving prevented him from perceiving his brainchild as complete. Having walked around the entire miniature for a year, Viserys could stand it no longer and decided to improve it, starting with the nine-naved pace where the heads of the forty families who decided the fates of Old Valyria used to gather. Aegon had just sent him a new scroll from his bins with a more precise description of the entire Bck Stone, so the occasions coincided.

  The second time, everything went as it should, and the King was pleased with the emerging result, anticipating even greater satisfaction upon completion, but when he was already finishing work on the seventh nave of the nine, the miniature City of Valyria experienced its own miniature Doom. The children, who had long had their eye on their father's "toys," having escaped from nurses and tutors during the day, sneaked into his chambers and with their games wrought a true rout upon the model: towers lost all their balconies, terraces, and bridges, dragons lost wings, tails, and heads, every second pace managed to bathe in ink and acquire extra holes in the walls.

  Of course, one could not expect a conscious approach to adult hobbies from small children (and Aegon was barely six then, it seems), but turning the King's chambers into a pyroom was clearly not worth it. When Viserys saw the full scale of the destruction, barely restraining the anger bursting out, he appeared in the nursery and demanded an answer from his sons as to whose head the "delightful" idea had entered. Aegon unhesitatingly pointed to Aemond; the father did not believe that a four-year-old boy was the instigator of the prank and ordered the eldest son whipped not only for the rout but also for the lie, "rewarding" both with a two-week ban on leaving the nursery, since it was evidently too small for them. Alicent tried to protest the severity of the punishment, but the King cut off all objections at the root—princes needed to learn to bear responsibility for their actions.

  It was painful to look at the wretched model, and Viserys could not bring himself to take up its restoration for half a year, and only when the bitterness over the childish folly subsided did he extract the tools again and start everything from the very beginning.

  He carved each nave of the basilica separately, joining them sometimes by means of grooves, sometimes setting them with glue. Strictly speaking, thanks should have been given to the mischievous children—thanks to them, he had the opportunity to make corrections once more, for there is no limit to perfection in architecture.

  This time he decided to make the Bck Stone on which the basilica stood truly bck and even asked Rhaenyra to send several suitable ones from Dragonstone. The eldest daughter took the request too literally and flew to the Red Keep with little Daemon, and Syrax's saddlebags were filled to the brim with the most varied cobblestones from the Dragonmont. Miniature domes were ordered from gssblowers to pce on towers and temples, and where scrolls and drawings reliably confirmed the pcement of gss, Viserys inserted small windows. Fine, painstaking work took much time and effort, but after a day full of royal cares, the ruler of the Seven Kingdoms considered it necessary to devote at least an hour or two to what brought pleasure.

  The measured scraping of the chisel on stone was interrupted by a warning knock on the door.

  "Yes?" Viserys asked somewhat displeasedly, not turning around.

  "Your Grace," judging by the voice, it was one of the Cargylls, but despite several years of quite worthy service, to the King they both looked and sounded the same. "Her Grace has brought the children."

  Is it truly so te? Viserys thought and suddenly discovered to his surprise that he was squinting heavily. A gnce out the window confirmed his fears: it was indeed quite dark outside. That was why he cked light!

  "Let them enter," he ordered over his shoulder. "And let them bring more candles."

  Viserys pulled the fps of his robe together, covering his shirt and breeches, and managed to make a few more strokes, and when Alicent led the children into his chambers, and the servants brought gold candebras with dragon heads, he was critically examining his work. Tearing himself away from the bnk, he cast a gnce over his progeny.

  All four looked neat and presentable, as befitted the children of a king. The doublets on the sons were buttoned to the st button, all were washed, combed, and Heena's maids had already braided her hair for the night. All were noticeably tired after a long day, and Daeron was clearly holding back a yawn with his st strength.

  "The children wished to bid you good night, sire," his wife spoke and, as it seemed to her, unobtrusively poked Aegon between the shoulders so he would not slouch.

