**The Red Keep - Royal Chambers - 103 AC (The Night Before Viserys's Coronation)**
Prince Viserys Targaryen—soon to be *King* Viserys Targaryen, though the thought still made his stomach clench—stood at the window of his chambers, staring out at King's Landing without really seeing it.
Tomorrow morning, he would be crowned. Tomorrow, the weight of the realm would settle on his shoulders. Tomorrow, he would stop being Jaehaerys' grandson and become... something else. Something he wasn't entirely sure he was prepared for.
Behind him, he heard the rustle of fabric as Aemma shifted in bed. His wife was seven months pregnant—*carefully* pregnant, after three miscarriages and a stillbirth that had nearly broken them both. The maesters were cautiously optimistic this time, but Viserys had learned not to trust optimism where pregnancy was concerned.
"You're thinking too loud," Aemma said, her voice carrying that particular mix of affection and exasperation that came from eight years of marriage. "Come to bed, husband. Tomorrow will be exhausting enough without you spending tonight wearing holes in the floorboards."
"I can't," Viserys said, turning to face her. His wife looked beautiful despite—or perhaps because of—the pregnancy. Her golden Arryn hair was loose around her shoulders, her face fuller than usual, her hands resting on the swell of her belly with protective instinct. "Aemma, I have to decide about the Hand."
"Ah." She patted the bed beside her. "Then you'd better sit down. This seems like a sitting-down conversation."
Viserys crossed to the bed and settled carefully beside her, mindful of her condition. Aemma immediately took his hand, lacing their fingers together with the casual intimacy of long partnership.
"Tell me what's troubling you," she said.
"Everything," Viserys admitted. "The Hand's position most immediately. Grandfather suggested—before he died—that Rhaenys should step down. That I should choose my own Hand, someone who makes me feel... independent."
"And you have a choice in mind?"
"Two choices. That's the problem." Viserys ran his free hand through his hair—already thinning at thirty-one, another reminder that he was aging faster than he'd expected. "Rhaenys has been an exceptional Hand. Two years of steady governance, respected by the lords, competent in ways that frankly intimidate me. If I keep her, the transition will be smooth. The realm continues as it has."
"But?" Aemma prompted gently.
"But she's family. She's my cousin, and she was passed over for the succession. *Twice*." Viserys's voice dropped. "How can I ask her to serve me when the throne should have been hers? How can I take the crown she was denied and then expect her to do the work while I wear it?"
"Have you asked her how she feels?"
"She says she doesn't want the crown. Says she never did. But—" Viserys shook his head. "How can I believe that? How can anyone pass over the throne and truly not resent it?"
Aemma was quiet for a moment, her thumb tracing circles on the back of his hand. "Rhaenys is one of the strongest people I know. If she says she doesn't want the crown, I believe her. But you're right that keeping her as Hand sends a message—that you're continuing your grandfather's reign instead of establishing your own."
"Exactly. And Otto—"
"Otto Hightower." Aemma's voice went carefully neutral in a way that immediately put Viserys on alert.
"You don't like him."
"I don't *dislike* him," Aemma corrected. "I just... I'm wary of him. He's brilliant, certainly. Competent. Your friend from your time in Oldtown. But he's also ambitious in ways that make me nervous."
"Ambitious isn't necessarily bad—"
"No," Aemma agreed. "But Otto's ambition seems very... *focused*. He wants power, yes. But more specifically, he wants power for House Hightower. And I worry—" She paused, choosing her words carefully. "—I worry that if you make him Hand, his advice will always serve two masters: you and his house."
Viserys felt something twist in his chest. "You think he'd manipulate me?"
"I think he'd *guide* you," Aemma said diplomatically. "Toward decisions that benefit both the crown and House Hightower. And sometimes those interests align perfectly. But when they don't..." She shrugged. "Who does he serve first?"
"He's my friend," Viserys said, but it came out weaker than he meant it. "We've corresponded for years. He's given me good counsel—"
"While he was a second son with no prospects," Aemma interrupted gently. "But now? Now you're about to be king. And Otto has been positioning himself in King's Landing for two years. Attending councils. Building relationships. Making himself *indispensable*." She squeezed his hand. "I'm not saying he's malicious. I'm saying he's *strategic*. And you need to decide if that's the kind of Hand you want."
