The clamor within the hall receded like a falling tide. The last attendant bowed and withdrew, and the heavy oak doors slowly closed behind him, shutting out all sound from beyond.
Viserys sat alone in the seat of honor. The ornate chair beneath him felt less like a throne and more like a rack, tormenting him with its very presence.
The long table lay in disarray, cups and platters scattered; the flames atop the candlesticks had burned down to their final stubs.
The King's hand trembled as it reached toward the silver flask at the corner of the table.
The vessel was cold to the touch. At its spout clung a trace of milky residue—the milk of the poppy prepared for him by the new Grand Maester, Orwyle.
As for the former Grand Maester, Mellos, he had passed away peacefully in his sleep one morning a month ago, at the age of seventy-four—so the court announcement had declared.
The milk of the poppy could numb the gnawing agony that ate at his bones. It could also render the world before his eyes soft, blurred, easier to bear.
He had already drunk three cups—perhaps four. He could not recall. He only remembered that with each sip, the devouring pain within him receded.
After a moment, the clamoring voices in his mind fell silent as well.
"Forgive me…"
"I am so sorry…"
Viserys murmured to himself, his voice stirring a faint echo through the empty hall.
He blinked his dimmed eyes. At the far end of the long table stood his late father, Baelon Targaryen, and his mother, Alyssa Targaryen, watching him in silence.
The King's voice caught in his throat.
"Father… Mother… I still cannot do it…"
"I have disappointed you…"
"Tomorrow…"
"Tomorrow I will announce… young Aegon's right of succession… and Helaena's betrothal…"
"Set it all in place… once it is settled… it will be enough…"
"Brother?"
A voice dragged him back from the illusion.
Dazed, Viserys turned his head and saw Daemon step forth from the shadows in the corner of the hall.
The Prince had not left. He had been there all along, like a lurking shade, silently watching as the royal feast descended into farce.
Daemon moved to his brother's side, his steps soundless. His gaze fixed upon the delicate golden mask upon the King's face.
The mask concealed the festering wound that consumed the left half of Viserys's face, yet it could not hide the seepage of pus and blood, nor the stench of rotting flesh that bled from its edges.
Daemon reached out, his movement uncharacteristically gentle, and lifted away the heavy mask.
What lay beneath made his breath catch.
Viserys's left face was wrapped in bandages, yet it was already beyond recognition.
From cheekbone to jaw, the skin bore a grotesque mingling of bluish-black and dark red hues, marked by several ulcers so deep that bone was visible.
"Seven save us… Viserys." Daemon looked at the King.
Viserys blinked blankly, as though only just realizing the mask had been removed.
He instinctively tried to raise a hand to cover himself.
"Daemon…?" the King's voice was faint as a dying thread.
"How long has it been, brother?" Daemon asked, sorrow restrained in his voice.
Viserys answered slowly.
"Half a year… It began with red rashes, then ulcers. It spread quickly."
"The new Grand Maester, Orwyle, says… there is no cure. It can only be slowed."
Daemon's gaze fell upon the flask of milk of the poppy on the table. "How much has that quack given you?"
"That dose would fell a horse!"
"Do not blame him…" Viserys shook his head, moving with the slowness of a man in his dotage.
"It was my request. Without it, I could not endure even a single day."
Daemon swallowed his grief and set the mask back upon Viserys's face.
Viserys forced a smile.
"He says I may yet live a few more years."
"Long enough. Long enough…"
Before he finished speaking, a fit of coughing seized him. Viserys bent forward, hunched in pain.
Daemon steadied Viserys and gently patted his back.
Through the heavy robes, he could clearly feel the sharp ridges of Viserys's spine, feel how that body was withering at a pace visible to the naked eye.
The coughing gradually subsided. Viserys slumped back into the chair, breathing heavily for a moment.
"Brother," Daemon's voice grew low.
"Have you truly not considered it carefully?"
"Considered… what?" Viserys's mind seemed to cloud again, his gaze beginning to lose focus.
Daemon gripped Viserys's shoulder and looked at him.
"I want you to be clear-headed."
"I am clear-headed…" Viserys retorted weakly.
"You now err in even the most basic judgments."
Viserys looked at him in confusion.
"Let us speak of the betrothal," Daemon said, pulling a chair closer and sitting opposite his brother.
"The matter of Helaena and Jacaerys."
"This… is a good arrangement…" Viserys repeated the words he had spoken at the feast.
"A marriage between House Velaryon and House Targaryen… will strengthen the alliance…"
"House Velaryon is swallowing the blood of House Targaryen!" Daemon cut him off sharply.
Viserys shuddered, and focus returned to his clouded eyes.
Daemon leaned forward, elbows braced upon the table, meeting Viserys's gaze levelly.
"Have you truly thought it through, brother?"
"Corlys Velaryon."
"Why has he suddenly become so generous?"
"Why is he willing to accept children whom the entire Seven Kingdoms know to be bastards?"
"Why is he willing to let them bear the name Velaryon and inherit the thousand-year legacy of Driftmark?"
Seeing that Viserys was listening, he continued.
"Let me tell you why."
"Because in doing so, House Velaryon gains four dragonriders."
"Jacaerys and Vermax, Lucerys and Arrax, Joffrey and Tyraxes, and Rhaenys with Meleys."
"Four dragons, brother. And if you wed Helaena to them as well, with her Dreamfyre… that makes five."
Daemon's fingers tapped against the table as he reminded him.
"Outside House Targaryen, no house in the history of the Seven Kingdoms has ever possessed so many dragons."
"Now, these five dragonriders all bear the name Velaryon."
"Their children will bear the name Velaryon. Their grandchildren will bear the name Velaryon."
Viserys's face changed; his brother's words were like icy water poured over his head, bringing a fleeting clarity to his dulled mind.
Daemon held Viserys's gaze, the light in his violet eyes cold and keen.
"They are waging a slow exchange of blood."
"Diluting the blood of House Targaryen through marriage."
"Using our blood to seize our dragons."
"One generation of betrothals after another…"
Viserys opened his mouth, his throat working.
"No…" Viserys forced out at last.
"Then…" His bloodshot eyes fixed upon Daemon.
"Then what do you think… should be done?"
Daemon leaned back in his chair and spoke with finality.
"Break this betrothal."
"At once. Entirely. Without compromise."
He paused a moment, then continued.
"As for a marriage alliance… I have a better proposal."
Viserys lifted his head, waiting.
"Let young Aegon wed Ysera," Daemon said slowly. "Your grandson, wed to your daughter."
"Two pure Targaryens—the truest dragon's blood kept within the house."
"In that way, Helaena need not wed Jacaerys, and the Greens would have no cause to object."
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