prince viserys @princeviserystargaryen00 - Tumblr Blog

A matter of choice.

(For @princeviserystargaryen00)

When Ameond accepted Viserys has his squire, he didn't want to disappoint him. There were things that Aemond couldn't do as a knight; he rarely jousted, and his melee style was different from what other knights might have been able to teach him. So instead, he strives to teach Viserys discipline and adaptability, hoping to prepare him for anything life could throw at him. You never know when something could happen and you have to be ready to face it.

They typically practiced in the morning. Aemond liked to exercise first thing in the morning, it helped him wake up and get motivated. He always invited Vis to join him.

Today, he had something else planned. They would not just be staying in the yard for Aemond to train while Vis squired for him. Today, they'd be going on a venture outside the castle walls.

Aemond stretches, rolling his shoulders to loosen up and ready himself. There were others training already, Lordlings, knights, squires all filling their own spaces. As he picks up a practice sword, he sees Vis coming across the yard toward him, dressed and ready for the day. "Good morning, nephew."

Vis hurried across the training yard, keeping his back straight and his chin lifted, just like Aemond had taught him. A man should always carry himself with purpose. It made others take him seriously. He hoped his cousin-uncle would notice—he always noticed when Viserys did something wrong, so surely he'd see when he did something right too.

The yard smelled of sweat and churned dirt, the sounds of clashing steel ringing in his ears. Older boys sparred under their knights’ watchful eyes, some struggling to keep their footing, others moving with ease. He would be one of them soon enough. Proper training, discipline, and effort—that's what Aemond always said, his father once said something along that line too.

As he reached him, he took a quick breath to steady himself. Aemond stood tall, already prepared, his practice sword in hand. His presence alone commanded attention, but Viserys had learned to look beyond that—to notice the small details, the way his uncle’s weight shifted slightly as if already prepared for motion, the way his single eye flickered over him in quick assessment.

Something was different about today. The yard was full of the usual sounds—clashing steel, grunts of effort, the occasional barked instruction—but his cousin was not moving toward their usual sparring space. His stance was looser, shoulders rolling as he stretched, rather than settling into the rigid readiness he often maintained. It was a subtle thing, but Vis had spent enough time studying his uncle to recognize it. This was not a morning for routine drills.

He didn’t ask what they would be doing—he would not pester like a boy eager for a bedtime tale. Instead, he swallowed down his excitement and stood tall, waiting. Whatever his uncle had planned, he was ready.

There's an odd sense of pride for Aemond, seeing Viserys coming toward him; walking like a Prince of the Realm, like a man who would command and not demand attention. Vis was learning, and working hard to do so, and that pleased Aemond. Vis was already more diligent than most young squires. Aemond flips the practice sword in his hand as Viserys stops, considering his young cousin for just a moment, and a small smile flicks his lips.

Ah, he's caught on. Aemond can see it. He can see Vis taking in his stance, the ease Aemond felt that morning. He'd even worn more appropriate clothes, as they would be in public. Vis was learning to be observant in everything. It was an unspoken rule he tried to impress upon him: Always be aware of your surroundings.

"On time this morning. Good." Aemond says, setting the practice sword back on the rack. There was no point in trying to surprise his squire now. "Come along. We're going out."

Aemond turns on his heel, trusting Vis to follow him. It was not a long walk to where they were headed now, and he motioned for Vis to come up and walk beside him. They were headed toward the stables, where Aemond had already ordered their horses saddled. Stable boys had the horses already in the courtyard. "I think it's time you actually started carrying live steel. You are outgrowing toy swords."

Viserys barely contained his grin as he strode up beside his uncle, his heart hammering against his ribs. Live steel. He was finally going to carry a real sword. Not a blunted practice blade, not a weighted wooden thing meant to mimic the real deal—an actual, honest-to-the-gods sword. His fingers twitched at the very thought of it, and he had to resist the urge to bounce on his heels. That would be undignified. Excitement was good, but discipline was better. Aemond had taught him that.

Still, he couldn’t keep quiet entirely. “You really mean it? No more blunted edges? No more clumsy wooden things that splinter if you hit too hard?” He huffed, grinning. “You should have done this ages ago, Cousin. I’m more than ready.”

He meant it. He felt ready. He wasn’t a little boy swinging sticks with Baelon and Aegon anymore. He’d been training for this—his grip had strengthened, his footwork had sharpened, and his mind, Aemond always said, was as important as his sword arm.

His fingers twitched again. “What kind of sword would be suitable? Something light and fast, right? Do you think Kepa might let me practice with Dark sister? A Falchion would be too unwieldy for now—unless you think I’m strong enough.” He tilted his head, glancing up at Aemond with a teasing smirk. “You do think I’m strong enough, don’t you?”

It wasn’t just about the weapon, though. They were going out. Out of the castle. Away from the usual confines of their training. That meant something—Aemond never did things without a reason. This was a lesson, not just a reward.

