King's Landing

Seventh Moon (98 AC)

Viserra I​

The Red Keep's stench struck Viserra first—faint rot beneath stone, laced with echoes of lost ease. Its corridors still thrummed, not yet hollowed, though her kin had thinned—some bound to duty, others flung to distant keeps.

Her son of Sunglass trotted at her side, spry and wide-eyed, a boy of three namedays darting this way and that, questions spilling like grain from a torn sack.

She bore it, weary but firm.

"Keep near, Jaedar," she said, fondness cloaked in a rough bite.

"Aye, Mother," he chirped, half-listening, blond strands catching torchlight where it pierced the walls' fissures. "Why's it so smelly? Are the walls sick? Do they weep the black stuff?"

"Old, not sick," she sighed. "Older than us, and rank with it. Watch your feet, not the stones."

He bobbed his head, eyes still roving. She knew he'd heed—his father's calm tempered him, a lone trait she didn't damn. Soon they stood at Maelys's doors, flanked by two guards in strange armor—not the keep's dented mail. Valyrian bred—tall, pale, lilac-eyed, frames forged hard. Not knights, but taut with order.

Viserra curved her lips, charm seeping like spilled ale. Age had honed her—beauty sharpened, a taunt to vows—cheeks full, lips ripe, eyes edged with ash. The right guard's face flushed red. "Princess Viserra, Lord Jaedar," he said, heads tipping low. "Your wish?"

Andal words, but Low Valyrian's burr hung thick. "My brother," she said, smile faint. "He's here?"

"Aye, princess," the left one growled, red cloak shifting as he gripped his spear. "Been hunched over his parchments since dawn. You'd have him now?"

"I would," she said, head tilting. "Gael's with him too, I hear?"

"Aye, she's in," the right guard said, blush fading as he steadied. "Sewing, or fussing with thread—always near him, those two. Twins, folk say, bound tight as rope."

"Ever so," Viserra replied, dry as dust. "Since we were weaned. Open it, then—I've not trudged from Sweetport to loiter."

The left guard huffed, heaving the doors wide. "Mind the lad keeps his hands off—the prince mislikes his scribbles touched."

She dipped a curtsy, tugging Jaedar close, and hoped no Targaryen strangeness simmered within. The chamber stretched broad, quiet and fine—chairs carved plain, ceilings white, marble cold. Where furs didn't reach, the floor gleamed, swallowing light from tall windows. Maelys's mark, once jeered by their brothers, etched every line.

Their steps sank into rugs, hushed. There, sprawled on a pale couch, Gael sat, needle and cloth slack in her hands. She'd grown into Alysanne—soft cheeks, still face, eyes warm as a hearth. Happy, unscathed, a light Maelys had fenced from the world's claws.

Viserra envied it, a thorn she swallowed.

Gael's gaze snagged them, joy cracking wide. "Sister!" she cried, leaping up and closing the distance fast, as if moons were years. "Viserra, you're back—I'd near given you up to Sweetport's tides! When did you ride in?"

Grace shunned her, spring blooms on her dress flapping. Jaedar ducked behind Viserra, her small shield rattled by this stranger-kin. Gael swept her into a hug, spice and petals rising—maiden-sweet, unspoiled. Viserra clasped back, her own warmth a faint shadow.

"Well met, Gael," she said, tasting the gap. "Not so long—moons, not decades. Just rolled in this morn. You're hale, still stitching?"

"Aye, when I can," Gael said, stepping back, eyes agleam. "Maelys keeps me hopping elsewise—sewing his designs, meeting with his aides, endless rounds. But you—gods, it's a balm to see you! Sweetport's not eaten you whole, then?"

"Not yet," Viserra said, shrugging. "Trade's lean, harvests worse. Luras bumbles on—I keep it afloat. Better than choking on this place's stink, some days."

Gael's smile dipped, then steadied. "You'll not choke now—stay, let us mend you with meat and wine. What's the Sound like these days? Luras still praying more than ruling?"

"Praying aplenty," Viserra said, voice flat. "Rules little, and poorly. I patch the holes." She nudged Jaedar out. "Greet your aunt."

He edged forth, shy but soft. "Hello."

He waved, faltering, then fixed on his boots. A sweet lad, her Jaedar—she reckoned it firm.

Gael, as ever, knelt swift and swept Jaedar into her arms, heedless of his squirming. "Young Jae," she said, voice soft, a grin splitting her face, "you've forgotten me again, haven't you? Am I so dull an aunt?"

Viserra watched, a rare thaw in her chest. It was good—this welcome, this tangle of royal blood knitting tight. Better still with the twins, whose hearts hadn't yet hardened. Best now, while Jaedar's youth kept him honest, free of the games that curdled later years.