Viserys stood up and began pacing again, unable to sit still with this weight pressing down. "So my choices are: keep Rhaenys and look like I'm hiding behind my grandfather's decisions, or choose Otto and risk being manipulated by someone more clever than I am."
"Those aren't your only options—"
"They feel like my only options!" Viserys's voice rose, then immediately lowered when he saw Aemma flinch. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I shouldn't—"
"It's fine," Aemma said, though her hands had moved protectively to her belly. "You're under enormous stress. Tomorrow you become king. You're allowed to be overwhelmed."
"I don't want to be overwhelmed. I want to be *certain*." Viserys returned to the bed, kneeling beside it so he could look up at his wife. "Grandfather was certain. About everything. He made decisions and stood by them and the realm prospered. I'm not like that. I see every side, every complication, every way things could go wrong."
"That's not weakness," Aemma said firmly. "That's wisdom. Your grandfather was certain because he'd ruled for fifty years. You've ruled for exactly zero days. You're allowed to be uncertain."
"But I have to choose a Hand. Tomorrow. The council expects—"
"Then choose based on who you trust," Aemma said simply. "Not who seems most politically advantageous. Not who makes the best impression. Who do you *trust*, Viserys? Really trust, with the realm and your rule and your family?"
Viserys thought about this. Rhaenys, who'd been steady and competent but also family—too close, perhaps, to give him the hard truths he needed. Otto, who'd been a friend but whose friendship might come with strings attached.
"What would you do?" he asked. "If you were king—queen—who would you choose?"
"I'm not queen," Aemma said. "I'm your wife. And as your wife, my advice is: choose whoever lets you sleep at night. Because you're going to be working with this person daily. You're going to rely on them for counsel, for support, for the kind of hard decisions that keep kings awake. If you choose someone who makes you constantly second-guess yourself—that's worse than choosing someone who makes you look weak."
"That's not an answer."
"Yes it is. You just don't like it." Aemma smiled slightly. "You want me to tell you what to do. But I can't. This is your decision, husband. Your reign. Your burden to carry."
Viserys felt tears prick at his eyes—exhaustion and grief and fear all mixing together. "I miss Grandfather. I miss Father. I miss having people who knew what to do."
"They didn't always know," Aemma said gently. "They just *decided*. That's the difference between seeming certain and being certain. You decide, and then you commit to that decision, and then you deal with the consequences. That's all any ruler can do."
"What if I choose wrong?"
"Then you'll deal with those consequences too. But Viserys—" She pulled him up onto the bed beside her, wrapping her arms around him with some difficulty given her pregnant belly. "—you're not going to be alone in this. You have me. You have Daemon. You have Rhaenys whether she's Hand or not. You have the children—gods help us all, because those three are *strange* but they're brilliant—and you have a Small Council full of competent people."
"The children," Viserys murmured. "Rhaenyra, Annara, Perseon. Grandfather said they were special. That they'd help prevent something terrible."
"He told you about that?"
"Some of it. Not everything—I think he and Grandmother had secrets they didn't share with anyone. But enough. They're not normal children." Viserys pulled back slightly to look at his wife. "What if they're right? What if there *is* something terrible coming, and my choice of Hand affects whether we can prevent it?"
"Then you should probably talk to them," Aemma said practically. "They're five years old, but they're more insightful than half the lords on your council. If they have opinions about who should be Hand—"
"They're *five*."
"They're five-year-olds who predicted Grandfather's death to the year, who designed ships that sail better than ones built by master craftsmen, who speak languages they shouldn't know and understand politics they shouldn't grasp." Aemma's voice was firm. "I don't know what they are, Viserys. Blessed, cursed, touched by gods or prophecy or something else entirely. But they're *something*. And if Grandfather trusted them enough to tell you to listen to them—maybe you should."
Viserys was quiet for a long moment, holding his pregnant wife, feeling the baby kick against his side through her belly. *Another child*, he thought. *Another person who'll depend on me making the right choices.*
"If I keep Rhaenys as Hand," he said slowly, "I look weak. Like I can't govern without family holding my hand. The lords will question whether I'm really ruling or just continuing Grandfather's reign with a different face."