  When he and his brothers were at the same age, Father also led them for an evening bow to the King and Queen, and they took turns kissing Grandmother on her dry, soft, wrinkled cheek, and Grandfather approvingly ruffled their hair or, if they were guilty of something, grunted displeasedly and turned away, dismissing them with a nod. And then Aegon fell from the stairs, and for a long time Viserys went only with Daemon.

  "Maester Orwyle said today that he is quite pleased with the children's progress," Alicent announced. "He especially noted Aemond."

  "Well done, my son," Viserys smiled. "For what did the maester praise you so?"

  "For the history of the Conquest, Father."

  "Knowing the history of one's house is important. Continue in the same spirit."

  "I try, Father," he nodded.

  "Your diligence bears fruit that should not be buried in the ground. Perhaps I ought to speak with Uncle Aegon; I think he will not refuse to accept you as a guest so you might learn from the maesters of the Citadel of Dragon's Heart."

  "But..." confusion appeared on his son's face. "I do not want to be a maester..."

  "No one speaks of that. Uncle Aegon studied at the Citadel too, but did not become a maester, yet acquired valuable knowledge. It seems to me this will be useful to you."

  "Yes, Father."

  "That is good," Viserys smiled again to encourage his son, and turned to Aegon. "How fares Sunfyre?"

  "Splendidly!" the eldest of his sons responded enthusiastically. Aegon was ready to talk about his dragon for hours. "Eats like a horse, and stronger every day! I wanted to ask you, Father..."

  "Yes?"

  "The Dragonkeepers say Sunfyre can carry two now. I wanted to take Aemond for a ride tomorrow; he asked very much."

  The tter nodded vigorously, showing how much he wanted to take to the sky. Well, this thirst for flight was more than natural; one should worry if it were absent. The Dragonkeepers knew their business; Aegon kept no ignoramuses or dulrds, and they would not go against his opinion. And the Master of Dragons himself said the dragon was strengthening, so it must be so. Feigning thoughtfulness for appearance's sake, Viserys chewed his lip but finally relented:

  "Well, since he asks... But only if Ser Criston says you tried hard at the tilt-yard in the morning. If he is displeased, you will swing swords until dinner."

  "Of course!" both princes beamed.

  "And dare not poke your noses beyond the Bckwater or into the sea. And buckle yourselves in, both of you."

  "Yes, yes, of course, Father, thank you!" Aegon prattled so fast that a vague suspicion arose in Viserys that he might regret his permission.

  Alicent, sighing heavily, was evidently visited by the same thought, but his wife remained silent. Instead of a stream of indignation, she pushed Heena toward him and said:

  "Heena, show your work to your father."

  She approached without looking at him and silently held out a white silk handkerchief to him. In the corners of the square cut of fabric, fmes blossomed in yellow-orange-red colors, and smaller tongues snaked along the edge. Frankly speaking, Viserys did not understand why he should examine embroidery, of which he understood not a whit in the Seven Hells (Peklo), but Alicent believed the children should show their father that they spent the day usefully and did not idle—allegedly this was pleasing to the gods. With Rhaenyra, Aemma had never engaged in such useless demonstrations, but the King did not war with his wife over such a petty cause.

  "How neat," Viserys remarked cautiously.

  "Mother thinks I should give this handkerchief to you," Heena replied.

  "And you do not think so?"

  "I wanted to give another."

  "What other?" Aegon snorted. "She embroiders spiders, grass, and flies all day when the septas aren't looking."

  "In any case, I am gd to accept it, my girl," Viserys chose to let his son's phrase pass his ears, otherwise he would have to scold him, waste time, and he wanted to return to work as soon as possible. In the end, let Alicent deal with what their daughter should embroider herself.

  Heena indifferently gave him the handkerchief, and the King kissed her on the forehead, and then turned to his youngest son.

  "Well, and you, Daeron? How was your day?"

