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103: The Son of Ice and Fire, Viserys Targaryen the Hand of the King
🕑 Added 2025-01-26 08:33:50 +0000 UTCViserys Targaryen was tired. As he walked through the dimly lit corridors of Maegor’s Holdfast, he felt as though he needed a month-long slumber. The weight of his title—Hand of the King—sat heavily on his shoulders, a burden he had never truly wanted. Months ago, his nephew Maekar, newly crowned and secure on his throne, had asked him to take the position, promising it would only last a moon or two. Yet here he was, nearly a year into Maekar’s reign, still serving as Hand.
He sighed; his life after the war had been drastically altered. His wife, of course, was furious with him for accepting Maekar’s offer. He understood her anger. Allyria’s brother, Ser Arthur, had been burned alive in what many were calling the “Second Field of Fire”—killed by the flames of Maekar’s dragon, Neferion. His sweet wife was still in mourning, and her grief often manifested in quiet resentment toward his role as Hand to Maekar.
It was ironic how Maekar had two uncles who were also good-brothers: Eddard Stark was the other uncle and found himself in a similar predicament as Ashara was Allyria’s sister and Ser Arthur their brother. Yet the power of House Dayne had grown due to the war, yes they had issues with the new king because of Arthur’s death. However, after Arianne Martell assumed rule—owing to her father’s abdication (or, truly, his forced abdication)—she approached House Dayne for a marriage. Now she was to wed Edric Dayne, Allyria’s nephew.
All this constant maneuvering exhausted Viserys; it was a game that never ended. He had accepted Maekar’s offer to bring stability to the vastly reorganized realm, and that was what he planned to do for however long it took.
‘A maximum of a year… perhaps two,’ he decided in his mind, aware that two months had already turned into two years.
“Where is my wife again?” he asked Ser Robar Royce, the white-cloaked Kingsguard assigned to him.
“She is with Lady Tyrell, Your Grace,” Royce answered curtly.
Ah, of course. Allyria had taken their young daughter, Rhaella, to spend time with Margaery Tyrell and her son, little Maekar—Aegon’s child. The boy’s existace was a surprise to Viserys , and he was glad Maekar was not the baby-killing kind.
Being a father had softened him in ways he hadn’t expected. He doted on Rhaella endlessly, spoiling her in every way he could. She had been born just a month after what the bards were already calling the “Autumn War” or, more dramatically, the “Second Dance of Dragons.” Viserys chuckled dryly at the thought—a “dance” with only one dragon.
A part of him still harbored resentment toward his nephews. Toward Aegon, for nearly becoming a second coming of Viserys’s own father—a man consumed by madness and paranoia. And toward Maekar, for his treasonous plotting, for schemeing against Aegon, and for dragging Daenerys into the conflict despite Viserys’s explicit pleas to leave her out of it.
‘Damn him,’ Viserys thought bitterly, remembering how his sweet sister had changed. Gone was the innocent girl; she was slowly becoming a master of court intrigue and politics—he had seen as much during the Stormlands affair. Some treacherous lords from the former kingdom of the Stormlands had approached Viserys with an offer to plot against Maekar. Viserys had immediately informed Daenerys, and then watched in awe as she and his niece dismantled the plot, removing some lords from life and sending others back to their lands trembling in fear.
Viserys had no intention of betraying his nephew. For all his grievances, Maekar was still family, and perhaps he could become the best king since Aegon V. If Viserys ever dared to plot against him, Daenerys would be the one to drive a dagger into his heart. Of that, he had no doubt.
He arrived at the Maidenvault, its golden doors opening quietly as he stepped inside. The air was warm, perfumed with lavender—a contrast to the cool corridors of Maegor’s Holdfast. Inside, he found Allyria, his wife, seated in conversation with Margaery Tyrell. Allyria cradled little Rhaella in her arms, while Margaery held her own child, little Maekar, who was only a few moons old. To his surprise, Princess Arianne Martell was also present, reclining elegantly in one of the chairs, her dark eyes glinting with curiosity as she noticed his arrival.
Allyria’s face softened when she noticed him enter. She stood, her violet eyes warm, though a shadow of irritation lingered there. “Vis,” she said, smiling despite herself as she moved toward him with grace.
Margaery and Arianne both rose to their feet as well, offering polite nods of acknowledgment. Before he could greet them, Rhaella squealed with delight and threw her arms toward him, wriggling in Allyria’s grasp to be held by her father.
Viserys couldn’t help but smile as he took his daughter into his arms. “Did you miss Papa?” he asked softly, kissing her forehead.