"Probably," Aemma agreed.
"But if I choose Otto, I'm putting enormous power in the hands of someone who might use it for his own house's benefit. And I'm dismissing a woman who's been competent and loyal in favor of a man who's politically convenient."
"Also probably true."
"You're not helping."
"I'm not supposed to help. I'm supposed to listen." Aemma kissed his forehead. "But since you're asking my *opinion*—I think you should choose based on who you'd rather owe favors to. Because whoever you make Hand, you'll owe them. That's the nature of the position. They do the work, you get the credit, and they accumulate power and influence that you'll eventually have to account for."
"So who do I want to owe favors to?" Viserys considered this. "Rhaenys is family. If I owe her, she'll ask for things that benefit House Velaryon and House Targaryen both. Marriages for her children, maybe. Trade concessions. Political support for her husband's ventures. But nothing that would hurt the realm—she's too practical for that."
"And Otto?"
"If I owe Otto..." Viserys trailed off, thinking. "He'd ask for advancement. For his house, for his children. He has a daughter—Alicent. She's eight. Bright girl. In ten years she'll be marriageable, and Otto will want a good match for her. Someone who elevates House Hightower."
"Someone like a king's son," Aemma said quietly. "If we have a son. If this pregnancy—" Her hands tightened on her belly. "—if I give you a son, Otto might see him as a match for Alicent someday."
Viserys felt cold spread through his chest. "That's... that's years away. A decade at least."
"But Otto plans for decades. That's what makes him effective. And dangerous." Aemma met his eyes. "I'm not saying he'd push his daughter at your son. I'm saying he *might*. And you need to decide if that's a debt you're willing to risk."
"What about our daughters?" Viserys asked. "Rhaenyra and Annara. They're my children too. If I don't have a son—if this baby is another girl—"
"Then you'll have three daughters and no male heir," Aemma finished. "Which means one of them might inherit. And *that*—" She smiled slightly. "—that's where things get interesting. Because Rhaenys was passed over for being a woman. But if you have no sons, if your only heirs are daughters—you'll have to choose whether to continue that precedent or break it."
"Grandfather changed the precedent," Viserys said. "At the Great Council. It's about proximity now, not just gender."
"He changed the *framing*," Aemma corrected. "The lords still chose a man over a woman. They just chose him for better reasons than 'women can't rule.' If you name a daughter your heir, you'll be testing whether that distinction actually matters."
Viserys felt the weight of futures colliding. Choices upon choices, each one branching into infinite complications.
"Tell me what to do," he said, half-pleading. "Please. I know you said you can't, but—"
"I can't," Aemma said firmly. "But I can tell you what I *hope* you'll do."
"What's that?"
"I hope you'll choose with your gut instead of your head. Your head sees politics and complications and ways to fail. But your gut—" She placed his hand on her belly, where their child was kicking. "—your gut knows who you trust. Who makes you feel safe. Who you'd want advising our children if something happened to you."
"Gods, don't say that—"
"I'm pregnant, Viserys. Childbirth is dangerous. We both know that." Her voice was steady despite the fear in her eyes. "If something happens to me. If I die giving you this child—"
"You won't—"
"*If I do*," she insisted, "who do you want helping you raise our children? Who do you want whispering in your ear about their futures? Rhaenys, who loves them like her own? Or Otto, who sees them as pieces on a board?"
Viserys felt tears spill over. "That's not fair."
"None of this is fair. But it's real." Aemma pulled him close again, her hands gentle on his face. "Choose, husband. Trust your instincts. And then *commit* to that choice, whatever it is. Don't second-guess. Don't look back. Just decide and move forward."
"What if I choose wrong?"
"Then you'll fix it. Hands can be dismissed. Councils can be reformed. Nothing is permanent except death and the choices we make in response to it." She kissed him softly. "Now come to bed properly. Sleep if you can. Tomorrow is going to be very long, and you need to be ready."
Viserys settled beside her, careful of her pregnancy, and tried to let her presence calm his racing thoughts.