  "Good. But I am very tired," the boy admitted honestly and finally yawned widely, demonstrating the gaps from fallen teeth.

  "I see," Viserys chuckled. "Then I will keep you no longer, go. Good night."

  The children said goodbye in a discordant chorus, and the Queen led them out of the chambers. Scarcely had the door closed behind them than Viserys turned back to the table and, frowning, began to examine the bnk, trying to understand where he had stopped. However, no sooner had he taken the chisel in hand again than the door smmed once more.

  "You could have consulted me," Alicent said in a condemning tone.

  "On what matter?"

  "On everything! Take this flight, for instance!"

  "We have already discussed this, Alicent," Viserys spoke wearily. "This is not a question on which I will reconsider my opinion. They are my children, they are Targaryens, and they will fly dragons."

  "They are my children too, if you have forgotten," she remarked acidly. "I have reconciled myself to all the oddities of your family, to all: from dragons to marriages. I am even ready to betroth Aegon to Heena if your customs demand it, though it is not to my liking. But my heart stops with fear every time, every time I see my son run to a flying lizard, and the other begs you for the same day after day!"

  "Since you understand everything, why do you argue?" Viserys finally found the unfinished pattern and picked at the sandstone with the chisel again. "We have walked in circles so many times."

  "Fine, then here is something new for you. Why send Aemond to his uncle?"

  "That he might learn, of course."

  "There is a Citadel in Oldtown too. It is older, the library is richer there, the maesters..."

  "Only the journey to it is twice as long as to Dragon's Heart."

  "But my kin live in Oldtown."

  "But my brother lives in Dragon's Heart!" Viserys threw the tool aside in irritation and stared at his wife nervously pacing before the firepce—if he continued to work in such an atmosphere, he would ruin this nave too. "What is it you dislike about my brothers?"

  "That they are stronger than you," Alicent threw out angrily.

  A strange expression froze on her face, which Viserys first took for a grimace of contempt, but then he saw bitten lips, darting eyes, and discerned fear in it. Curse it, she truly feared his brothers... Meanwhile, the Queen finally mastered herself and, pulling one of the armchairs toward Viserys, sat beside him.

  "Perhaps you do not notice it, Viserys, or have forgotten it," she began, and the trembling of her voice betrayed what efforts she had to make to speak calmly. "But you are the only one of the brothers left without a dragon."

  The King opened his mouth to object, but Alicent raised her hand sharply, stopping him:

  "I am not sure I want to know why you did not saddle Vhagar or anyone else; I just want you to understand: your brothers have whole flocks of dragons, old and young, and your family has only one. What is this, if not weakness?"

  How hard it is with her sometimes, Viserys thought, and, exhaling, spoke slowly:

  "You are inconsistent. First you accuse me of wanting to put my children on dragons, and then you reproach me for weakness because only one son received a dragon."

  "I am a mother," she announced with pride. "I cannot help but worry for my children when they fly on the backs of giant beasts a thousand feet above the ground. But if this is the only thing that can protect our family..."

  "From whom? From my brothers?! They are my family too."

  "Your family is me and our children! Your brothers may bear the same name, but they have their own wives, their own children, their own nds, their own interests, their own goals, their own dragons..."

  "My brothers will not harm my children. Daemon gave his word, and Aegon needs power like a hole in the head."

  "Yes, while you live, but what will happen after your death? Do you think Daemon will be stopped by oaths to a dead man? Do you think Daemon does not understand what a threat your sons pose to him? Do you think they will outlive you even by a day?"

  "Seven Hells (Peklo)!" Viserys cried out, jumping up from his seat; the sandstone bnk he had been turning aimlessly in his hands flew into the corner. "What is this habit of making a second Maegor out of Daemon?!"

  "And is he not one?" Alicent asked venomously. "He has already deprived your sons of the right to the Iron Throne, when in all your kingdoms a son succeeds a father, not a brother a brother. Did not the Usurper act thus when his good-natured brother died?"

