Viserys, King of the Seven Kingdoms, was a man filled with grief.
His wife, his beloved Aemma lay dead, while his newborn daughter still clung to life.
The Grand Maester said the babe was too small for there to be much hope.
Yet, she fought.
Viserys had been so certain that it was to be a boy, but even in his disappointment, he cherished the tiny blue-eyed girl that fought so fiercely just for breath.
She fought, while his brother, Daemon, drank and whored and spat foulness from his lips.
When his loyal right hand, Otto Hightower, had brought word of what had been said on the Street of Silk he had grown wroth.
He sat on the Iron Throne and waited for his brother to answer his summons.
His Kingsguard were arrayed in front of him, and the naked Valyrian Steel blade, Blackfyre, rested across his lap.
Woe be to his brother if he responded with anything but contrition!
Daemon Targaryen was his beloved brother.
The man had many faults, and all on his small council oft reported them.
He had been made Master of Coin, but the post bored him.
Viserys had made him Master of Laws next, but all he did was quarrel with his Hand, Otto.
Finally, he had been made Commander of the City Watch.
There, finally, he seemed to have found purpose; crime had been curtailed, things had been looking up, and now this.
His brother entered the throne room with his typical arrogant swagger.
Daemon’s strong Targaryen features immediately revealed his noble lineage at a glance.
His deep-set purple eyes always held either contempt, amusement, or boredom.
Silver hair fell to his shoulders and framed his clean-shaven face.
“You cut the image of the conqueror, brother.”
“Did you say it?” Viserys asked with a weary voice.
“I don’t know what you mean,” Daemon replied.
“You will address me as “Your Grace,” or I will have my Kingsguard cut out your tongue,” the King spoke with constrained fury.
Daemon paused a slight look of uncertainty on his proud features.
“The Gods left nothing to chance.” The King’s eyes bore into his brothers.
“Did you say it?
Upon my Aemma’s death?
Were you celebrating her death so your own position was secured?
Were you celebrating that she bore a daughter when I so longed for a son?”
“We must all mourn in our own way, Your Grace.
I was in my cups; you know I harbored no ill will towards the queen.”
Viserys rarely lost his temper.
He always sought to find a balance, to ensure all parties were, if not content, at least not wholly slighted or harmed by his decisions.
Now, he felt fire and rage in his belly.
His beloved was dead, his eldest daughter shattered by her death, and his youngest still confronting the Stranger.
“My family has been destroyed.
But instead of being by my side, or Rhaenyra’s, you chose to celebrate your own rise!” Rage overtook him fully.
“Laughing with your whores and your lickspittles.
You have no allies at court but me!”
It was true, Daemon had rubbed his entire council the wrong way at one point or another.
Ever had Viserys defended his brother, and this was how he had been repaid.
“Everything I have given you; you’ve thrown back in my face.”
Daemon’s own temper soared as his nostrils flared.
“You’ve only ever tried to send me away.
To the Vale, to the City Watch, anywhere, but by your side.
Ten years you have been King and yet not once have you asked me to be your Hand!”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because I’m your brother.
And the blood of the dragon runs thick.”
“Then why do you cut me so deeply?” Viserys trembled.
Was Daemon’s frustration at not being made Hand the cause of this virulent bitterness in his heart?
“I’ve only ever spoken the truth.
I see Otto Hightower for what he is.”
The King made a dismissive gesture.
Otto had proven his faithfulness time and time again.
“An unwavering and loyal Hand?”
“A cunt,” Daemon vulgarly replied.
“A second son who stands to inherit nothing he doesn’t seize for himself.”
Viserys would not allow his friend to be besmirched.
“Otto Hightower is a more honorable man than you could ever be.”
“He doesn’t protect you, I would.”
“From what?”
“Yourself.
You are weak, Viserys.
And that council of leeches knows it.
They all prey on you for their own ends.”
Viserys closed his eyes for a moment.
He was not weak.
Daemon did not understand, he thought that a King should rule and run roughshod over anyone and everyone.
He did not believe in compromise.
He did not believe in seeking solutions that would prevent bitter feuds.
He ruled with wisdom, not weakness.
And yet, his brother’s words had barbed his soul.
Was he being taken advantage of, at times?
He opened his eyes, and there was pain, not satisfaction or gloating.
“I have decided to name a new heir.”
Daemon’s face filled with shock.
“I am your heir.”
“Not anymore.
You are to return to Runestone and your lady wife at once, and you are to do so without quarrel, by order of your King.”
Daemon advanced a step, and two of the Kingsguard immediately barred his path.
Rage twisted upon his features, and his hand twitched, but he refrained from doing something foolish.
Instead, he bowed his head fractionally.
“Your Grace.” The King’s brother walked out without a further word.
Once he had gone, Viserys exhaled heavily.
That had been difficult for him.
He hated having his brother apart from him, but Otto had explained why it was necessary.
Such borderline treasonous talk could not be tolerated.
It was also clear that Daemon could not be trusted with the crown; should something befall Viserys, the realm would suffer.
He rose heavily from the throne, he should check on his daughters.
He would find both Rhaenyra and the newborn together.
So sure had Viserys been that he would have a son, they had not even considered the possibility of a daughter.
A name had to be given, and he named her Elaena Targaryen after one of his ancestors.
He arrived to see his eldest daughter pacing fitfully as a wetnurse held his newborn daughter.
The Maester was there as well and the King conferred with him.
“I hesitate to give you any misplaced hope, Your Grace, but I am heartened by her continued survival.
With her size and difficulty breathing, I would have thought her to have passed.
Every hour she seems to grow stronger.
I have seen a score of babes healthier pass by now, again, Your Grace, I can make no guarantees.”
Viserys approached the wetnurse who bowed while carrying her burden.
The princess was nuzzling.
Her fine hair was silver and when she opened her eyes, they were blue, likely from Arryn heritage on her mother’s side.
This was his daughter, the last vestige of his Aemma.
He had been faced with an impossible choice in the birthing room, he could only pray that little Elaena would survive.
He went to hold Rhaenyra who was stiff.
He surmised she blamed him for her mother’s death.
Aemma had always suffered in the birthing bed, but Viserys had so badly wanted a son.
He had dreamt of it, not as in men dreamed, but as a Targaryen.
He had thought he was a Dreamer, someone with prophetic visions.
Those visions spoke of a son, wearing the conquerors crown.
Now, he knew that had just been a childish fancy, he was no Dreamer.
His error had cost him his wife’s life.
“The Maester believes Elaena has a chance.
We must not lose hope.
We will place an egg in her cradle, and she will find strength from it.”
The tradition of placing an egg in a babe’s cradle had fallen out of use, yet old tales talked of dragons lending strength to their riders.
Viserys knew it could not hurt, and may give his daughter some hope.
His daughter remained silent.
When the newborn had finished drinking, she coughed and rasped.
It was a wretched sound.
Placing the babe down onto its cradle made it worse, Rhaenyra lifted the babe to her own body, and the coughing subsided for a time.
Viserys felt helpless and took his leave.
There was little he could do and neither daughter seemed to long for his presence.