He narrowed his eyes, thoughtful even in his excitement. “Where are we going? To the Blacksmiths?”

Aemond let Viserys get it all out, smiling slightly at his eagerness. He himself had been like that once, when he still trained with Aegon and Jace, when Luce still followed them around in their mischief. That had been a long time ago.

He pauses at the courtyard, and takes Viserys by the shoulder, turning him to face him. “This is not something to take lightly. A sword is not a toy, not a symbol of status.. any idiot can belt on a sword.” He says. “A sword is a tool. I wouldn’t have planned this if I didn’t believe you were ready, Vis. Remember, a sharp mind is as important as a strong sword arm.” He says.

He tried not to speak to Viserys like he was just a child. He remembers what it was like, to be young and eager to prove himself, only to be spoken too like a child stealing a sweet. It was infuriating, and a bruised pride takes a long time to heal.

He does smile a little though. “You have worked hard, harder than most squires I’ve seen. Though, if I find out you’ve been causing havoc or abusing my trust in you to carry a sword, I will absolutely take it from you.” He says as they mount their horses. Aemond looks over at him. “And your punishment won’t be shoveling out the stables. You squire for a dragon rider.”

And Aemond leaves the idea of having to shovel dragon shit as punishment mostly unsaid.

Aemond taps his heels to his horse’s sides and leads Viserys out of the keep. There were a couple guards that ride several paces behind them; two Princes didn’t just leave Maegor’s Holdfast without escort. They did have privacy to talk though. He chuckles as Viserys launches another string of questions, and does his best to keep up.

“Perhaps a Dothraki arakh. I’ve heard the curved blade is good for a man on horseback. I’m jesting, Viserys, don’t look at me like that. No, I don’t think your father will let you practice with Dark Sister yet but you’re welcome to ask. Let me know how that goes. Yes. A falchion would be too much for you at this time. Your strength will grow as you do. For now, we find you something made for you.”

Aemond smiles slightly when Viserys asks where they were going. “We are going to the Street of Steel.” He explains. “There is a sword smith whose work I rather like. We’re going to speak to him about your birthday present.”

Viserys felt a thrill race through him, excitement barely contained beneath the carefully measured steps of his own horse, a pure white steed called Chetak. He discreetly removed a red ribbon from likely Visenya's work most likely, she wanted a unicorn to her nameday. But he didn't let that distract him. The Street of Steel. A proper smith. His own sword.

It wasn’t just about the weapon—though that alone was enough to set his heart pounding. It was what it meant. Uncle Aemond wouldn’t waste time on a fool’s errand. He wanted to master it as soon as possible—master it—and become a real knight soon.

“I don't think Father would let me have a dark sister; he doesn't even let us play with it anymore! All because Baelon touched it with jam-covered hands. Don't you think it's sad that we only have two Valyrian steel swords? I'd like one myself, but Blackfyre is for Jace, and Dark Sister would probably go to Joffrey or Aeg. Maybe I can set off to Valyria one day and get one? But I'd really, really love a real sword anyhow.” Vis rambled, fully aware he was rambling out of nervousness, an unfortunate habit.

His nameday present. A sword for him.

Viserys bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself from grinning like a boy half his age. He had been waiting for this for years, and now it was happening. “I’ll choose wisely,” he said at last, forcing his voice into something steady, something that matched the weight of the moment. “Not just whatever looks the most impressive. A sword should suit its wielder, shouldn’t it? That’s what you’ve always said.”

He glanced ahead as the city streets stretched before them, the sounds and smells of King’s Landing shifting with every district they passed. Here, the air was thick with the scent of burning coal and hot metal, the clang of hammers ringing out from forges as apprentices scurried back and forth with buckets of water and raw steel. He hadn't been here before, but he never snuck out to the city often; the most recent had been the disastrous visit to the street of silk

"What was Baelon's plan?" He asks curiously, at the mention of the jammy fingers and Dark Sister. He couldn't help the slight smirk, knowing just how that would have upset Daemon. "Was he going to carve a cake with it?" He jokes. Oh, to have been a dragonfly on that wall.

"It is a shame that smiths have lost the skill to forge Valyrian steel." Aemond admits, sighing softly. He had been so like Viserys once, longing for Dark Sister on his belt. Back when he had wished once to have Daemon's son too, but that time was long gone. He'd made his peace with that. He looks over at Viserys and smiles a little. "And who's going to spar with me if you fly away to Valyria?" He jokes a little. "Don't go rushing to fly off too fast, cousin. What would your mother do without you?"

The Street of Steel was less abrasive to him than the rest of the city. The sound of working forges, the heat, the smell of fire and cooling steel. This was a place of hard honest work. He did not take Viserys all the way to the top of the hill, where the most expensive smiths would have kept shop, but to a modest, middle of the road sort of place. He pulls his horse up, swinging from his saddle to tie her reins to the post.