Rhaella giggled in response, wrapping her small arms around his neck and burying her face in his shoulder. Viserys held her close for a moment before turning to greet Allyria. “My love,” he said, his tone warm but weary. He glanced at Margaery and Arianne. “Lady Margaery, Princess Arianne,” he said with a respectful nod.
Arianne smirked, folding her arms. “You’re a busy man, my lord Hand. I have barely seen you since I arrived,” she remarked.
Viserys sighed. “Indeed. Our king has decided to journey to the Wall, leaving me with most of his duties.”
At the mention of Maekar, Allyria’s face soured, her expression hardening. “Ah, yes,” she said, her voice edged with bitterness. “The king.”
Viserys noticed the venom in her tone and turned to her, concern flickering in his violet eyes. “I came to see you,” he said gently. “Since you’re here, I thought to spend a moment with you before I attend to business in the city tonight.”
Allyria’s jaw tightened. “You barely saw me and Rhaella this week, Viserys.”
“I am the Hand of the King,” he replied.
Allyria’s eyes narrowed. “And the king”—she spat the word as though it left a bitter taste in her mouth—“promised you would only be Hand for two moons.”
“I was needed,” Viserys countered, though he knew the excuse was beginning to wear thin.
The tense moment was broken by little Maekar crying out in Margaery’s arms. “Oh dear, are you hungry?” Margaery cooed, gently rocking the baby to soothe him.
Viserys seized the opportunity to escape the brewing argument. He kissed Allyria’s cheek, then Rhaella’s, and returned his daughter to her mother’s arms. “I will see you both tomorrow morning,” he said softly before stepping back.
He turned to leave, nodding politely to Margaery and Arianne. As he did, Arianne called out, “I’ll walk with you, Lord Hand. I was about to leave as well.”
Viserys nodded, and together they exited the Maidenvault.
====
Viserys walked beside Arianne as they exited the Maidenvault.
“How has your rule in Dorne been, Arianne?” he asked politely. Arianne was one of his oldest friends—once his betrothed, the very woman who had helped him elope with Allyria.
Arianne gave a soft chuckle. “There were some lords who disagreed with how I ascended,” she admitted. “But they know better than to voice it aloud. For now, at least.”
Viserys arched an eyebrow. “And your father? Is he still in Sunspear?”
“No, he isn’t,” Arianne replied, her voice sharpening slightly. “When news of Aegon’s death reached us—especially concerning Maekar and his dragon—my father began planning for Dornish independence. Foolishness.”
Viserys glanced at her, intrigued. “Of course Prince Doran wanted that... What did you do?”
“I gave him a choice,” she said, her tone firm. “Abdicate peacefully, or watch Dorne descend into civil war. He chose wisely.”
“Would you have had enough support for that?” Viserys asked, his brow furrowing.
Arianne’s lips curved into a wry smile. “Yes. Many in Dorne do not want a war against a dragon. All that bravado among Dornish lords about resisting the Conqueror’s dragons? It’s nostalgia—a romanticization of a time that nearly destroyed us. Those who remember the truth know better. They remember what it meant to face fire and blood, and they don’t want to repeat it.”
Viserys nodded, understanding the weight of her words. “And your father?”
“He’s gone to Norvos to be with my mother,” Arianne said, her voice softening slightly.
“And Prince Oberyn?” Viserys pressed.
Arianne’s expression shifted into a sly grin. “Uncle Oberyn left with Tyene, as Maekar demanded. I exiled them to the Summer Islands.”
“The Summer Islands?” Viserys repeated, surprised.
She nodded. “My grandmother always spoke of the potential for greater trade with those islands. It’s something I decided to explore. And, well, Uncle Oberyn needed something useful to do during his… exile.”
Viserys chuckled lightly. They came to a fork in the corridor, one path leading toward Viserys’s chambers and the other toward the entrance of Maegor’s Holdfast. Arianne paused, turning to him.
“It was nice speaking with you, Viserys,” she said, inclining her head slightly. “But I must meet with the queen now.”
Viserys inclined his head in return. “It was good to talk, Arianne. We should meet later this week for old times’ sake—and also to discuss that issue in the Dornish Marches.”
Arianne groaned playfully, rolling her eyes. “Ah, that incident. Very well,” she said with mock resignation, before turning and striding gracefully toward the entrance.
=====
Arriving in his chambers, Viserys sighed heavily, his gaze falling upon the large pile of parchment and papers stacked on his desk. The clutter was daunting, clear evidence of the sheer weight of the responsibilities he had taken on as Hand of the King. He disliked these new papers—one of his nephew’s inventions during his time in the North. Maekar had spoken highly of them, boasting about the vast wealth the Starks had amassed by selling their refined papers to other kingdoms and even to Braavos.
