114: The Son of Ice and Fire, The Wedding

Viserys looked at the stack of parchment before him and let out a long, tired sigh.

He was the Hand of the King.

It was supposed to be for a few months—a temporary post, a favor for his nephew.

Those few months had turned into two years.

He leaned back in his chair and rubbed his temples, then picked up the first report in the pile.

“Grain yields in the Riverlands continue to exceed projections. Ser Ramsey attributes this to the new irrigation methods promoted by the royal decree…”

Good. That was something, at least.

The next parchment was… considerably less pleasant.

“Incident in Silverhill, Westerlands. A group of villagers discovered performing strange rites beneath an abandoned sept. Symbols consistent with Other-worship, as described in earlier Raven’s Tower reports…”

Viserys frowned and picked up another document, only to realize it was a continuation of the same report. The same cult.

“Gods,” he muttered under his breath.

This was the fourth such report, which meant it was no coincidence.

He set the parchment down, noticing the faint trembling in his hands. Whether from exhaustion or dread, he wasn’t sure.

Next came a letter from Highgarden. The steward, left in charge since the castle came under royal administration, was complaining about unruly servants, possible sabotage, and suspicions of seditious talk among the household staff. There were also more reports of this Other-worship.

“Oh. It’s the same bloody thing,” Viserys muttered. “The cult again. Same signs, same rhetoric.”

With a frustrated grunt, he shoved the parchment aside and stood up.

He wasn’t in the mood to work anymore.

Not today. Not with the wedding tomorrow.

His sister was to be married.

She was marrying an already-married man, becoming the Second Wife to the King.

There had been a time when that would have offended him. Insulted him, even.

But not anymore. Not when he saw how deeply Daenerys loved Maekar—and how fiercely Maekar loved her.

Viserys stepped out from his solar, the heavy oak door creaking shut behind him.

Ser Robar Royce straightened from where he leaned against the wall.

“Leaving already, my Lord Hand?” Royce asked.

“Yes. I am in no mood to work. Let’s go somewhere that isn’t covered in ink and sealed with a wax stamp,” Viserys replied dryly, already striding down the corridor.

Royce fell in step beside him. The corridors of the Red Keep were quiet at this hour, the late afternoon light filtering through narrow windows, casting long golden slashes across the crimson carpets and pale marble.

He made his way toward Daenerys’s chambers. As he arrived, he knocked and announced his presence.

A soft voice answered from within. “Come in.”

He pushed the door open and stepped into the warm, lively room. Inside, Daenerys sat on a cushioned bench, her silver hair loose around her shoulders. Beside her was his wife, Allyria. Nearby, Rhaenys and Margaery sat with cups of tea, laughing softly, while Maegary’s son, little Maekar, darted across the floor, giggling as Rhaella chased him, the two-year-old boy shrieking with joy.

Viserys’s gaze lingered on the boy—on Maekar. The child’s silver-gold hair glinted in the light, his eyes bright with life. Aegon’s son. Aegon the Trueborn. In another world, the boy might have been hailed as the rightful king. And once, that thought might have filled Viserys with unease.

But now… after all that had happened—after the truth of the Others, of the Second Long Night, of the prophecies and portents—the fear had vanished. No longer was he concerned as Maekar was now hailed as the savior of the world. No one would challenge him now.

“Brother,” Daenerys greeted him, looking up from her seat with a soft smile.

Viserys smiled back and gave a short bow of his head. “Ladies,” he greeted the room before turning his eyes back to his sister. “I came to check on you. I know how you are—always putting too much on yourself, especially before something as grand as tomorrow.”

Daenerys rolled her eyes with a huff. “I’m not a child anymore, Viserys.”

“You’re not,” he agreed, stepping farther into the room, “but you’re still my little sister. That won’t change.”

“I don’t know why we have to have such festivities,” said Daenerys.

Across the room, Margaery clapped her hands together lightly. “How could you say that, Princess? You’re marrying the King. You’re going to be Queen! This should be the grandest event in years.”

Rhaenys smirked over her teacup. “One of his queens.”

Maegary, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear, nodded. “Yes, and yet it’s already beginning to resemble the wedding of a minor lord in some distant holdfast. You can’t just—”

“I can,” Daenerys cut in, her voice firmer. “And I will. When in a year’s time people might be struggling to feed their children, I don’t want a thousand golden roses or silk banners flown for me, wasting a large amount of food on a grand feast.”

A silence followed.

Viserys cleared his throat and walked over, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

“No such talk,” he said gently. “Let tomorrow be about joy, Daenerys. About hope. The people need that, too.”

Daenerys looked up at him, her expression unreadable for a moment—then she smiled.

Viserys lingered in Daenerys’s chambers a while longer. As he had predicted, the pressure of the coming ceremony eventually began to wear on her. She tried to hide it, but he knew her too well.

Good thing he was there.

Eventually, he took his leave, walking back through the Red Keep’s winding corridors accompanied by Allyria and Margaery. Little Maekar was nestled in Margaery’s arms, his head resting against her shoulder, already half-asleep from a long day of excitement.

As they passed through a hall bathed in the red-orange light of sunset, Viserys glanced toward Margaery and asked, “Isn’t your brother here? Lord Willas?”

