c45: Burial
Under the deep veil of night,
Viserys stood silently upon the windswept hillside.
A faint rustling sound his black fur cloak billowed in the restless wind, and strands of his slightly curled silver-gold hair brushed across his pale violet eyes.
This place lay on the sunward slope of the smoking mountain of Dragonstone, not far from where the heat of the вулcanic earth could still be felt beneath the soil. Even at night, warmth lingered in the air, rising from the depths of the island forged by fire.
It was summer somewhere in the turning of June or July and Dragonstone's heat was heavy and unrelenting. Under such conditions, Queen Rhaella's body could not be preserved for long.
She had not waited for her son to return.
As acting lord in the absence of a crowned ruler, the steward appointed long ago under Rhaegar Targaryen had organized the funeral rites. The man, often called Ser Shad despite his foreign birth and rumored Dornish blood, had gathered the remaining household knights, servants, and smallfolk of the island to honor their fallen queen.
Thus,
the last queen of the old dynasty whose life had been shaped by fear, exile, and the ruin brought by Robert's Rebellion was laid to rest upon Dragonstone.
Or rather given to fire.
"My mother was once bright and full of life,"
Viserys said suddenly.
His voice was soft, yet the wind carried it far across the dark hillside.
"She should have been surrounded by sunlight… by gentle winds… and drifting clouds."
But instead before him, pale flames licked upward.
White smoke rose slowly into the night sky from the funeral pyre, twisting as it climbed, as if reaching for something long lost.
The words of House Targaryen echoed silently in the air:
Fire and Blood.
It was the ancient way of Valyria, carried across the Narrow Sea by Aegon the Conqueror and his sisters. Targaryens were not buried in the ground like the Andals or the First Men.
They were returned to flame.
And so,
Viserys did not object.
He stood at the forefront, unmoving, surrounded by a ring of guards whose armor glinted faintly in the torchlight. Behind him stood Ser Shad, the acting lord of Dragonstone, his yellow turban wrapped tightly around his head.
Fine wrinkles lined the corners of the steward's eyes as he narrowed them slightly, watching the boy in silence.
There was something in his gaze calculation, perhaps.
Or uncertainty.
Beside him, Sir William remained still, his face grave. The seasoned knight, who had once served in the Red Keep and protected the royal family during their darkest hour, studied Viserys carefully.
He seemed about to speak.
His brow furrowed, and his lips parted slightly but in the end, he said nothing.
Instead, his gaze shifted back to the burning pyre of Queen Rhaella.
Viserys himself said little.
He stood there for a long time, then slowly lowered himself to sit upon the rough ground before the flames.
No tears now.
No visible grief.
Only silence.
When he finally rose again, the storm within him seemed to have quieted. His face was calm too calm for a boy of his age yet beneath that stillness lay something deeper, something hidden.
A sorrow that would not fade.
"Let's go,"
the silver-haired boy said quietly, tilting his head ever so slightly.
In the flickering torchlight, half of his face was illuminated, revealing sharp, almost regal features. The other half remained in shadow, save for his eyes, which gleamed faintly with an intensity beyond his years.
"Yes, Your Majesty,"
the guards answered at once, their voices low but resolute.
At some point,
their form of address had changed.
No longer "Your Highness."
Now "Your Majesty."
The title of king had fallen upon him, not through coronation in the Red Keep, but through loss.
Viserys, however, showed no reaction.
A crown without power was nothing.
A title without armies, without allies, without dragons was empty.
Whether he was called prince or king made little difference.
In truth, if he had the choice, he would have cast it all aside the name, the burden, the endless danger and lived as an ordinary boy.
But that path did not exist for him.
As long as he bore the name Targaryen…
as long as the blood of Old Valyria flowed in his veins…
the usurper, Robert Baratheon, would never allow him to live in peace.
There would be no escape.
Even fleeing across the Narrow Sea, like other exiles, would not guarantee survival.
Death would come eventually, if not by sword, then by poison, or betrayal.
So there was only one path left.
To fight.
With swords.
With fists.
With whatever strength he possessed even if it meant baring his teeth like a cornered beast he would struggle on.
For survival.
For a future.
For a place in a world that had already cast him aside.
"Viserys."