Viserys had half a mind to tax the Starks for their newfound wealth, but of course, Maekar had granted both the North and the Vale a significant tax exemption for the next decade. A concession that rankled Viserys, but one he understood was necessary to keep those regions loyal.
He sat down with a groan, pulling the nearest report toward him. His attention turned, as it often did, to the new Kingdom of the Heartlands. It was no easy feat to conjure a kingdom from the remains of two of Westeros’s oldest realms. The Riverlands and the Stormlands, once proud regions, were now under the direct rule of the Crown. Unsurprisingly, resistance still lingered among the Riverlords and Stormlords who resented losing their old kingdoms.
Still, Viserys was confident the Heartlands would stabilize. The Crown now ruled over ten times the land it once had, with the royal crownlands encompassing the former holdings of prominent houses: the Baratheons, Conningtons, Hayfords, Meadows, Tullys, Pipers, and Vances—all claimed as Maekar’s personal domain.
By Maekar’s direct command, Viserys had focused much of his efforts on developing these lands. The most ambitious project was the creation of a standing royal army of twenty thousand men, an unprecedented force that would serve solely at the Crown’s command. Expensive, yes—but the wealth from Maekar’s ventures and the recent expedition to the Stepstones had filled their coffers, and the riches flowing in from the expanded royal crownlands would keep them that way.
Viserys leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples. If his family could fully utilize the vast potential of the royal crownlands—and later the Kingdom of the Heartlands—they would become unstoppable. Even if they were to lose their dragons again, the Targaryens would still wield unmatched power.
That is, Viserys thought grimly, if they could avoid another civil war.
He was pulled out of his thoughts when Ser Royce entered the chamber, the clink of his armor echoing softly through the room. Viserys looked up from the report as Royce offered a bow.
“Master Basil is here to see you, Lord Hand,” Royce announced.
Viserys nodded. “Ah, I have been expecting him.”
With that, Royce stepped out, and moments later, the small, unassuming figure of Basil entered the room. The man was short, with a plain face and dark eyes that betrayed an intellect far sharper than his humble appearance suggested. He was the elusive, unofficial Master of Whispers—the man who controlled Maekar’s vast and effective spy network. Officially, Maekar had yet to appoint someone to the position, but Viserys knew Basil already fulfilled that role.
“Master Basil,” Viserys greeted as the man took a seat across from him.
“My Lord Hand,” Basil replied with a respectful incline of his head.
Viserys leaned back in his chair, studying the man. “I trust the issue in the Riverlands has been resolved?”
“It has, my prince,” Basil said smoothly. “Lord Qoherys proved quite helpful in dealing with it.”
Viserys nodded, though his expression remained contemplative. Lord Quenton Qoherys, the newly appointed Lord of Harrenhal, had risen rapidly in Maekar’s favor. Once a mere courtier in the Red Keep, he now held one of the most infamous castles in Westeros. Viserys had always wondered what Qoherys had done to earn Maekar’s trust so completely.
“And this Lord Qoherys,” Viserys began, his tone skeptical. “Do you trust him? From what I recall, he was one of the slipperiest snakes in the Red Keep.”
Basil’s lips curled into a slight smile. “Lord Qoherys is the king’s dog now. He will obey whatever the king commands. Our king has a talent for ensuring loyalty, my prince.”
Viserys tilted his head slightly, still unconvinced. “Let us hope so. There are many in the Riverlands who still resent what Maekar did with the lands of the Tullys, the Pipers, and the Vances. The anger there runs deep.”
Basil’s expression didn’t waver. “All for the good of the realm, my lord. The Riverlands will stabilize. Qoherys understands his role, and those who resist will find themselves… incentivized to cooperate.”
Viserys sighed and leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. “Let us hope your assurances are correct. A spark in the Riverlands could spread quickly, and with winter on the horizon, the last thing we need is unrest.”
Basil nodded. “You can rest assured, Lord Hand. My eyes are everywhere.”
The short man then cleared his throat, his tone growing more serious. “There is another matter, my prince. We may need to send some reinforcements to Lord Florent.”
Viserys straightened in his chair, his expression sharpening. “What have you heard?”
“He’s been struggling to keep the peace. Many plot against him in the newly formed Kingdom of the Mander, and there’s a growing conspiracy that might break the king’s peace entirely.”
Viserys let out a sigh, rubbing his temple. “I suspected as much. Maekar did this by design, didn’t he? He placed Florent in power knowing he would falter.”
