Ch: 4

King’s Landing

98 AC (Eighth Moon—Day 08) 

Viserra III

His hands grazed her skin—rough, warm, callused from work and sword—a firm, steady grip.

A shiver ran through her, a soft moan escaping. Vanys moved faster, thrusts precise, hitting deep. Her body, long neglected, ached and clung to him, eager. She arched, hips raised, thighs parted.

The Valyrian guard took her from behind, all fire and strength—tall, lilac-eyed, built like his kin. Viserra savored it, her mind slipping Maelys into his place—sharp cheekbones, gentle smile, eyes alight with desire.

She moved with the guard but felt her brother’s shadow—raw, intense, tangled with Gael’s restraint.

“Harder,” she urged, voice low, thick with need.

Vanys obliged, gripping her hair with a rough edge she craved. She leaned into the sting. His rhythm was relentless, wet and fierce, pleasure building fast. The bed groaned under them, desire echoing off the stone walls.

She shattered quickly, a sharp rush—her body tightening, pulsing around him.

He followed, spilling into her with a low groan, lost in the moment. Moon tea would handle the rest—no room for lowborn heirs, not unless the lineage mattered. This was her husband’s one bruise, and she’d keep it that way.

Vanys eased back, spent, softening. She sank into the sheets, cool against her flushed skin, breaths heavy, eyes hazy. Solid, this—last night and now. She half-considered dragging him to Sweetport Sound, a warm distraction while Luras prayed at his sept.

Just a thought.

“No watch today?” she asked, rolling onto her back, the glow fading slowly.

His eyes lingered on her, a quieter hunger there. “None—day’s mine, tomorrow too.” He ran a hand through dark hair, glancing away. “Prince gives us leave when he’s in a mood—good man, generous at times.”

She smirked, subtle. “That so? Extends to everyone under him, I’d wager?”

“Yeah,” he said, shrugging. “Most, anyway. He’s got a pull—people would die for him, and he doesn’t even push for it.”

Viserra turned that over, piecing together Maelys—her brother’s strange, almost unhealthy draw. Loyalty like that, even in this guard’s guarded words. She’d probed lightly, but Vanys gave nothing—tight-lipped, no gossip, no give. Frustrating.

For a moment, she wondered if her allure was fading, if age was creeping in.

Time passed, then she stood, dawn’s light filtering through the shutters. She wouldn’t miss breakfast with family—except the old king, curse him. Vanys’ gaze followed her, still warm, as she stretched, shaking off the last of the haze.

“Off to bathe,” she said, hips swaying as she crossed the room. “Be gone before I’m back—unless you want Jaedar finding you in his mother’s bed.”

He chuckled, already pulling on his breeches. The dismissal felt clean, easy.

The bath was nearly scalding, heat biting into her skin and settling deep. Steam hung heavy in the air. Valyrian hands moved over her—slender, pale, practiced—her usual maids dismissed for these few her brother had handpicked from Lyseni brothels.

He called them old blood, now freed, scrubbing her down with a skill born of long years spent lathering scented soap—jasmine and bitter citrus, sharp against her skin.

Lowborn women, dressed up to mimic nobility. Her brother was half-mad.

It ended quickly—rough towels pulled the water from her, steam still clinging to her like the breath of a forge as she stepped out. A sheer silk wrap was laid over her, light and clinging, offering what little modesty she bothered to maintain.

Vanys was gone. The room had been cleared—no sign of him or Jaedar. The boy was likely off in the practice yard, daydreaming of swords and tourneys, or chasing Aemma’s screeching babe through the keep’s halls.

They dressed her, those same Valyrian hands—sliding her into indigo, the gown tight at the bodice, the skirts whispering around her legs. This wasn’t some provincial scrap; it was a lord’s gift, fine and flattering.

She stepped into the corridor. The door creaked behind her, lost in the growing noise beyond—Dragonstone’s servants rushing past, tension thick in the air.

The old king had sent for Viserys the day after Maelys took the throne, the summons as sharp as a drawn blade.

