Prince Viserys Targaryen

The second son of Prince Daemon and Queen Rhaenyra, Viserys is 13, and a Prince of The Realm. Named for his grandsire, the late King. Part of @asongofgoldenfireandblackblood

[princeviserystargaryen00]

Character intro:

Full name:

Prince Viserys Laenor-Valerion Targaryen

Nickname(s):

Vis- frequently used by loved ones

Vissy- a more mocking nickname occasionally used by friends and family

Moniker(s):

Prince of the Realm, Rider of Vermithor, and the Legacy of The Good King

Age:

12 (turning 13 in 130 AC)

Date of birth:

The 23rd of the eleventh month (23 November)

Pronouns and identity details:

He/Him

Bisexual (in-universe mainly referred to as “varied” or “equally fond”)

Polyamorous

Allegiance(s):

His mother and the rest of his family

Spoken Language(s):

Natively fluent in both High Valyrian and Common.

Semi fluent in bastard valyrian

Religion:

Being young Vis is not particularly interested in religion however he keeps to the Faith of The Seven and more privately The Gods of Old Valyria.

Physical Traits:

Eyes:

Dark violet that leans towards indigo

Semi hooded

Deep set

Features:

high cheekbones and hollowed cheeks

Full lips

Long fingers

A mole on his left cheek and one above his upper lip

Hair:

Pale silver-gold , leaning towards white under direct light with bangs that often cover his eyes.

Prince viserys is very fond of wearing a hairclip or pin in his hair everyday usually something shaped like a dragon or a star.

Build:

Not particularly tall yet and could be considered scrawny

Height:

5'3/160 cm (still growing)

Distinguishing Characteristics:

A mouth shaped such that he always looks to be either pouting or scowling

Personality Traits:

“Positive” Traits:

Mature

Silver tongued

Scholarly

Quick witted

“Negative” Traits:

Asocial

Cunning

Worryingly mature

Haughty

Moral Alignment:

True neutral

Interests:

Books and literature are his chief interests, ever since he was a young child because he has always been fond of reading and thus his thirst for knowledge has only increased with time and age.

Sword play and learning ways to fight are a new boyish passion for the son of the rouge prince, his main focus is swords however he also trains with a lance, a crossbow and other weapons.

His enthusiasm for history and culture is something he inherited from his namesake and grandfather, he deeply enjoys stories of valyria, dragonlords and their family but does not mind tales of other places.

Hobbies:

Reading is prince Viserys's foremost and favourite thing to do, he has achieved an impossibly fast speed and can finish long books in only a day.

Sword practice is something the prince has taken to more often in the recent year with his squiring.

Riding his horse is an easy way for him to pass time.

Goals:

A part of him wants to explore the world, see Lys, Essos, summer isles etc

Become a capable knight.

Anxieties:

Being outed for his preferences.

Something bad happening to his family.

Social Weapon(s):

Wits, intimidation, flattery

Connections:

Father: @the-lord-confessor - King-Consort Daemon Targaryen

Mother: @black-queen-rising - Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen

Siblings: @thejacaerys - Crown-Prince Jacaerys Targaryen

@bold-princess-baela - Crown-Princess Baela Targaryen

@velaryon-targaryen - Prince Lucerys Velaryon

@rhaenaspearls - Princess Rhaena Targaryen

@princejoffreyvelaryon - Prince Joffrey Velaryon

@aegontheyoungprince - Prince Aegon III Targaryen

@thelittleprincesstargaryen - Princess Visenya Targaryen

Prince Baelon

Princess Aemma

Prince Rhaegar

Princess Rhaella

Other relatives:

@alicenthightowerrp - Dowager-Queen Alicent Hightower

@goldaegontargaryen - Prince Aegon Targaryen of Dragonstone

@helaenasdreamfyres - Princess Helaena Targaryen of Dragonstone

@shrykosjaehaerys - Prince Jaehaerys Targaryen of Dragonstone

@jaeheratargaryen - Princess Jaehaera Targaryen of Dragonstone

@aemond-of-house-targaryen - Prince-Hand Aemond Targaryen

@thefallenprincesss - Princess Rhaenya Targaryen-Stark

@thedaringprince - Prince-Commander Daeron Targaryen

@rideroftheredqueen - Princess Rhaenys Targaryen-Velaryon

@lordhusband - Lord Corlys Velaryon

Family Status: He is the fourth child and second son of Daemon Targaryen, and fifth son of Rhaenyra Targaryen.

Partner(s):

Violet Vance (Betrothed)

Zachery Swyft

Court Ties: Prince of the seven kingdoms.

[asongofgoldenfireandblackblood]

𝓗𝓸𝓾𝓼𝓮 𝓣𝓪𝓻𝓰𝓪𝓻𝔂𝓮𝓷 𝓸𝓯 𝓚𝓲𝓷𝓰'𝓼 𝓛𝓪𝓷𝓭𝓲𝓷𝓰

A SONG OF GOLDEN FIRE AND BLACK BLOOD HQ is Tumblr's Premier Fire and Blood & House of the Dragon No Dance!AU RP, focused on exploring all the scheming and intrigue that makes ASoIaF RP so thrilling in a peace time setting. Old and dangerous tensions simmer just beneath the surface, wild ambitions ready to sacrifice peace in pursuit of their grand visions for Westeros, and the Kingdom still faces a volatile path on the journey towards a brighter future.

House Targaryen — Nav — Wanted — Plot — Discord

[princevistargaryen]

SOARING

Starter with @aemond-one-eye-targaryen

The wind roared loudly in his ears as Viserys Targaryen clung tightly to the saddle, his silver-gold hair whipping wildly behind him. Half of it was pinned back with his dragonfly clip but the other half would be hell to untangle for the maids tomorrow.

Vis let out a cheerful whoop as Vermithor caught up to Vhagar, on her flew his cousin-uncle Aemond. His dragon, bigger and more fearsome in shape, glided with an almost unnatural control.

Today had been a good morning and Viserys was a good squire.

He was gaining quick mastery of his sword, from practice and training and of course these short visits to little islands with his cousin who was well known for his skill in arms.

But it was several hours after noon and while uncle Aemond may be able to keep steady and strong for hours, Vis was simply too hungry and wanted to go home.

“Higher!” Vis command, urging Vermithor upward. The bronze fury responded instantly, surging into the sky with a thunderous beat of wings. The air grew colder, thinner. Viserys’s heart pounded with joy. For many years he had hoped for an egg to hatch for him and thrown fits after not being allowed to try his hand at claiming cannibal. All because the best dragon had been waiting for him all along!

Another dive stole the breath from his lungs as Vermithor plunged after Vhagar, the ground rushing up to meet them. The roar of wind became deafening, the world spinning into motion. For a heartbeat, fear clawed at him again—

—but he did not pull back.

At the last moment, both dragons leveled out in perfect, sweeping arcs, skimming above the hills before climbing once more into the sky.

When they rose again, Vis was not afraid. He was the blood of the dragon.

[princevistargaryen]

The Truth Will Set You Free (But First, It Will Make You Miserable)

Starter for @rogue-prince-rising

The courtyard lay quiet, still and bare of snow for the first time in months, but the sky was clear with little flowers springing up between the cracks of stone, and that was enough for Vis.

He sat cross-legged on the flagstones, a small wooden board balanced on his knees. The board had once been the lid of a wine crate, he’d taken it from the stores himself and sanded it smooth with Owen's help. His fingers were stained with pigment—soot-black, brick-red, a thin wash of gold from paints.

A card, a merchant would have called it. A painting, Viserys corrected the imaginary merchant in his head, because a prince should give good gifts and Vis has been unable to think of what his father lacked.

So, a painting lovingly crafted by hand it was.

Violet had given him the idea, she and her siblings had made a combined present. Maybe next year when the twins were a little more grown up they could all make something together for kepa too.

Hugh had carved his father the symbol of their house in wood, and Owen's mother had helped him arrange a present of finely made foreign quill set for his Papa.

Zachery had refused to say anything except that he was keeping it a secret. Very characteristic of him. Vis had been unsurprised even as Hugh and Owen groaned and moaned and eventually moved on to heckling him.

Viserys wanted to paint Caraxes.

He sketched first with charcoal, tongue caught between his teeth in concentration. A dragon took shape beneath his hand. Coiled and watchful, wings folded close. He had tried once to draw it roaring and had scraped the whole thing clean because of his lack of skill.

Art was perhaps not his strongest suit. Vis probably should have thought of that before he started this.

Instead Vis painted The Blood Wyrm resting at ease. Not in the pit, but somewhere it was green and pretty and blessed with eternal spring.

This was the second painting that he was planning to give to someone. The first one had been for Zach but– no one had known— and Vis had been so unhappy at the time and in turn made Zachery so unhappy that he had decided to command Vermithor to burn the half finished art and instead presented some impersonal gifts for Zach's squiring instead.

Viserys blinked harshly, and swiftly wiped away a stray tear. In his distraction over memories he failed to notice the footsteps behind him.

[rogue-prince-rising]

The yard lay nearly empty by the time the bell tolled the end of drills.

Its sound rang thin and sharp through the heat, a single clear note that struck the stone walls and rebounded once before dissolving into the open sky. The last of the squires dragged battered targets toward the armory, shoulders bowed with the stubborn pride of boys who would rather bleed than admit exhaustion. Older knights lingered in knots, peeling sweat-darkened gloves from aching hands, flexing stiff fingers as they laughed too loudly at jests that barely qualified as such. Steel rang against iron racks. Leather creaked. Boots scraped over flagstone. With every step, dust stirred and rose, catching the sun and hanging in the air like a veil of gold, softening the hard edges of the courtyard until even the Keep itself seemed momentarily gentled by the light.

Daemon moved through it with restless energy still thrumming in his arms.

Anger sat coiled inside him, familiar as an old scar that ached when pressed. The council chambers had flayed him raw. Lords gnawing at grievances older than their grandsires, posturing and circling, mistaking obstruction for strength while Rhaenyra bore the weight of the realm with a calm they did not deserve. If Daemon had been permitted, he would have scattered them like frightened deer, hunted their arrogance through hall and hearth alike. Let them learn what it meant to be prey. Let them feel, just once, the cost of sharpening their teeth on the Iron Throne.

Rhaenyra would rule in peace if the rot were cut away at the root.

He breathed out through his teeth and turned toward the Keep instead. He knew himself well enough to know where unchecked fury led. He had walked that road before and left corpses in his wake. He would not let anger choose his steps today.

That was when he saw Viserys.

The boy sat cross-legged on the warm flagstones near the edge of the yard, tucked away where the shadows of a half-collapsed arch met the sunlight. Pale hair fell into his eyes, catching the gold of the afternoon. A thin wooden board rested against his knees, one corner nicked and worn smooth by use. His hands were smeared with pigment, he leaned over his work with the fierce concentration of a child wholly absorbed in creation, lips parted slightly, brow furrowed in solemn seriousness.

Daemon stopped.

The sounds of the yard receded, fading until the clatter of steel and laughter of knights felt distant, unreal. The world narrowed to that quiet, intent figure at its center. Something in Daemon’s chest tightened.

A painting.

His mouth twitched despite himself. Gods above and below. He had forgotten.

Father’s Day. The celebration that still sat strangely on his tongue, never quite fitting the shape of his mouth. As a boy, he had despised it. Each year another chance to fail, another offering laid carefully at his father’s feet only to be weighed, measured, and found wanting. Nothing had ever been freely given in that household—not praise, not affection, not love. Approval had been currency, earned through obedience and excellence, and even then it came grudgingly, if at all. Daemon had learned early that longing was a weakness best hidden, and later still that the simplest way to survive was to stop hoping entirely.

And yet.

Here was his son, offering without calculation. Creating not because he was commanded to, nor to secure favor, but because he wanted to give. Because something in him had stirred and demanded form.

Daemon felt the tightness in his chest ease, just a fraction, even as guilt threaded through it like wire. He was glad that his children would never know that gnawing hunger. Glad that this day would be a celebration for them, not a trial. Glad that love in this household flowed freely, unmeasured and unearned, as natural as breath. He had sworn that vow silently the day each of them had been placed in his arms, red and squalling and impossibly small.

He took a few quiet steps closer, careful not to break the spell.

The painting resolved itself beneath his gaze. Caraxes, scales rendered in deep crimson and shadowed black. Its wings were folded close to its body, not flared in threat but resting, patient. The eye was half-lidded, intelligent, ancient. Behind it stretched a wash of green and gold, hills rolling beneath a bright, open sky—a world untouched by winter, by war, by fear. The Blood Wyrm, yes, unmistakable in form and spirit. But not the terror sung of in taverns or whispered of by enemies.

This dragon was at peace.

Daemon swallowed hard.

It was a child’s understanding of something vast and terrible and beloved all at once. A creature capable of ruin choosing stillness instead.

Viserys’ shoulders hitched suddenly.

Daemon saw the way the boy blinked hard, the too-quick swipe of a sleeve across his cheek, as if he might erase the emotion as easily as he wiped away paint.

This was the moment where men like his father had turned away. The moment they pretended not to see, not to notice the vulnerability offered so plainly. The moment they chose distance, because softness demanded a response, and that response required courage of a kind they did not possess. Daemon felt the old instinct rise in him, the reflex to stand apart, to armor himself against the danger of feeling too much.

He crushed it.

He knew exactly where that road led.

He had grown up amid the wreckage of men who disengaged and called it duty. Men who mistook coldness for strength and severity for virtue. Men who abandoned their emotional posts and congratulated themselves on their restraint. Daemon did not trust that impulse in himself. He did not trust his own avoidance any more than his appetite for violence. He had seen what such men built, and it was hollow, brittle, and cruel.

So instead of asking what he wanted in that moment, he asked the question he had taught himself to ask in blood and loss:

What kind of man does this choice make me, in the long years to come?

The answer came without embellishment.