Aemond nods, still wearing his ever so slight grin. "Yes, a sword should match the man." He says. "Our swordsmith here will have more ideas than me. Come." He waits for Viserys to dismount and then leads him into the shop, his hand on Vis's shoulder.

The shop was busy enough with knights and squires, and apprentices bringing their purchases forth from the shelves. An apprentice, with soot smudged across his forehead comes and bows before the two Princes. "Your highness.."

"Your master is expecting me. I've come to collect the weapons I had commissioned for my nephew."

The Blacksmith was called Horst, and he was taller even than Aemond, with a broad barrel chest and arms strengthened by hard labor. He wipes his hands on a rag and comes to meet Aemond and Viserys. "Good morrow, my princes. I've finished all that your purchases; shall we have a look at 'em?" Master Horst brings them to a side room, where a leather covered table. Upon it, there were several blades. A short sword, the steel folded and strengthened in the Eastern style. The thin and elegant blade of the Braavosi water dancer. A long sword and a hand and half blade. None are Valyrian steel, but Aemond paid handsomely to ensure they would be worthy of Prince Viserys's first sword.

Aemond squeezes Viserys's shoulder fondly, and for a moment, he was not his nephew. For a split second, Aemond imagined being in the smithy with his own son, a boy with Rhaena's eyes and sweet smile. A son of his own blood, that he could love and protect and teach. A child for whom he could be better than his own father. He almost has to shake himself.

He glances at Viserys and smiles. "Aye, we have come to collect. We were hoping that you would be kind enough to help Prince Viserys choose the best weapon for him."

He let out a slow breath, forcing himself to be methodical. A sword should match the man. He repeated Aemond’s words in his mind like a prayer. This wasn’t about choosing the grandest or the most intimidating weapon. It was about what suited him—his build, his speed, his strengths.

Vis reached out, his fingers brushing over the hilt of the longsword first. It was beautifully made, the balance impeccable, but the weight in his hand felt... wrong. Not quite natural. It was a knight’s sword. The kind wielded by those in the Kingsguard or by great warriors who met their foes head-on in the field. It was heavier in his grip, demanding proper form and strength to wield it effectively. One day, perhaps, but not today.

He imagined himself years from now, tall and broad-shouldered like father, swinging such a blade with ease. But that was not who he was now, it would only hinder him.

The second blade he examined was the short sword, its steel dark and folded in the Eastern style, the faint rippling of the metal hinting at its superior craftsmanship. It was compact, well-balanced, and efficient. A weapon meant for quick strikes and close combat. Viserys curled his fingers around the hilt, testing its weight. Light, but not too light. Strong. This would suit someone who favored agility over brute force. Not bad.

Next, his gaze drifted to the the hand-and-a-half sword—a bastard sword, as some called it. Meant for both one-handed and two-handed use, offering versatility in battle. He hefted it, feeling the balance shift as he adjusted his grip. It was powerful, solid, yet gave him the freedom to adapt. He imagined fighting with it—delivering heavy blows when needed, yet still being quick enough to adjust. Aemond used one like this and he liked how it felt in his hand.

But it was the Braavosi blade that caught his eye.

It was slender and elegant, the steel glinting in the light of the forge. The grip was wrapped in fine leather, perfectly shaped for a sure hold. It was light—lighter than the others—but Viserys knew better than to mistake that for weakness. This was a blade built for speed and precision, not brute strength.

He reached out at last, his fingers brushing the hilt before he lifted it from the table. The balance was exquisite. As he adjusted his grip, the sword almost seemed to move with him, as if eager to be wielded. He gave it a testing flick, feeling the air part around the edge, and a thrill ran through him.

“This one,” Vis said firmly.

He turned the sword over in his hands, testing its weight. “It reminds me of one of those rapiers from dorne except it's better.” He looked up at his uncle, chin lifted. “You always say a sword should match the man. I won’t be the biggest knight on the field. But I’ll be quick, and I’ll be precise.” He smirked slightly. “And when I take someone’s eye, they won’t even see it coming.”

Master Horst nodded, satisfied. “A fine choice, Your Highness. That blade was forged with care—it’ll serve you well, so long as you treat it right.”

Viserys tightened his grip around the hilt having realised what he just said. “I will.” Truly a wonderful job Vis, go jest to your one eyed cousin about taking someone's eye.

This little shit.

Aemond has to turn his face away from Viserys, and away from the swordsmith for a moment. There was something about how Viserys said it, immediately decided he'd take someone's eye out...

That made Aemond laugh.

Keep it together, Aemond, you're in public. He thought to himself, face still turned away. He collects himself and looks back at Viserys. He comes over and squeezes Vis's shoulder. "Well nephew, are you pleased with this nameday gift? Remember, this is not a toy. It's a tool. As for maintenance of your weapon, we will speak to Master Horst here. It's his expertise after all."