Daemon had arrived a day later on Caraxes, all fire and fury, the dragon’s cry raking the sky. Viserys came by ship two days after that, heavy with Aemma’s weight and Rhaenyra’s wails.

Maelys had let the reason slip in a whisper, a bare shred of truth. But the rest—the deeper purpose—stayed buried. Her brother knew. She could see it in his eyes. But he said nothing, guarding the secret like gold.

Now the keep was overflowing, crowded with kin and tension, but it brought her no comfort. There was too much to do—schemes to sniff out, opportunities to seize—to waste time on stiff greetings and wary smiles.

This morning feast was a chance—a moment to draw soft words from Viserys, to pocket favors behind a veil of warmth.

As she neared the dining hall, the noise spilled out—voices, laughter, clinking silver, a steady rise of sound.

The long table stretched ahead, worn and scratched, heavy with crusty bread, shining sausages, and sweating pitchers of dark wine.

Viserys sat at one end, broad and flushed, his face turned to Maelys, words tumbling fast. Aemma perched near the other end, wrapped in soft blue, smiling at Gael with the ease of someone untouched by recent storms.

Jaedar lounged beside Rhaenyra, idly picking at a bowl of berries, his golden hair bright beside the child’s silver, her small hands sticky with juice.

Daemon was nowhere to be seen—likely off in some brothel, tangled in limbs and sweat.

“…old books,” Viserys murmured, leaning toward Maelys, voice thick with intrigue. “Ancient, half-rotted things. They whisper of days before the Ghiscari ever sank their claws into our bloodline. Back when dragonfire was a clean flame—not the twisted mockery it’s become.” He smiled, eyes glinting. “Sweeter days, I’d wager.”

Maelys frowned, though it lacked conviction. “I don’t buy into that. Our line’s steeped in spite and ruin, and those same books don’t bother hiding it—black rites, worse things besides.” He caught Viserra’s eye across the table and dipped his chin before continuing. “Still. I’ll back your search. I’ve contacts in the Free Cities—folk who know where the dustiest truths are buried.”

“Generous as ever,” Viserys chuckled, cheeks reddened with wine. “I’ll see you repaid, that’s a promise.”

Maelys waved him off and took a sip of orange juice, the color rising in his neck. “I’m not tallying debts, cousin. I’ve coin enough to fund your whims. Like it or not, it’s our blood—what’s left of it. I can feel some pride in that.”

Viserra entered then, silk skirts whispering over stone. She slid into the seat beside Gael and claimed a cup of wine—dark, tart, and blessedly strong. Alyssa’s memory still clung to Viserys’s voice—her hunger for Valyria’s golden age, her taste for iron and legend.

Gael turned, pale gown immaculate. “Morning, sister. You’re looking well—rested?”

“Hardly,” Viserra replied, her tone dry, the edge honed. “And you?”

Color bloomed on Gael’s cheeks—guilt, maybe, or glee. It was plain enough. Maelys had finally taken her last night, and from the look of it, he’d been gentle. Too gentle, if she was still glowing like some girl fresh from a love ballad.

“Mm, yes,” Gael muttered, eyes sliding away.

Aemma let out a muffled laugh, sipping from her cup. “No shame in it, Gael,” she said, low and knowing. “It’s better sweet than empty. I’ve heard too many women here groan dry from cold-hearted men, blades sharper than their touch.”

That broke the dam. Gael spilled every detail like gossip in a bathhouse—how it felt, what he said, the way time seemed to stretch between kisses and sighs. She was smitten. Maelys looked on like it was all perfectly ordinary.

It churned Viserra’s gut. Heat rose—not for Maelys, but against Luras, dull fool that he was. Even Vanys earned her scorn, the cur, for not putting half the effort in. Not one of them had left her shining like that.

The scrape of boots cut through the haze. Daemon strolled in, every inch the rogue prince, sword low at his hip, smirk carved into his face. He passed the chattering cousins with barely a nod, eyes set on his target.