He stepped forward and lowered himself onto the stone beside his son. The flagstones were warm beneath him, heat seeping through leather and cloth alike. He sat close enough that their shoulders nearly brushed, close enough for Viserys to feel his presence without being startled. Daemon leaned in slightly, studying the painting with open, unguarded attention. There was nowhere else in the Seven Kingdoms he would rather be.

“Beautiful,” he said softly.

Daemon let his arm slide around Viserys’ shoulders, drawing him in without pause or uncertainty. Daemon bowed his head and pressed his cheek briefly to the boy’s pale hair. How lucky he was to be loved.

The courtyard continued to exist around them, but for Daemon, the world had narrowed to this small, sunlit space. To pigment-stained hands. To a dragon at rest. To the quiet certainty that whatever storms gathered beyond the Keep’s walls, this was something he would never abandon.

“I’ll hang it in the gallery where everyone can see what my son has made.” He reached up and ruffled Viserys’ hair, deliberately undoing its careful order. “The greatest artist in the Seven Kingdoms, I think.”

Daemon went on, his mouth quirking up in a smile.

“And we should show it to Caraxes,” he added, eyes glinting. “Let him know how handsome he looks when he isn’t setting the world aflame. What do you say, hm?”

[princevistargaryen]

Vis did not pull away or pretend he had not been crying. He had tried that before, with other things, other times, and it had never worked anyway. His father always knew, in the way that he always seemed to know— always. The way you knew the direction of wind.

The arm came around his shoulders and Viserys went with it without thinking, folding into his father's side. His father's cheek pressed briefly to his hair, and Vis shut his eyes. He was thirteen. He had fought a practice bout this morning and only lost twice. He was fine.

"You weren't supposed to see it yet," Viserys said, and his voice only wavered a little. He turned the board carefully on his knees, studying a patch near the wing where the red had bled slightly into the blue of the sky. He had been agonizing over that particular flaw for the better part of an hour. "The surprise is ruined. And I'm not the best painter. Edwyle Arryn was."

Though even as he said it he found he didn't mind quite so much as he thought he would. Kepa clearly seemed charmed. Kepa said the painting was beautiful.

He considered it seriously. Caraxes, the Blood Wyrm, terror of the sisters and veteran of actual wars, peering down at a child's painting of himself.

Vis thought about the long sinuous neck craning forward. The slitted eye going very wide and then very narrow. That eye had been drawn and redrawn five times.

"He will be insufferable about it," Viserys finally decided, laughing a little and forgetting about his previous tears and worries. "He already thinks highly of himself."

"And besides." Vis turned the card over once, examining it.

"I should paint Vermithor," he said, as if this had only just occurred to him, which it mostly had. "He'll be furious if he finds out Caraxes has a portrait and he doesn't."

He paused, looking at his hands again. The soot-black pigment had gotten into the creases of his knuckles. He was going to be finding red stains for days.

"I'll need more paint," he added, practical. "And a bigger board. Vermithor takes up considerably more space."

[princevistargaryen]

The Truth Will Set You Free (But First, It Will Make You Miserable)

Starter for @rogue-prince-rising

The courtyard lay quiet, still and bare of snow for the first time in months, but the sky was clear with little flowers springing up between the cracks of stone, and that was enough for Vis.

He sat cross-legged on the flagstones, a small wooden board balanced on his knees. The board had once been the lid of a wine crate, he’d taken it from the stores himself and sanded it smooth with Owen's help. His fingers were stained with pigment—soot-black, brick-red, a thin wash of gold from paints.

A card, a merchant would have called it. A painting, Viserys corrected the imaginary merchant in his head, because a prince should give good gifts and Vis has been unable to think of what his father lacked.

So, a painting lovingly crafted by hand it was.

Violet had given him the idea, she and her siblings had made a combined present. Maybe next year when the twins were a little more grown up they could all make something together for kepa too.

Hugh had carved his father the symbol of their house in wood, and Owen's mother had helped him arrange a present of finely made foreign quill set for his Papa.

Zachery had refused to say anything except that he was keeping it a secret. Very characteristic of him. Vis had been unsurprised even as Hugh and Owen groaned and moaned and eventually moved on to heckling him.

Viserys wanted to paint Caraxes.

He sketched first with charcoal, tongue caught between his teeth in concentration. A dragon took shape beneath his hand. Coiled and watchful, wings folded close. He had tried once to draw it roaring and had scraped the whole thing clean because of his lack of skill.

Art was perhaps not his strongest suit. Vis probably should have thought of that before he started this.

Instead Vis painted The Blood Wyrm resting at ease. Not in the pit, but somewhere it was green and pretty and blessed with eternal spring.

This was the second painting that he was planning to give to someone. The first one had been for Zach but– no one had known— and Vis had been so unhappy at the time and in turn made Zachery so unhappy that he had decided to command Vermithor to burn the half finished art and instead presented some impersonal gifts for Zach's squiring instead.

Viserys blinked harshly, and swiftly wiped away a stray tear. In his distraction over memories he failed to notice the footsteps behind him.

[aemond-of-house-targaryen]

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."

[princeviserystargaryen00]

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.

[aemond-of-house-targaryen]

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."

[princeviserystargaryen00]

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-of-house-targaryen]

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.”

[princeviserystargaryen00]

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

[aemond-of-house-targaryen]

"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."

[princeviserystargaryen00]

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.

[aemond-of-house-targaryen]

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."

[princeviserystargaryen00]

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.

[princeviserystargaryen00]

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.”

[thejacaerys]

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,"

[princeviserystargaryen00]

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.

[thejacaerys]

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.

[princeviserystargaryen00]

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.”

[thejacaerys]

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,"

[princeviserystargaryen00]

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.

[thejacaerys]

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.

[princeviserystargaryen00]

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.”

[thejacaerys]

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.

[princeviserystargaryen00]

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.

[thejacaerys]

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.

[princeviserystargaryen00]

Viserys barely heard Jace’s apology over the pounding in his ears. His face was still buried in his Kepa’s shoulder, his body stiff, his chest heaving in the remnants of his anger and shame. He squeezed his eyes shut tighter, refusing to move, refusing to acknowledge the presence of his older brother lingering in the doorway.

Jace didn’t mean it. Not really.

Vis knew that. Knew it in the way his brother’s voice sounded—tight, forced, like the words were being dragged from his throat against his will. Like he was only saying them because their father expected him to.

He hated that. He hated all of it. He hated liars.

Jace didn’t care that he was upset. He had only come because it was his duty. Because that’s what a proper heir does—pretends to care, offers apologies that mean nothing, learns how to say all the right words but never actually feel them.

It made Viserys’ stomach churn.

He whimpered, lifting his head only slightly from Daemon’s tunic. His father’s arm was still wrapped around him, solid and steady, but his free hand was braced on the table, fingers curled slightly—tense. Annoyed.

Good. Papa knew, too. Knew that Jace was only saying what he thought he was supposed to.

Vis sucked in a sharp breath, his face hot, his body still sore from the sparring match. He wiped at his cheeks angrily, but the tears wouldn’t stop completely. His emotions always got the better of him. That was why Jace was better. That was why Aeg was better.

He looked up just in time to see Jace turn away, his jaw set, his hands clenched at his sides. He wasn’t looking at him. He wasn’t even trying.

Coward.

Vis swallowed past the lump in his throat, watching as Jace stormed off, his form tense, like he was fighting the urge to slam the door behind him.

The moment he was gone, Vis sat up straighter, furiously wiping at his face again. "He didn't mean it kepa," he muttered, his voice thick.

[rogue-prince-rising]

Daemon exhaled slowly through his nose, his grip tightening slightly where his fingers curled against the wood of the table.

His eldest son was already halfway out the door, spine stiff, shoulders squared like a boy trying to carry the weight of a man. His youngest was still tucked against him, his small frame shaking, his anger and shame warring with the raw emotion he couldn’t yet swallow down.

This was the part his brother had always avoided. The part that left cuts deeper than any blade.

“Jacaerys.” His voice was low, steady. It allowed no argument. “Come here.”

Jace hesitated. Daemon saw it in the shift of his weight, in the way his fingers twitched at his sides, but he turned back nonetheless. He didn’t meet his father’s eyes, didn’t look at his brother either.

Daemon kept his arm around Viserys, but reached out with his free hand, catching Jace by the wrist before the boy could think to resist. He tugged him forward gently, guiding him down onto his lap.

The way he had when Jace was younger, when he would curl into his chest without hesitation, when he still saw his father as someone to run to instead of someone to defy. The boy was stiff now, rigid beneath his hands, but Daemon didn’t let him pull away.

“Stop,” he said, his voice quiet but firm. “You’re not leaving. You’re going to sit here. With me. With your brother.”

Jace didn’t fight again. He slumped, his face turned away, though his whole body vibrated with barely contained frustration. Daemon let out a slow breath, his hand resting on Jace’s back, the other still holding Viserys close. He felt them both; one trembling from anger and shame, the other from hurt and betrayal. Two boys who loved each other more than they could ever say, even if neither of them could feel it right now.

“I know,” Daemon started, his voice low, steady, even. “I know this isn’t fair. I know it feels like the world’s asking too much of you, Jace. You’re the eldest, the heir, and everyone expects you to be stronger, smarter, better, even when you’re barely old enough to know who you are. I know how that feels.”

I have seen this happening.

His voice didn’t waver, but his throat felt tight, his mind flicking back to a different solar, a different father, a different childhood where love and duty had never sat in the same room together.

“But you’re not just an heir, Jace. You’re a brother. His brother.” He glanced at Viserys, whose face was still buried against his shoulder. “Viserys is not ready to learn the lessons you think he needs to. And that is not a failure. It is simply what it means to be young.”

Daemon shifted, tilting his head just enough to meet Jace’s eyes, even when his son tried to avoid it. Stubborn as a dragon.

“And you, Viserys.” Daemon said, quieter still, his voice steady but not unkind. “Your brother isn’t the enemy. He’s not trying to hurt you because he enjoys it. He’s angry because he’s scared. Because he doesn’t know how to carry everything on his shoulders, and no one’s ever taught him how to put it down.”

Jace was still tense, his jaw clenched, but Daemon knew his son well enough to see the way his breathing changed. He knew that some part of him was listening, whether he wanted to or not.

“You both think you’re alone in this,” Daemon said, his voice low but steady. “You’re not. Not while I’m here. Not while you have each other.”

Daemon never had a father who would say that. He had never had a brother who could. But he was determined not to let his sons fall into the same trap.

He would be a better father.

He could be the man Rhaenyra deserved by her side, the one she could be proud of.

He could. He had to be.

“Not while I still draw breath. I won’t let you be alone.”

Neither of the boys spoke. He didn’t let them. He just held them there and prayed to gods he didn’t believe in that it would be enough.

[thejacaerys]

Jacaerys was right on the edge of the doorframe as he was about to leave— when hearing his father’s voice. He turned back to look. He stepped back fully into the room.

He felt his father’s hands on his back as his father told him words of wisdom. There was a slight hesitance in his action as he glanced up at him.

Hearing the words from Daemon… his head went down. Nothing felt right. He felt called out. He didn’t need to hear those words.

He already knew himself. He couldn’t meet his eyes… but he knew Daemon would force him to… he gave him a small glance.

Jace’s eyes couldn’t look at Viserys. Nothing to could force him to stare him down. Nothing. Though Viserys was the upset one— it made Jacaerys even more upset.

He knew he could feel tears welling up in his eyes. But he didn’t want to show weakness. He looked up in the slightest manner and then blinked the tears way.

The prince focused back onto Daemon… then he tightened his jaw. The way he always did. It outlined his jawline… in a sense…

When he heard the words that you would never be alone… his eyes— traveled towards Viserys and to Daemon.

“Viserys… you will never be alone… either….” Jacaerys whispered. “and I’m sorry…”

The words were truthful. Exactly, how he wanted to say it. He looked up at his father… and then back to his brother. His hand went to his shoulder giving him a slight squeeze.

A small ruffle on his brother’s hair… “I love you… and I’m never trying to purposely hurt you,”

Jace gave Viserys a slight smile… and looked up at Daemon hoping for some acceptance and truth.

[davos-allyrion]

⚕ A REMEDY FOR SUSPICION ⚕

(Starter with @princeviserystargaryen00)

The chamber was thick with the cloying scent of incense and sweat, the air so still it felt as though the walls themselves were holding their breath. Queen Rhaenyra had refused the maesters, had refused nearly everyone, and so here he was—the butcher of Godsgrace, playing the healer of King’s Landing.

Viserys watched him with open suspicion, and Davos did not blame him. If even half the whispers about him were true, he wouldn’t trust himself either.

A killer. A monster. A lord with no business in a sickroom.

Davos had heard it all.

He was not a man accustomed to kindness, not truly, but sickness was an enemy he could fight with bare hands. His gardens in Godsgrace were filled with herbs that could still a fever, calm a stomach, draw poison from a wound as surely as he could draw the life from a man’s throat. He had seen enough illness to know the boy was suffering, but Viserys would not speak. He had not spoken since Davos entered.

“Fine,” Davos murmured. “We can do this without words.”

He reached for the boy’s wrist, feeling the flutter of his pulse beneath skin too pale for a prince of dragon’s blood. Not weak, but not strong enough. His fingers traced the bones of Viserys’ hand, pressing lightly at the joints, the tendons, testing for pain. Viserys tensed but did not flinch, only shifting to offer his other arm in quiet resignation

Davos leaned back, studying him. No wasting, no sores. No summer fever’s rash, nor the trembling weakness of flux. But something was there, just beneath the prince’s carefully guarded expression. A faint sheen of sweat above his lip. The way his hand rested against his stomach—not in pain, but protective. Wary.

Davos’ lips twitched, a sharp sliver of amusement. “You think I mean to poison you.”

Viserys said nothing. He didn’t have to.

“Wouldn’t be the worst way,” Davos mused, reaching for the vial at his belt. “Quiet. Clean. Leaves no mark.” He uncorked it with his teeth and spat the stopper onto the bedside table. “But this?” He swirled the liquid, holding it to the candlelight. Golden as fire. “This is willowbark and honey. For pain.”

