Viserys sat alone in the solar, the morning sun beginning to climb over the rooftops of King's Landing. Light filtered through the stained glass of Targaryen dragons, bleeding red and gold across the stone floor. The city stirred outside, but within, he was haunted by silence.
His thoughts drifted not to thrones or banners—but to Aemma.
She lay still now, recovering from the miscarriage that had struck only days ago. Too weak to rise. Too tired to cry. The blood had come swiftly, violently. The maesters called it natural. Fated.
He didn't believe them.Not entirely.
There had been a hesitation in Grand Maester Mellos's voice. A flicker of something too well-practiced in the younger acolytes' eyes. Their remedies had tasted wrong. Their comfort had felt rehearsed.
He turned a goblet of wine in his hand, untouched. Aemma's voice echoed faintly in his memory: "I dreamed of a cradle. Then I dreamed of ash.
He hadn't known what it meant. Now he wondered if she had seen what he had seen—if the blood of the dragon carried not just fire, but foresight.
And then there was Rhaenyra.
She had asked him once, after the last stillbirth, "Do you regret I was not born a son?"
He had said no. Truthfully. He had meant it.
And yet the court whispered. The Hightowers watched. And he saw how even now, lords circled like vultures, weighing her worth like coin.
He had no sons. Not yet. But he had a daughter with fire in her blood and a dragon's will. And now he had seen futures torn apart by ambition—dragons dancing, blood spilled over thrones, a rebellion black as night.
And amid it all, the Faith.
He had noted the growing murmurs within the Sept. The High Septon had grown bolder in court, cloaking ambition in piety. The Seven were meant to guide—but some now sought to rule in their name. Viserys had not forgotten how easily the Faith could become a sword drawn against the crown.
Nor had he overlooked Lord Corlys Velaryon.The Sea Snake's ambition was no secret. He cloaked it in service and glory, but his gaze ever drifted toward power. He had offered ships, gold, and daughters. And yet Viserys saw the hunger behind the courtesy. Corlys was a man who built legacy like a fleet: ship by ship, generation by generation.
Viserys rose, walking to the window. The sea glinted like molten steel beyond the harbor, and the Red Keep stretched around him like a cage of stone and fire.
Tomorrow, he would be crowned. Today, he mourned.
Not just the child. But the future that would never be.
And the war that might still come