Basil gave a sly smile. “Not to make him fail entirely, my lord, but to ensure Florent—and by extension, the Kingdom of the Mander—remains dependent on the Crown for its very survival. It’s a clever strategy, really. A struggling vassal has no choice but to turn to its liege for support.”
“Perhaps the king should visit with his dragon. Nothing like a show of force to remind the restless where true power lies.”
Basil chuckled lightly. “Or, my prince, we could send a force of men. The first batch of soldiers from our new royal army has just completed their training—three thousand strong. This could be the perfect opportunity to blood them. A demonstration of the Crown’s rising strength would send a message to more than just the Mander.”
Viserys rubbed his chin, thinking it over. “Three months of training isn’t much, but it’s better than nothing. Yes, it might be time to show these lords that the Crown’s army is no idle threat. And… perhaps we could supplement the force.”
He sat up straighter. “Send word to Lady Cersei. Tell her I wish to meet with her. I’ll ask her to send some of her men as well.”
At that, Basil let out a dry laugh. “Oh, good. That will give her something to do besides strutting around the castle.”
Viserys’s lips twitched into a frown at Basil’s candor. Lady Cersei Lannister had arrived in King’s Landing a moon ago. While she claimed to be here to strengthen the alliance between the Lannisters and the Crown, her presence often felt more calculated than cordial. Viserys had often wondered how Maekar secured her loyalty, though the thought of their possible… closeness was one he preferred not to dwell on. He shook the notion from his head.
It was hard for Viserys to imagine how Maekar managed to sway people like her. Maekar’s hold on those around him—lords, knights, and smallfolk alike—was something unsettling to witness. It wasn’t just the dragon, Viserys knew that. It was something deeper, something far more intangible yet undeniably effective. Maekar had a way of making people feel they had a personal stake in his cause, whether they truly did or not.
“Basil, I wish to go to the city,” Viserys said.
“To the city, my prince? I will prepare the Varangians for your protection, then?”
Viserys shook his head. “No, no. I intend to go in secret—no grand escort, no fanfare. I want to hear what the people truly think, not through reports or filtered whispers but directly, with my own ears.”
Basil smiled knowingly. “A bold decision, my prince. In that case, I shall accompany you. It wouldn’t do for the Hand of the King to wander the streets unguarded, even in secret.”
Viserys hesitated for a moment, then nodded. “Very well. Just you.”
Basil chuckled. “Perhaps while we’re there, we might stop by and see the play.”
“A play?” Viserys asked, furrowing his brow. “What play?”
Basil’s sly grin widened. “Ah, my lord Hand, do you recall when you asked how it was that the smallfolk have come to love our king?”
“Lesser taxes are the obvious reason,” Viserys replied.
“Oh, absolutely,” Basil said, waving a hand dismissively. “Lesser taxes certainly helped, but there are other reasons too—reasons beyond gold and grain. Tonight, if you’ll allow me, I’ll show you one of them.”
====
Viserys and Basil moved through the bustling streets of King’s Landing, their figures concealed by simple cloaks and hoods that allowed them to blend into the crowd. Viserys couldn’t help but notice the changes in the city. The air, though still far from pleasant, was cleaner than it had been in years. The stench that had once clung to the city like a second skin was finally beginning to fade.
He took in the sight of merchants shouting their wares, foreigners haggling and bartering in a multitude of languages. The king’s support for trade had borne visible fruit. Flea Bottom, a district that had been an eyesore and a breeding ground for misery, was slowly being transformed. Its former residents were being relocated to lands in the new Royal Crownlands, their lives turned around as they tilled earth that had lain fallow since the Great Spring Sickness.
Viserys glanced at Basil as they turned onto the wider Street of Silk, the heart of the city’s entertainment district. “Where is this play of yours being shown?” he asked, his tone skeptical.
Basil grinned mischievously. “The Street of Silk, of course. Where else would you stage something meant to captivate the people? Our king has ambitions to build a permanent home for these mummers—a theater, he calls it.”
Viserys snorted, his skepticism deepening. “Mummers don’t need something like that. They can perform just as well in the open.”
Basil chuckled. “Ah, my lord Hand, you vastly underestimate the value of these mummers. The king sees their potential—how they can shape the hearts and minds of the smallfolk. A play can inspire as much loyalty as a dragon flying overhead.”
They continued down the street, weaving past revelers and merchants, until they reached a large building. The structure was plain but spacious, clearly repurposed for its current use. Inside, they were greeted by the low hum of voices and the flicker of torchlight. A makeshift stage stood at the center, its simple wooden frame adorned with painted backdrops.