He took a deliberate sip, letting it coat his tongue before swallowing. When he extended the vial to Viserys, the boy only stared.

“I am a cruel man, Prince Viserys, but I do not waste my poisons on children.” His tone was not gentle, but neither was it unkind. It was simply true. There was nothing to gain from harming those who sheltered him, and he would not waste his efforts on petty cruelty. “Now, you can tell me what ails you, or I can keep talking until you wish I had poisoned you instead.”

A long pause. A flicker of hesitation. Viserys’ fingers flexed slightly. Good. Hesitation meant thought, and thought meant trust, however reluctant.

“Your mother brought me here to heal, not to harm. I do not fail the tasks I am given.” He set the vial on the bedside table, within reach. “Drink if you will. Speak if you must.”

And then, because he knew patience was its own kind of weapon, he simply sat back, folded his hands, and waited.

He had done the same in Godsgrace when the sick sought him out; not always with trust, but always with desperation. He had seen so many children brought before him, eyes fever-bright, parents hovering like shadows in the doorway. Even the mightiest lords had come to him, heavy with coin and fear, as though gold could barter with death. But even a crown could not grant health.

Davos exhaled slowly, his gaze drifting to the closed door. Beyond it, another boy waited in the hallway, one of Viserys’ friends. Davos had passed him on his way in, pacing anxiously, his brows knit tight, his lips bitten raw. He recognized that look. He had seen it before on the faces of parents, siblings, and frightened lovers, all struggling to make sense of their affection in the shadow of suffering.

He turned back to the prince, his fingers idly twisting the rings on his hands as though oblivious to the faint glimmer of curiosity in Viserys’ eyes.

I caught you.

“You’ve a friend out there,” Davos said, his voice low and deliberate, “pacing the hall like a caged beast. He looks as though he’d carve out his own heart and trade it for yours if it meant seeing you well. I imagine you’ll want to rise soon, to meet him, to ease his mind. But I can’t let him in, not until I know whether your illness is contagious…”

[princeviserystargaryen00]

The dornish man was playing a game. That much, Viserys understood. It was not one he had been taught by his brothers or drilled in by his tutors, but he knew it all the same. He had watched men play it before, with softer words and sharper smiles, with flattery and half-truths and careful, careful patience.

The butcher-lord did not flatter, and he did not lie, but he was patient. He sat like a wolf just beyond the firelight, waiting, unbothered by Viserys’ silence.

It was infuriating.

Vis had known worse pains than this, had suffered more than some foul stomach and the weakness that clung to his limbs. He had been made to drink brews that burned his tongue, and had felt his body betray him with fever, with nausea, with spells of dizziness that turned the world into a storm-tossed ship.

But he had endured it. He had endured because he was his Father's son, because he was dragon’s blood, and dragons did not whimper in their beds.

So he would endure this, too. He had planned to endure it alone.

Viserys eyed the medicine warily. The man had swallowed from it first, true, but that meant nothing. If he were truly a killer, he would know a dozen ways to feign safety. Still, he could not deny the slow, creeping ache in his bones, the tight, unpleasant twist of his insides.

“Alright I'll trust you– but only because you're friends with my big brother joffery!” He reached for the vial even though straining his hand to reach for it hurt.

The willowbark was bitter, but the honey dulled it, and the warmth of it sliding down his throat was not wholly unpleasant. He grimaced anyway, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand.

A friend pacing the halls.

Vis knew who it was without asking, without wondering. He had only one fool loyal enough to hover like a mother hen, and though the image should have been amusing, he found no humor in it.

Idiot.

It should have been comforting, perhaps, to know that someone cared so much. But it only left him feeling raw, his skin too tight, his ribs aching with something that was not entirely sickness. It was bad enough to be trapped in this stifling room, worse still to know that he was not suffering alone.

“My grandfather Baelon died of a burst belly.” he started abruptly.

[davos-allyrion]

Davos pressed a firm hand against the side of the boy’s belly. No flinching, no pain. No burst belly. He had seen that kind of death before; men doubled over, faces twisted in agony, hands clutching at their midsections as the poison or sickness tore through them. Viserys showed none of those signs. Just pale, drawn, and miserable, like any other highborn boy who had spent too much time curled in bed, letting sickness wear him thin.

“You’re not dying.” Davos’ voice was flat, unimpressed. He lifted his hand away and reached for the boy’s jaw instead, tilting it up with the hook of one finger so he could see his throat in the dim light. No swelling, no angry red streaks. Not perfect, but nothing to worry over.

Likely he had eaten something his body didn’t agree with. Davos had seen it enough times, lords and ladies thinking themselves untouchable, yet brought low by a bit of bad meat or water left too long in a warm jug. Still, best to be sure.

He let go of Viserys’ face and turned to the bag he had brought, shifting through the small collection of remedies tucked inside. After a moment, he pulled free a small tin, popping it open to reveal a fine black powder. Activated charcoal. It was no miracle cure, but it would pull whatever foulness was left in his gut before it could do more harm.

Davos poured a careful spoonful into a cup of water, stirring it until the liquid darkened. When he turned back to Viserys, the boy’s expression had already soured, lips pressed together in clear refusal.

Davos only huffed, settling the cup down beside him. “Tastes bad,” he admitted. “But you’ll be better for it.”

The boy didn’t move. Stubborn. Davos exhaled through his nose, leveling him with a flat stare before leaning back, hands resting idly on his knees, patient as ever. He could wait.

“There is a ghost in my room, did you know?” Davos mused, his voice mild. He hated small talk, but pinching a prince’s nose to make him swallow medicine wasn’t in the cards. “Do you have one here too? Are you trying to become the next one?”

He let the words settle, watching Viserys’ expression for any flicker of reaction. Anything to push past that miserable, tight-lipped defiance. Anything to remind the boy that this—this sickness, this moment—was just a passing thing. And that ghosts, once made, did not get better.

[princeviserystargaryen00]

Viserys did not believe in ghosts. No. Ghosts were for children, for old women telling stories by the lamp. And yet—

His skin prickled.

He exhaled slowly, willing the feeling away, but it stayed, slithering along his spine like a breath against his neck. The room was too warm, and yet he shivered. He did not want to die. He did not want to be a ghost.

Davos said he wasn’t dying.

Vis started at the dark water in front of him, his fingers curling around the blanket draped over his lap. His stomach still twisted with discomfort, but not so badly that he would drink whatever foul concoction the Dornish lord had set before him. He was not some peasant child, starved and desperate enough to lap up bitter brews without question. He was a prince. He did not have to do anything he did not wish to do.

Viserys shifted, his fingers curling against the silk of his sheets. He wanted Zachery.

He hated that he wanted Zachery.

But the thought of his friend outside the door, waiting, fretting, gnawed at him worse than the sickness. Zach, who worried too much. Zach, who never let him be alone, who argued with him over the stupidest things but would not leave his side when he was unwell. Zach, who looked at him sometimes like he was something more than what he was.

Zachery would call him a fool for lying here, for refusing medicine just to prove a point.

Vis reached for the cup before he could talk himself out of it, fingers tight around the handle. The liquid inside was dark, thick, and it smelled awful. His nose wrinkled, but he forced himself to lift it to his lips.

The taste was worse than he imagined—bitter and wrong, coating his tongue like soot. His stomach lurched in protest, and for a moment, he thought he might spit it back out, but he swallowed instead, throat working against every instinct.

Outside the door, he heard footsteps pacing.

He closed his eyes and listened.

[davos-allyrion]

Davos watched as the prince closed his eyes, the bitter draught finally settling in his stomach. Good. That was the hardest part done. He reached for Viserys’ hand, his own calloused fingers deft as he turned the boy’s palm upward.

“This’ll do more good than you think,” he muttered, more to himself than to his patient. From a pouch at his belt, he withdrew a small, thin needle and pressed the tip against the pad of Viserys’ thumb. A single drop of dark blood welled up, sliding sluggishly down pale skin. The old woman who’d taught him swore by it; sometimes, a little blood let out did more for the liver than all the bitter potions in the world.

Viserys winced, but before he could protest, Davos whistled sharply. The sound was a command as much as it was a courtesy. “Let the boy’s shadow in,” he called. The guard outside did not hesitate.

Zachery stepped through the doorway, moving with the hesitance of a man caught red-handed. His expression was carefully neutral, but Davos knew the type well—sharp eyes, an easy step that made it seem like he was always retreating even when he moved forward. This was a child who had spent too much time watching from the edges.

Davos nearly chuckled. Gods, the boy even looked like him. If he were any older than twenty, he might have thought Zachery was his own kin, some long-lost nephew or cousin. Some bastard he would not have sired. He smirked at the thought but said nothing of it.

Zachery’s gaze swept over the room before landing on Viserys, his concern barely masked. “How bad is it?”

Davos noted the way Viserys’ hands curled into the sheets, the faint tightness around his mouth. Pride. A fool’s pride, but one Davos would not shame him for. Instead, he straightened and sighed.

“Bad,” he lied, shaking his head, as if the words pained him. “Came upon him quick, too. Nasty thing, worse than I’ve seen in some time. The kind that might take a weaker man right out of his skin.” He placed a hand against his own heart, bowing his head briefly. “But the Seven were merciful. And your prince? Stronger than most.”

Zachery’s brows lifted slightly, his lips parting before he pressed them back together, as though considering whether he should be impressed. He didn’t speak right away, only studying Viserys for a long moment. Davos, for his part, only grinned, tossing a wink in Viserys’ direction when Zachery wasn’t looking.

Davos let the moment stretch, then clapped his hands together. “Well then. Should I leave you two alone?”

Zachery’s head snapped up, his ears darkening at the edges. For the first time since he’d entered the room, the boy looked uncertain, caught between his usual reserve and some quiet embarrassment. He hesitated too long to form an answer.

Davos, thoroughly amused, watched the silent exchange between them.

Unspoken tension, thick as fog, stretched in the space between the prince and his shadow. If they thought themselves subtle, they were mistaken.

[princeviserystargaryen00]

Vis stared at Lord Davos, then at Zachery, then back again, his stomach twisting with something that had nothing to do with sickness. The resemblance was there—sharp in a way he had never noticed before. The same dark hair, the same knowing eyes, the same way they stood like they belonged in the shadows more than the light. Davos was older, rougher, the lines of his face carved deep with experience, but Zachery—Zachery had that same quiet watchfulness, that same way of looking at him like he saw things Viserys didn’t want to be seen.

That was irritating. It was always irritating. And yet—

Davos smirked, something lazy and sharp, and Viserys nearly bristled before he realized Zachery was doing the same thing, lips curling in that same barely-there, knowing way. They weren’t even looking at each other, but it was like they had been cut from the same cloth, woven from the same shadows. It was unfair, really. It was infuriating.

It was—

He hated this.

Vis clenched his jaw and, very deliberately, turned his attention to Zachery. Safer. Maybe. Not really. Zachery was watching him with that same damn expression, half-worried, half-exasperated, like he was some delicate thing prone to breaking.

Zachery shifted his weight from foot to foot, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, like he was holding himself together by sheer force of will. “Are you…” He hesitated, then let out a sharp breath. “You’re really alright?”

Vis rolled his eyes, slumping back against his pillows. “I’m not dead, am I?”

Zachery didn’t laugh.

Instead, he moved closer, his sharp eyes scanning Viserys’ face like he didn’t quite believe him. It made something uneasy coil in Viserys’ stomach—something worse than sickness, something he couldn’t name.

“Don’t stare at me like that,” he snapped.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m just looking.”

“That’s the same thing.”

Davos made a sound that was almost—but not quite—a laugh. Zachery ignored him, stepping closer to the bed. His brows were drawn together, not quite a frown, but something near enough to one.

Vis wanted to tell him to leave.

He also wanted him to stay.

It was infuriating.

He pressed his tongue against his teeth, thinking of something sharp to say, something that would make Zachery stop looking at him like that, like he was something fragile, something breakable. But before he could speak, Zachery shifted, reaching into his pocket.

“I brought you something.”

Viserys blinked, thrown off-course. “What?”

Zachery pulled something small from his coat and held it out. A carved wooden dragon, no bigger than Viserys’ palm, its wings folded close, its body curled like it had just settled in to sleep.

It was—well. It was ugly. The whittling was rough, the shape uneven, the wood dark and splintered in places where the knife had slipped.

Vis stared at it.

Zachery shifted his weight, the tips of his ears still red. “Owen and I made it. It’s stupid. You don’t have to take it.”

Viserys did not reach for it. He did not look at Zachery. He only swallowed, his throat dry, his face hot, and said, too quickly, “It’s not stupid.”

Then, before he could think better of it, he snatched the little dragon from Zachery’s hand and curled his fingers around it.

He dragged other his hand over his face, willing away the heat in his cheeks. “And I told you, I’m fine, you shouldn't have bothered.”

He kept his eyes on the ugly little dragon in his palm, feeling the weight of it, the rough edges, the uneven cuts where the knife had carved too deep.

Zachery was quiet for a long moment.

Then, to Viserys’ absolute horror, he reached forward—slow, hesitant, like he thought Viserys might swat him away—and pressed his palm against his forehead.

Viserys froze.

“You’re still warm,” Zach muttered, frowning.

His heart slammed against his ribs.

Then, finally, Zach pulled away, stuffing his hands into his pockets, gaze darting to the side. “You scared me,” he admitted, voice quiet.

Viserys groaned, “You worry too much, you and Violet both, she tried to read to me earlier but left because she started crying.”

[davos-allyrion]

Davos had seen a lot in his life. Sandstorms that could strip flesh from bone, battlefields so blood-soaked the air reeked of iron for days, men vanishing beneath the waves in an instant, swallowed by the sea.

All of it? Highly entertaining.

But nothing compared to watching these two bicker.

Leaning lazily against the wall, arms crossed, he let his gaze flick between them. Zachery, all tense shoulders and furrowed brows, hovering like a mother hen too anxious to sit on his own damn eggs. And Viserys, feverish and pale but still sharp-tongued, snapping back with the sheer will of a man too stubborn to die.