"Oh!" A voice drifted from deeper in, quiet but edged with faint command. "I'd not wagered it'd be you so soon."

Maelys stood paces off, barefoot on the gleaming floor, clad in a loose shirt and leather breeches—a rustic ease clinging to him. White hair spilled past his shoulders, pale violet eyes catching hers with more mirth than shock. Beautiful over handsome, his frame lean but sure—no mistaking his manhood.

Viserra favored him above the rest of their brood, always had. If she'd been their mother's fairest daughter, he was their father's finest son. Sometimes, in dark hours, she'd wished him her twin—not Gael. Might be she'd have fewer scars on her soul, less to rue.

Dreams, though—fickle as mist.

"Maelys," she greeted, a thin smile breaking through. "Good to see you breathing yet."

He crossed the gap and pulled her into a hug, woodsmoke and ripe fruit thick on him. "I'd say the same, sister," he said, chuckling low, a sound warm as hearthfire. He'd shot up since last she'd seen him—taller, broader. "And you've dragged Jae along, eh?"

Maelys hoisted Jaedar up, easy as lifting a cloak, his slender build belying the strength. The boy crowed, shyness shed like an old skin. Her brother's visits to Sweetport Sound—trade and tales by the fire, gifts tucked under his arm—had won the lad's heart swift.

"Gods, boy, you've sprouted since I last clapped eyes on you," Maelys said, tossing Jaedar high, sparking another giggle. "What are you now, ten?"

"Three!" Jaedar shouted, legs kicking air.

"Three?" Maelys gaped, mock-wide. "Then you'll be a bloody giant by ten—a mountain with boots! How'll you fit a horse under you?"

"Father says I'll train in the yard at seven," Jaedar said, proud as a lordling. "With swords and all!"

"Swords, is it?" Maelys set him down, ruffling his hair. "Then we'd best ready you, young ser. What's first—blades or bows? Gotta pick one to start."

"Bows," Jaedar said, bouncing. "I saw a man shoot an apple once—right off a tree! Can you do that?"

"Can I?" Maelys laughed, sharp and bright. "I've split apples at fifty paces, lad—clean through. We'll get you a bow, big enough for your hands, and see if you've the eye for it."

"Truly?" Jaedar's voice climbed. "When? Tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow's hasty," Maelys said, crouching to his level. "Got a heap of vellum to wrangle first—maps and such. But soon, aye? You'll be loosing arrows before the moon turns, mark me."

Viserra folded her arms, watching. "Don't fill his head too full," she said, half-stern. "He's got years yet before he's any use with a bow—or a brain."

Maelys grinned up at her, unrepentant. "Years aplenty, sister, but no harm starting early. He's got the spark—look at him. A proper little Sunglass knight already."

Maelys and Jaedar drifted off, the boy now clutching a candy stick he'd not had moments before—some sleight of her brother's hand, no doubt. Viserra lingered, a flicker of mirth warming her chest. She caught Gael's eye, her sister's gaze lost to some dreamy haze, smitten as a maid in a tale.

It gladdened her, seeing Gael still moony for Maelys—years on, their closeness a knot near choking, yet she thrived in it.

"Has he made a woman of you yet?" Viserra tossed the words light, a mask of ease honed sharp. "You've grown fairer still—and heavy up top, I'd wager."

Twice her own heft, truth be told, though Gael bore it well—lush, not lumpen. Her sister jolted, rose blooming at her ear-tips, betraying she'd caught the drift.

"Come now, Gael," Viserra pressed, smirk tugging her lips, "no fret he'll stray to the whores prowling these halls? Plenty'd claw for a taste of him."

She'd seen it in her youth—lords, ladies, scullions, squires—rutting through Maegor's secret ways, a maze of vice she'd crept as a girl. The keep hadn't cleansed itself since. Gael's face flared red, cheeks puffing as she glared up. "Why must you be so coarse, Viserra? Can't you leave it be?"

Viserra chuckled, knuckles brushing her mouth. "Fair question, I reckon—simple enough. But your calm tells me there's naught to fear. He's true, then?"

They ambled toward Gael's couch, the younger princess trailing her. "He swore an oath," Gael said, voice firm, "and I'd trust him without it. He vowed no wandering—absurd to need it, but he gave it all the same. His word's steel."

Viserra laughed, not at Gael's faith but at their brothers' fates—save Vaegon, buried in books, each had snared a love pure as snow. Baelon and Aemon met grim ends, but Maelys and Gael—she'd bet good coin they'd grey together, hale and whole.

