c1 — Viserys
Tap… tap…
The sound of light footsteps echoed along the cold stone corridor outside the prince's chamber. The castle was silent at this hour, its braziers burning low beneath the vaulted ceilings of Red Keep. A figure approached the half-open door of a spacious bedroom high within Maegor's Holdfast, the most secure tower of the fortress.
Faint candlelight spilled into the corridor. Inside, a small figure sat at a round oak table, one hand supporting his chin. Long silver-gold hair framed his narrow face, and the trembling flame reflected in his pale lilac eyes.
He was Viserys of House Targaryen, second son of Aerys II Targaryen, the King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men—though in truth, few dared speak those full titles anymore. Viserys was only seven years old.
In recent days, the once-restless boy had fallen into strange silence. Instead of quarreling with squires or demanding to see the dragon skulls beneath the castle, he had locked himself away with heavy parchment books histories of Valyria, accounts of Aegon's Conquest, and records of the Dance of the Dragons. He had always hated such texts. Now he devoured them.
This had continued for nearly a fortnight.
Outside the chamber, the old maid who had served the royal family for decades tightened her grip on her woolen shawl. Her lined face creased deeper with worry. She had served through the later years of Aerys's reign, had witnessed the king's descent after the Defiance of Duskendale, when he was imprisoned and returned changed suspicious, cruel, obsessed with wildfire and betrayal.
She feared that the boy might carry the same shadow.
After all, the saying was often whispered in hushed voices throughout the Seven Kingdoms: "When a Targaryen is born, the gods toss a coin." Some become great like Aegon the Conqueror or Jaehaerys the Conciliator. Others descend into madness.
The maid knocked gently on the wooden doorframe.
"Your Highness," she said softly, her voice echoing in the stillness of Maegor's Holdfast.
Viserys startled, as if woken from a dream. His pale purple eyes snapped toward her, a flash of something sharp fear? calculation? passing through them before vanishing.
He took a breath.
He remembered who he was in this life: Prince Viserys Targaryen.
"What is it?" he asked, his tone composed beyond his years.
"Her Grace the Queen requests your presence."
Queen Rhaella.
Viserys paused.
His mother was not named Layla, nor was she a distant court lady. She was Rhaella Targaryen, sister-wife to the king, married to her brother as tradition demanded of the blood of the dragon. A quiet, long-suffering woman who had endured stillbirths, miscarriages, and the increasingly violent temper of her husband. More than once, members of the Kingsguard had stood outside her chambers while the king's shouts echoed within.
Viserys knew this from memory both inherited and observed.
"Mother…" he murmured.
Unlike the stories told in later years of exile in Braavos, of hunger and humiliation this was before Robert's Rebellion had reached its terrible crescendo. Prince Rhaegar still lived. The realm had not yet burned. The Usurper had not yet taken the throne.
Yet tension already choked the air of King's Landing.
"I understand," Viserys said at last.
He rose from the chair. A maid stepped forward to adjust the deep crimson silk of his princely doublet, embroidered with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen. Court etiquette was strict, especially now. Aerys trusted no one. Even his own blood was watched.
Viserys stood before a polished silver mirror framed in carved weirwood. His reflection stared back: delicate features, sharp cheekbones, and eyes too calculating for a child of seven.
Behind him, the faint silhouette of the Iron Throne could almost be imagined through stone and distance the monstrous seat forged from a thousand surrendered swords, now occupied by a king increasingly consumed by paranoia and wildfire.
Viserys focused on the mirror.
A cloud of black mist slowly gathered across the reflective surface.
Letters formed in ancient script High Valyrian, the language of Old Valyria, still taught within the royal household despite the dominance of the Common Tongue across Westeros.
[Viserys Targaryen]
Sun: 3
Earth: 5
Water: 8
Moon: 18
The characters shimmered faintly.
The Targaryens were among the last dragonlords of fallen Valyria, their ancestors having fled to Dragonstone before the Doom. They preserved fragments of their heritage language, customs, the belief in blood purity. Yet dragons themselves had not been seen in nearly a century, ever since the last sickly hatchling died during the reign of Aegon III.
And still… something ancient stirred.
Viserys was no longer surprised by the black mist. He had discovered it days earlier. If he stared into any reflective surface for three steady breaths mirror, polished steel, gemstone the mist would manifest and reveal these strange attributes.
He had tested it obsessively. Goblets of Myrish glass. The surface of a dagger from the armory. Even the polished scales of a dragon skull in the cellars beneath the Red Keep.
It always appeared.
But never upon dull stone or rough wood.
Right now, everything seemed unchanged.
Yet Viserys knew something fundamental had shifted within himself, within the realm, perhaps even within destiny.
Somewhere beyond the castle walls, storms were gathering. Lords whispered. Banners would soon rise.
And when they did, the name Targaryen would either burn the realm anew… or be cast into exile across the Narrow Sea.
