Viserys washed his face in cold water, straightened the line of his shoulders, and walked through the door.
The grieving husband did not cross the threshold with him
The Throne Room was already filling.
The lords had gathered not out of love, but out of necessity.
A king had a male heir for the first time and the realm required the formal acknowledgment of such fortune.
Viserys ascended the steps of the Iron Throne, his face carrying the expression the court required
“Your Grace,” Lord Beesbury said, his voice trembling with a relief that was genuine and visible.
“A blessing upon the house.
A true blessing.”
Viserys nodded, the smile reaching his lips but not his eyes.
“You are kind, Lord Beesbury.”
Lord Lyonel Strong stepped forward next.
He was a man of granite and few words, his economy of expression mirroring the efficiency of his mind.
“Congratulations, Your Grace.
A strong son is a strong realm.”
To his right, Ser Otto Hightower moved through the chamber with practiced ease, quietly directing lords and servants alike until each audience unfolded without pause.
They congratulated him on his son.
None offered condolences for his wife.
Court knew no ceremony for mourning a queen when a prince had just been born was the headline; the grief was a subject that did not fit the ceremony of the court.
He sat the Iron Throne for two hours.
The chair was a cruel thing, all swords and twisted iron.
As he leaned back to receive a delegation from the Reach, a sharp edge of a sword-hilt sliced into the palm of his right hand, and another nicked the skin of his left.
He felt the warmth of blood against the cold iron and said nothing.
Late 105 AC
Winter
Grand Maester Mellos came.
With a professional thoroughness, the maester pressed his palm flat against the shell of the egg.
He held it there for a count of ten, his expression unreadable.
He removed his hand and made a precise note in his ledger, the ink scratching softly in the quiet room.
Mellos said nothing
But the chambermaid tidying the far corner of the room had seen the maester’s hesitation.
By evening, she mentioned it to a fellow servant in the kitchens.
That servant whispered it to a squire during the changing of the guard.
By the following morning, the word has drifted through three separate households in the Red Keep.
*The egg has gone cold.*
They would not say what a cold egg meant.
Late in the afternoon, Viserys called for Ser Steffon Darklyn.
Darklyn was a knight of steady reliability.
He was not the most decorated man in the Kingsguard, nor the most flamboyant, but he possessed the specific reliability of a man who had done the same thing correctly over the years without ever asking for a reward.
To Viserys, Darklyn was a solid wall.
“Ser Steffon,” the king said, his voice sounding thin to his own ears.
“I am assigning you specifically to the protection of Prince Baelon.”
Darklyn bowed his head.
“It is an honor, Your Grace.”
“You will be supplemented by Ser Rickard Thorne,” Viserys continued.
“Until the prince is old enough to require less constant care, the two of you will be his shadow.”
Two knights of the Kingsguard for one infant.
It was an unusual assignment, one that would certainly raise eyebrows among the Small Council.
Some would call it excessive; others would call it paranoid.
Viserys did not care.
He had spent years losing things he could never get back.
He had watched children slip through his fingers like sand.
His heir would be guarded by the finest steel in the realm, or he would not be guarded at all.
Darklyn asked only one question.
“Does Your Grace have specific instructions regarding the prince’s exposure to public spaces?”
“None yet,” Viserys replied.
“Err toward protection over visibility.”
Darklyn nodded once and withdrew.
Viserys sought out Otto Hightower in the Hand’s solar.
He poured the wine and sat, waiting for the king to set the pace.
They spoke of funeral arrangements, letters to the great houses, succession, and court business.
Duty was easier to endure than grief.
Otto handled every detail without being asked to.
As the meeting drew to a close, Viserys asked “Have you heard of Rahenyra, how is she doing ?”
Otto spoke, that his daughter, Alicent, had been a steady presence for Princess Rhaenyra.
“She has spent much of her time with the princess,” Otto said, his tone neutral, providing information rather than making a request.
“Reading with her, keeping her company.
It seems the two have found a certain kinship in these dark days.”
“That is kind of her,” Viserys said.
He saw only kindness.
He never noticed the placement of the pieces.
As he stepped into the corridor, he encountered Alicent in the narrow corridor.
She was seventeen, dark-haired and slender, with a quietness about her that was distinct from shyness.
she simply stopped and offered her condolences
“I am so sorry for your loss, Your Grace,” she said softly.
“If there is anything I can do for the princess, you need only ask.”
Viserys looked at her for a moment, seeing the genuine concern in her eyes.
“You have my thanks.
Your friendship has been a comfort to her.”
He went to Rhaenyra’s chambers in the early evening.
He went because he knew he must, and because he had no idea how to do it.
Viserys crossed the room and wrapped her in his arms.
He felt her go stiff.
She did not pull away, nor did she resist, but she did not soften.
She remained rigid in his embrace, a child who had decided that yielding was a luxury she could no longer afford.
He wanted to tell her that he missed Aemma too.
He wanted to tell her that the boy in the nursery was not a trade—that a son did not replace a mother, and that the joy of one did not diminish the agony of the other.
When she looked up at him, he saw Aemma’s eyes.
He could not bear it.
He turned and left the room.
The castle was asleep when Viserys returned to the nursery.
The wet nurse slept quietly in the adjoining chamber.
Ser Steffon Darklyn and Ser Rickard Thorne stood motionless in their white cloaks, giving a single silent nod as the king entered.
Inside, the room was lit by the low glow of two candles and the banked warmth of the hearth.
The prince was sleeping, his silver hair a fine, pale halo against the linen.
Viserys pulled a chair to the side of the cradle and sat.
He did not leave, and he did not sleep, watching the rise and fall of his son’s chest until the grey light of dawn crept through the windows of the Red Keep.
I am testing this as a concept and first chapter, i will see if the response for the first 5 chapters are great and the audience like my writing style.
Then i will continue with the story or will close the book after 5 chapters.
of House of dragon