It was a scene Davos had witnessed before, just usually between married couples.

“If you two start arguing about dinner next, I’m going to assume I walked in on something private,” Davos drawled, raising a brow.

“That’s not—” Zachery cut himself off, rubbing a hand over his face like he was one insult away from strangling something. “I’m just making sure he’s alright.”

Davos hummed, unconvinced. “Mm. And if he dies, you’ll throw yourself on his funeral pyre, is that it?”

Zachery scowled, shifting his weight like he wanted to plant his feet in Davos’ jaw. “It’s not funny.”

“It’s a little funny.”

“It’s not.”

Davos smirked. Because it was hilarious. More than that, it was predictable.

Young men like them never realized how obvious they were—the way they hovered, the way they worried, the way they clutched at concern like it was something that could be held. Davos had been young once, too. Had known that sharp-edged kind of worry.

Didn’t matter now.

“Well, far be it from me to interrupt such tender moments.” He gestured vaguely between them. “If you need me to send for a septon—”

Zachery let out a noise of pure frustration, rubbing his temple like Davos was personally giving him a headache. “You’re awful.”

“Not the first time I’ve heard that.”

Zachery’s ears burned red, but he didn’t rise to the bait. Disappointing. Instead, he squared his shoulders, forcing his expression into something more serious, more stubborn. “He was sick. We were worried about him.”

The we didn’t go unnoticed. Davos could imagine it now, Zachery pacing the halls, fretful as a mother with a newborn, while some poor girl—Violet, presumably—tried and failed to keep her own tears in check.

Devastating, truly.

Davos tilted his head, considering him. “And that makes you his keeper, does it?”

“No,” Zachery said, sharp and defensive. Then, softer, with a glance toward the bed, “Just his friend.”

“A friend.” Davos’ gaze flicked to the ugly little dragon still clutched in Viserys’ hand. “Well. At least you’re a sentimental one.”

Zachery tensed, bracing himself for whatever else Davos might pry from him, but instead, his eyes narrowed slightly as he studied him—really looked at him—for the first time.

“…Are you a maester?”

Davos arched a brow. “Do I look like a maester?”

“You don’t have a chain.”

“And you don’t have any carving skills, yet here we are.”

Zachery exhaled through his nose, unimpressed. “You know a lot about sickness. And healing.”

“I’m simply an alchemy enthusiast.”

“…A what?”

Davos smirked, slow and knowing, and spread his hands as if that explained everything. “You’d be amazed what you can learn when you put your mind to it.”

Zachery looked like he wanted to argue. He also looked like he was smart enough not to. Instead, he exhaled sharply and turned his attention back to Viserys, checking him over like he still didn’t trust that he was fine.

Davos watched, amused, and leaned back in his chair once more.

Gods. These two were going to be the death of him.

[princeviserystargaryen00]

Viserys hated this so much.

He hated the way Zachery looked at him like he was made of glass, hated the way Davos smirked like he knew some grand joke Viserys wasn’t in on. Hated the warmth curling in his stomach that had nothing to do with sickness and everything to do with the ugly little dragon clutched in his hand.

He scowled down at it, running his thumb over the uneven whittling marks. He could see where the knife had slipped, where the wood had splintered just a little too much. It was hideous. It was perfect.

His fingers curled around it.

When he glanced up, Zach was still watching him, arms crossed, mouth pressed into that tight, worried line Vis had come to recognize. He looked like he wanted to say something—something irritating, something concerned, something soft. Viserys did not want to hear it.

He threw himself back against the pillows with a dramatic sigh. “You’re still hovering.”

Zach didn’t even blink. “You were sick.”

“I was fine.”

“You were sick,” Zachery repeated, firmer this time.

Vis groaned, dragging a hand over his face. “You sound like Vi.”

Zachery’s mouth twitched. “She’d like to hear that.”

“She’d be insufferable about it.”

“She already is.”

“No she's not.” Vis huffed, but the tension in his shoulders eased just a little. It was easier when they bickered like this, easier when Zach was exasperated instead of concerned. Concern made something inside Viserys twist.

It was stupid—this whole thing was stupid. The medicine, the fussing, the way Zachery was looking at him like he might keel over at any second.

Zach frowned, tilting his head slightly. “What?”

“What, what?”

“You’re making that face.”

“I’m not making a face.”

“You are.”

“Be quiet.”

He turned towards Lord Allyrion shooting him a half hearted glare and a sarcastic wave. “You can leave, you know, I don’t need a nursemaid– or an alchemist.”

[davos-allyrion]

Davos remained seated, his eyes glinting with amusement as the scene before him unfolded. The tension between Zachery and Viserys was palpable, thick with the kind of youthful irritation that always danced dangerously close to affection. There was something inherently entertaining about it, like watching a storm brew on the horizon, knowing it was only a matter of time before it struck.

Viserys, of course, couldn’t resist pushing his luck, ordering Davos to leave as though he were a mere servant. But Davos wasn’t just any servant. And he certainly wasn’t in the mood to tolerate Viserys's sharp tongue.

“Don’t get too comfortable, Viserys,” Davos said with a dry, measured tone, the words barely rising above a whisper. “You might not need a nursemaid, but you're certainly acting like a spoiled child.”

Zachery shot him an apologetic look, but Davos gave no indication he’d noticed. He wasn’t here to play the part of the accommodating guest.

Reaching into his pouch, Davos produced a small vial filled with pale green liquid, holding it up between his thumb and forefinger, handing it to Zachery with a quiet nod. “He’ll need another dose. Should settle his stomach and calm that fiery temper of his.”

Zachery hesitated, his eyes flicking between the vial and Viserys, the mix of concern and confusion clear in the lines of his face. He took it slowly, glancing down at the contents in his hands, his lips curling into a thin, uncertain line.

“Clearly,” Davos continued, his voice taking on a sharper edge as he leaned in, “Viserys could use a firmer hand, one that doesn’t fall victim to his... charm.” The words lingered in the air, the teasing tone only half-hidden, aimed to go unnoticed by Viserys but landing like a punch to Zachery’s ribs.

Zachery’s face flushed crimson, and his gaze fell to the vial as if it were the only thing that could possibly save him from the sudden weight of Davos’s words. He stammered out something unintelligible, still visibly rattled.

"Well then," Davos said, standing up with deliberate slowness. “Make sure he gets it. He'll thank you later, or he won’t. But that’s part of the fun, isn’t it?”

Zachery nodded mutely, his voice lost beneath a flurry of thoughts, but the way his hands gripped the vial told Davos everything he needed to know.

With one last glance at Viserys, still wearing that smug, defiant look even as he fought to keep his balance, and at Zachery, who now seemed to shrink beneath the weight of the moment, Davos gave them a knowing smile.

He didn’t need to say another word.

Love, after all, had its own way of finding root—especially when it was nurtured in equal parts by frustration and affection.

[princeviserystargaryen00]

Hair carried memories

Starter with @elindamassey

Viserys stood before his mirror, his pale silver-gold hair cascading a little past his neck. But today, even his hair had betrayed him. His favorite bee-shaped clip, a tiny golden thing with inlaid amber wings, had twisted itself into a tangled snare. No matter how he tugged or smoothed, the strands refused to let go, knotted tight around the delicate metalwork.

He tugged, fingers clumsy and impatient, wincing as the tangles pulled at his scalp. Servants would fix it, he knew. His mother would scold him, tell him to sit still, let the maids work the knots free with gentle hands and perfumed oils. But Viserys did not feel like waiting. He did not feel like patience today.

With a last frustrated huff, he yanked at the strands again, but they only tightened further. His scalp ached, his patience frayed, and in a burst of childish fury, he seized a small dagger from his bedside. It was a name day present– a beautiful thing bejeweled with rubies, not truly weaponlike and more decorative but still sharp enough for this.

Just for a second, Vis hesitated, holding the dagger to the side of his pale hair, and a second was enough for him to be interrupted by the sound of his chamber door opening. He turned his head, scowling at the interrupter.

[elindamassey]

Elinda had volunteered to bring fresh linens up to Prince Viserys’ rooms. She had noticed the stacks of clean linens growing taller and taller in the depth of the castle, only to learn that the washing staff was lacking due to illness. Elinda grabbed the pile for Prince Viserys, promising to return for more of the linens for the young princes and princesses, before she made her way up the stairs to the prince’s room.

“My prince sorry for the interr-“ Elinda stopped in her tracks, half curtsying as she noticed what she had just walked into. “My sweet prince! What are you doing?” She asked in worry and quickly put the pile of linens down before approaching Viserys, undeterred by the scowl or the small knife in his hand.

She looked up and down, from the knife to the tangled mess of the prince’s hair, only then spotting the ornate bee the prince favored. “Viserys,” she said quietly and reached out, placing her hand delicately on his shoulder.

“Sit, let me help you? Either by combing out your clip or by fetching my scissors for a proper cut, rather than what mess your knife might leave you with?” She asked with a soft smile. “And please tell me, how this happened in the first place? You’re usually so adept at placing your clip. It’s been a while since you’ve needed any help with your hair or haircare.”

[princeviserystargaryen00]

Viserys glared at Elinda, his scowl deepening as she approached. He hated being caught like this—helpless, frustrated, on the verge of doing something reckless. Worse still, she spoke to him in that soft, coaxing tone, as if he were a child on the verge of tears. He was not a child– Well he was but he would be grown soon and besides he was a prince of the realm– the legacy of the good king.

His fingers tightened around the dagger’s hilt as if to ward her off, but Elinda did not flinch. She never did. He huffed through his nose, sharply, but after a beat, he let his shoulders drop, his grip slacken.

“I do not need a proper cut,” he snapped, though the words lacked true heat. His hair was silver and gold, fine and pale and rare—precious. Not to be hacked away like some stable boy’s. But the more he thought of sawing through the strands himself, the less certain he became. He lowered the dagger to his lap, frowning.

Elinda’s fingers, light as silk, settled on his shoulder. The gesture was familiar. Steadying. It made his pride bristle and yet, begrudgingly, he allowed it.

“It was not my fault,” he muttered. “The clip caught wrong today, and when I tried to fix it, it only worsened. And then—” He gestured vaguely at his reflection, the mess of it, the failure. “I was not going to ruin it. I was only going to cut the part that was tangled.” A small, petty distinction, but one that mattered to him.

After a pause, his gaze flicked up to hers, wary. “You will not tell my mother?” It was not a plea. Not quite. But there was a shadow of worry behind the demand.

He had no patience for scoldings today.

“Why are you here?” he asked sharply.

[elindamassey]

“Linens,” Elinda explained and gestured back towards the pile she had placed by the door. “There’s a sickness with the staff, I volunteered to help,” she said easily.

“No one is saying it’s your fault, my prince,” she soothed softly as he seemed to relax, and he hoped he would let her help him. “Maybe one of the prongs got bent? I’ve tried that a few times, it makes quite the mess of hair. And you seem to have worked up quite the tangle.”

Elinda nodded as she listened to him. “Oh, I didn’t think you were going to cut off all your beautiful hair. Because then I would definitely have to tell your mother,” she added the last part with a playful smile. “Don’t fret, my prince. I will keep your secret.”

Once certain that he would accept her help, Elinda picked up the comb from his dressing table and a small container of hair oil. She turned the comb over, using the pick to carefully begin to untangle the knot below the pin.

“If it is a bend prong, I know just who can fix it,” she said, without taking her eyes off the task at hand. She picked up the oil and added a small drop to the tangle of silver and gold strands. She had been fascinated with the Targeryen hair for as long as she could remember. “Would you like me to braid your hair when we get this out?”

[legacyofthegoodking]

“Only if it’s a prince’s braid. Not some milkmaid’s twist. I want something dignified. Regal.” He paused, gaze turning thoughtful. “Like a dragon’s tail, maybe. Could you do that?”

Vis had sat stiffly at first, his arms crossed and mouth drawn into a thin, sour line as Elinda worked. The cool touch of the comb’s pick through his hair made him flinch, though he refused to show it more than a twitch of his brow. He wanted to pretend he didn’t care. That this didn’t matter. That he wasn’t relieved.

But he was relieved.

The hair oil soothed the pull of the strands, the scent of it faint—jasmine and something sweeter, maybe honeysuckle. His maids always used rose, and he hated it. Rose was cloying and heavy. This… this was lighter.

“She wouldn’t have just scolded me,” Viserys muttered after a moment, watching the two of them in the mirror—her standing behind him, hands gentle, patient. “She would try to fix it.”

His fingers tapped once, twice, against the dagger now resting on his lap. For a while he was silent, letting the comb click gently through the loosening knot. She was careful, always careful, and he found himself tipping his head slightly toward her hands, instinctively giving her better access.

“…You’re good at this,” he mumbled. “Better than the maids. You don’t talk as much.” A beat. “Except when you do. But you say useful things.”

[rogue-prince-rising]

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽ HOW TO (NOT) SPEND AN EVENING IN KING’S LANDING ☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

(Starter with @princeviserystargaryen00)

Daemon had seen battle. He had taken heads, stormed cities, and carved his name into history with blood and dragonfire. But nothing could have prepared him for the sight that awaited him inside The Moon and Mirth.

His son—his thirteen-year-old son—sat stiff-backed on a velvet settee, red as a dawn-lit sky, looking very much like he wished Caraxes would come swooping down and end his suffering then and there.

“Prince Daemon,” purred the madam, inclining her head with a knowing smile. “As requested, none of my girls laid a finger on the young prince.”

Daemon exhaled through his nose, rubbing his jaw as he took in the scene. The room was thick with the scent of rose oil and expensive perfume, cloying enough to choke on. Silk draperies billowed with the evening breeze, lanterns cast flickering shadows along the walls, and the women lounging nearby were valiantly—yet unsuccessfully—hiding their amusement.

Viserys, meanwhile, looked as though he’d been doused in boiling wine.