  Oh, gods, this again...

  "Unlike Maegor, Daemon is the heir recognized by me; the lords of the Seven Kingdoms swore to him!"

  The Queen chuckled sarcastically, showing with her whole appearance how little, in her opinion, this argument was worth.

  "This situation is a perversion of the order established by gods and men. Everyone understands this, Viserys; only you are blind, deaf, and dumb: you do not see the threat obvious to everyone, do not hear warnings, dare not raise your voice in defense of your own children. Of undertaking anything, of lifting a finger, there is no question. Understand finally: all these family agreements, promises, oaths of yours will be worth absolutely nothing when Daemon waits for your death and receives the coveted throne. He will eliminate anyone who is a threat to him, and your children will inevitably be one. Everyone understands this except you."

  Having delivered this tirade in a single breath, she rose, and, smoothing her machite skirts, silently walked out, leaving her husband, barely warmed up in the argument, alone with his hobby. Taken aback by such an emotional speech, Viserys looked at the door smming behind her for a few moments, and then in a fit of sudden anger overturned the armchair in which the Queen had sat onto the floor. At the crash of falling furniture, Cargyll's bearded head appeared in the opened crack, but Viserys only barked:

  "Get out!"

  Left alone again, he closed his eyes and rubbed his face vigorously with his hands, trying to calm down. It became too hot in the robe, and it, crumpled, flew to the floor, hanging ridiculously on the legs of the armchair. The King snatched up the chisel again but did not find the unfinished nave. Remembering that he had managed to throw it somewhere, Viserys walked around the corners and, with grief by half, managed to find pitiful shards—the sandstone had not withstood the collision with the granite walls of Maegor's Holdfast.

  Irritation and anger at Alicent's words mixed with disappointment from the destroyed creation, and subsided, leaving behind only fatigue. The King threw away the useless fragments and sank into the armchair.

  Whatever his wife said, Viserys was not blind: that the royal court, and even the royal house itself, were divided into factions expecting the basest vilinies from each other was impossible not to notice. But was it not so under the Old King? There was the Spring Prince with his sons, there was the Almost Queen with her husband, not yet having received her loud nickname. Yes, after their father's death they rattled weapons, but the Great Council put everything in its pce, most precisely. This did not solve the problems with the existence of factions at court, and could not solve upon sound reflection—they always were and always would be. But at what moment did their eternal struggle in the depths of the Red Keep acquire such a fierce character?

  Do you think Daemon will be stopped by oaths to a dead man? Alicent's words sounded in his head again.

  If it were a question of an oath to someone else, Viserys would have answered rather "no," but Daemon had sworn to him, his brother, his wife's father. Yes, he could be called cruel and, gods witness, he was hard to bridle, but the King could not believe that Daemon would simply spit on promises given to him just like that. At least, he would not be the first to cross the line, and hunters to tease a dragon still needed to be found.

  Twisting the chisel in his hands, Viserys returned it to the others with a sigh, and rolled up the leather case with tools. The mood was hopelessly spoiled, and working in such a state was the st thing to do: neither pleasure nor result. The King picked up the discarded robe, shook it, and, throwing it over his shoulders, went into the bedroom. The servants preparing his bed immediately scurried to the walls and bowed their heads; allowing them to return to business with a nod, Viserys approached the heavy bronze basin for washing and held out his hands—one of the ckeys immediately tilted the pitcher, and water gurgled, pleasantly hot as always. Snorting noisily, Viserys tried to wash off the consequences of the unpleasant conversation with his wife. It did not turn out very successfully.

  One servant handed a towel, another took the long-suffering robe, two more helped change evening clothes for a nightshirt, a fifth began to close the windows.

  "Leave it," the King ordered. "Too stifling."

  Habitually ignoring the servants, he climbed into bed and contrary to his own words pulled the coverlet almost to his chin. The servants bowed silently again, took all the candles except one by the bed, and another, tall and thick, by the very door, and silently went out.

