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Viserys’s day started off poorly when he discovered that the doublet he had chosen (an old favorite, emerald green brocade with silver detailing that really brought out his eyes and made him look like a younger man) no longer fit. Perhaps because it was tailored to him when he was, in fact, a much younger man.
Breaking his fast, he learned that the castle had run out of Dornish blood oranges--another disappointment. There was a shortage; something about the Dornish being mad about gods-knew-what. He was sure Otto would tell him about it later.
But instead, Otto swept in like the cloud of despair that he was and told him that his brother had been spotted fucking his daughter in a brothel and Viserys regretted every bad thought he ever had about Dornish trade sanctions. Dealing with a gaggle of swarthy malcontents with good hair and an unparalleled ability to take issue with everything sounded a treat. (How did Rhaenyra even end up in such a place? What was he paying his guards for?)
Daemon, he decided, he would deal with first.
He wanted to be able to take at least some pleasure in the sight of his brother being dragged in by the guards, in yesterday’s soiled clothes, reeking of strongwine and ale and Flea Bottom sewage. However, the immense throbbing pressure hammering away behind his temple prevented him from finding enjoyment anywhere.
Confronted with the charges, Daemon’s quick-witted retorts were no less than what Viserys expected. He imagined Daemon similarly anticipated the kick to the gut earned for his cheek, and the solid thud of the impact of his boot was the first small joy Viserys had known on this day.
But Daemon was not deterred. There were the excuses, which Viserys expected. But then there was the twist: “Wed her to me.”
It was at this point that Viserys wondered if he might not just be having a terrible dream. Daemon had many lamentable qualities, it was true, but he had always found his brother to be clever, even annoyingly so.
“When I offered up my crown, you said I could have anything,” Daemon insisted, still bold under circumstances that would leave any other man bashful.
He had said that, hadn’t he? In that moment, Viserys determined to think more on his words before speaking them going forward. It was no matter, though. There were many pains of being king, but also some pleasures. One such pleasure was that no one would (or could, for that matter) keep you beholden to a stupid thing you said the day before to your rogue of a brother, foolishly thinking he would ask for a normal boon, like a parcel of land or some new armor. Not his daughter.
So Viserys scoffed in his brother’s face, ordered him back to the Vale or anywhere else in the Known World or beyond that was not King’s Landing, and left Daemon lying prone on the floor to see himself out. (Viserys told himself it was the beating he doled out that left Daemon in such a state, even knowing in truth that yesterday’s cups were likely more to blame.)
He then attempted to hide from dealing with Rhaenyra and/or the world by sneaking off to his solar. It proved a study in futility, as his Hand was waiting for him there. He really needed to figure out a hiding spot that was actually hidden.
Rhaenyra, Lord Otto Hightower said, was being guarded in her chambers and would be dealt with in time, but the Dornish matter was now urgent. Some Blackmont sailors had sabotaged a Redwyne ship and spoiled most of the cargo; the port was about one breath away from descending into bloody chaos.
From what Otto’s informants had gathered, the whole mess had started, as it so often did, between the Oakhearts and the Daynes. The sources differed as to whether the inciting slight was an insult against a daughter or a stolen horse. Or maybe the insult involved the daughter’s visage being compared to a horse. The matter was unclear.
What was clear was that Viserys’ day was not improving.
After several hours of consulting with various advisors, agreeing upon a fair price to be paid by the Blackmonts to the Redwynes for their destroyed cargo, and drafting a proposal to get the Martells to resume exports to King’s Landing, it was beginning to seem like one of the day’s two crises was nearing its end.
And then, just as Viserys was reviewing the latest version of the terse warning letter drafted by Otto to be sent to both instigating parties, a commotion outside the doors caught his attention. He looked up just in time to see Rhaenyra slipping in through the door, one of his guards with a rather pathetic and fully ineffective grip on her sleeve.
“Father I must speak with you.”
Viserys truly had the most useless guards in all the realms. He must be beloved by his people, he realized, because the fact he had not thus far been assassinated seemed to indicate that no one had tried.
He looked around at Otto and the various other advisors and attendants present and tried to predict the likelihood of his daughter making a scene with so many onlookers. And then he thought about the utter lack of discretion involved in her purported “coupling” (Otto, always a master wordsmith) with Daemon, and decided he was done thinking thoughts for a while because his stomach was now ill.
“Does this seem like the best time to you, Rhaenyra?”
“Yes, yes it does,” she said, not hesitating for a moment. “You see, father, I have made a decision. I have chosen a husband.”
These were words Viserys had dreamed of hearing for years now. Certainly, the timing could have been better. Like yesterday, when she was not ensconced in a scandal that threw her virtue into question (and he was not still technically in an emergency council), or any of the days before that.
Still, these were words that should have brought him happiness. And yet there was a particular glint in his daughter’s eye as she said them that gave him concern.
“I choose Daemon,” Rhaenyra continued, not waiting for a response. A gasp rang out–from who, precisely, Viserys could not say–and then a clang as his cupbearer dropped the water jug that proceeded to slosh its contents all over his boots.
For a moment, Viserys was blank; his mind filled with cotton fluff and all sound drowned out with the roaring of his own blood. He wondered if he might have the slightest touch of Daenys the Dreamer about him because he just knew it was going to be bad. Though, admittedly, not quite this bad. He thought she was going to name that Dornish-looking young guard of hers she was so partial to, or something naive and girlish like that.