And they do stay at the forge for more than two hours. They discussed the different oils to use to keep the sword from rusting; the differences between whetstones and the difference in grains. How to rewrap the leather grip should it become worn.

Aemond felt like Vis was enjoying himself; he hoped he was enjoying himself. He sat back and watched the boy listen intently, knowing how excited he'd had been. He hoped it didn't disappoint. He'd never tell Viserys, but he was so self-conscious about training his nephew-cousin. Was he good enough? Was he preparing Viserys for everything and anything life may throw at him?

Could he live with himself if something happened and Viserys's training failed him?

He shakes himself a little and straightens up as Master Horst packs a small parcel with all the things he and Viserys had gone over. Linseed oil and beeswax, good cleaning rags and two different whetstones.

"I will have to find a dancing master for you." Aemond admits, coming over to pay the swordmaker. Horst would keep the other swords for him, should Viserys decide to learn another weapon. "I cannot train you as thoroughly as needed myself. I've never been very skilled with thinner blades." He explains. "I will find a master to teach you, but I will teach you the first rule of fighting with live steel."

Viserys leans in, looking up at Aemond eagerly. Aemond leans in too, as if about to share the greatest secret in history, some ancient wisdom passed down through the fraternity of Knighthood or Kingship.

In an exaggerated whisper, just to see if he could get Vis to laugh, he explains. "Stick em with the pointy end."

#a song of gf & bb #a song of golden fire and black blood #aemond targaryen #house targaryen #viserys ii targaryen #asongofgf&bb #asongofgoldenfireandblackblood #hotd roleplay #hotd rp #hotd au rp #rp #roleplay

Viserys stared at Aemond for a long moment, his face carefully blank. Then, despite himself, he snorted. He tried—he really tried—to keep it dignified, but the sheer absurdity of it broke through his restraint, and he let out a bark of laughter. He shook his head, looking up at his uncle with a mixture of exasperation and admiration.

"Truly, uncle," he said, shoving at his uncle's arm with all the strength he could muster—which, granted, wasn’t much compared to Aemond, but it was the principle of the matter. "A lifetime of training, and that’s your great wisdom? Stick them with the pointy end? I thought you were about to tell me something profound! You had me leaning in and everything!"

Vis had intently heard every word of advice being discussed from how to care for it to plans for calling for a proper water dancer but his attention was firmly centered on his sword. Running his fingers lightly along the hilt, he felt the weight of it, the way it settled against his palm like it was meant to be there. This was his. Not borrowed, not a toy, not something to be taken away when the lesson was over. A real sword, meant for him, chosen by him.

He let out a breath, schooling himself back into something respectable. "I suppose that's decent advice," he admitted begrudgingly. Then, with a smirk, he lifted the blade slightly. "Though I don’t think you have to worry about me using the wrong end. I do pay attention, you know."

Vis glanced down at the bundle of supplies Master Horst had given him, the oils and stones he would use to care for the blade. With power comes responsibility. A sword was not just a weapon– it was a promise. He would learn to wield it properly. He would not bring dishonor to himself or to Aemond or to his father.

Looking back at his uncle, he straightened his shoulders, schooling his expression into something more serious. "I won’t disappoint you," he said.

Swordplay

Starter for @thejacaerys

Viserys hated being ignored.

Especially by Jace.

His older brother sat hunched over a heavy wooden table, scribbling furiously on parchment, muttering to himself about trade routes and taxes. Viserys didn't care about trade routes. He cared about swords. And Jace was supposed to be at the training yard with him, not buried in endless, boring duties that made his head ache just by watching.

He didn't want to think about ruling. That was Jacaerys’s burden, not his. And if he had to hear one more thing about stuff like that, he might start throwing the inkpots off the table.

Instead, he marched forward, grabbed Jace’s arm, and tugged.

"You promised. Get up."

Jace sighed, but Viserys didn’t let go. He braced his feet, pulling harder, forcing Jace to stumble to standing. "If you’re strong enough to fight me on this, you're strong enough to swing a sword. Move!"

“You’re always in the middle of something. If you don’t practice, you’ll turn into one of those old lords with a belly too round to fit in your armor.”

Vis knew that if he pushed just a bit more, his brother’s sense of duty—to him, at least—would outweigh his duty to parchment and ink.

So, with complete certainty, Viserys grip tightened around his older brother's arm, and tugged. Hard. “Up. Now.”

Jacaerys was not only focusing on the idea of getting ready for his honeymoon, he had to finish a couple of the things before he had to go.

He read through the papers that were given to him, as he had completely forgotten that he had promised Viserys something. He started to focus on doing the maths of the money and funds they had.

His door bursted opened as his eyes slowly looked up only to see Viserys walked through. It wasn’t his normal walk, he was striding through the door.