He had tested it again and again over the past several days. He had deliberately stood before polished shields in the armory, stared into the curved surface of a Myrish glass goblet at supper, even angled a dagger beneath the candlelight yet no one else ever reacted. Servants passed by normally. Guards of the Red Keep saw nothing unusual.
Only he could see the mist.
Only he could see the High Valyrian letters forming within it.
It made him feel set apart in a world already steeped in secrets wildfire hidden beneath the streets of King's Landing, prophecies whispered by dragonlords of old, and rumors of dark arts practiced across the Narrow Sea in cities like Volantis and Asshai.
"Perhaps this is some kind of… magic?"
Viserys wondered silently.
He had combed through dusty volumes about Valyria, about dragonbinding horns and the lost arts of the Freehold, about the pyromancers' guild that his father now favored so disturbingly. Yet nowhere had he found mention of attributes appearing in mirrors.
Still, after days of observation, he began to understand.
The Solar attribute seemed tied to raw strength—how firmly he could grip a training blade, how hard he could strike. Earth reflected sturdiness, endurance, the resilience of flesh and bone. Water corresponded to agility and fluidity, the lightness in his steps when he darted through the corridors of Maegor's Holdfast. And Lunar…
Lunar was different.
It felt like willpower. Awareness. Something deeper, almost like the "dragon dreams" that some Targaryens were said to possess visions that had once guided Aegon I Targaryen to conquer Westeros.
A normal adult knight of the Seven Kingdoms perhaps one of the Kingsguard sworn to his father would likely have attributes between eight and ten in each physical aspect. Strong men like Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, would no doubt exceed that in strength and skill.
Viserys, however, was only seven.
His body had not yet grown into its potential.
That explained the lower Solar and Earth numbers.
But Water eight—was undeniable.
In his memories, he had often slipped from the grasp of castle guards assigned to watch him. Once, he had led two red-cloaked men of the City Watch on a breathless chase through a narrow stairwell tower, laughing as their heavy boots thundered uselessly behind him.
He had always been quick.
"Lunar… eighteen."
He stared at the mirror, blinking slowly.
That number far exceeded the others.
It surpassed what he imagined even seasoned warriors might possess in mental resilience. It had to mean something beyond ordinary intellect. Perhaps it connected to his strange awareness his sense that he carried knowledge not entirely his own, as if two lifetimes brushed against each other within his mind.
His memory had become extraordinarily sharp.
Over the past few days, he had read accounts of the Doom of Valyria, of the Blackfyre Rebellions, of the construction of the Iron Throne itself. While he could not claim perfect recall, he found that after reading a passage twice, it settled firmly into place in his mind.
And sleep no longer claimed him easily.
He could remain awake deep into the night, long after the torches in the corridors dimmed and the city beyond the walls of King's Landing fell into uneasy quiet.
"Does Your Highness have something on your mind?"
The old maid's voice broke through his thoughts.
She had been adjusting the folds of his crimson doublet, ensuring the three-headed dragon sigil lay smooth across his chest. Her aged eyes had not missed the unfocused look in his pale lilac gaze as he stared into the mirror.
He pressed his lips together.
"No," Viserys replied calmly. "Thank you for your concern, Sophia."
The words slipped out naturally.
The old woman blinked in surprise, one hand rising to cover her mouth.
"This seems to be the first time Your Highness has thanked me…"
Viserys stiffened almost imperceptibly.
In his earlier years, he had been proud, impatient, quick to anger—traits not uncommon in a Targaryen prince raised amid whispers of destiny and dragons. Gratitude had not come easily to him.
A brief silence filled the chamber.
At last, as she finished smoothing his sleeves, Viserys spoke again.
"So… did Mother say why she wished to see me?"
His tone was casual, but beneath it lay careful probing.
The old maid hesitated.
She knew.
The news had swept through the Red Keep like wildfire through dry brush: Prince Rhaegar had fallen at the Battle of the Trident, slain by Robert Baratheon with his great warhammer. The ruby-studded armor of the crown prince had shattered in the river, scattering gems into the current.
With Rhaegar dead, the rebellion had gained unstoppable momentum.
Tywin Lannister's forces were said to be approaching the city. The gates of King's Landing might soon open or be forced.
Inside the Red Keep, fear simmered. King Aerys raged in paranoia, muttering of traitors and demanding more wildfire from the Alchemists' Guild. Some whispered that he intended to burn the city rather than surrender it.
And this boy before her
If fate twisted cruelly enough
Would one day be crowned Viserys the Third of His Name.
But that future depended entirely on whether House Targaryen retained the Iron Throne forged by Aegon I Targaryen nearly three centuries ago.
If they failed…
Exile. Pursuit. Perhaps death.
The old maid looked at him, her wrinkles deepening as she exhaled softly.
Viserys watched her closely, searching for any crack in her composure.
In the end, she only shook her head.
"No."
.....