The boy had always been precocious, unnervingly so. His mind was too quick for his years, sharper than his brothers’, and yet this had managed to catch Daemon off guard. He had hauled Jace and Luke out of taverns before, drunk on stolen Arbor gold and clinging to one another like half-drowned sailors. But this?

This was new.

Daemon hummed, stepping forward with deliberate ease, arms folding over his chest. “Tell me, pup,” he drawled, letting the silence stretch. “Was it the silks that lured you in? The wine? Or were you just hoping for a lesson before your old father got around to it?”

Viserys made a strangled sound but said nothing, his eyes trained resolutely on the floor.

A red-haired woman in a scandalously low-cut bodice smirked as she traced a teasing finger down his arm. “Oh, he was very polite, my prince… very curious, too.”

Daemon leveled her with a look. Not helping.

Viserys flinched but, to his credit, did not bolt. Yet. Daemon could see the way his eyes flicked toward the window beside him, weighing his chances.

Daemon sighed. “Alright, lad. On your feet.”

Viserys obeyed without hesitation, hands clasped behind his back so tightly his knuckles had gone white. His head was bowed, but Daemon knew better than to mistake that for shame. No, the boy was thinking, turning over every word and movement, storing it away for later. He always did.

Daemon reached out, ruffling his hair as he guided him toward the door. Predictably, Viserys bristled at the touch. Daemon smirked.

“We’ll talk about this on the way home,” he said easily. “You’re not getting out of that so easily.”

Viserys only nodded, still crimson.

As they stepped out into the cool night air, Daemon cast a last glance over his shoulder. “You did well to send word,” he told the madam. “A round on me.”

She winked. “We’ll be sure to toast the young prince’s health.”

Viserys made another strangled noise, and Daemon chuckled as he led him toward their waiting horses.

“You should be grateful, pup,” he mused, swinging himself into the saddle. “When I had my first brothel misadventure, there was no one to save me from it.”

Viserys climbed up stiffly, looking one step away from gnawing on the leather of the reins.

Daemon smirked, adjusting his grip as their horses turned toward the Red Keep.

“But I’ll tell you this, son: had it been your mother who came to fetch you, you’d be praying for the Stranger’s mercy.”

Viserys swallowed dryly.

Daemon let the silence hang just long enough before adding, far too cheerfully—

“Now. About the flowers and the bees…”

Viserys groaned, and the sound was swallowed by the steady rhythm of hooves on cobblestone.

[princeviserystargaryen00]

Viserys groaned, his grip tightening on the reins. His face burned with the memory of that awful moment in the brothel, his cheeks flushed with humiliation, he had never been so thankful for the dark of night. “Please, Kepa,” he muttered, his voice low, barely a whisper. “Not now.”

Father's chuckle was dark and low, the sound of it sliding over Viserys’s skin like an ominous caress. He didn’t even need to look at him to know the look on his face. The same smirk, the one that always made Vis feel like he was five years old again, with blue paint on his hands and on mother's pale ivory dress– now a deep blue by Viserys decree.

He was so, so embarrassed. What had he been thinking, coming here, stepping into the suffocating perfume and sheer clothed workers of the brothel? His curiosity of course, always pulling him in some shit despite the warning whispers in his head. But this… this was worse than he could have imagined. The smirks of the women, the way they had looked at him, the smile on the madam’s face—he could still feel the sting of it all. He had assumed they might not allow him entry, because of his mother's ire rather than his father's as he had thought at first but he'd soon been disproven.

Vis swallowed hard and forced his eyes ahead. The Red Keep loomed in the distance, each hoofbeat brought them closer to home—and to whatever lecture mother had in store for him when she found out and then whatever mix of teasing and scolding and awkward questions he'll have to deal with from his siblings.

He just wanted to know what it was really like and whether and whether– he swallowed thickly, stopping that line of thought. After all hadn't his uncles and father and grandfather and probably other dozen relatives enjoyed themselves in the street of silk and– and didn't the famously matching colouring of the people of Lys exist because of that very deed?

But he was only rapidly pulled in an unassuming room and was forced to wait like a criminal did for his execution or more accurately.………a misbehaving child.

"Gods," he muttered under his breath careful not to let his father hear. "I should have stayed in my room and read the adventures of the golden thief."

Gods, anything but this.

A muscle in his jaw ticked as he replayed the last couple of hours in his head. He had been so careful. He had slipped away unnoticed, had carried himself with subtleness, had made up a false name. And yet, his father had still found him.

He risked a glance at Father, who was watching him sidelong, the corners of his mouth twitching, the picture of a man thoroughly amused at his son’s expense.

“I already know about the flowers and the bees!” He protested louder his cheeks burning.

[rogue-prince-rising]

“And yet,” Daemon’s smirk cut through the night air like a blade, “you felt the need to confirm, didn’t you? Decided to take matters into your own hands? Well, my boy, fortune smiles upon you tonight. Your dear old father is feeling uncharacteristically generous.”

Viserys made a sound that was somewhere between a groan and a whimper, a noise that Daemon found utterly delightful. He guided his horse with the effortless grace of a man who owned the streets of King’s Landing—and perhaps he did.

“You see, lad,” Daemon continued, raising his collar as though he were a maester about to deliver a prognosis, “it’s not always a flower and a bee. Sometimes, two flowers prefer to bloom together. Sometimes, two bees enjoy a good spar with their stings. No, wait. That’s still too narrow. Sometimes, you have a sword, and another knight has a sheath. Or perhaps you fancy the sheath. You see, it’s all very complicated…”

He let the words linger, savoring the way Viserys seemed to shrink into his saddle, his knuckles whitening on the reins as if he could physically steer them away from the conversation.

“But fear not,” Daemon added, his tone shifting to one of mock solemnity. “I’ll spare you the gory details. Let me just say this: there’s knowing, and then there’s knowing. You think because your uncles, grandsire, and half the men in this cursed city have warmed brothel beds that they’re experts in matters of pleasure? Hah. Any fool can stumble into a whore’s lap, but that doesn’t mean he knows a damn thing about true pleasure. And pleasure, my boy, is a double-edged sword. Mishandle it, and you’ll find yourself bleeding.”

Viserys flushed crimson, but Daemon noted the way his son’s shoulders squared, the way his mind latched onto the words instead of recoiling. Good. The boy was listening, even if every fiber of him likely wished he wasn’t.

“You are a prince of the realm,” Daemon remarked as if he had to. “One day, you’ll be a man grown, with power enough that some will throw themselves at your feet while others plot to use you as a pawn. The difference between a king and a fool is knowing which is which.”

After a beat, Viserys muttered, rubbing his hand over his face, likely wishing he could vanish into the night.

“Oh, I know exactly what you’re thinking,” Daemon interrupted, his amusement bubbling to the surface. “And I can’t blame you. Curiosity is a powerful thing. But next time, spare yourself the humiliation and ask me first. I’m far more entertaining than whatever nonsense you’ve been piecing together in that head of yours.”

Viserys scoffed, muttering something about preferring death over enduring this conversation again. Daemon chuckled, barely holding back his laughter, for fear he’d fall off the horse.

“Would you rather your mother explained it to you?” Daemon asked, his brow lifting in feigned innocence. Viserys paled, his face twisting in sheer horror. “That’s what I thought.”

As they passed through the gates of the Red Keep, however, the laughter faded from Daemon’s eyes. Beneath the levity of the evening’s spectacle lay a quiet truth: his son was growing up. Sooner or later, Viserys would have to face the world beyond these walls, and Daemon could only hope he’d be ready.

Of course, there would be many more opportunities to torment him in the meantime. After all, what were fathers for, if not to mortify their sons at every turn?

[princeviserystargaryen00]

“I’d rather die than have this conversation again,” he muttered, more to himself than anything else, though he wasn’t sure his father would let him off that easy. He barely caught on to Father's words—knights and sheaths and two flowers—before jolting in shock and almost dropping the reins of his horse. Surely he doesn't know, but if not, then why was he—?

Viserys’s stomach lurched at the thought, and he squeezed his eyes shut, willing the conversation to stop. “Please, Kepa,” he muttered under his breath, but his voice barely escaped past the tightness in his throat; he swallowed hard, trying to ignore the faint taste of bile creeping up in his throat.

Gods, how had he let himself fall into this? How had he been so foolish to think he could handle this on his own? He should've convinced Aeg to come with him or get the aid of one of his uncles at Dragonstone.

He'd liked the ladies there, hadn't he? They were beautifully dressed in their shimmering silks and sultry smiles and provocative sway of their hips and the heat in their eyes until, of course, they had pulled themselves aside, but still looking at them had been– had been enlightening.

And yet when he kissed Zachary, Viserys had felt just as content as when he held Violet's hand, he swallowed hard, trying to ignore the faint taste of bile creeping up in his throat. There was something deeply wrong with him.

[rogue-prince-rising]

The corridors of the Red Keep were quiet at this hour, the torches burning low as Daemon strode toward his son’s chambers. He had half a mind to let the boy stew in his embarrassment for the night, but the other half—the half that had once been a reckless, hungry young man himself—knew better.

Of all his children, he might have expected this from Joffrey. Even Aegon, at a stretch. But Viserys? The quiet, bookish boy who spent his days buried in histories and his nights charting maps? That was unexpected.

And yet, there he had been, awkward and red-faced in the dim glow of a brothel’s candlelight, his hands clenched at his sides while the madam explained, with no small amount of amusement, that he hadn’t actually done anything.

“Just looking,” she had said. “A bit too curious for his own good, but he’s done no harm.”

Daemon had been torn between amusement and exasperation. The boy’s barely past thirteen. I haven’t even spoken to him about bedding yet, and here he is, wandering into brothels like a young me.

Shaking his head, he pushed open the heavy oak door to Viserys’ chambers without knocking. Inside, the boy sat stiffly on the edge of his bed, still fully dressed, his hands clasped in his lap as though awaiting execution.

Daemon shut the door with a quiet click and leaned against it, arms crossed.

“Well,” he drawled, “that was an interesting way to spend an evening.”

Viserys, to his credit, said nothing.

“No defense? No ‘Father, I swear, it was all a misunderstanding’?”

Still, silence. His son’s lips pressed into a thin line, his gaze fixed stubbornly on the floor. Daemon sighed, raking a hand through his hair before crossing the room and sinking into the chair opposite him.

"Look, Vis, I’m not angry. Surprised? Yes. Curious? Definitely. But not angry."

Viserys’ shoulders slumped just a fraction, though he still wouldn’t meet his father’s eyes. Stranger, don’t listen to him, he’s probably asking to disappear.

"You could’ve just asked, you know." Daemon nudged the boy’s boot lightly with his own. "I would’ve answered. About… well, all of it."

Viserys’ ears burned a deeper shade of red than the Targaryen sigil.

"Gods, you look like you’re about to catch fire. Breathe, boy. I’m not here to scold you, just to make sure you’re not walking into something blind."

The boy was wound tight, a bowstring pulled to the breaking point.

Daemon understood. Hells, I’d have reacted no better if it had been me and my father. Baelon ‘the Brave’ had been many things, but brave enough to talk to his sons about intimacy? Never.

"So," he went on, voice light, "since I clearly missed the chance to have this conversation before you went looking for answers yourself, let’s have it now, aye?"

Viserys’ jaw clenched. Still, no words.

Daemon pressed on. If not now, when?

"First thing’s first. Moon tea. You probably already know what it is."

A stiff nod.

"Good. But knowing of it isn’t enough. You need to know when it’s needed, where to get it, and how to make sure it’s actually used if the situation calls for it." His voice was uncharacteristically serious now, his sharp gaze pinning his son in place. "This is not something you leave to chance. If you’re going to bed someone, you take responsibility. Always. Understood?"

Viserys nodded jerkily, looking very much like a trapped pigeon.

Daemon exhaled, satisfied for now. "There are other ways to prevent certain… consequences, but we can go over those another time. For now, just know this: if you ever need moon tea for someone, you come to me. Not a septa. Not a maester. Me. No shame, no questions asked. Just say the word."

Viserys swallowed hard. He looked, Daemon thought, like he wanted the floor to swallow him whole.

"What? You didn’t think I’d just tell you to wrap yourself in a sheet and hope for the best, did you?"

A strangled noise escaped Viserys' throat, something between a groan and a plea for death.

Daemon laughed, but after a moment, the mirth faded into something more thoughtful. "Listen, lad. This sort of thing… it’s messy. Complicated. And I know you’re clever, but clever doesn’t always mean prepared."

The compliment made Viserys exhale sharply, as though biting back an automatic I know, Father.

"First time’s never as easy as you think." Daemon leaned back, stretching his legs out. "People act like it’s instinct. Like eating or drinking. And maybe it is. When you don’t want it to be remarkable."

That got Viserys’ attention. A flicker of curiosity, quickly stifled.

"I remember my own well enough. I was far too young, really. It was in Lys. She was older. Beautiful. Made me feel like I was the most wanted thing in the world."

Viserys glanced up at him, just slightly.

"Of course," Daemon continued dryly, "then I realized she was paid to make me feel that way."

Viserys blinked.

"And that’s the trouble with brothels, my boy. You never quite know if you’re wanted or merely tolerated." He smiled, slow and knowing. "Which is why I’d suggest waiting until you’re actually wanted."

Viserys shot him a skeptical look, as if he’d just suggested he join the Citadel and become a eunuch by next moonrise.

"I was about your age when I first tested the waters. And before you look like you’re about to die of embarrassment, let me tell you something you won’t find in your books: people will try to put you in a box. Say you should only want this or that. That you should only look at girls, or only be with women." He shrugged. "Horseshit."

Viserys’ head snapped up, startled. Oh, that was new…

"I kissed a lad before I ever bedded a girl. Liked it well enough."

Viserys choked. Daemon laughed so hard he nearly teared up. A+ parenting, truly.

"And then I kissed a girl, and I liked that too. And later, well…" He waved a hand airily. "I realized I liked both. And then, years later, I kissed your mother and realized I’d never be happy if I couldn’t kiss her for the rest of my life."