But sleep didn't come easily. He lay there, feeling Aemma's breathing even out as she dozed, feeling their child kick against his hand, and thought about hands and trust and the weight of crowns he wasn't ready to wear.
*Rhaenys or Otto. Family or friend. Status quo or change.*
*Grandfather said to choose my own Hand. To establish independence. But Grandfather also trusted those strange children with secrets about the future. And if the children know something I don't—*
He made a decision. Not final, not yet. But a direction.
Tomorrow, after the coronation, he'd speak with them. All three of them—Perseon, Rhaenyra, Annara. Ask them directly: *Who should be Hand?*
They were five years old. It was absurd to ask children about politics.
But they were also something more than children. Grandfather had known it. Grandmother had known it. Even Aemma sensed it.
And if they could predict deaths and design ships and speak with wisdom beyond their years—
Maybe they could give him the answer he couldn't find himself.
Viserys finally slept, still undecided, still uncertain.
But with a plan. And sometimes, a plan was enough.
---
**The Red Keep - Guest Wing - Same Night**
"He's going to ask us," Annabeth said through their mental connection, her consciousness sharp despite her body being technically asleep. "Tomorrow. After the coronation. Viserys is going to ask who he should choose as Hand."
"I felt it too," Calypso's thoughts confirmed. "He's desperate. Uncertain. Looking for someone to make the decision for him."
"That's very on-brand for Viserys," Percy observed, his consciousness swimming somewhere between waking and dreaming. "Never met a decision he couldn't agonize over."
"So what do we tell him?" Annabeth asked.
The question hung in the mental space they shared, heavy with consequences.
"We tell him the truth," Percy decided. "Or at least, a version of it. Rhaenys is competent and trustworthy. Otto is ambitious and dangerous. The choice should be obvious."
"Except it's not," Calypso countered. "Otto as Hand means we can watch him. Keep him close. Know what he's planning. Otto as an *enemy* outside the council—that might be worse."
"Keep your enemies closer?" Annabeth's thoughts carried skepticism. "That only works if you can actually *control* your enemies. And Otto's smarter than Viserys. He'll run circles around him."
"So will Rhaenys," Percy pointed out. "She's brilliant and practical and has no patience for indecisiveness. If she stays Hand, she'll functionally be ruling while Viserys gets the credit."
"Is that necessarily bad?" Calypso asked. "We *want* competent governance. We want the realm to be stable. If Rhaenys can provide that—"
"—then Viserys never learns to rule on his own," Annabeth finished. "He remains dependent. Weak. And when the critical moments come—when he needs to make hard choices about his daughters, about succession, about Aemma—he won't have the strength."
They were all quiet for a moment, consciousness drifting in that strange space between sleep and waking.
"We can't make this decision for him," Percy said finally. "That's not our role. We're not his advisors. We're five-year-old children who happen to know the future."
"Then what do we tell him when he asks?" Annabeth pressed.
"We tell him..." Percy thought carefully. "We tell him that both choices have merit. And both have danger. And that the decision isn't about who's *better*—it's about who he trusts to catch him when he falls. Because he *will* fall. That's who Viserys is. And whoever's Hand needs to be someone who'll help him back up instead of using his weakness against him."
"That's not an answer," Calypso observed.
"Yes it is. It's just not the answer he wants." Percy's thoughts carried grim determination. "He wants us to tell him what to do. We're going to tell him to trust himself. And then we'll deal with whatever he decides."
"Even if he chooses Otto?"
"Even then. We've planned for both possibilities. Otto as Hand, Rhaenys as council member—we can work with that. Rhaenys as Hand, Otto on the outside—we can work with that too. The critical thing is keeping them *both* close enough to influence without letting either one dominate."
"Balance of power," Annabeth said approvingly. "Very Athena of you, Seaweed Brain."
"I have my moments."
Their consciousness began drifting apart as true sleep claimed them. But Percy's last thought before oblivion was a wish, desperate and futile:
*Please, Viserys. Please choose with your brain instead of your heart. Just this once.*
But he knew that was asking too much.
Viserys would choose with his heart. He always did.