The scent of wine clung to him—Maelys’s stock, sharp and sour—but his gaze was clear, sharp as ever. He was Alyssa’s son in full: bold, brazen, and unashamed of it. Age had only chiseled him harder.

“Ladies,” he drawled. “A fine morning, isn’t it?”

His eyes passed over Viserra without pause, a flicker of old bitterness in them. She didn’t flinch. She was too tired, too soured.

Daemon wasn’t there—off tumbling some brothel girl, more than likely.

“…old books,” Viserys muttered, fingers drumming the table. “Ancient things, crumbling at the spine. They whisper of days before the Ghiscari ever sank their claws into our marrow. Back when dragonflame was a clean torch, not the twisted joke it’s become.” He leaned in toward Maelys, his voice thick with quiet conspiracy. “Sweeter times, I’d wager.”

Maelys frowned, though the expression rang hollow. “I’ve no stomach for that rot. Our blood’s steeped in malice and sin, and those same tomes don’t flinch from the truth—black rites, worse still.” He glanced across the table at her, dipped his chin, then went on. “But I’ll back your hunt. I’ve threads in the Free Cities—folk who know the smell of old magic. I’ll have them pull what tales they can.”

“Generous as ever, eh?” Viserys grinned, cheeks flushed and round. “You’ll have your due, mark me.”

Maelys waved it off and took a sip of orange juice, a faint color creeping up his neck. “I’m not counting favors, Viserys. I’ve coin enough for your little obsessions.” He shrugged, voice gravel-thick. “Tainted or not, it’s ours—our fathers’ blood. I can find pride in that much.”

Viserra drifted in then, her skirts brushing cool stone, and settled beside Gael. She poured herself a cup of wine—dark, sharp, and undiluted. Alyssa lingered in Viserys’s words still—her hunger for Valyria’s glory, her thirst for steel and saga.

Gael looked up, gown the shade of stormclouds, her manner precise. “Morning, sister. You look well. Sleep all right?”

“Hardly,” Viserra said, her voice cracked and dry, a deliberate edge behind it. “You?”

A flush rose on Gael’s cheeks, color blooming like spilled ink. Viserra knew the reason plain—Maelys had finally taken her last night, made his first claim. Must’ve been gentle about it, too, if Gael still looked soft around the edges, all aglow.

“Aye… well enough,” Gael muttered, dodging the question.

Aemma smothered a laugh behind her hand, sipping her wine. “No need for shame, Gael,” she said, voice low and laced with ease. “It’s a fine thing—better when it’s tender. I’ve heard enough women at Dragonstone weep dry for men who left them colder than the steel they carried.”

That opened her up. Gael spilled it like wine at a feast—the touches, the words, the drawn-out hours and every sigh between. Pure romance, soft as a bard’s song. She bathed in it, dreamy-eyed, while Maelys listened as though it were all as common as bread.

By the end of it, Viserra’s stomach churned hot with resentment—aimed not at Gael, but at Luras, useless clod that he was. Even Vanys took some of her scorn, the mutt, for failing to leave her half so wrecked as Maelys had left his sister.

The scrape of boots on stone cut through her spite. Daemon strolled in, all swagger and sin, sword slung low, every step a statement. He moved through the room like it belonged to him, brushing past the chatter with barely a nod.

Up close, he reeked faintly of Maelys’s spirits—sharp, sour—but his eyes were clear, bright, no blear dulling them. He was Alyssa’s spit and image, only harder, brassier, shaped by war and arrogance both.

“Ladies,” he drawled. “Fine morning, isn’t it?”

His eyes swept over her, old bitterness flickering there, sharp as broken glass. Viserra didn’t flinch. She was too tired for it—too hollow to waste her breath on a boy who’d never seen his sister bartered off, spent by some withered lord, and left broken.

Aemma tilted her head. “Daemon, why so late?” she asked, her voice frayed at the edge. “Drunk, no doubt.”

He dipped his head in mock apology, a rare softness tugging at his sharp features. He reached for the fare—crusty bread, hot broth, half a fried chicken, still crisp—and, strangely, a cup of apple juice.