  For a time Viserys y with open eyes, looking into the darkening heavy canopy above him. The light from two candles still helped to distinguish the dragons embroidered on the fabric—the only ones avaible to him. Brocade lizards twisted and curled in zigzags, spread their wings, were lost in the semi-darkness.

  What is this, if not weakness? Alicent's words sounded in his head again.

  What a woman will not say out of anger! To call the rider of Balerion the Bck Dread weak—one had to think of that!

  A nasty little voice from somewhere on the outskirts of consciousness returned Viserys from heaven to earth, meanly reminding him that his great Bck Dread had been dead for more than a quarter of a century. His heart turned over in his chest again, and a sticky cold wave spread through his body, forcing the King to climb even deeper under the bnket, despite the warm night. He had flown on Aegon the Conqueror's dragon only once, and even then, along the route he had ordered his sons to fly tomorrow, but for a time to feel beneath him amazing, ancient, primordial power, the grandeur of centuries, to realize, almost feel the connection with the great ancestor and his forebears who saw, like the dragon himself, all the brilliance and power of Old Valyria—this was better than victory in a tournament, better than all women's love, even better than the moment of his coronation. The greatest event in his life, which he was not destined to experience again. Not a single candle is worthy to repce the sun that has set below the horizon. Not a single dragon is capable of comparing with Balerion.

  No, no, his children cannot be deprived of these sensations and opportunities, this matter is decided, and it is good that Alicent, for all her foolish female fears, understood this. Well, one could talk to Aegon about a dragon for Heena or Aemond. Yes, when his children saddle dragons, no one can reproach the King for weakness. Is a king weak who has so many riders?

  From weakness, his thoughts sluggishly flowed to what his wife directly connected with it: the problem of succession. Viserys, contrary to her accusations, was neither stupid nor blind: Daemon's position as heir to the Iron Throne seemed strange to him too. Ten, gods, almost eleven years ago, it was as natural as his own rights to the crown. Then the King did not particurly count on Alicent bearing him children, and Baelon the Brave's middle son was the undisputed heir of the eldest.

  The birth of Aegon changed nothing particurly at first: did Viserys not know how often children die in infancy? But years passed, Aegon grew, acquired a sister, then brothers, and now saddled a dragon too. With a light-sad feeling of paternal pride, the King thought that the day was not far off when his eldest son would receive knightly spurs, and there he would have to look for a wife for him too. It would be good to allocate him a fief, as he himself allocated fiefs to his brothers.

  However, here, tossing without sleep, Viserys was pricked by that very paternal pride that a moment earlier showed him pictures of Aegon's triumph at a great capital tournament. Is some fief in the wilderness a worthy inheritance for the first son? A scene at the Small Council shortly after his father's death floated in his memory: Grandfather then offered Uncle Vaegon to renounce his maester's vows and become his heir. He then consistently refused everything, but... If he had agreed then? What inheritance would Viserys himself have received then? Something told him that he would not have waited for such generosities as his own nds from his grandfather, but even so, the thought that he, the eldest son of the procimed heir, would have been pushed away from the throne, smacked of bitterness.

  To put his own son in such a position? He had already put him there, and Alicent was right in this, if not in form, then in content.

  He wanted to become a better king than Jaehaerys was, but so far he only repeats his grandfather's mistake, and if he only slightly smeared himself in this puddle, then Viserys plunged into it headlong. He could not treat his son so, but this promise to Daemon... The King nearly groaned from the situation into which he had driven himself.

  Well, this problem had lived with him for almost eleven years, it could live one more night, and in the morning he would send a raven to Dragon's Heart. Aegon always managed to find solutions where it seemed there was no other way out but fire and blood. The younger brother was always the voice of reason, logic, and common sense, a shoulder to lean on, even though he limped himself. This time he must help too.

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