They'd just have to hope his heart chose wisely.
—
**The Red Keep - Royal Gardens - 103 AC (Late Afternoon, Day of Coronation)**
King Viserys I Targaryen—the title still felt strange, too large for his shoulders—found the three children exactly where his wife had suggested they'd be: in the secluded corner of the gardens near the dragon fountain, engaged in what appeared to be a very serious conversation involving a stick, some pebbles, and a great deal of gesturing.
He'd been crowned that morning in a ceremony that felt both endless and too brief. The crown was heavier than he'd expected. The vows more binding. The weight of a thousand eyes watching him, judging whether he'd be worthy of the throne his grandfather had occupied for fifty-five years.
And through it all, he'd felt the question pressing down: *Who will be my Hand?*
He'd managed to delay the announcement. Claimed he needed time to consider. But the Small Council expected a decision by tomorrow's session, and Viserys was no closer to certainty than he'd been last night.
"Your Grace!" Laena Velaryon spotted him first and immediately scrambled to her feet, executing a curtsy that was only slightly wobbly—the eight-year-old was still growing into her courtly manners. "I mean—Your Grace the King! Congratulations on your coronation!"
"Thank you, Lady Laena." Viserys couldn't help but smile at her enthusiasm. "Are your siblings here as well?"
"In the stables, Your Grace. Laenor wanted to check on his horse, and Perseon went with him because—" She paused, clearly trying to remember the excuse. "—because something about saddle fit? I wasn't really listening."
"That's quite alright." Viserys turned his attention to his daughters and their cousin, who had all stood and were watching him with those too-intelligent eyes that still unnerved him sometimes. "Rhaenyra, Annara, Perseon. Might I speak with you? Privately?"
The three children exchanged glances—that silent communication thing they did that made everyone nervous—before Rhaenyra stepped forward.
"Of course, Father." She was wearing a dress of deep purple that made her silver-gold hair seem to glow. At five years old, she barely came up to his waist, but somehow she managed to look regal anyway. "Should we walk, or would you prefer to sit?"
"Walk, I think." Viserys needed to move, needed the illusion of going somewhere even if he was just pacing the gardens. "Laena, would you give us a few moments?"
"Yes, Your Grace!" The girl curtseyed again and scampered off toward the stables, clearly eager to find her brothers and report that something *interesting* was happening.
Viserys waited until she was out of earshot, then began walking slowly along the garden path. The three children fell into step beside him—Perseon on his left, the twins on his right—all of them moving with the careful coordination of people who'd spent years learning to match each other's pace.
"I need advice," Viserys said after a moment. "And your grandfather—King Jaehaerys—he told me that you three were... special. That you understood things others don't. That I should listen when you spoke."
"Great-Grandfather was very kind," Annara said carefully, her grey eyes studying him with unnerving intensity. "But we're five years old, Your Grace. What could we possibly advise you about?"
"The Hand of the King." Viserys stopped walking and turned to face them fully. "I need to choose a Hand. Tomorrow. And I'm... I don't know what to do."
The three children were very still. Then Rhaenyra spoke, her voice pitched low enough that only their small group could hear.
"You're trying to decide between Aunt Rhaenys and Otto Hightower."
It wasn't a question.
"How did you—" Viserys stopped himself. "Your grandfather said you sometimes knew things. Before they happened. Is that...?"
"We pay attention," Perseon said, which was both an answer and not an answer at all. "Lord Hightower has been positioning himself for two years. Mother—Princess Rhaenys—has been an effective Hand but might want to step down now that you're king. The choice is obvious from a political standpoint."
"What choice?" Viserys asked, almost desperately. "What's the obvious choice?"
The three children exchanged another one of those looks. Then Annara spoke, her words chosen with the precision of someone much older.
"There is no obvious choice, Your Grace. Both options have merit. Both have complications. The question isn't who's better—it's who you trust more."
"That's what Aemma said," Viserys muttered. "But I trust them both. Rhaenys is family. She's been loyal, competent, everything a Hand should be. But she was passed over for the throne—"
"Twice," Rhaenyra said quietly. "We know. And you're afraid that keeping her as Hand makes you look weak. Like you can't rule without family guidance."