"You're lucky, little sister," she said, not sitting, her eyes roving Gael's spot—sketches and half-stitched cloth strewn about. "Yours is a romance for singers, one they'll croon till the Wall melts."

The drawings snared her—odd smallclothes, cut thin and loose, baring more than they hid. Less bulk than the norm, daringly so, if the scraps beside them spoke true. Her brow arched, curiosity prickling.

"Mother said as much," Gael murmured, voice a threadbare whisper, scarce louder than the room's hush.

Viserra turned, catching a shadow dimming her sister's face—melancholy, thick as fog. Alysanne had clung closest to the twins, a bond tighter than with the rest. Viserra hadn't buckled when the Good Queen went to ash three years past, but Gael still sagged under it, a yoke she couldn't shrug off.

"Mother had an odd knack for it," Viserra said, lips thinning. "Her matches rarely split or soured—strange, that."

Not love, not quite—more a truce, a lean-on-each-other kind of knot. She and Luras had that, a tepid ease, even with him half-gone from Jaedar's life. Like their father in his absences, yet Luras bore no crown's weight—just faith and fumbles. She shook the thought loose, grasping at the cloth in her hand instead.

"Another of his schemes?" she asked, dangling the thin garment.

Gael choked a laugh, cheeks flaring red. "Aye, he's after better garb—says Westeros'd thank him for it. Lighter, cheaper, fit for more than lords."

She slid a parchment over, no sketches of smallclothes this time—just lines and shapes Viserra couldn't parse. "Here's the contraption he'd use to make it work."

Viserra took it, squinting, tilting it this way and that, pretending she grasped its guts. "He's got tailors already, hasn't he? Why chase this?"

"The tailors, aye," Gael said, meeting her nod with a steady look. "Those bleed coin—silks and such for fat purses. Too dear for most, he told me when I pressed him."

She fished out another sheet, ink-smudged. "This'd churn out heaps, cheap and quick—smallfolk could wear it without begging."

Viserra's brows ticked up, not at the plan but at Gael—merchant's guile sat easy on her, sharp as a blade. She'd pegged her soft, a echo of Daella—meek, mild—yet here she was, bright as a new-minted coin. "Clever," she said, sinking onto the couch beside her, snagging a needle. "You've a head for this I'd not reckoned on."

Gael grinned, faint but real. "Maelys rubs off, I s'pose. He's been at it since we were knee-high—always some venture. You'd not believe the half of it."

Viserra dangled the breast-strap and its skimpy mate aloft, stitching fine as spider-silk. "Think Maelys'd whip me up a set if I begged?"

Gael choked, a wet sputter catching in her throat. "What?" She coughed, steadying herself, cheeks ablaze. "Why in the Seven's name would you want those?"

Viserra's brow creased, suspicion prickling her gut—she stamped it down. "They're clever work," she said, voice dry. "Might spark some fire in Luras—get him eager for once. He's no mummer with a blade, but he's damn near a septon in our bed."

The man's indifference gnawed at her—fury she kept leashed. "Jae's not the last I mean to whelp, you know. Maelys spill that to you?"

Gael's smile came stiff, cracking at the edges. "Aye, he did—bits of it. But young Jaedar'd not thank you for that kind of scheming, I'd wager."

Viserra shrugged—she knew the boy'd balk, but Viserys's lass might suit, a betrothal to bind them later. Gael set the garments aside, hands smoothing her dress, fingers lingering on the fabric like it held answers.

"I've spares," Gael said, glancing up. "Some of these—could part with 'em for you."

Viserra smirked, sharp and sly. "What fits your bounty'd drown me, sister—your chest's a sight more than mine these days."

Gael laughed, a soft huff, touching her belly briefly. "Aye, it's gotten hard to miss of late—packing meat on me. But I've others, sized right—some cut for… lesser gifts up top."

Viserra pulled a mock-scowl, lips twitching. "Humble, you say? Cheeky wench—I'll take 'em anyway. Might wake Luras yet."

Their talk rolled on, easy and unguarded—no webs of deceit, no veiled barbs. A rare balm. Gael spilled the keep's pulse—King's Landing's churn, their kin's latest turns, the schemes she and Maelys meant to hatch soon. Viserra listened, hooked, mind drifting to Sweetport Sound. Could their plans leach there? She wanted Jaedar's inheritance strong—lands fat and firm—and room for more babes if she could pry them from Luras's tepid loins.

An hour on, Maelys ambled in, Jaedar limp in his arms, the boy's breath a soft snuffle against his uncle's chest. "Wore him out," he said, voice low, a grin tugging his mouth. "Candy and tales—he fell like a stone."