108 AC
The Small Council chamber was quieter than usual.
A single white cloak lay neatly folded upon the table.
No one spoke for a long moment.
At last, Grand Maester Mellos broke the silence.
“Ser Ryam Redwyne has passed, Your Grace.”
Viserys lowered his eyes.
“He had been ill for some time.
He passed peacefully, I hope.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” Grand Maester Mellos replied.
“The Silent Sisters report he died quietly in his sleep.
His remains are even now being prepared for the rites.”
A brief silence followed.
“He served faithfully,” Viserys said at last.
“May the Seven grant him the peace he earned.”
“Amen,” Lord Beesbury murmured.
Otto Hightower folded his hands upon the table.
“The succeeding Lord Commander, Ser Harrold, would like to make haste in finding Ser Ryam’s replacement on the Kingsguard.”
Ser Harrold Westerling inclined his head before speaking.
Your Grace, my lords.
The Kingsguard must soon be restored to its full complement of seven.
With the help of the Hand, I’ve invited several fine candidates to court.
All have passed fair trials.”
Otto gave a small nod of acknowledgment.
At length, Viserys nodded.
“Very well.” His gaze shifted to Ser Harrold.
“When the final trials are held…”
“…see that Princess Rhaenyra attends.”
A few councillors exchanged brief glances.
“Your Grace?” Ser Harrold asked.
Viserys was silent for a moment before answering.
“Rhaenyra has kept too much to her chambers these past years.
” He looked toward the folded white cloak upon the table.
“She has long admired the Kingsguard.
Let her watch the trials.
Let her see what qualities earn a man the white cloak.” A faint smile crossed his face.
“And perhaps a day beyond her chambers will do my daughter some good.”
Lord Beesbury was the first to smile.
“A fine thought, Your Grace.
Otto Hightower leaned forward, his voice calm and measured.
“A realm cannot rest its future upon a single young life, Your Grace, however precious that life may be.”
Viserys shifted in his seat.
The velvet collar of his doublet suddenly felt too tight.
Grand Maester Mellos himself has assured me of it.
The prince is healthy, and the realm gives thanks for it.”
He folded his hands upon the table.
“But kings do not govern for today.
They govern for the years they shall never live to see.
One son is a blessing.
Two sons are secure.
Three sons are a dynasty.
The realm still remembers the uncertainty that followed the passing of King Jaehaerys.
It remembers rival claims, divided loyalties, and the Great Council at Harrenhal.
I would spare Your Grace from enduring such uncertainty again.”
Viserys looked away.
“I have not forgotten my grandfather’s Great Council.
No one in this room has.” Lord Lyonel Strong finally spoke.
His deep voice carried no urgency, only measured thought.
“Lord Otto is correct in one respect.
The realm favors certainty.
But certainty cannot always be forced.” Otto inclined his head respectfully.
“Nor can it be ignored.”
Grand Maester Mellos rested both hands upon the table.
“Nature has blessed the Crown with a healthy prince.” The queen’s passing was a grievous price to pay for that blessing.
If His Grace should one day choose to wed again, let it be done with patience rather than haste.”
A silence settled over the chamber before Lord Beesbury cleared his throat.
“And…
if we speak of the succession, Your Grace, there remains another concern.” He glanced uncertainly toward Otto before continuing.
“Prince Daemon.
He remains upon Dragonstone.
The ancestral seat of House Targaryen has become a garrison for his Gold Cloaks.”
“The lords of the realm have begun to whisper that—”
“Enough,” Viserys said.
The word was not shouted, but it fell like a guillotine.
The room went instantly silent.
Viserys did not look at Beesbury; he looked at the table.
The mention of his brother always brought a sudden, sharp heat to his chest, a mixture of love and bitterness.
“Daemon’s position is my concern,” Viserys added, his voice flat.
“Not yours.”
He rose from the chair, the movement slow and labored.
He had spent the afternoon listening to men tell him how to secure his legacy, how to manage his blood, and how to fear the future.
He wanted only to be where the air did not smell of ambition.
“This session is ended,” he declared.
He did not wait for their bows.
He turned and walked from the chamber, leaving the lords to their silence and their calculations.
The nursery was the only room in the Red Keep where the silence felt honest.
It was warm, smelling of sweetened milk and the clean, sharp scent of fresh linen.
The wet nurses had retreated to the adjoining chamber, leaving the prince in peace.
He did not cry or fuss; he simply watched.
His violet eyes were wide and strangely observant, tracking Viserys as the king approached.
Viserys sat on the oak chair beside the cradle.
He let out a long, shuddering breath and rested his forehead in his hand.
“There are days, my son, when this room is the only place in the castle where I can have some peace,” Viserys murmured, his voice cracking.
“That makes you my most trusted counselor.
God help us both.”
The boy blinked, a tiny, curious tilt of his head.
“Your uncle has taken Dragonstone,” Viserys told him, the words tumbling out now that there was no one to judge them.
“He has filled the halls with his Gold Cloaks and flies Caraxes over the walls as if he built them himself.
He thinks he is the only dragon that matters.”
He paused, a ghost of a smile touching his lips.
“He is my brother.
That is the whole trouble of it.
I cannot hate him, and he cannot help but be exactly what he is.”
He looked at Baelon, and for a moment, he saw the shadow of Aemma in the curve of the child’s brow.
The grief hit him.
“They want me to wed again,” he whispered.
“Otto, the council…
they speak of it as if it were a matter of bookkeeping.
They are not wrong to want it, I suppose.
The realm needs stability.” He closed his eyes, his voice dropping to a jagged rasp.
“But nobody will be her.
They do not understand that.
They think a queen is a chair you can fill again once it’s empty.”
He sat in the silence for a long time, the only sound being the popping of the fire.
He felt the crushing loneliness of the crown, the realization that he was surrounded by thousands of people and yet utterly alone in his mourning.
Suddenly, he felt a tug.
Baelon had reached out, his small, chubby fingers curling tightly around the gold-embroidered sleeve of Viserys’s doublet.
The grip was surprisingly firm, a sudden, physical anchor in the drift of his thoughts.
Viserys looked down at the tiny hand, then up at the boy’s face.
Baelon let out a soft, bubbling coo, his legs kicking beneath his blanket, a look of absolute, uncomplicated contentment on his face.
A short, surprised laugh escaped Viserys’s throat.
It was a fragile sound, but it broke the oppressive weight of the room.
He reached out and gently stroked the boy’s silver-gold hair.
“Is that so?” Viserys murmured.
“You think I should just ignore them?
A bold strategy, my prince.
Very bold.”
For a few minutes, the King forgot about the Stepstones, the succession, and the Hand’s measured warnings.
He simply sat with his son, watching him, feeling a warmth that had nothing to do with the hearth.
When he finally rose to leave, he felt lighter, though the shadows of the council still waited for him in the halls.
He stepped out into the corridor, the cool air of the stone passage a sharp contrast to the nursery’s heat.