“Yes, my lord Hand,” she replied with a slight tilt of her head, bouncing Maekar gently. “He arrived yesterday.”

Viserys nodded. “Good. Could you send word for him to meet me in my solar? I’d like to speak with him.”

Margaery raised a brow. “Is something wrong?”

Viserys gave her a faint smile. “No, nothing of the sort. But I believe he may be able to help me with something.”

She gave a graceful nod. “Of course, my lord. I’ll see to it.”

At the next fork, the trio parted ways. Allyria leaned in to kiss his cheek and said, “Don’t be late,” before walking off with a reluctant Rhaella, the girl turning to glance at Viserys over her shoulder until Allyria gently nudged her along.

Viserys continued alone to his solar. It was quiet when he arrived, the fire crackling gently in the hearth. He poured himself a cup of wine and stood by the window, staring out at the city draped in gold and shadow.

It wasn’t long before the knock came.

“Enter,” he called.

The door creaked open, and Lord Willas Tyrell stepped inside.

He wore long, flowing robes of deep green embroidered with silver vines, a cloak draped over his shoulders. His face was covered by a finely crafted mask of polished steel shaped to resemble his features—an idealized echo of the face he once had. The mask gave his voice a low, metallic echo.

His face had been burned during the final battle of the war. The Tyrells still possessed a massive amount of wealth even after being stripped of most of heir lands and highgarden; Willas’s elaborate attire and mask were proof of that.

“My lord Hand,” Willas greeted, inclining his head. “You wished to see me?”

“Lord Willas,” Viserys said, motioning to the chair across from him. “Please, sit.”

Willas moved with surprising grace despite his injuries, settling into the seat with practiced ease.

Viserys poured a second cup of wine and slid it toward him. “There’s something strange happening in Highgarden—no, all over the Reach and the Westerlands,” he said after a moment, fixing his gaze on the masked man. “And I believe you may be the best man to help me make sense of it.”

.

.

.

Viserys stood waiting in the Sept of Baelor, the great domed ceiling arching high above him, sunlight filtering through the colored glass windows to bathe the marble floors in hues of gold, crimson, and sapphire. The scent of incense—myrrh and lavender—hung in the air, curling in pale tendrils toward the vaulted rafters. The Sept was filled with nobles of the heartlands, all gathered to witness Maekar and Daenerys’s wedding.

Soon, Daenerys appeared. She walked gracefully toward him in a wedding gown of ivory white, embroidered with silver thread that shimmered like moonlight with every step. The dress hugged her figure before falling into a soft cascade to the floor, its train trailing behind her like mist. Draped around her shoulders was the traditional maiden’s cloak of House Targaryen, black with a red three-headed dragon.

Viserys stepped forward to meet her halfway. He offered his arm, and she took it.

“You look beautiful,” he said quietly.

Daenerys smiled, nervous but radiant. “Thank you.”

Together, they walked down the central aisle of the Sept. A choir of septas stood on either side, their voices rising in delicate harmony, singing an old hymn of the Seven—a melody of unity, peace, and divine love.

At the altar stood Maekar, solemn and wearing the Conqueror’s crown. He wore robes of deep crimson and black, embroidered with dragons wrought in golden thread, and a sword at his side—Blackfyre—sheathed in black leather. To his left stood Rhaenys, resplendent in her own finery.

The High Septon stood between them, holding a book of the Seven bound in silver.

Viserys guided Daenerys to the altar, then stepped aside, taking his place at her left.

The High Septon raised his voice, his tone steady and commanding, echoing through the Sept.

“In the sight of gods and men, we gather to witness the union of two souls, joined in love and duty. Let the Seven bear witness to this bond.”

He extended his arms, invoking each aspect of the Seven:

“The Father, to grant wisdom and judgment in ruling.

“The Mother, to bless fertility, love, and compassion.

“The Warrior, to protect their bodies and their realm.

“The Maiden, to keep innocence and joy in their hearts.

“The Smith, to strengthen their bond and forge their future.

“The Crone, to lend them the wisdom of ages.

And the Stranger, to remind them always of death’s presence, so they may cherish each day.”

He then began several rituals and soon turned to Viserys with a subtle nod.

Viserys stepped forward, removing Daenerys’s maiden’s cloak. Then Maekar stepped forward and placed a new cloak around her shoulders, adorned with Maekar’s own sigil: a white three-headed dragon with red eyes, encircled by weirwoods.

Viserys couldn’t help but muse silently, Same house, same blood…why do we even do the cloak swap? But he said nothing.

Maekar and Daenerys turned to face each other, eyes locked.

“With this kiss, I pledge my love,” Maekar said, his voice low and steady, “and take you for my lady and wife.”

Daenerys smiled, her eyes shining. “With this kiss, I pledge my love, and take you for my lord and husband.”

They leaned in and kissed. The Sept erupted into thunderous applause, cheers echoing under the great dome.

The High Septon raised his hands once more.

“Let it be known, in the sight of gods and men, that these two are now one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever.”

Viserys clapped along with the rest, his hands striking together with more force than anyone else’s. He did not know what the future held—war, winter, death perhaps—but he hoped they would all survive. He hoped to see his sister happy, with children of her own playing alongside his. He hoped to see them grow up in a world where light still triumphed over the dark.

They had to survive.

They had to.