"Exactly." Viserys felt a rush of relief that someone understood. "But Otto—Otto is brilliant. He's been my friend for years. He understands governance, knows the great houses, has connections throughout the realm. Making him Hand would show I'm establishing my own rule, choosing my own advisors."
"But you don't fully trust him," Perseon observed. "Or you wouldn't be asking us for advice. You'd have just announced his appointment at the coronation."
Viserys felt his throat tighten. "I trust him. I just... I worry about his ambitions. About what he might want in return for his service."
"He'll want advancement for House Hightower," Annara said bluntly. "That's not a secret. Otto is loyal to the crown, yes, but he's also loyal to his family. When those interests align, you'll get excellent counsel. When they don't—" She shrugged, the gesture oddly adult despite her small frame. "—you'll have to decide which loyalty matters more."
"And Aunt Rhaenys?" Viserys asked. "What would she want in return?"
"Respect," Rhaenyra said immediately. "Recognition. Proof that being passed over for the throne didn't mean she was inferior. She doesn't want power for its own sake—she wants to be *valued*. If you keep her as Hand and make it clear you're doing so because she's earned it, not because you're hiding behind her—she'll serve you loyally."
"But if I dismiss her," Viserys said slowly, "she'll see it as another rejection. Another time she wasn't good enough."
"Maybe," Perseon said. "Or maybe she'll see it as you trusting her enough to be honest about needing independence. It depends on how you frame it."
Viserys resumed walking, his mind churning. The children kept pace, silent now, letting him think.
"Grandfather said you three were trying to prevent something," he said eventually. "Something terrible that's coming. Do you know what it is?"
More of those silent looks. Then Rhaenyra spoke, her voice very small and very certain.
"We know that the choices you make now—about your Hand, about your heirs, about who you trust—will echo for decades. We know that the realm needs stability. Strong governance. Leaders who put the kingdom before personal ambition." She looked up at him with purple eyes that were far too old. "And we know that you're a good man, Father. But good men can make bad choices when they're uncertain. When they choose what's *easy* instead of what's *right*."
"So which is which?" Viserys demanded, frustration bleeding into his voice. "Which choice is easy and which is right?"
"That depends on what you're trying to achieve," Annara said. She'd pulled out a small stick and was drawing patterns in the dirt as they walked—not aimlessly, but with geometric precision. "If you want the realm to run smoothly while you learn to be king—keep Aunt Rhaenys as Hand. She'll handle the day-to-day governance while you build confidence. That's the easy choice, and it's not a bad one."
"But if you want to establish your own rule," Perseon continued, picking up the thread seamlessly, "if you want the lords to see you as independent, as *King* Viserys rather than Jaehaerys's grandson—then you need to make your own choice. Choose your own Hand. Show that you're not just continuing the old regime."
"That would be Otto," Viserys said.
"Probably," Rhaenyra agreed. "He's qualified. He's available. He wants the position. And he's not family, which means choosing him looks like true independence rather than nepotism."
"Then that's what I should do." Viserys felt the decision crystallizing, almost a relief to have the path clear. "I should choose Otto."
"If that's what your instincts tell you," Annara said, still drawing in the dirt. "But Father—can I ask you something?"
"Of course."
She looked up at him, and her grey eyes were *knowing* in a way that made his skin prickle. "If something happened to Mother—if she died in childbirth, gods forbid—who would you want helping you raise us? Who would you trust with your daughters' futures?"
The question hit like a physical blow.
Viserys thought about Rhaenyra and Annara—his beautiful, strange, brilliant daughters who already read at levels that made maesters nervous and spoke with vocabularies that three-year-olds shouldn't possess. He thought about the child Aemma was carrying now, who might be a son or might be another daughter or might—gods, he couldn't think about that.
"Rhaenys," he heard himself say. "I'd want Rhaenys. She loves you girls like her own children. She'd protect you, guide you, teach you—"
"And Otto?" Perseon asked quietly.
Viserys thought about Otto's daughter, Alicent. A sweet girl, perfectly behaved, clearly being groomed for an excellent marriage someday. He thought about how Otto looked at his children—with love, yes, but also with *calculation*. Seeing opportunities. Seeing pieces to be moved on a board.