“Got tangled in bed,” he said, grinning wide. “Two lovelies wouldn’t let me go. Good stock—eager, well-fed, sweet as ripe figs. Kept me a while.”

Viserra was half-set to agree when words cut through.

“I’d ask you keep your lust from the servants,” Gael said, voice stiff with warning, something hard wound tight beneath. “Especially the Lyseni girls. They were promised a clean slate when the chains came off, but old habits cling. Strut your cock too loud, Daemon, and they’ll be barred to you—no more service, no more quiet.”

Silence fell like wet wool. The table stilled, save for the bairns, who blinked dumbly through the hush. Gael didn’t speak sharp—her fondness for kin usually slathered honey over every word.

Maelys’s seed must’ve lit something fierce in her spine.

Daemon’s eyes thinned, a sliver of heat showing—but he backed off, too fast, too easy. That smoothed charm of his never sat right with Viserra. “Fair enough,” he said, lifting the cup and draining the rest. “But I won’t turn away what’s freely offered.”

Gael’s smile bloomed warm, unguarded. But Viserra doubted the rogue’s luck—come morning, he’d find only Andal legs left open.

“Speaking of embraces,” she broke the silence before it could rot, “got a match in mind yet, Daemon? Plenty of houses would claw to tie a dragonlord to their line.”

The prince barked a scoff. Aemma stifled a laugh behind her cup. Viserra shot a glance to Maelys and Viserys, but both were lost to some muttered knot, heads bowed.

“Mother had one picked for you,” Gael said. Eyes swiveled back. “Royce girl—Runestone’s pride. Storied name, steady wife. Would’ve been a strong tie.”

Viserra saw the angle—clever work. A woman’s rule was shaky ground, aye, but a marriage like that’d stiffen it, force the loudmouth lords to swallow gristle. Daemon would’ve made it sing, too—iron-willed, landless save Caraxes’s wings, but hungry for a throne’s weight.

A good match.

Too good for the fool.

“I’d sooner burn than bind myself to some mountain sow,” he bellowed, voice cracking off stone.

Aemma cuffed him hard in the ribs. “Mind the bairns,” she hissed. “Rhea’s solid. You’d have seen it if you weren’t so…” She let it hang, breath sharp in her throat. “No matter. Rymond’s got her leashed now, ever since the Stone Crows folded.”

The talk slid from there, Gael and Aemma tossing up tales of Arryn blood and all its tangles. But Viserra kept one eye on Daemon—his gaze stuck to the children, weighted in a way she hadn’t seen before.

She gave him a year—two, if luck played stupid—before he ended tethered to some Reach girl, soft-voiced and perfumed, sold off for grain or gold or good favor. Mother had made her matches gently. Father wouldn’t.

Soon the pair wandered off, and Havenhall took root in the rest of them. Maelys spilled schemes like wine, reckless and bold. Some were madness. Some, clever enough to snag her interest. A few were near brilliance—but they’d drain steel and coin alike, and she’d already bled House Sunglass half to death.

“Driftmark,” he said, licking his lip. “In a sennight.” Then he and Gael slipped away.

Viserra pinned Viserys in talk. He played courtly, asking after Sweetport Sound and its leanings. She pushed back with marriage hints—subtle, sly, testing how he might wed off her daughter when the years crested.

“Bit early for that, isn’t it?” Aemma cut in, sharp-eyed and swift, sniffing her ploy. That niece of hers had a hunter’s nose for scheming. “Thought we’d set her for Rhaenys’s lad—or Gael’s, once she’s plump with Maelys’s get.”

“Risky,” Daemon muttered, sour and cold on the whole talk. “Banking on a babe that isn’t even quickening.”

“Gael’ll be with child before the moon turns,” Aemma said, cheeks pink with pride.

Viserra swallowed her bile, said nothing. But she wasn’t done yet. Jaedar deserved a match fat with gain, and she’d see it done.

They lingered, chewing over Velaryon scraps, feeding her nosiness. But soon she left the hall, her boy padding soft behind.