Jace felt his arm tighten as the grip of his baby brother hand griped his arm. “Vis, let go of me!” He snapped, “I have to finish this,” He felt himself, sigh, he knew how demanding his brother was as he was going to demand until he got what he wanted. The prince looked at him, "Do you know how important this is? If I don't get this done now, I will look like a disappointment!" His voice quite the snap, he never snapped like this unless he was irritated. The Crown Prince started himself getting lifted up as he looked at his brother. His eyes lowering down to meet him. "Viserys. This is enough!" His voice growled, as he looked at his brother. "I train on my own, and I understand you need my attention, but I must get this done." the eyes of his little brother widnened, as Jace had never yelled at him like this. He hadn't yelled at of his siblings like this, ever. Not even Lucerys. The prince rolled his eyes, now feeling a slight guilt, as he got up onto his feet and grabbed his sword that he had tossed onto the floor. He hilted it onto his belt, as he looked at his brother. "Lead the way, Viserys,"

Viserys blinked at Jace, his grip loosening just a fraction. His brother never yelled. Not at him. Not at Aeg. Not at Joff. Not at anyone, really. But now, Jace’s voice had cracked sharp as a whip, the weight of his irritation pressing down between them like a storm rolling in over Blackwater Bay.

For a moment, Vis considered backing off. Just a moment.

Then he saw it—the flicker of guilt in Jace’s eyes, the sigh that came after, and the way he picked up his sword without another word. That was as much of a victory as he was going to get and the triumph burned away the sting of jace's irritation.

Viserys didn’t give his brother the chance to change his mind. He spun on his heel and strode toward the door, shoving it open with a little more force than necessary.

“This way,” he ordered, stepping in the corridor.

As they walked, Vis stole a glance at his brother. Jace still looked tense, his shoulders rigid beneath the fine black doublet he wore. Even now, even when being dragged away from his boring duties, he carried himself like a prince, a future king. Like someone who never had time for fun, not anymore.

That wasn’t fair.

He huffed but he was too busy marching them toward the armory, most of the keep’s men were at the yard already, leaving the room mostly empty.

Viserys let go of Jace’s sleeve and went straight to the weapon racks. He grabbed his own practice sword—a sturdy thing, not too heavy but not light enough to be a child’s toy.

“You can be as grumpy as you want, but you’re still sparring with me.”

He turned to grab his armor next, fumbling a bit with the clasps before getting the padded gambeson over his head. He was used to doing it himself, but the buckles of his vambraces were always a pain. With a huff, he shoved his arm towards his older brother.

Jacaerys followed Viserys as he was kept his posture strong, as he walked along was going through the corridors. He glanced down at his younger brother. He was needy... He didn't complain... though Jacaerys wasn't as needy as his brother. The prince looked down at his brother as he gently ruffled his hair, "Look at me," "I'm sorry, I do not have the time play with you anymore, but that doesn't mean I do not love you. I just have heavier responsibilities on my back," He apologized, as he gently stopped them in the corridors. As they went through the corridors, and finally went outside. They reached the armory. Jace sighed as he remembered this view, as he looked through the practice sword, and he picked one up. He twirled it around his hand. As he followed Viserys to grab the armor, as he put his on first and then finishing the buckles. He looked down to see Viserys struggling with his. Jacaerys reached to help, "Stay still, and fix your attitude, maybe I will go easier on you," He grabbed the clasps tightly, as he buckled the armor onto his younger brother. As he finished up he looked at his brother, the prince ruffed his hair once again. "Come along," as he lifted up his practiced sword, as he looked at his little brother with a small smirk.

Viserys wrinkled his nose, swatting at Jace’s hand as he messed up his hair again. He wasn’t a little kid. He was nearly a man grown. Almost 13.

He crossed his arms over his chest, watching Jace work, his face carefully set in something unimpressed. But inside, he was grinning. He had won.

Jace could act as grumpy and dutiful as he wanted, but in the end, Vis always got his way.

“Fix my attitude?” he repeated, mocking Jace’s deeper tone with an exaggerated frown. He lifted his sword, tapping the flat of it against Jace’s arm. “You sound like an old septon. What’s next? You’ll have me copying out boring passages from history books as punishment?”

Jace rolled his eyes, already moving toward the yard where the dirt had been churned up from countless drills and duels. The clang of steel echoed from the other side, where knights sparred in pairs, but Vis ignored them. He was focused entirely on Jace.

“I bet you haven’t been keeping up with your footwork,” Vis went on, stepping into the yard with a swagger. He planted his feet, mirroring the stance Aemond had drilled into him over and over. “You probably stand there like a stiff old lord and let people come to you.”

He grinned, shifting his weight onto the balls of his feet. “That’s fine, though. I’ll make sure to run circles around you.”

Without waiting for some boring lecture about patience and discipline, Vis swung. It wasn’t reckless—he was trained enough to know better—but it was fast, and he meant it. Their swords met with a sharp clang, the force of it vibrating up his arms. Jace blocked him easily, of course, but that didn’t matter.