"Otto would see you as assets," Viserys admitted, the words feeling like treason against his friend. "He'd arrange good marriages. Make sure you were politically useful. He wouldn't be *unkind*, but—"
"But we'd be tools," Rhaenyra finished softly. "Not people. Not your daughters. Just Targaryen princesses who could be used to benefit his house."
"That's not—" Viserys stopped. "That's not entirely fair. Otto cares about people. He's not a monster."
"We never said he was," Annara said, brushing dirt from her hands and standing up. The pattern she'd drawn was complex—lines intersecting, circles overlapping, something that looked almost like a map. "But people can care *and* be calculating. They can be loyal *and* ambitious. The question is: when those things conflict, which wins?"
Viserys stared at the pattern in the dirt, seeing something in it he couldn't quite name. Choices and consequences. Paths diverging. Futures written and unwritten.
"Tell me," he said, his voice rough. "If you were me—if you had to choose—what would you do?"
The three children looked at each other one final time. Then they spoke in unison, their voices blending into something that sounded almost like prophecy:
"We would choose the person who makes us stronger, not the person who makes us comfortable."
Viserys felt something shift in his chest. A decision settling into place with the weight of inevitability.
"Otto makes me comfortable," he realized aloud. "He tells me what I want to hear. He makes me feel capable when I'm drowning. He's easy to work with because he handles the hard parts and lets me look good."
"And Aunt Rhaenys?" Rhaenyra prompted.
"Challenges me. Questions my decisions. Makes me think harder, work harder, *be* harder than I naturally am." Viserys laughed, short and sharp. "I don't like working with her sometimes because she expects me to be better than I feel."
"Then you have your answer," Perseon said simply.
"Do I?"
"You told us yourself." Annara gestured at the pattern in the dirt—now Viserys could see it was a crown, drawn with intersecting lines and circles, complex and beautiful and weighted. "You choose the person who makes you stronger. Even if it's harder. Even if it's uncomfortable. Because being king isn't about being comfortable—it's about being *worthy*."
Viserys stared at his daughters and his nephew, these five-year-old children who somehow understood governance better than most of his council.
"Rhaenys stays as Hand," he said, and felt certainty wash over him like a wave. "I'll tell her—I'll make it clear—that I'm keeping her because she's earned it. Not because I'm hiding behind her, but because I trust her to help me become the king I need to be."
"And Otto?" Rhaenyra asked carefully.
"Stays on the council. Advisor. Friend. But not Hand." Viserys knelt down so he was eye-level with the children, his crown suddenly feeling less heavy. "You three—I don't know what you are. What Grandfather saw in you. But you're right. About this. About me. I was choosing comfort over strength. Thank you for—" His voice caught. "—for seeing that. For caring enough to tell me the truth."
"We're your daughters," Rhaenyra said, and something fierce flashed in her purple eyes. "Of course we care. And Perseon is family too. We want you to succeed, Father. We need you to succeed."
There was weight in those words, layers of meaning Viserys didn't fully understand. But he understood enough.
"I'll announce it tomorrow," he said, standing and brushing dirt from his knees. "Rhaenys remains Hand. Otto receives—something else. A different position, maybe Master of Laws if Staunton can be persuaded to step down. Something significant that shows I value him without giving him the kingdom's governance."
"That's wise," Annara approved.
"We'll see if it's wise after I tell Otto," Viserys said dryly. "He's going to be disappointed."
"Better disappointed than powerful and dangerous," Perseon observed with the casual pragmatism of someone much older. "Disappointed friends can be managed. Powerful ambitious friends—those are harder."
Viserys studied the boy—Rhaenys's youngest son, only five years old but already demonstrating the kind of strategic thinking that made admirals nervous. "You're very cynical for a child."
"I'm very realistic for a Velaryon," Perseon corrected with a grin that was pure mischief. "Father says the only difference between cynicism and realism is whether you're right."
Despite everything, Viserys laughed. "Your father is a wise man. A terrifying man, but wise."
"He's both," Perseon agreed. "It's his best quality."
