Late 111 AC
The corridors after the throne room did not feel like corridors.
They felt like the inside of a bell that had just been struck, and Viserys walked through the fading echo.
From the queen’s wing, women hurried past carrying fresh linens, their eyes fixed on the floor.
Somewhere ahead, a midwife called for hot water, her voice answered almost immediately.
From the direction of the outer gates came the opposite—a hush that had settled into the stone, the peculiar silence a castle keeps after watching something come to an end.
Servants stepped aside as he passed.
The Kingsguard bowed their heads.
He passed the door to the Small Council chamber.
He passed Otto’s solar.
The door was ajar.
He did not slow.
A torch guttered low in its bracket, the flame folding on itself; a servant was already moving toward it with a fresh one.
Viserys passed without stopping.
His feet took him to the nursery.
Baelon sat upon the window seat, a book resting open across his lap.
Six years old now, he watched the training yard below with the same quiet stillness that had followed him since the cradle.
He looked up as the door opened.
Near the hearth, two cradles rocked gently beside one another.
Aegon slept in the one nearest the far wall, his fine silver-gold hair spread against the linen.
Beside him lay Helaena, barely a year old, wrapped snugly in white blankets.
The room smelled faintly of lavender, warm milk, and beeswax.
Viserys crossed to them first.
He stood for a long moment, watching the steady rise and fall of their tiny chests.
Only then did he lower himself into the old oak chair beside the window.
Baelon quietly closed the book and set it aside.
For a while, neither of them spoke.
Then, somewhere deeper within the Red Keep, a newborn’s cry echoed faintly through the halls.
Both of them heard it.
Viserys closed his eyes.
When he opened them again, he found himself staring at his hands.
The cuts across his knuckles had opened once more—thin, dark lines against pale skin.
“Daemon is gone,” he said.
“I sent him back to Runestone.
To his lady wife.” Baelon watched him in silence.
“Every kindness I offered him, he threw back at me.” There was no anger in his voice.
Only exhaustion.
“I have spent my whole life trying to reach him.
Offering.
Being refused and offering again.” His gaze lingered on the cuts across his hands.
“I no longer know when my generosity became foolishness.” Silence settled between them once more.
“Lord Corlys has also resigned as Master of Ships.” Viserys spoke as though reading from a ledger.
“For the first time in living memory, there is no Velaryon upon the Small Council.”
Viserys paused “And now the realm whispers about Rhaenyra.
His eyes drifted toward the pale morning beyond the window.
“A kingdom does not break apart all at once.” It goes slowly.
A resignation here.
A banishment there.
And one morning you look up and the table is half empty.”
He looked past Baelon to the window.
The morning was pale on the stone.
“I wonder sometimes if I am a good king.” His voice had gone quieter.
“Not a capable one.
Not a careful one.” He paused.
“A good one.”
Baelon rose from the window seat and crossed the room.
The king looked down.
“You know,” Baelon began softly, “Grand Maester Mellos always says a fever is most dangerous when the patient doesn’t know he’s ill.” A faint smile, weary and fragile, touched his lips.
“And perhaps,” Baelon continued, “a king who wonders whether he is a good king is less likely to become a bad one.”
Then Baelon seemed to remember something.
“Oh, by the way, Father.”He hurried back to the window seat, picked up the heavy history book, and flipped through several pages before stopping.
“I wanted to ask you about this.” He held the open page out for Viserys to see.
“It says here that this elder brother of King Jaehaerys, drowned as a child while Queen Alyssa was fleeing from Maegor the Cruel.” Baelon frowned.
“But these lines have been crossed out.”
“And it mentions his dragon…
Vaelkarax.” He looked up, genuine curiosity in his eyes.
“I’ve never heard of that dragon before.
Why isn’t it in the histories?”
Before Viserys could answer, a shadow appeared in the doorway.
A servant stood there without entering, bowing deeply.
“Your Grace.
The queen has delivered.
A boy.
Both are well.” Almost unconsciously, his shoulders straightened His expression settled into calm.
As he passed, he rested a gentle hand upon Baelon’s head before following the servant from the room.
Alicent’s chambers smelled of herbs, clean linen, and the lingering scent of blood.
She rested against a mound of pillows, pale with exhaustion The infant lay nestled against her breast, wrapped tightly in soft white cloth.
When Viserys entered, she met his eyes.
She said nothing.
Instead, she lifted the child toward him.
Viserys accepted him with careful hands.
The boy was warm.
Fine strands of silver-gold hair clung to his tiny head.
Barely visible.
Viserys looked down at the sleeping child.
“Aemond.”
“He shall be Aemond Targaryen.”
Alicent nodded once.
Her eyes were very tired.
Outside, somewhere farther down the corridor, servants were already calling for wine to be brought up from the cellars.
The castle had begun preparing its celebration.
By evening, cups would be raised.
Toasts would be made.
Lords would congratulate one another.
Life, as it always did, would continue.
Viserys gently returned the child to Alicent’s arms.
He bent and pressed a quiet kiss to her forehead.
“Rest well.” Without another word, he turned and left the chamber.
By evening, the sky above the Blackwater had turned the color of pewter.
The Small Council chamber stood empty except for Lyonel Strong.
Viserys entered without announcement.
He did not take his seat at the head of the table.
Instead, he crossed to the window.
Beyond the glass, the river lay flat and grey beneath a fading sky.
He spoke without turning.
“My apologies for summoning you at so late an hour.
I have come looking for an unencumbered opinion.” Lyonel inclined his head.
“That’s all I would ever give, Your Grace.
” “Ever since the archmaesters read my name at the Great Council, I have felt Lord Corlys Velaryon’s gaze upon my back.”
Lyonel’s eyes drifted toward the river.
Proud men don’t like having to look up.” Viserys rested both hands against the cold stone of the window.
“I do not know what to do about Rhaenyra.” Lyonel allowed the silence to breathe.
At last, Viserys spoke again.
“She must marry.” The words were quiet.
“A wise decision, Your Grace,” Lyonel said evenly.
“It would do much to quiet the whispers.”
“Whispers.” A short sound left Viserys that was not quite a laugh.
“The whole realm will know.
Daemon has ensured it.” He pressed one hand across his face.
“Who would have her now?
Who would accept such a stain?”
“The Velaryons, perhaps.” Viserys did not turn.
But he stilled.
“Laenor Velaryon,” Lyonel said.
“He is of age.
He is heir to Driftmark.” He let the name settle a moment before going on.
“A match with the Princess would strengthen the Crown.
It would unite the two greatest houses of Old Valyrian blood.
and perhaps give Lord Corlys reason to temper his desire to see his house closer to the Iron Throne.”
“The Sea Snake.” Viserys said the name the way a man names a debt he has been carrying a long while.
“He would demand much.”
“He would,” Lyonel agreed.
“But the benefits would be substantial.
The princess’s reputation would be steadied — or at least mitigated.
The Velaryon fleet would once again stand firmly beside the Crown.
And perhaps…
the breach between your houses—” He chose the word carefully.
“—might begin to heal.” Viserys did not answer for a long time.
Below, the water darkened by another shade.
A gull crossed the window and was gone.
“I will consider it.”
Lyonel inclined his head.
“As you wish, Your Grace.” He rose.
He left without haste and without lingering.
The door closed behind him.
Viserys stayed at the window.
Somewhere deep within the Red Keep, a lute had begun to play.
A toast was being raised to the birth of a new prince.
The faint sounds of celebration drifted through layers of stone.
He stood at the window and watched the Blackwater go dark.
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