He should have known better. His daughter never did anything by halves. It reminded him of his own dear mother, in a way, the fire-blooded dragon that she was, shining so brightly that the shadow cast by her absence far exceeded the length of her life. He wondered if Alyssa would know how to handle this situation. He knew, though the thought of it twisted like a blade in his heart, that his dear Aemma would have known how to handle it better than he would. (Hells, she would have had the foresight to prevent it–she had commented to him on many occasions about just how fond Rhaenyra was of his brother and now in hindsight, Viserys realized she probably meant more by that than he comprehended at the time.)
“He is your uncle, and wed to another.”
“We are Targaryens, and you are king. Your word is law. The marriage is barren, and by years Lady Rhea’s change must be almost upon her, if not already. It is no true marriage in the eyes of the gods.” Rhaenyra was often impulsive, but her response was immediate and held a practiced conviction–this was Rhaenyra prepared, a rare and dangerous sight. She held his gaze boldly, the only sign of any nervousness the hand that reached up to fidget with the intricate chain around her neck. A gift from Daemon , Viserys recalled.
“If I may,” Otto interjected smoothly, “arrangments are already being made for a betrothal to Laenor Velaryon, princess. It is a very good match, and the Sea Snake is not so easily cast aside.”
“He would see it a slight that I favor the blood of the dragon over a seahorse?” Rhaenyra questioned. “I do not overlook his son for a liege lord of the Reach.“
Viserys, to his despair, was a reasonable man, and on that point, Rhaenyra’s blow was well struck. He would hardly give her the victory of voicing such an opinion, though.
“We are fortunate you still have a betrothal with your conduct as of late. I take this as a confession that the gossips spoke true?” There was still some small chance that some of the attendants in the room had not heard the rumors (a man could dream), and Viserys was hardly going to be the one to clue them in.
“Those rumors are naught but foul air, and even so, once we are wed it is no true scandal at all,” she said, more persistent than a hound with a bone. “Let me choose Daemon as my consort, and we will keep the House of the Dragon in its proper glory.”
Silence reigned, so Rhaenyra continued: “I shall never ask a favor again of you father, I swear it.”
And at that, Viserys finally broke. He laughed. It was a sound that started as more of a wheeze, until it worked its way down to his belly to become great, gasping guffaws that left him clutching at his side with one hand and wiping away tears with the other.
He should have been a second son. Better yet, a third or a fourth or even a fifth son. The sort of spare to a spare that could do something like join the Night’s Watch, or better yet, the Citadel. Yes, the Citadel.
You shall take no wife and father no children . Such vows kept many men away from the pursuit of higher learning, but on this particular day–and most of the other ones, particularly as of late–this part of the agreement was nearly as enticing as the library.
“I do not jest,” his daughter informed him, with that stubborn jut to her clenched jaw that only meant trouble. “You promised me I could have my choice of suitors.”
No, it is I who is the joke , Viserys thought.
He had indeed made such a stupid promise. It would be the last time he would ever be foolish enough to make such an open-ended oath, particularly with a member of his family. He had learned that lesson today. Such assurances needed to be made only under the circumstances of a finite number of reasonable options. Limits were required. Terms. Conditions.
Viserys was tired. Daemon was always a headache, and increasingly, so was Rhaenyra. Perhaps giving them what they wanted might actually appease them--or, if not, perhaps they would be too busy giving each other headaches to bother him.
Much to his chagrin, Viserys could imagine a future in which they ruled well together. He also could imagine a future in which they brought about the end of the Targaryen reign, if not the whole of Westeros with it. Either way, it was a future that would only occur upon the event of his passing, and he had decided that that meant it was no longer his issue to deal with.
All Viserys cared about in that moment was finally getting some peace and quiet. And “yes” was the quickest path there.
It is I who is the joke , Viserys thought. But what he said was, “so be it.”
So Rhaenyra and Daemon (once recovered from a six-hour exile by his newly betrothed) were wed. Otto Hightower molted a nasty shade of purple. Viserys momentarily worried about poison (or perhaps that feeling was hope), however, it proved to just be rage. On the subject of rage, the Royces were deeply displeased, as were the Velaryons, but some soothing words and generous condolence gifts did not go astray. Nor did arranging prime matches for their heirs and enviable positions in court.
As it turned out, the smallfolk and the realm at large really did not care which Targaryen was seated on the throne or which relative they married. Targaryens were odd in their ways. There had been a good harvest and the price of wheat was reasonable. Raping and pillaging had been consistently low due to the relative lack of any sizable wars. Everyone enjoyed a good royal wedding if for no other reason than it meant a lavish tourney.
And as for Viserys, he found both his Daemon and Rhaenyra headaches had subsided significantly, as indeed they proved too preoccupied with each other to cause much trouble elsewhere.
When Rhaenyra’s pregnancy was announced three moons into their marriage, Viserys quietly wished upon them the most cantankerous, hot-blooded heir in all the realms (it would only be fair, after all). Their first child, Aemma, was instead, in absolute contradiction to her parentage, the most peaceful and agreeable infant Viserys had ever encountered.
There was no justice in the world, but the gods did have an impeccable sense of humor.