He was going to make his brother work for it.

Viserys grinned, bouncing on the balls of his feet as he pressed forward again. “Try and keep up, jace.”

Jacaerys didn't like the tone of his brother, little spoilt prince. There was something darkening in her eyes, as the boy picked up his sword swinging it around, like it was nothing. He hated how his younger brother was trying to judge him, yet little does his brother know that the prince had been practicing all night. He makes sure that he wasn't going to look like he was out of shape. Because he knew he wasn't. Once he saw the stance, he knew Aemond has been training him. His eye rolled even more. "See that Uncle Aemond has been training you," He knew every move of Aemond. Aemond's technique wasn't anything special. Once you studied it enough, he was able to get at his brother as much as he wanted.

"Who said I don't practice," He smirked, as he looked at him. "I don't have a bed time like you, so I have all day and any time to practice." The prince saw how fast he was, but he wasn't expecting it to be this fast. Jacaerys tilted his head with a smirk, "Fast movements, I see," As he started to swing as he moved faster now, it was going to be a fun night. And before he was going do anything, he was going to fake it around with Viserys. He was going to play around with his brother, and then let him find out the harsh reality. He kept up just as much as his brother wanted, the swords clashing, yet none of the practice swords falling. The wooden swords clanked, and then he moved faster and moved under, then smacking Viserys' bottom, with his practice sword. Jacaerys laughed, "And you need me to keep up? Never underestimate your brother, especially the crown prince. Pick up your sword again, try again Viserys,"

Viserys yelped as the flat of Jace’s practice sword smacked against his backside. Heat rushed to his face, not from pain—because it didn’t hurt, not really—but from sheer, boiling embarrassment.

Jace was laughing. Actually laughing. Like Vis was some fumbling child instead of a proper opponent.

Humiliation flared into something sharper, hotter. Viserys grit his teeth, bending to snatch up his fallen sword, gripping the hilt so tight his knuckles turned white.

Jace was stronger, taller, had longer reach. And yes, he was trained—trained well—but Vis was clever. He learned by watching, by adapting, and he never let himself lose the same way twice.

Straightforward attacks wouldn’t work. Jace had expected his speed, had matched it effortlessly. But if Vis could predict his counters—could lure him into a false rhythm—then maybe…

He exhaled sharply through his nose. Fine. If Jace wanted to play games, he’d play.

Vis shifted his stance, rolling his shoulders back, the tension melting away. He forced a slow smirk onto his lips, raising his sword again with a casual flick of his wrist.

“Right,” he drawled. “Crown prince. Future king. I must remember to bow more often.”

Then he lunged.

But this time, it wasn’t just speed—he feinted high, a sharp downward slash aimed at Jace’s shoulder. Predictable. Easy to block. And when Jace did exactly that, lifting his sword to parry, Vis twisted—abruptly, shifting his weight low, ducking under his brother’s arm, and striking at Jace’s exposed ribs.

It wasn’t a hard hit. Just enough to sting and Viserys ate dirt by falling on the solid ground himself but it was enough because while he didn't win neither did his brother.

He could see how upset Viserys got, it reminded him a lot of his younger self. Jacaerys himself held a lot of anger in himself when he was Viserys' age. And he saw it all in his eyes. Jace watched Viserys trying to think, he had trained enough to know, nothing really left this training yard. He watched as he once again twirled his sword in his hand looking at his brother. "Tired already?" He joked, a small smirk already appearing on his face. There was something just missing about teasing his brother he missed doing. This was something he extremely enjoyed, having fun with them. He watched as Viserys stepped back getting back into position, trying to focus. Jace matched the same energy, before they were off battling again. Their practice swords clanked went after each other before, there was a hesitation in Viserys. Jacaerys saw it... but still went for it, he hit him again on the bottom. Another chuckle, left his lips before Viserys was going to kill him. Jace knew Viserys was going to come back for him, as he gave his little brother a smirk. There was something hesitant, he could see Viserys thinking, before he saw Viserys coming for him. He blocked a couple slashes here and there. This had to be one of their longest matches in a long time. There was an opening that Jace missed himself, without realizing Viserys jabbed him in the ribs, it made him laugh. As he sorta fell to his bottom. Viserys fell almost on top of him, as Jace nearly caught him. "Nice aim," he ruffled his brother's hair, "Next time try to stay on your feet," Jacaerys smiled before helping Viserys up to his feet, just a nice sportsmanship he was taught by Ser Harwin Strong.

Viserys let Jace pull him up, but the moment he was steady, he smacked his brother’s hand away with a scowl.

“I was on my feet,” he argued, brushing dust from his tunic but only succeeding in spreading the dirt. “I just—” He hesitated, huffing. "Shut up.”

Jace was still grinning, like getting jabbed in the ribs had been some grand joke. Like Vis hadn’t actually won that round. He hated that. Hated how his brother always took everything in stride, like nothing ever truly bothered him. Like he wasn’t even trying.