At that moment,
a voice called out from behind him.
It was Sir William.
The knight, who had remained silent until now, finally stepped forward, his expression heavy.
"There is something…"
he began, the words slipping out before he could correct himself even forgetting, for just a moment, that the boy before him was no longer merely a prince,
but his king.
The acting lord of Dragonstone swallowed slightly, his hand unconsciously drifting toward the dagger at his waist.
Around him, several guards holding torches exchanged silent glances. The flickering firelight revealed the tension in their eyes, a quiet understanding passing between them without words.
Viserys, hearing the instructor's voice, turned slightly to look at him.
His long, silver-gold hair, soft and faintly curled at the ends, was lifted by the restless wind, brushing across his pale violet eyes—eyes that now seemed far older than his years.
Seeing the hesitation on Sir William's face, Viserys slowly raised his hand.
"I understand what you're going to say, Sir,"
he said, cutting him off gently.
"I'm tired now."
"We can speak of it tomorrow."
Sir William opened his mouth as if to continue, the instinct of a seasoned knight urging him to press on. But the words died in his throat.
The two locked eyes.
And in that brief moment, Sir William saw something different in the boy's gaze something cold, sharp, and knowing.
Viserys… already knew?
But how?
They had only just returned to Dragonstone.
"Is that so…"
The middle-aged knight frowned slightly, the lines on his face deepening. He weighed his options carefully, recalling the lessons learned in the courts of King's Landing, where a single wrong word could cost a life.
In the end,
he chose silence.
He trusted the boy.
On the other side, the guards and Sir Shad quietly let out breaths they had not realized they were holding.
Relief spread among them.
They did not know how much Sir William had discovered, nor whether their carefully laid plans had already been exposed. But one thing was certain this was not the moment to act.
Not tonight.
In any direct confrontation, Sir William Darry's skill with the blade would be their greatest obstacle.
Though never as famed as the knights of the Kingsguard, his ability was formidable. In the Red Keep, his reputation had long been overshadowed by greater names—men like Barristan Selmy, known across the realm as Barristan the Bold but that did not diminish his own strength.
Sir William was no lesser knight.
He had trained under the same brutal standards, fought in real battles, and survived where many had fallen.
Even his elder brother, Jon Darry who had once worn the white cloak of the Kingsguard and served Aerys II Targaryen might not easily overpower him in a true duel.
And now, even burdened by old wounds and the slow decline of age, Sir William remained a warrior capable of cutting down several men before falling.
Against such a man,
and with loyal guards still surrounding the boy,
they did not yet have the advantage.
Soon after, the groupeach carrying their own thoughts and hidden intentions descended from the slopes of the smoking volcano and returned toward the fortress.
Night had deepened.
The torches burned lower.
Viserys was exhausted.
He had not slept at all during the long voyage across the Narrow Sea, and the weight of grief now pressed heavily upon him. His body ached, and his mind felt numb, yet he forced himself onward.
There was still one more person he needed to see.
His sister.
Daenerys Targaryen.
The child who, though only newly born, carried the last fragile hope of their house a girl who, in years to come, would shake the world.
Viserys made his way to the chamber where she was being cared for.
The wet nurse had been found among the smallfolk of Dragonstone, a woman who had recently given birth and still had milk to give. With no other choice, the guards had brought her into the castle to nurse the newborn princess.
The room was small, dimly lit by a single candle.
The air was warm.
Viserys stepped inside quietly and approached the cradle.
Despite his exhaustion, he forced himself to look closely.
A tiny figure lay wrapped in soft swaddling cloth.
A wisp of fine, pale silver hair rested upon her small head. Her face was wrinkled, as all newborns were, and not yet possessing the striking beauty that would one day define her.
But her eyes large, bright, unmistakably Valyrian opened.
And met his.
For a moment,
the world seemed to still.
Then suddenly,
the little girl let out a soft, bubbling giggle.
She reached out with her tiny hand, grasping at the air.toward him, toward the brother who stood before her like a solemn, weary guardian.
Toward the "little king."
Viserys froze.
Then, slowly,
his expression softened.
The crushing fatigue that weighed upon him seemed to ease, if only slightly.
He raised his hand gently and allowed her tiny fingers to wrap around his own.
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