Viserys squeezed the handle of the sword in his hand; his own thoughts were tumultuous and unorganized.
He felt sad for having to push away his own brother. His heart twisted into a knot when memories of their childhood played inside his own mind. When they ran around the corridors of the Red Keep. The first time the two snuck to the Silk Street. Daemon's relentless teasing of his efforts to bond with Balerion.
But then his feeling turned cold when he remembered the treacherous slander coming out of Daemon's own tongue. The offense to his deceased wife. The cruel moniker Daemon bestowed upon his newborn son. Something Viserys knew would probably accompany Antarys for his whole life if his son didn't manage to squash gossipers with his own accomplishments.
Yet most of all, Viserys resented Daemon for posing a threat to his son.
Viserys always knew of Daemon's ambitions for the Iron Throne, and it wasn't all too surprising since everyone coveted this contemptible chair. Though what surprised the King was the ease with which Daemon had in turning against his own blood when his chance to sit upon it was threatened.
Raising his eyes, Viserys watched as the last few strands of Daemon's platinum hair vanished behind the door.
His resolve hardened. He would do anything and everything to honor Aemma's legacy, the children she left him with.
No matter the cost, he would ensure they were ready to stand tall against a world that seemed all too keen on dragging the Targaryens down. He would give them the tools to carve their own happiness amidst treachery and flattery.
Antarys' birth seemed like the greatest of blessings to the King. Because of the strength the newborn showed, his health, Viserys felt his heart rest easier than it could have been if he had lost both wife and son.
Decisions came easier, resolve became stronger.
For the first time in years, Viserys aimed not to please the realms and the court, but rather to strengthen his children and his own legacy, consequences be damned.
Because at this moment, Viserys was father before he was king.
He gripped the armrest of the throne, his own fingers turning white with the effort. When he noticed what he was doing, he became alarmed and quickly let go of it.
Yet much to his surprise, he wasn't cut. Not even grazed by the sharp edges of the throne.
He was surprised, after all, every time he sat on this iron monstrosity, there were always new cuts, new wounds for the maesters to clean.
Viserys frowned in contemplation.
He felt the coldness of the metal that surrounded him give way to a subtle wave of warmth.
'Seems like the Iron Throne approves of my decisions,' Viserys thought, and then he smiled. 'If that is so, then I know what path I must take.'
Viserys turned his attention to the lords, who were all still watching him with cautious gazes.
"Court dismissed," Viserys' voice boomed across the room. The King turned to his daughter. "Rhaenyra, meet me at Balerion's skull in twenty minutes. I want to talk with you."
Rhaenyra looked at her father with surprise, as this would be the first true conversation between them since her mother's funeral.
"As you wish, Your Grace," she curtsied and left the throne room. Going to her own chambers to prepare herself for the conversation she was about to have with her father.
Viserys saw his daughter leave with a heavy heart. The weight he was about to burden her with left him confused, questioning his own decision.
He breathed in, sucking in as much air as he could. Then he exhaled, allowing all that made him uncertain leave along with the air he let go of.
He got up from the throne, walking down the steps with a regal air of authority.
"Are we to go straight towards Balerion's skull, Your Grace?" The Lord Commander asked.
Viserys shook his head. "Not yet. I must first go to my chambers. There is something there I must fetch."
"Why not order someone to do it for you, Your Grace?" Ser Redwyne questioned.
"That is not something that servants should handle," Viserys answered, and when he saw the Kingsguard's expression, he added, "not even the Kingsguard should gaze upon it, Ser Redwyne."
"Understood, Your Grace." Ryam nodded, then he eyed the two swords his King was carrying. "Should we hold those for you, Your Grace?"
"No, I will leave Blackfyre in my chambers when we reach them," he replied.
"And Dark Sister?" The White Cloak wondered.
"I have a purpose in mind for this blade," Viserys said, and judging by his tone, he had no intention of talking about it any further.
Twenty minutes later, Rhaenyra entered—after her father's Kingsguard let her in—the enormous chamber where they kept Balerion's skull.
She saw her father playing with the flames coming from the candles. His hand was resting dangerously close to them. Had it been anyone other than a Targaryen, their flesh was bound to be sizzling and burning by that point.
Most Targaryens had a sort of resistance towards fire, and according to stories, a few ancestors had even complete immunity to fire. Yet since Aegon's time, none who had that gift surfaced in the lineage.
"Father," Rhaenyra called, dragging Viserys' attention away from his inner thoughts.
"You came," Viserys beckoned her closer.
"Did I have a choice?" She huffed.
Viserys' eyes narrowed. "You seem unhappy with me," he pointed out.
Rhaenyra looked away. "Mother died. And you spend all your time with the council or with my- your son. I needed you, and you weren't there."
"Rhaenyra, Antarys is your brother," Viserys spoke with a stern tone.
"You know this is the first time the two of us have spoken since Mother's funeral?" Rhaenyra asked with an unhappy tone, her eyes threatening to spill tears.
Viserys felt his heart being clenched by an invisible hand, yet he kept silent, waiting for his daughter to say what she wanted to say.
"You know why I insisted to Mother I was to have a sister?" She asked with a hurt tone. Viserys shook his head, prompting her to continue. "Because I knew that if you had a son, I would be forgotten, after all, you always wanted a son. And because of that, Mother is dead!"
Viserys lowered his head and clenched his hands.
Seeing her father like that, Rhaenyra's eyes widened, and she rushed towards him. "I'm sorry, Father, I didn't mean to… I-"
Viserys breathed out and patted her head. "It's okay. It was something I needed to hear."
"But I-"
"I may have been dealing with a lot of pressure, from the council, from my own grief, and from your uncle's actions." Viserys' voice became resentful when he mentioned Daemon, and even young Rhaenyra scowled at the mention of him. "Yet none of that excuses my absence from your side. As you well said. You needed me, and I wasn't there. I failed as your father, Rhaenyra."
The young girl shook her head frantically. "No, you didn't. I understand you had things that kept you occupied. I was throwing a tantrum. I'm sorry."
Viserys smiled. "You were always wise beyond your years, my daughter. You remind me of when I first met your mother." His tone became nostalgic. "We were so young back then…"
"Why… Why did you call me, Father? And why are you carrying Dark Sister?" She asked when she noticed the sword in her father's hands.
"This is precisely why I called you."