I am 15 chapters ahead on my patreón, check it out if you are interested.
https://www.patréon.com/emperordragon
_________________________________________
Chapter Sixty: The Burden of the Past
The northern army camp was bustling with activity, soldiers moving about in preparation for the next march, sharpening their weapons, maintaining their armor, and sharing stories of their recent victory. The smell of roasted meat and fresh bread filled the air, blending with the earthy scent of the churned-up ground. Yet, none of this held Viserys Targaryen's attention. His focus remained on the three dragon hatchlings they carried.
His mother, Rhaella, walked ahead of him, cradling the largest of the three hatchlings in her arms, its black and red scales gleaming under the afternoon sun. His sister Daenerys followed closely beside her, holding the remaining two—one deep green, the other the color of molten gold. The creatures had grown rapidly since their hatching, now the size of small hounds, their wings still weak but their sharp, curious eyes ever watchful.
It was no longer necessary to hide them. Since Daeron's dragon, Lyrax, had revealed herself in battle, the entire realm knew that House Targaryen once again commanded dragons. There was no reason to keep these hatchlings from sight any longer.
As they walked through the camp, soldiers and knights alike paused in their tasks to watch them pass. Some looked on with awe, others with uncertainty. The northern men, hardened warriors with no love for the dragons of old, regarded them with wary respect. Viserys could hear their hushed whispers as they passed.
"Targaryen dragons, after all this time…"
"Seven hells, can you believe it?"
"The King has a dragon already, and now there are three more?"
Viserys clenched his jaw. He had lived his entire life in exile, running from those who had sworn to kill the last of the dragons. Now, they walked freely among those who would have once hunted them down. And yet, despite the protection they now had, the scars of exile still remained, burned deep into his soul.
The crown had always been a burden to him. It was never a desire, never a hunger for power as some might believe. It was simply duty. A duty that had weighed on him since he was old enough to understand what their exile meant. As the last Targaryen prince—before Daeron revealed himself to the world—he had sworn to one day reclaim the throne, not for ambition, but for the simple reason that there was no one else to do it.
But now, there was Daeron.
His nephew, the son of his older brother Rhaegar, a warrior, a dragonrider, a king. Viserys had expected to resent him, to feel some bitterness at the realization that the throne was no longer his responsibility. But all he felt was relief. A weight lifting off his shoulders that he had carried for so long, he had forgotten what it felt like to stand without it.
They reached Daeron's tent, and a guard standing outside announced their arrival. Within moments, they were granted entry.
Inside, the tent was well-furnished, a large table set for a meal at the center, maps and documents laid out neatly on another smaller table to the side. Daeron sat at the head of the table, looking up as they entered, his face breaking into a warm smile.
"Grandmother," Daeron greeted Rhaella first, stepping forward to embrace her. Rhaella stiffened for just a moment before melting into the hug, as if realizing that this was not just the King of the North but her grandson.
Then Daeron turned to Viserys.
For a brief second, Viserys saw Rhaegar in him. The same high cheekbones, the same sharp, beautiful features. But where Rhaegar had always carried himself with a quiet melancholy, a man forever lost in thought, Daeron stood firm, exuding a presence that commanded attention.
"Uncle," Daeron said, his voice warm.
Viserys hesitated for a fraction of a second before allowing himself to be embraced. There was something grounding about the gesture. He had not been held like this since he was a boy. Since before Rhaegar had died.
When Daeron pulled away, his grey eyes met Viserys's, and for the first time in a long time, Viserys felt safe.
Then Daeron turned to Daenerys, and his smile widened.
"And my dear aunt," he said, pulling Daenerys into a hug as well.
Daenerys laughed as she returned the embrace. "You're my nephew, but you look older than me!" she teased.
Daeron chuckled. "I suppose fate is strange that way."
After the greetings, they all took their seats at the table, with Ser Arthur Dayne standing quietly behind Daeron, ever the silent guardian. The meal was a feast of roasted venison, fresh bread, buttered vegetables, and thick northern stew.
As they ate, Daeron spoke, apologizing for not making time for them sooner. "War does not allow for much rest," he admitted.
"We understand," Rhaella said gracefully. "You are leading an army, fighting a war. We did not expect you to drop everything just to entertain us."
Viserys nodded. He would have been a fool to expect anything else. But still, it was good to finally sit and speak with his nephew.
As he filled his plate, something large and white moved at the corner of his vision. He turned sharply to see the massive direwolf, Ghost, standing near Rhaella and Daenerys, sniffing at them curiously.
Viserys tensed. The wolf was enormous, larger than any hound he had ever seen, its red eyes intelligent, watchful. He glanced at his mother and saw that she, too, was uneasy.
But Daenerys, of course, showed no fear.
She reached out a hand, and to Viserys's shock, the beast leaned into her touch, allowing her to scratch behind its ear. Ghost let out a contented huff, lowering his head in submission.
Daeron grinned. "It seems Ghost likes you, Daenerys."
Daenerys laughed. "He's like a great big pup!"
Viserys exhaled, forcing himself to relax. If Daeron trusted the wolf, then Viserys would as well.
The conversation turned to lighter topics after that. Daeron asked about their journey, about how they had adjusted to being back in Westeros. Rhaella spoke about their time in Driftmark, about Monford Velaryon's hospitality.
Daeron listened with keen interest, genuinely wanting to know about their experiences.
Viserys found himself speaking more than he expected, sharing memories of their childhood in exile, of the times when they had nearly been caught by assassins, of the nights spent in fear, wondering if they would live to see another day.
"It must have been difficult," Daeron said, his voice filled with quiet understanding. "You kept our family safe, Uncle. That is no small feat."
Viserys felt something tighten in his chest.
He had spent so long feeling like a failure, like a prince with no kingdom, a man with nothing but a dead family name. But here, sitting beside Daeron, he felt something he had not felt in a long time.
Purpose.
Maybe, just maybe, they had finally found their way home.
As the meal ended, Daeron looked at them all and said, "We have a long road ahead, but we will walk it together. House Targaryen will rise again."
And for the first time, Viserys truly believed it.