That did it. Viserys went scarlet, his mouth opening as if to protest, but no sound emerged. Daemon reached out, ruffling his son’s hair despite the indignant squawk it earned him.

"The point is," he said, voice softer now, "there’s no right or wrong way to feel about these things. And you don’t have to decide anything yet. Hells, you may not have to decide at all. Just… don’t let anyone make you feel like you have to be one thing or another."

Viserys nodded, his gaze dropping to the fabric of his sheets as if the intricate weave held the answers he could not find. For all the weight upon his shoulders, he was still just a boy—the same boy Daemon had once cradled to sleep, the same boy he had hoisted onto the back of a horse for the first time. But boys grow, and one day, Viserys would outgrow him too.

"You’re your mother’s son, after all," Daemon mused. "And your mother and I? We don’t do well with rules."

Daemon chuckled to himself. Gods, I hope Rhaenyra doesn’t have me sleeping on the couch for this.

"Oh, your mother will find it hilarious that I was the one to have this talk first." He mused, patting his son’s knee. "You’ll be fine, Vis. Just promise me you’ll talk to me before sneaking out into the night, aye?"

[princeviserystargaryen00]

Viserys sat there, feeling like the weight of the world had been placed squarely on his chest. His father’s words, the way they cut through the thick fog of embarrassment and confusion, were oddly comforting, yet they still gnawed at him. He was a Targaryen, sure, but he was also still a prince—surely some laws of common decency still applied to them?

His father’s nonchalance about things like kissing men, kissing women, and doing whatever the hell he wanted shouldn't have been a surprise after all his father was the rouge prince– doing whatever he wanted and not giving a damn about what anyone thought of him.

Viserys dared a glance up at his father again, just enough to catch the softening in his eyes, the understanding that lingered beneath all the teasing and devilish grins. His father was right about one thing—he did need to talk to him more. Not just about this, but about everything. Seven, why hadn’t he asked more questions before? If he'd known, just a bit more, would this evening have been so dreadful?

He felt like a child who hadn't claimed a great dragon or even started squiring all over again, wishing he could shrink into the corners of his chambers and vanish, but he stayed still. His father was right about one thing—he was clever. And clever boys learn from their mistakes or at least learn enough not to get caught the next time.

He swallowed, words finally coming to his lips, though they were shaky and unsure. “I—I didn’t mean to cause trouble, Papa. I just wanted to understand…” His voice trailed off, feeling foolish even as he said it. “I kissed another lad too.” there he said it, it was easier...... somehow after everything. He did not look to his father to see his expression, he wasn't sure he could bear it if it was anything– if he was right and there was something wrong with him and quickly turned away, removing his shoes and doublet hoping his father would just leave him be.

[rogue-prince-rising]

Daemon watched his son turn away, stripping off his shoes and doublet with a determination so focused it was almost comical, if it didn’t make his heart ache. Gods, Viserys was young. Too young to carry this weight, this shame that had no place in their blood. Hadn’t he been careful? Hadn’t he done everything to ensure his children never felt the chains that once bound him? And yet, here they were.

“You know,” Daemon drawled, stretching out in his chair as if this were nothing more than idle supper talk, “I’d like to meet this lad you kissed. If things get serious, that is. Can’t have just anyone sniffing around my son, prince or not.”

Viserys stiffened, his shoulders locking tight. Daemon grinned. He would definitely like to meet the guy now.

“Don’t worry, I won’t give him the talk about mounting his head on a spike if he ever wrongs you. Not unless you want me to.” He tilted his head, considering. “Though, between us, I prefer a clean beheading, neater that way. Or maybe a bonfire. I hear it’s the traditional method for dealing with certain types of arseholes.”

He expected a huff of laughter, at least, but Viserys only ducked his head lower. Daemon let out a slow breath and leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees.

“Listen to me, boy.” His voice was quieter now. “There’s not a damned thing wrong with you. Not for this. If anyone ever tries to make you feel otherwise, I’ll happily introduce them to Dark Sister, and you can help me decide which part to take off first.”

That got him something caught between a groan and a chuckle but still, Viserys didn’t turn. Jokes wouldn’t soften this blow. Not entirely.

“Alright, fine. Serious talk, then.” He raised a hand before his son could protest. “I know. You weren’t planning to throw yourself into bed with anyone just yet. But better you hear this now than later. And trust me, your mother is the last person you want giving you this talk.”

That earned him a glance. Daemon smirked.

“There’s oil, for one,” he said, ever the pragmatist. “You’ll need it if you don’t want things to go terribly. And if you ever—”

Viserys made a strangled noise and buried his face in his hands. Daemon chuckled, rising to his feet. He’d figure it out in time.

With easy strides, he crossed the room and settled beside his son, pulling him into a firm embrace. One hand found the back of Viserys’s head, fingers threading through silver hair just as they had when he was small enough to fall asleep against his chest. Still his little boy.

“You’ll have to tell your mother eventually,” he murmured. “But you’ve got nothing to fear. She’ll be nothing but proud. She loves you more than anything, and she’ll tell you the same thing I have: Targaryens don’t waste time fretting over what others think. We take what we want, and to hell with the rest.”

A nod, small but certain, against his shoulder. Daemon exhaled, ruffling his son’s hair. Can’t you stay little a while longer?

“You’ll be alright, boy,” he promised—and Seven help him, he’d make damn sure of it. “You’re clever. And clever boys always land on their feet.”

[princeviserystargaryen00]

Viserys blinked, processing the unexpected reassurance. He hadn’t expected his father to be so accepting, not after everything that had happened. He had feared judgment, or worse, ridicule even; in hindsight that was ridiculous.

Vis turned his head away shyly, still feeling the heat of embarrassment creeping across his face, but there was something about his father's words—something that made him feel better. A dragon has no time for the opinion of sheep; it was foolish of him to care for things like that, especially being a Targaryen prince. He really shouldn't care about what others thought, and if they were mean to him, he'll just get Vermithor to burn them all!

“I know I'm not the first boy to kiss another lad, Father. Hell, you did it yourself. Like you said, I'm just figuring it out. That’s all. So don't tell Mother.” He huffed.

“I haven't kissed a girl yet,” Viserys confessed, his words coming out lightly. “That's what I was—I was trying to see if it was better or worse than kissing a boy.”

“Next time, I'll stick to less public adventures, hmm?” He teased, blinking innocently and getting ready for bed, deciding not to bother changing, why does he need to do that anyway? He has five different pajamas, three of them are white, and one time he pretended to be a ghost and made Aemma cry.

“Wouldn't want Muna to have a heart attack about me sneaking in the city—OH! And Kepa, who was the boy you kissed? Was it a friend? The boy I kissed is one of my companions; I won't tell you who, though; you'll have to find that out yourself.” chattered Vis arranging his pillows around him like a nest and lay down.

“Can you tuck me in, please? just for tonight.”

[rogue-prince-rising]

Daemon smirked at his son’s antics, shaking his head. Seven hells, the boy really was like Rhaenyra; fearless in some ways, utterly reckless in others. No sense of self-preservation, sneaking into the city like that. Not that Daemon had any right to judge, given his own youth. But still. He’d have to keep a closer eye on him.

He sat on the edge of the bed, watching as Viserys burrowed into his fortress of pillows, a little dragon hoarding his comforts. His little dragon. His son.

“The only difference between kissing a lad and a girl is whether the bastard’s got a beard,” Daemon said, adjusting the blankets with practiced ease. “Scratches like hell, that’s all.”

He brushed a hand over Viserys’ silver hair, smoothing it down absently—an old habit, from when the boy was still small enough to curl into his side. He wasn’t anymore. Not really. But he’d always be Daemon’s little boy.

“I’ll find out who he is,” Daemon mused, as though it were nothing. “Don’t think I won’t. Your companions are a foolish, noisy lot. I only have to wait for one of them to slip up. And when I do… well, that depends. If he’s worth a damn, I might let him sniff around my son.”

He ruffled Viserys’ hair, ignoring the indignant huff it earned him.

“As for me…” Daemon leaned back slightly, gaze distant. “The man was a friend of mine, back in the war. We fought side by side, saved each other’s skins more times than I can count. He’s married now, living somewhere far and green. A good man, if you can believe I keep such company.”

He glanced down at Viserys and softened.

“But I can still tuck you in. Of course I can. That’s my right, isn’t it? To look after my little boy.”

He took his time with it, tucking the sheets snugly, just the way Viserys liked, adjusting the pillows he’d arranged around himself like a proper little dragon in his hoard. Daemon watched him for a long moment, taking in the faint pink dusting his cheeks, the way he blinked up at him—unguarded, eager, still so young.

Something tightened in Daemon’s chest, a strange thing, too big for words, too soft for a man like him, but there all the same.

“There,” he murmured. “Sleep now. No more sneaking off, you hear me?”

A short chuckle escaped him. If Viserys was anything like him…

“At least not until you get better at it.”

[benjen-mormont]

𓍢ִ໋🀦 NORTHERNERS, PRINCES, AND ALL THE WAYS TO LOSE ONESELF IN THE TUNNELS 𓍢ִ໋🀦

(Collaboration with @princeviserystargaryen00)

When life pressed down, heavy and relentless, Benjen craved a way out, a softening of the world’s harsh edges. One hand washed the other, he reasoned, and helping women who needed his strength was no harm if he also found solace in their touch.

A two-way street, really.

He turned to Jeyne’s open palm, pressing a lingering kiss there, then let out a quiet, contented sigh. His hand skimmed up her side, fingers grazing warm skin before resting lightly over her pulse, feeling the steady beat—a rhythm of comfort that he cherished whenever he found it.

After one last kiss, he slipped from the bed. With his shirt half-buttoned, hair tousled, and boots in hand, Benjen moved quietly through the familiar corridors. The castle held secrets as he held memories, and he knew its hidden paths, both for nights like this and for times when he preferred to avoid notice.

Blame the Targaryens for leaving their architectural schematics lying around. A man was bound to learn his way around.

As he walked, a faint scratching noise came from above—a rhythmic tapping along the ceiling beams, keeping pace with his footsteps. Benjen paused, narrowing his eyes at the sound, which continued, almost as if something were following him. Tap. Tap. Tap.

“Holy—” He clamped a hand over his mouth, his boots thudding softly to the floor. Above, perched in the shadows, a boy clutched a book to his chest, wide-eyed and owl-like, watching Benjen as if he were the Big Bad Wolf sneaking through a child’s tale. Benjen squinted up, humor glinting in his gaze. “Well then, hello... unknown child. What exactly are you doing up there?”

The boy, who looked about ten or eleven, clutched his book—The Nine Voyages—like a shield. A spark of defiance lit his wary expression, and he took a shaky breath, summoning courage. “Who are you?” he demanded, voice thin but determined. “How did you find this place? And aren’t you... cold?”

Benjen set down his boots, tying the laces with quiet precision that softened his bearing. He crouched slightly, making himself less imposing. “Grew up in the cold,” he murmured with a faint grin, not meeting the boy’s wide eyes. “This breeze feels like spring where I’m from.”

Straightening, Benjen noticed the boy clutching his book even tighter, as if to keep Benjen from swooping down and taking it. Benjen chuckled softly; kids here were different. If he’d been this boy’s age and caught sneaking around, he’d have thrown out a threat—or a knife—by now.

“Benjen Mormont,” he said, offering his hand, a faint smile touching his lips as he watched the boy appraise him. Buttoning his shirt one-handed, he waited as the boy seemed to consider shaking his hand.

“Mormont…” the boy echoed thoughtfully. “That’s a house in the North. Of course you’re used to the cold.” He adjusted his grip on his book, his chin lifting in barely restrained pride. “I’m Viserys Targaryen.”

Benjen raised an eyebrow, his smile turning sly. “A Targaryen, hmm? So I’m in your house, then. Should I bow?”

Viserys hesitated, taken aback, then broke into a shy, lopsided smile, acknowledging the joke while trying not to show his amusement. “Only if you feel like it,” he replied, attempting nonchalance.

“Smart boy, smart book,” Benjen noted, nodding at the book, which the boy hugged protectively. Viserys reminded him of Cregan at that age—a rebellious spark, stubborn, with a curiosity that set him apart. “But hiding in passageways, isn’t that... unbecoming for a prince? Shouldn’t you be in bed? I’ve heard little princes can’t afford shadows under their eyes.”

“I don’t have shadows under my eyes, and I go to bed when I want to,” Viserys declared, voice quivering slightly. “I’m playing hide and seek with my brother. What are you doing here?”

“Hide and seek, is it? You’re in a good spot, but it seems your brother’s waiting. As for me... let’s just say I know my way around. I’ve got friends who’d miss me if I didn’t say hello now and then.” You don’t need to know who my friends are, he thought, gaze steady. Trusting a child—even a prince—with secrets would be foolish. Children had a way of letting things slip. “Besides, sometimes it’s just… quieter alone. No one prying. Just you and the silence—easier to sort through things that way.”

“This is a good place to be quiet. Sometimes I read here when I don’t have to hide. And don’t worry about Baelon; he’ll get distracted and start running after Joffrey or Aemma.” Curiosity shone in Viserys’ eyes as he tilted his head, studying Benjen. “Were you coming from the Street of Silk?”

“You’re a sharp boy, but mistaken,” Benjen chuckled, wondering who had told a child about the Street of Silk. Daemon, probably Daemon. “This isn’t the tunnel that goes out of the keep, I’m afraid. If I had been on the Street of Silk, I’d have come from the northeast.” He held out his hand once more. “Mind if I take a look at your book? I’ve only read the architectural ones.”

“This was written for my uncle-grandsire, Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake. It’s about his voyages to Essos.” Viserys emerged from the shadows, watching Benjen curiously as he climbed down to the floor. “You read books about architecture? Why? I can’t imagine they’re interesting.”