He scowled deeper and crossed his arms. "You let me get that hit in, didn't you?"

Viserys narrowed his eyes. He wasn’t stupid. Jace had been stronger, faster, better for years. Even now, even with all the extra training, even with Aemond drilling him until his muscles ached—Vis knew his brother had the upper hand.

And still. Still. Jace had let him win that round.

That stung worse than any bruise.

Vis took a sharp breath, gripping his sword hilt so tight it dug into his palm. “Fight me properly!”

“You're not fighting properly!” He snapped continuing. “You’re humoring me. Like I’m some stupid little kid swinging a stick around!”

Jace blinked, his teasing smile fading slightly.

Viserys’s heart was thudding in his ears. He knew he was acting childish, that Jace probably had been going easy on him, that it made sense because Jace was older—but that wasn’t the point.

The point was that Vis wanted to beat him. Fair and square. Wanted to prove he could. That he wasn’t just a boy playing at swords while his brother worried about boring king things.

He lifted his sword again, squaring his stance.

“Again,” he demanded. “And this time—don’t hold back.”

Jacaerys slightly amused by the way his brother acted... this wasn't behavior that he was used to. The crown prince tilted his head, there was this slight hesitation. As much as Jacaerys wanted to be serious with his brother at the moment, there was a lesson to be taught. He knew the way he wanted to be taught, and it wasn't with aggression. He looked at his brother, "Listen to me, I am your brother. and I understand, I am playing around with you... but there is no need to be rude. Is that clear?" Jacaerys could see the fear in his little brother's eyes, there was something that the prince had to teach him. It wasn't just responsibility, but it was being genuinely respectful. No matter who it was on the playing-field.

The crown prince's eyes tightened looking at the boy, there was something in his hands that tightened on the grip of the sword. He looked at his brother. "I did, like what I felt like doing," Jace responded. There was something in his eyes, the darkening in his little brother's eyes. He knew that Viserys was upset and it was going to drive Jacaerys insane. "Fine if it is what you want, then I will be serious, I will fight you how I will fight Aemond or Aegon. If that is exactly what you wish," He answered, his eyes darkened. The prince had a strong feeling in his heart, he always hating losing against Aemond. Especially Aemond. He picked up his sword, as he started to going after his brother again.

The jabs were more aggressive and there was more than just love anymore. He didn't care if Viserys was his younger brother, he was an opponet like all those he went against.

The swords clashed as the two of them went back and forth with one another.

Viserys barely had time to react before Jace was on him.

The shift was immediate—gone was the teasing, the playful swats, the half-hearted defenses.

The first strike jarred him to his bones, their wooden swords colliding with force enough to make his wrist ache. Vis braced, trying to counter, but Jace was relentless. His older brother wasn’t playing anymore.

He barely blocked the next hit, but the impact sent him stumbling. Jace didn’t let up. He moved like a storm—sharp, fast, merciless.

Another hit, this time to his ribs. Vis gritted his teeth, trying to dodge, trying to regain his footing, but Jace was already on him again, pressing him back, faster than he could react. His brother had been holding back before—so much more than Vis had realized.

Panic clawed at his throat.

Another hit. His shoulder this time.

Every time he thought he found an opening, his brother shut it down effortlessly, knocking his sword aside like he was a child flailing at shadows.

And then—

Then—his sword was gone, knocked from his grasp so hard his fingers stung. And before he could fully register it, Jace pivoted, sweeping his leg out from under him.

Viserys hit the dirt hard landing badly on his shoulder, pain exploded in his ribs.

It was over.

Viserys gasped, his chest heaving as he stood frozen, the sting of the blows burning through him.

He lost.

Shame burned in his chest, hotter than the bruises forming beneath his tunic.

Jace was watching him, his expression unreadable. He didn’t look smug, or gloating—he just looked… disappointed.

That was worse.

Vis felt the sting in his eyes before he could stop it. No. No, he wasn’t going to cry. Not here, not in front of Jacaerys, not in front of the knights sparring nearby.

His brother reached out, probably to ruffle his hair again, to say something stupid and annoying, but Viserys slapped his hand away, whirling on his heel.

“I hate you,” he spat, his voice sharp, cracking.

And then he ran.

He didn’t care how it looked, didn’t care who saw—he had lost, and there was only one person who could fix this.

His father.

Vis stormed through the corridors, shoving past a servant, his left arm still aching from hitting the ground.

He found Kepa in the solar, seated at the table, idly sharpening Dark Sister. The sight of him, the familiar weight of his presence, only made Viserys’s anger boil hotter.

He marched right up to him, arms crossed, still scowling. “Jace was so mean to me.”