They walked back toward the castle together, the children chattering now about less weighty things—dragons and swords and the upcoming nameday celebrations. But Viserys barely heard them.
His mind was already composing the conversation he'd have with Rhaenys tomorrow. *I'm keeping you as Hand not because I need you, but because you've earned it. Because I trust you to make me better.*
And then the harder conversation with Otto. *I value your friendship and your counsel, but the position of Hand must go to someone whose only loyalty is to the crown, not to their house.*
Otto would be hurt. Possibly angry. But better that than—than what?
*Than what the children are trying to prevent*, Viserys realized. *Whatever terrible thing Grandfather said they knew about. Whatever future they're trying to stop.*
He'd made his choice. Not the easy one. Not the comfortable one. But the one that made him stronger.
Now he just had to hope it was enough.
---
**The Red Keep - Small Solar - That Evening**
"You told him to keep Mother as Hand," Laenor said, appearing in their usual meeting spot with Laena right behind him. Both of the older Velaryon children had developed a habit of finding their younger siblings when "interesting things" happened—and apparently a private conversation with the king qualified.
"We suggested he choose who made him stronger, not who made him comfortable," Annara corrected, settling onto a cushion with her ever-present notebook. "He reached the conclusion himself."
"That's semantics," Laena said, but she was grinning. "Mother's going to stay as Hand! That's good, right? That's what we wanted?"
"It's what the realm needs," Percy said carefully. "Viserys is—he's a good man. Kind. But he's not strong. Not like Jaehaerys was. He needs someone who'll push him to be better. Aunt Rhaenys can do that."
"And Otto Hightower?" Laenor asked, his expression more serious than his eight years should allow. "What happens to him?"
"Viserys will offer him a different position," Rhaenyra predicted. "Something significant enough to avoid insult but not powerful enough to be dangerous. Master of Laws, probably. Or maybe Master of Ships once Father retires from that role."
"Otto's not going to be happy," Laena observed.
"No," the three younger children agreed in unison.
"But he'll accept it," Annara continued. "Because refusing would mean losing access to the king entirely. Better to have *some* position than none at all."
"And his daughter?" Laenor pressed. "Alicent. She's your friend now, isn't she?"
Percy felt something complicated twist in his chest. "She is. And that doesn't change. Otto being passed over for Hand doesn't affect our friendship with Alicent."
"Doesn't it?" Laena's sharp eyes—she had her mother's intelligence, that much was clear—studied her younger brother. "If Otto feels slighted, if he sees the Targaryens as rejecting him—won't he tell Alicent to distance herself from you?"
"He might try," Rhaenyra said quietly. "But Alicent is smarter than her father gives her credit for. And she's stubborn. If Otto tells her to stop being our friend, she'll probably just meet us in secret out of spite."
"That's a lot of faith in an eight-year-old," Laenor observed.
"Says the eight-year-old," Percy shot back with a grin.
"I'm mature for my age."
"So is she."
They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, five children ranging from five to eight years old, discussing politics and manipulation and the future of the realm like it was perfectly normal.
"We changed something today," Annara said eventually, her voice thoughtful. "In the original timeline—in the histories we read—we don't know who Viserys chose as Hand. But we know Otto became Hand eventually. Probably early. And that influenced everything that came after."
"And now Otto *won't* be Hand," Percy confirmed. "Which means we've successfully altered the timeline. Again."
"Is that good?" Laena asked. "Changing things? What if we make something worse?"
"We might," Rhaenyra admitted. "We're not omniscient. We know what *was* supposed to happen, but we don't know what *will* happen now that we're changing things. But—" She looked at each of them. "—we have to try. Because what was supposed to happen was a civil war that killed fifty thousand people. We can't make that *worse*. We can only make it different."
"Different and hopefully better," Annara added.
"Hopefully," they all agreed.
And in the castle above them, King Viserys I Targaryen slept more peacefully than he had in weeks, his choice made, his path clear, his daughters watching over him from the shadows like guardian spirits he didn't know he had.
The Dance was still years away.
But they'd just taken another step toward preventing it.
Together. Always together.
As it should be.
---
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