Benjen chuckled, catching the gleam in the boy’s eyes. “Adventure stories are hard to beat, but architecture has its uses. In a place like Winterfell, knowing every hidden passage, every shadowed alcove, makes a difference. Sometimes, knowing how something’s put together helps you figure out... how to take it apart, if you have to.”

“Why would you need to take a building apart? Wouldn’t it be easier to leave? I think I’ll stick to adventure stories,” Viserys frowned.

“Fair enough, not little, then. And you’re right; adventure stories are hard to beat. But as for knowing how to take things apart… sometimes, being able to break down what stands in front of you—stone, wood, iron—it’s the only way forward.” Benjen wasn’t about to try to bore the boy to death talking about sieges, so he simply opened the book, fingers brushing the worn, dusty pages. Essos, Viserys had bookmarked Essos. “Essos is a strange place," he said, half to himself. "A place where the rules you know don’t always apply. Tell me, young prince—have you ever seen it for yourself?”

“I’ve never left Westeros. My father and Lady Laena went to the Free Cities; they visited Pentos, Volantis, Qohor, and even Valyria. My sisters were born in Pentos. My parents used to fly places on Syrax and Caraxes, but I don’t have a dragon yet.” Viserys wrapped his arms around himself, leaning against the wall to seem taller, he was clearly not used to the cold.

“You don’t need a dragon; you *are* one,” Benjen replied with a soft chuckle. “Essos... some of it is like the stories. Braavos with its endless canals, Pentos with its feasts. The market in Volantis feels like the world gathered in one place—spices, silks, creatures out of dreams.” He paused, watching the boy’s fascinated gaze. “But it’s more than that. People there don’t have the same… rules we do. They’re freer in some ways, bound by different customs. It’s a place that can change a person if they’re not careful.”

“Change a person?” Viserys repeated, frowning. “People change anyway; traveling just gives them more chances to experience new things.”

"It’s more than just learning new things, it’s about forgetting. Sometimes, you come back and realize the things that changed don’t fit where you left them. Not everyone wants a changed man back." A thoughtful silence stretched between them. Then, Benjen, perhaps sensing the boy's somber mood, added with a lighter tone, "But I’d wager you’d do fine, little—" he caught himself, "young prince. You’ve got that spark for new things, the heart of an adventurer, and a good head on your shoulders. Maybe one day, you’ll see Essos for yourself and find out what it has to teach you.”

Benjen ruffled the boy’s hair lightly, drawing a scowl that quickly turned into a reluctant smile. "Now, as much as I’d enjoy recounting my tales all night, I think there’s a brother somewhere waiting to find you in this game of yours. Wouldn’t want him thinking he’s won, would you?"

Viserys’ eyes widened as he remembered the game, realizing time had slipped away in their talk. Baelon, he knew, had a habit of dragging their siblings into his games if he got frustrated—and Viserys certainly didn’t want anyone else finding this hideaway.

He yelled back a hurried goodbye as he dashed off, forgetting his book. Benjen chuckled, flipping through a few more pages before tucking it under his arm. He’d return it another time, perhaps, when the boy was ready for another tale.

[princeviserystargaryen00]

A meeting of dragons and brothers

Viserys hummed a plaintive song he had heard somewhere under his breath as he absently fidgeted with his leather glove, not paying much attention to his surroundings, half lost in his own head.

He intended to go see Vermithor as he had for almost every day since he had claimed him, and the path to the dragon pit was far too familiar to him, seeing that Viserys had visited there these past moons more than he had in his entire life.

He was free for now and had time to spare, owing to the fact that he had already finished his everyday sword practice and did not have any classes till much later, so perhaps he'll go for a flight as well.

Vis reached his destination quicker than expected, but that might be because he had been spacy enough that he hadn't noticed anything. The vastness of the dragonpit was as staggering as it was intimidating, but he was unafraid; after all, his beloved vermithor was the second largest dragon ever. Why would he be frightened of anything after claiming him?

Viserys tilted his head as he noticed he was not the only one visiting his dragon today, and a slow smile spread across his face as he recognized who it was. 

“Aegon!” he called out to his favourite brother.

[aegontheyoungprince]

It had been a sad day when his precious dragon had outgrown the chambers he slept in. He still remembered how he had not spoken to his parents for at least one day as he stewed in his annoyance.

Aegon kicked a rock absentmindedly; watching as he bounced against the wall. The boredom of the day had fully settled into his bones it seemed. Not that it was anything new for him, his mind always straying.

"Brother," his excitement was easily read as he noticed his brother; a smile already making its way across his face. Aegon was always happy to receive his family.

"I did not know you were visiting here," the Prince continued even though it should not have surprised him. Aegon's attention left the entrance where he knew the dragon of his would be snoozing. Still, his smile only brightened his face even more as he stepped closer to Viserys.

"How is Vermithor?" Aegon asked, hiding the still subtle envy of his brother's dragon. Still, his happiness for Viserys outweighed such feelings.

His arms were soon wrapped around Viserys; patting him on the back before stepping only slightly away. Sometimes, Aegon did not know what personal space was

[princeviserystargaryen00]

Viserys blinked as Aegon’s arms wrapped around him, a little startled by the sudden hug. It wasn’t that he minded, not really. Aegon was his brother, and he loved him, even if Aegon’s tendency to invade his space without warning with too tight hugs could be... well, annoying sometimes. Still, Viserys returned the hug, a small smile tugging at his lips despite himself.

"I didn’t expect to see you here either," Viserys said, His gaze flicked toward Vermithor, who lay in the distance, his massive form coiled comfortably on the stone floor of the pit.

“He’s doing well," Viserys continued, his voice growing fond. "He's always asleep when I come, but I think he's getting used to me now. Sometimes I think he likes the quiet too, just like me."

"I was going to take a flight later," he told his brother, practically bouncing on his feet now. The thought of soaring through the skies on Vermithor’s back filled him with an energy he couldn’t contain. "You should come with me. It’ll be fun. We can race!" He knew Aegon would never say no to that, not when it involved dragons.

He glanced toward Vermithor’s resting place, his eyes brightening as he saw the dragon’s massive shape looming in the shadows. "Come on, let’s go say hi to him," Viserys urged, tugging at Aegon’s sleeve, practically pulling him toward the dragon’s lair. He wasn’t going to wait any longer. Today, everything felt perfect, and he didn’t want to waste another second of it.

[aegontheyoungprince]

Aegon only hummed with a shrug of his shoulders; he hadn't expected to be here either, but he enjoyed a moment's peace from the shuffle of court. And his brother's company always brought him comfort, even when they argued. He always did love to push buttons, thats for sure. Alas, there was never anything malicious beneath his words or actions.

"I am glad," Aegon turned towards the large, sleeping dragon with a cock of his head. It was terribly unfair for his brother to have claimed such a dragon, but alas, he would not give up his own for anything.

Aegon hated the quiet, he imagined that is why he seemingly got on Viserys' nerves a lot of the time. There was many words to describe the Prince, but quiet was not one of them.

"Hmm, and what could the prize of winning the race be?" Aegon only grew in excitement. "When I win it, that is." The Prince continued with a growing smirk as he teased his brother. His competitive nature began to shine through.

Aegon allowed himself to be guided; trusting his brother completely, even with his old, large dragon. It took a great deal to install fear in the young Prince, much to his mother's worry, he imagined. His bright eyes moved over the sleeping dragon; widening in excitement as a chuckle escaped him.

[princeviserystargaryen00]

Viserys shook his head “I don't think you'll be able to hatch it, jaehaera” he extended his arm “May i touch it?”

As he traced his fingers across the ridges on the egg he couldn't stop himself from scowling, it was rather warm to touch how very odd, most dragon eggs that never hatch end up still and cold. He couldn't help but wonder where the egg had even come from surely morghul was too young to lay it.

“Does anybody else know?” he asked tearing his gaze away from the strange little egg in her arms. He would bet on at least jaehaerys knowing after all they were twins.

[jaeheratargaryen]

"Of course!" She carefully extended the egg, allowing her cousin to touch it. Jaehaera feared that even the slightest touch could break it, and the blame would fall entirely on her, as she was the one who had been taking care of it.

Jaehaera watched Viserys closely, observing every nuance of his reaction as he touched the egg. "No one." she replied in a serious tone, still focusing on Viserys and the egg, as if afraid that any additional word might reveal more than she intended.

This secret was locked deep in her heart, so well-hidden that not even Jaehaerys, her twin and other half, knew about it. She loved Jaehaerys and trusted him with her life, but there were things Jaehaera didn’t share. And the egg was one of them.

She didn’t feel safe enough to tell anyone. If she revealed it to Jaehaerys, he would likely tell their parents, who would then tell their aunt, the queen. And the queen would surely want to take the egg back, which might mean the dragon would never hatch, and she would never discover its secrets.

"You’re the first." she admitted, hoping that Viserys would keep the secret between them and not tell his mother. That the secret would remain solely between the two of them. It was a vow of trust she placed in him, a trust she had never given even to her twin. "I hope you can keep it a secret, cousin."

[princeviserystargaryen00]

The thought of keeping such a secret, especially one this significant, made his stomach churn. If his mother found out… this egg clearly meant something to his cousin.

His gaze drifted back to her. She cradled the egg like it was the most precious thing in the world. He found himself wondering where she had even found it—was it truly Morghul’s? Or had it been hidden away in some dark corner of dragonstone, a dead remnant of some long-forgotten clutch by wild dragons? What if it hatched? Could it even survive?

Viserys clenched his jaw. He didn’t fully understand why Jaehaera had trusted him with this, but he couldn’t betray her. Not after she had taken a risk to ask him and the thought that this egg might not be entirely dormant gnawed at him after all it was so......warm. He did understood the need for secrets—he had his own—but Jaehaera keeping this from everyone, even Jaehaerys?

“Keep it hidden,” he said finally, his voice low and strained.

[princeviserystargaryen00]

Of distant kin

starter with @ladyjocelynbaratheon

Viserys walked towards his chambers clutching several books he had bought from the library. Though the number of tomes in his grasp wasn't vast, their collective weight was considerable, weighing down his arms. Although despite their unwieldyness he was able to carry them, he wondered with a smirk if his recent squiring was to blame.

Just then one of the books on the top one with a dark blue cover toppled over, Viserys cursed under his breath as he bent down to begin to pick it up, but then the other books he was carrying fell over in quick succession as well. He sighed and kneeled down to pick up the fallen books, huffing in frustration and began to rearrange them like they were blocks and he was Baelon or Emma. 

"Damn it," he muttered as he tried to maintain his balance while gathering the books back up into his arms. From the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a woman leaning over the sunny balcony, and despite her not staying in King's Landing often, he still recognized her lady, Jocelyn Baratheon, the former wife of the pale prince Aemon and the mother of his grandmother Rhaenys.

Viserys paused in his tracks, his usual curiosity propelled him forward to greet her. He approached her with a mixture of eagerness and trepidation, unsure of how she might react to his greeting.

"Lady Jocelyn," he began, his voice faltering slightly "I hope I'm not disturbing you."

[ladyjocelynbaratheon]

Jocelyn had only been in King’s Landing, in The Red Keep for a few days, and though the royal wedding was still over a week away and Jocelyn already longed for Storm’s End. She had found a seemingly secluded balcony and had retreated for some solitude and sunshine.

She turned as she heard the sound of books falling. A sound she was all too familiar with. The amount of times Aemon had dropped books, when sneaking them from the library to their bedroom both here and at Dragonstone was more than she could count. She shook her head, smiling slightly at the fond memory of her husband. She didn’t often dwell on memories.

Deciding that the boy – one of Rhaenyra’s sons, Aegon or Viserys wasn’t it? – was big enough to handle the falling books by himself. He was one of those children her daughter called her grandchildren, though in reality they weren’t. Related, yes, but her daughter’s grandchildren were the girls Laena had had with Prince Daemon and the boys Laenor had had with Princess Rhaenyra. The children between the not Queen Rhaenyra and King Consort Daemon were not her daughter’s grandchildren and not her own great-grandchildren.

Jocelyn turned her face back into the sunlight, enjoying the warmth on her face. Only when a young voice addressed her did she turn her attention back to the boy. Aegon? No this had to be Viserys she concluded, remembering what her daughters had told her of the Targaryen princes.

“Prince Viserys,” she said in greeting and curtsied to him. How had she once been married to the Prince of Dragonstone, mother of the queen-to-be and now she was curtsying to young princes all over again? “You’re not disturbing me, how may I help you?”

[princeviserystargaryen00]

Viserys hesitated and felt a wave of uncertainty wash over him. Now that he had approached her he was actually unsure of what to say he settled for basic polite niceties, A simple greeting and a few nice comments seemed to be the safest route for now, hs couldn't really go wrong with that even though they felt a bit lacking in depth.

“It's a pleasure to see you lady Jocelyn, I hope your time in the capital has been well spent and that you have had the opportunity to make the most of your visit here.” he spoke with soft sincerity

Viserys stated “my grandmother-aunt rhaenys is having another baby” princess rhaenys was a common topic between them because she was lady Jocelyn's only daughter and his grandmother, "What do you think? Will the new baby be a boy or a girl?"

He was aware he was going off on a bit of a tangent and that his words spilling out in a disorganized stream but he couldn't seem to rein himself “my muna is having a baby too, I think I want a new brother because I already have two younger sisters and only one younger brother.”

[ladyjocelynbaratheon]

Jocelyn offered the young prince a kind smile. She remembered all too well how it felt to be a child in the capital. She had argued with her father, after he had sent her to live with her older half-siblings, the King and Queen, she wanted to go home. Home had always and would always be Storm’s End. Dragonstone had been a rightful contender to home while Aemon had been alive.

“Thank you. The journey here was hard, I can never quite make up my mind whether to travel by land or by sea to get here, both ways seem too uncomfortable in my opinion. I am here for the wedding and to catch up with family. The Red Keep provides well for its guests, I have no complaints.”