“He was,” Vis insisted. “He—he beat me! He fought me like I was as good as you! He—he didn’t hold back at all, he hit me hard, and he wasn’t even sorry about it!”

rogue-prince-rising

Daemon saw it coming the moment his youngest stormed into the room—fury in his eyes, chin tilted up in that way that always meant trouble. This boy was too much like him. Too quick to anger, too proud to let anyone see him stumble.

Now, Viserys stood before him, flushed and scowling, his arms crossed tight over his chest. He was trying so hard not to cry. Daemon didn’t speak at first. He simply set Dark Sister aside, leaning the blade carefully against the table before reaching for him. Viserys resisted—half a second of stiff, stubborn pride—but Daemon had always been stronger. He pulled him in, lifted him easily, settling him on his lap as if he were still small enough to fit there.

Vis didn’t fight it. Not really. His face pressed into his father’s shoulder, and then his body shuddered. Daemon exhaled, rubbing a slow, steady hand down his back.

“I know.” The words were quiet, but they were enough. The fight drained out of Viserys all at once. His hands fisted into Daemon’s tunic, and then he was shaking, his shoulders jerking as the tears came, silent but sharp.

Daemon didn’t hush him. Didn’t tell him to stop. Let him cry. Let him mourn the loss of his pride, the sting of knowing life wouldn’t go easy on him.

“He thought he was doing you a kindness,” Daemon murmured. “My brother did the same. He beat me, too. Never held back. Never let me win.” A quiet laugh, low and bitter. “I hated him for it. I cried so many times, thinking: how could he do this to me? He was supposed to love me.”

Vis shifted, just slightly, but he didn’t lift his head. Daemon smoothed his curls back, pressing a kiss to the crown of his head.

“He did love me. He just didn’t know how else to teach me. He thought he was helping… keeping me from making the same mistakes he already knew how to avoid.” He sighed, his hand still stroking up and down Viserys’ back. “Jace doesn’t know how to be anything but earnest. He loves you. But he also knows what it means to be expected to lead. He won’t let himself be weak. And he won’t let you, either.”

A sniffle. A shuddering breath. Daemon gave him a squeeze, his grip sure and steady.

“But right now? You don’t need to think about any of that. Right now, you can just be a boy. And you can cry if you want to.”

Daemon didn’t press him, only sat with him, praying the weight of his presence could be enough. The quiet stretched, long and heavy, until the door creaked.

Daemon looked up. He already knew what he would see.

Jace lingered in the doorway, shoulders stiff, mouth drawn in a thin line. His brow was furrowed, but his eyes… Daemon knew that look. Knew the guilt in them. He met his eldest son’s gaze and leveled him with a look. See? he mouthed. Do you understand it now?

Jace’s mouth twitched—not quite a frown, not quite a pout. He shifted on his feet, uneasy.

Daemon said nothing. He didn’t have to.

The lesson had already been taught.

The boys would make it right. They had to.

Dragons, after all, always find a way to fly together.

Jacaerys did what he normally did. His brother asked for it. There was nothing more than pure aggression from Jace.

Watching how his sword continued to jab Viserys, and until the boy fell. The prince watched... as his little brother's eyes widened and he saw tears. The crown prince cursed under his breath. Of course he was crying, Jacaerys didn't even chase after Viserys. He was annoyed himself. Why would he even bother trying to dual with him, if he couldn't be strong enough. Jace didn't even call after Viserys, it wasn't even worth it. The prince picked up the dropped sword and his own practice sword and then placed into the bucket. He knew he was going to take the blame, he felt his eyes angrily tighten. There was something unfair about this. He hated being the eldest. Why did he have to always take the blame for what his siblings did? The prince bit his lip as he started to do head towards his chambers... he needed a moment before he went confront Viserys. He went to his chambers.... he cursed. He threw the nearest thing to him as it crashed against the wall... "Why did I have to be born the eldest?" he told himself, before he felt his own tears well up in his eyes. A small pout formed on his lips... he was stressed. He ran his hands threw his hair as he took a deep breath. He knew he would have to face Daemon and Viserys. He walked out of his chambers, and he approached his father's... and there he saw... his little brother wailing. "I'm sorry..." his apology was a simple breath. It was rarely loud enough to be heard. He couldn't even meet Daemon or Viserys' eyes. He didn't even care that his brother was crying. He genuinely didn't care anymore. "I would suggest... you don't ever underestimate your brother," he added on, it was the truth. The court wasn't ever nice, why should be kind to his brother. Viserys' had brought this upon himself. He saw his father's eyes slightly darken... wanting a genuine apology... instead of his honesty. He didn't want any partake in his brother's crying. He didn't have time for tears at the age of 13. Prince's were never allowed to cry. Why was the standard different for him... Jace bit his lip... wanting to cry himself... it wasn't fair. "I'm sorry," he said loudly, enough for Viserys' to hear, before he made his way outside of his chambers. Jace had heard every name in the book, from everyone, losing and crying wasn't an option.... this wasn't fair to him... nothing ever was.