Chapter Text
It comes as a surprise to Viserys when Ser Ryam announces that Princess Rhaenyra seeks an audience with him – a welcome one, to be sure, but no less unexpected for that.
His daughter has been distant since her mother’s passing. And he has been distant himself in turn; it’s hard to look at her without seeing shades of Aemma, a reminder that brings waves of grief and guilt for his part in taking her mother from her compounded by the burdens he’s been obliged to place upon her slender shoulders since. Though he knows he ought make more of an effort to reach out, he has been at a loss as to how to bridge the gulf that has grown between them, and their stilted conversation the night he explained his intention to name her heir only left him more uncertain. To have her seek him out herself is a relief.
Rhaenyra enters arm in arm with little Lady Alicent. Where so many times he’s seen his daughter pulling her companion along in her wake as she dashes about the Red Keep, today it’s the Hightower maiden leading the princess in an entertaining reversal. Though it saddens Viserys to see the reserve into which his vivacious little girl has withdrawn of late, it heartens him that she has the consolation of such a good friend to comfort and strengthen her.
“Most glad I am to see you, daughter. What brings you to my door this day?”
She does not respond at first, uncharacteristically hesitant, and Viserys frowns. Does she look pale?
“Are you well, Rhaenyra?”
His daughter blows out a heavy breath and lifts her chin as if steeling herself. “Not ill, merely a bit discomfited,” she says. “I – I believe I’ve flowered.”
The news sends him reeling momentarily. So soon? Viserys is not ready to see his little girl become a woman. And yet it is not so soon at all in truth, she is five and ten already and full ripe for it. And there can be no question it is well for the future of their diminished House, no matter how a father’s heart might wish to halt the passage of time.
“Congratulations,” he says, recovering himself. “A great milestone.”
“That’s not all,” Alicent says eagerly. “Rhaenyra, show him!” She tugs her friend’s arm forward by their joined hands, and the sleeve falls away from the princess’s forearm.
And there revealed at Rhaenyra’s wrist is a sigil imprinted upon her skin, an image inked crisp and bold in the reds and blacks of their House. His daughter has been singled out for glory by the Gods, soulmarked.
“A soulmark!” Viserys exclaims, elated. “What a blessing for you, my dear, and for our house.”
Rhaenyra says little, apparently struck beyond words by her fortune.
“We shall seek your match out at once,” he assures her. “I shall have proclamations sent throughout all at Seven Kingdoms.”
“Of course,” Rhaenyra echoes faintly. She wraps an arm around her abdomen, wincing. “Father, might I be excused?”
“Your courses pain you?” Viserys asks gently, cursing himself for inattentiveness, and Rhaenyra’s tight nod confirms. He should have expected as much; his dear Aemma had often been similarly afflicted. “But of course. Go, rest, I’ll send the Grand Maester to attend you. When you’re recovered we shall have a feast to celebrate the happy news.”
There is much to be done once the girls take their leave: ravens to be sent to spread the joyous news throughout the realm, his Small Council to be informed, preparations for a celebration to set in motion. Viserys does it all with an energy he’d thought lost to him, renewed hope and purpose singing in his veins.
He has been adrift of late, uncertain of his course. He has made mistakes, he knows, and struggled to see the way forward.
But now at last his sight is clear. Now the Gods have smiled upon his House, conferring their favor upon his daughter. For the first time since losing Aemma, Viserys can be certain he is upon the right path.
There can be no more doubt that he was right to name Rhaenyra his heir, that she is the future of their dynasty.
Nor need he pay any more consideration to his advisors murmurings that he ought remarry, not with so clear a sign that their House’s destiny lies in his daughter’s line. For the children of soulmarked matches are marked for greatness. Daenys the Dreamer and Gaemon the Glorious were born of such a match, as were the Conquerors. He is eager to see what fate has in store for his grandchildren.
His dream, Viserys recalls suddenly. He has misinterpreted his dream! The crowned babe he saw, the Prince Who Was Promised, is not his own son but Rhaenyra’s.
(How much tragic sacrifice might have been avoided if only that portent had been made clear earlier, he reflects regretfully.)
It’s not until the day is nearly spent that the detail he’s overlooked signifies: the form of his daughter’s Mark. The image upon Rhaenyra’s wrist bore only Targaryen emblems, indicating a match within their House.
There are but three living Targaryens in the land. Which means –
No, surely that cannot be.
Surely the Gods would not play such a cruel jest as to bind his daughter – his beloved only child, his heir, the future of their House – to his reckless malcontent of a brother.
No. He cannot even countenance the thought. There must be some other explanation, something he’s missing.
Yet the comfort of that denial cannot last long. He sleeps little that night, and morning brings the confirmation of all his fears, as Caraxes’ screech splits the air over the Red Keep.
The Rogue Prince has come to claim his bride.