Jocelyn raised a curious brow. Had the boy really called Rhaenys his grandmother-aunt? What a silly title, but for the Targaryen dynasty it would often make sense. “Yes, I am to become a grandmother again, a blessing this late in life. Though also strange and two of my other grandchildren are to be wed. And I believe your mother, The Realms Delight, Our Queen is expecting twins, so there’s a fair chance your wish for another brother might be granted. Exciting times all around,” Jocelyn commented, though she truly found it embarrassing that her daughter and son-in-law were expecting a child this late in life. The sheer knowledge of the fact that they still coupled this far into their marriage was knowledge Jocelyn had not wanted.

She deliberately made no comment about the gender of her grandchild to be. Both Corlys and Rhaenys had been adamant that it would change nothing in the succession of Driftmark and Jocelyn had seen too many family members die in childbed, leaving the children without mothers. She worried too much about her daughter’s well-being, despite their, at times, strained relationship to truly be excited about the babe to come.

“May I ask which books and scrolls you’ve taken from the library?”

[princeviserystargaryen00]

Viserys shifted awkwardly, balancing the books in his arms as Lady Jocelyn’s steady gaze landed on him. There was something about her—calm, poised, yet distinctly formidable—that made him slightly intimidated. He didn’t often speak with people so far removed from his day-to-day life, but he found himself eager to impress her.

“Oh, these?” he began, glancing down at the tomes, their spines a mix of faded colors and gilded lettering.

“This one,” Vis said, shifting his grip slightly to show her, “is a collection of tales from Valyria before the Doom. I’ve been meaning to read it for weeks, but it was tucked so high on the shelves that I had to wait until I could find a stool to reach it.”

He adjusted the stack again, nodding toward another book bound in faded red leather. “And this is a treatise on dragon-lore by septon barth. I like knowing all about them– The way they bond with their riders, how they grow and age. There’s so much we don’t understand about them.”

Viserys paused, realizing he’d been rambling, and felt a blush creeping into his cheeks. “The others are mostly histories. A history of Storm’s End, actually, is in here somewhere.” He gave her a small, sheepish smile. “I thought you might like to know your home has its own place in the library. It’s written by Maester Marwyn. Have you read it?”

[thejacaerys]

starter for : @princeviserystargaryen00

Daeron had been having some troubles, his head not being able to focus. He had been pacing around his chambers enough times than he can know, as he looked at himself in his mirror.

If there was one place that could truly calm him down at the moment was the library. He put his things down and he headed to the library as he found himself looking through the hundreds of books.

He glanced at all the books before he found himself with one in his hands. He found himself picking some history book out of the shelves. He found himself going towards one of the nicer couches as he sat himself down. He put his legs up and he made sure to get comfortable as he opened the book.

The room was quiet, some peace founding in his life for once. He found himself reading nicely throughout the books, flipping towards the pages. The night felt nice as he was just alone to himself.

The crackling sound of the fire alongside the smell of the melting wax, it felt extremely peacefully. He felt nothing, excitement as read through the pages. His eyes widening by each, as if he had learned something knew.

Then he heard the door open and heard small footsteps, Daeron’s head peaked over to chair to see who come in. Only to see his nephew Viserys had come to join him. Daeron put his feet down putting the book on the table.

“If it isn’t my little nephew,” he teased, giving the boy a little smirk.

[princeviserystargaryen00]

As Daeron teased him, Viserys smiled in return, relatively happy to see his cousin-uncle. “Hello Uncle, Can I sit next to you?” he asked shyly, pointing to the spot on the couch. He pushed aside some of the books laid on the table to make some room for himself before he settled himself on the seat, he leaned back against its back with a small huff. Content that someone was keeping him company instead of sending him off to bed already.

"I couldn't sleep," he says, his voice barely above a whisper. His fingers fidgeted with the hem of his tunic, a nervous habit he had when he felt uncomfortable.

Viserys's eyes darted to the book his uncle had been reading and back to him. He then looked around the library, as if to count on his own how many people are there right now. Apparently, only two. “I didn’t know you were in here, Uncle. What’re you reading?” he asked, peeking at the book. 

[thejacaerys]

Daeron scooted over for Viserys to come sit by him. The little prince was much smaller than he had remembered.

It was nice to have some company other than his twin sister, and whoever got annoyingly in his way. He smiled at Viserys, “Of course, come sit,”

The two sat beside one another, and Daeron was quick to notice how nervous his nephew got. He had similar tendencies like his twin sister. “You know I don’t bite,” He joked, as he moved the book over his lap once more.

He wanted to make sure his nephew, knew he wasn’t mean, he wasn’t cruel in any sort of way, he was just Daeron. He looked at his nephew, “Just the history of our family. I find it interesting, espeically King Aegon and his sisters.” He looks at the drawing in the history book, his fingers gliding through it.

“I mean just imagine having two wives, everything you need in the world,” Daeron shrugged, before he looked at Viserys. “What is your favorite… part of our family history?” He asked genuinely.

[princeviserystargaryen00]

“Do you want to have two wives, uncle?” laughed viserys, his lips quirking up in a smile, while leaning closer to see the picture of the conqueror and his wives that Daeron was absent-mindedly touching.

“I like the very beginning—of Daenys the dreamer who saves our house and Gameon the glorious and sometimes tales of before Valyria was struck down by the gods, but unfortunately not many have survived the doom. Still, I like to read about their gods and the First Dragon Riders,” spoke viserys, knowing that was probably more information than his uncle-cousin had asked for, but he was just happy to talk about his interests to someone new.

Snapping back to attention as he suddenly remembered, Viserys spoke more eagerly, “Did you know I finally claimed my very own dragon, Vermithor the bronze fury?”

[thejacaerys]

“Two wives, I already have two wives,” he said jokingly, “I’m kidding… but that will be quite interesting.”

The prince smiled as he joked and he looked at the boy, as Daeron was admiring how smart his nephew was. He was extremely proud of how educated the prince was.

Daeron leaned back into the comforting chair as he looked back into the book flipping through the ages of the book gently. The prince focused seeing the eyes of the Viserys who also admired the history their family.

As sitting in silence, as he heard the voice of Viserys. He looked at the prince as his eyes widened. “You claimed Vermithor! Well done! I am proud of you,” Daeron complimented. His voice was pretty encouraging.

“I bet you were excited to claim a dragon,” Daeron laughed, “Possibly even nervous? I assume?”

[princeviserystargaryen00]

“I- well- yes, of course I was really nervous” Viserys said, trying to keep his excitement at bay, not wanting to be seen as too excited, too childish - but he couldn’t help himself, his eyes shining with pride in his accomplishment.

“I was scared at first, when I approached him, because he is so big… and he looked so angry,” he explained. “But when I approached him, it felt like I was… I don’t know… home.”

Viserys’s eyes darted to the book, and then back to his cousin-uncle. A smile ghosted his face at the memory of his first flight on back of the bronze fury

“He is the second largest dragon alive, I can’t believe he accepted me,” Viserys admitted, his voice filled with awe and old longing.

“I think he likes me. At least I hope he does.”

[thelittleprincesstargaryen]

Visiting the Royal Stables

The Royal Stables, The Red Keep, King’s Landing, 11th day of the 11th moon 129AC

Visenya loved to visit the Royal Stables, even if she did not have a horse of her own. Yet. She had asked for one for her last three name days, and she had been certain her tenth name day would be the day she got a horse of her own. But the day had passed without a horse. Visenya had tried not to be too disappointed, which hadn’t been hard as it had been her tenth name day being sick. She really hoped her one-and-tenth name day would be different, both in terms of her health and in terms of becoming a rider. Maybe her one-and-tenth year would also be the year she would become a dragon rider, Morning was growing fast.  

Her older brothers all had horses and other pets. Visenya had not truly been interested in other pets until she read about songbirds and how they would mimic music played to them. Visenya longed for someone to enjoy her music as much as she did and maybe even inspire her to new music. She had voiced that wish to her parents, along with the wish for a horse. Or a unicorn.

“Viserys?” She called out, having been told her brother was supposed to be down in the stables. She was careful not to startle the horses. Visenya carefully greeted each animal as she walked past them. She paused at the old mare she knew belonged to her uncle-grandsire, a good old lady she had ridden many times in practise. Uncle-grandsire rarely rode, and he had been happy to let Visenya practise. “Rytsas, Embar,” she said tenderly in High Valyrian. Why her uncle-grandsire had a horse names Ocean seemed off, except for the fact that her uncle-grandsire was Corlys Velaryon. “I’ll come back later,” she promised the old mare and ventured further into the stables, heading towards her brothers’ horses. “Vis?”

A starter for @princeviserystargaryen00

[princeviserystargaryen00]

"senya" Viserys greeted his sister as he noticed her approach. "What are you doing here?" He asked hesitating for a second, eyeing her carefully. She appeared fine—not too pale and not too thin. It gladdened his heart knowing that she did not seem to be sick today; maybe she'll be healthy more often from now onwards, he thought without much hope.

"Do you want to ride with me? It would be fun." He offered before she could say anything, viserys knew his sister did not have a horse of her own, even though she has begged for one often. or even any other pets like he had, She wanted a unicorn too. When she had mentioned it at dinner one night, it had taken all of his wiilpower to not mention the place where unicorns dwelt. Skagos was also rumoured to still perform human sacrifices to weirwood trees, lure passing ships to destruction with false lights, engage in cannibalism, and practice the tradition of the first night.

He drew Chekak forward. His horse, who was formerly eating some hay, did not make any noise of protest and stared forward with his majestic amber eyes. Viserys ran a hand through his luxurious white coat. He hadn't come to the stables for a ride but rather just to see Chetak before his natural philosophy class, but he feels like he hasn't talked to Visenya since forever and like he said it would be fun.

[thelittleprincesstargaryen]

Visenya scrunched up her nose at the nickname. Why he kept calling her Senya, while everyone else called her Nya, was beyond her. “Just visiting the horses,” she said truthfully. “And I was told you had been spotted down here,” she added with a smile.

For the last fortnight she had been well. She was aware of how serious her last bout of sickness had been, especially since everyone still seemed to look at her with worried expressions. Including Viserys.

“I don’t know if I should,” she answered with a shrug of her shoulders. “I’m not dressed for a ride, nor do I think the Maester would agree to it,” she added with a slight shake of her head. “Besides, don’t you have classes after luncheon? I do.” Visenya stepped towards her brother’s horse and reached out stroking it gently. “Hello Chetak,” she said softly in greeting.

Chetak was white, just like the horse she continuously asked for. Or even better yet, a shimmering unicorn. She had seen Viserys’ expression when she had mentioned her love for the mysterious creatures, but then uncle-grandsire had said he was sure he had seen one on one of his expeditions. “You’re such a pretty horse, is Vis being nice to you?”

[princeviserystargaryen00]

He winced “I haven't tried... apologizing yet; to tell you the truth, I'm a little afraid.”

Viserys nodded along as she made more suggestions. “You're right, flowers sound like a lovely gift. I'll especially handpick violets for her name myself and then make a bouquet of them and tie a purple ribbon to it for my eyes and her na–”

He cut himself off as her last question registered in his mind. He fearfully cast a look around them to catch any eavesdroppers; thankfully, it appeared that everyone was leaving the two children alone. “You will have to promise me, Senya, to keep it a secret. You mustn't let anyone know, not even my mother or father!”

Viserys swallowed deeply. He was not certain his younger sister was the first person he wanted to tell, but she was kind by nature and he hoped she would not judge him too harshly. “I kissed someone else, someone who was not......her,” While he spoke quickly at the start, eager to get the words out before they rotted in his mouth, he fell short at the end, unable to be courageous anymore and unable to reveal the entire truth.

[princeviserystargaryen00]

Viserys blinked the egg remained in his cousin's arms, he blinked again and rubbed his eyes the small dragon egg was still taunting him in all of its green glory.

“What” he said aloud in hoarse tone.

Where did she get this how did she get this did uncle aegon and aunt helaena know? did jaehaerys know? Should he tell Muna? Should he keep it a secret?

It felt like Jaehaera wanted him to not tell anyone due to the secrecy of this meeting. Her words caught up in his head.

Of course she wanted him to keep this a secret. It was another dragon egg. No Targaryen has ever had two dragons, so it wasn't going to hatch, probably, maybe hopefully. 

 

He answered her questions with a stutter entirely too baffled by this entire encounter. “My egg has not hatched yet, and in truth, I have given up on it, but when I was younger my sister Rhaena told me to pray to the seven nightly, and I Carri– used to carry it with me everywhere I went.” he hesitated.

“But, I do not think it would hatch by these methods. mine did not, nor did Rhaena's, kepa say a dragon egg hatches only when it needs to hatch. You cannot hurry it. I am sorry.”

 

Another question occurred to him: “Why do you want another dragon anyway? Don't you have Morghul, and where did you get this egg anyway?”

[jaeheratargaryen]

"Shh!" whispered Jaehaera, casting a worried glance around. She was concerned that someone might have overheard their conversation, especially Viserys, who spoke so loudly.

Noticing that they were alone, she sighed in relief.

As she listened to the elder’s explanation, her face grew thoughtful. It saddened her to know that Viserys and Rhaena hadn’t managed to hatch their eggs and that they had been told that if an egg didn’t want to hatch, there was nothing to be done.

However, Jaehaera saw it as a challenge — to prove that, perhaps, there was a way to help an egg hatch. Finding the right "recipe" could allow Viserys and Rhaena to fulfill their wish.

"I don’t want another dragon." she began. "I love Morghul... But one day, when I went to visit him, I found this egg alone. I decided to take it and care for it, but I still haven’t managed to make it hatch."

[princeviserystargaryen00]

Viserys shook his head “I don't think you'll be able to hatch it, jaehaera” he extended his arm “May i touch it?”

As he traced his fingers across the ridges on the egg he couldn't stop himself from scowling, it was rather warm to touch how very odd, most dragon eggs that never hatch end up still and cold. He couldn't help but wonder where the egg had even come from surely morghul was too young to lay it.

“Does anybody else know?” he asked tearing his gaze away from the strange little egg in her arms. He would bet on at least jaehaerys knowing after all they were twins.