Viserys scanned the room, his eyes narrowing as he took in the crowd. The smallfolk filled the space, their faces lit with anticipation.
“Come, my prince. I shall introduce you to the leader of these mummers,” Basil said.
Viserys followed Basil through the narrow passageways behind the makeshift stage. The air was thick with the smell of sweat, paint, and sawdust, and the atmosphere buzzed with controlled chaos. Men and women hurried past them, donning colorful costumes, adjusting scenery, and applying paint to their faces.
Viserys’s gaze lingered on a man dressed in a dragon costume, clearly designed to resemble Neferion. The sight made him pause. “This is madness,” he muttered, shaking his head.
“Aye, it is a bit,” a voice said from behind him.
Viserys turned to see a tall man with sandy hair and sharp, handsome features approaching them. His demeanor was confident, and amusement sparkled in his dark eyes.
Basil broke into a wide grin. “Master Danelius! It’s good to see you again.”
The man gave a slight bow. “And you as well, my friend.”
Basil leaned closer and lowered his voice. “Danelius, allow me to introduce Prince Viserys Targaryen, the king’s uncle and the Hand of the King.”
“This is Danelius Aldretto, my prince—the leader of this troupe of mummers,” Basil added.
Danelius’s eyes widened as he straightened immediately. “My lord Hand,” he said, bowing deeply.
Basil quickly raised a hand. “Keep your voice down, Master Danelius. We’re here in secret.”
Danelius clamped a hand over his mouth and gave an exaggerated nod of understanding.
Viserys studied the man before him. He certainly looked and acted like a Braavosi. “I hear you’re the one responsible for all of this,” Viserys said, gesturing around them. “I was intrigued by your play and decided to see it for myself.”
Danelius smiled, his chest swelling with pride. “It is an honor to perform before you, my prince. My troupe is the best in the world—which is why we were invited to stay here in the capital, while others travel the realm.”
Viserys raised a brow. “Others? There are more of you?”
“Oh yes,” Basil interjected. “The king has sent several troupes throughout the Seven Kingdoms to perform plays for the smallfolk.”
Viserys crossed his arms, looking thoughtful. “I see.”
Danelius inclined his head. “It is our duty to entertain, inspire, and remind the people of the greatness of these kingdoms. My troupe, however, has the honor of performing exclusively here in King’s Landing. I myself will play the great king in tonight’s production.”
Viserys smirked. “The great king, you say? That’s quite a lofty role.”
Danelius’s grin widened. “And one I was born to play, my prince. If you’ll excuse me, I must prepare for the performance.”
Viserys nodded as Danelius bowed again and disappeared into the chaos of the backstage.
Turning to Basil, Viserys arched a brow. “So, this is part of Maekar’s grand scheme? Filling the realm with mummers to sing his praises?”
Basil chuckled. “Something like that.”
Viserys sighed, shaking his head, but didn’t comment further. He followed Basil back to the main hall, where they found a spot with a clear view of the stage.
As the play began, Viserys leaned back in his seat, watching as a small child stepped onto the stage. A voice from behind the scenes announced that this child was Maekar. The boy was clad in rough furs and tattered clothes, standing on the edge of a painted sea. The backdrop depicted a cold, snowy expanse, presumably somewhere in the North.
The boy pretended to be drowning, flailing dramatically and calling out for help in a high-pitched voice: “Save me! Please!”
From the shadows of the stage emerged a mummer dressed as the Mother of the Seven. She wore a flowing silver gown with a soft halo atop her head, holding her hands out in a gesture of protection. The Mother stepped forward and pulled the boy from the painted sea.
“You are chosen by the gods,” the Mother said, her voice echoing as if from the heavens. “By the gods, both new and old, to unite the realm and shield it from darkness.”
Viserys raised a brow and turned to Basil. “Does the Faith approve of this?” he whispered.
Basil smirked. “Apparently, they don’t mind. Or they’re wise enough to let it pass.”
Viserys snorted softly, shaking his head as the play moved on to depict Maekar growing up in the North. The boy helped the smallfolk survive a harsh winter, offering them food and shelter while the backdrop showed snow-covered hovels and a painted weirwood tree.
A mummer playing Brandon Stark appeared on stage. “Thank you, nephew,” he said, his tone grave yet filled with gratitude. “You have been a blessing to the North, aiding our people in their time of need. But it is sad… so tragic… that you cannot help those in the South as well.”
Viserys burst out laughing. “Oh, gods!” he exclaimed, shaking his head in disbelief.
Basil grinned but said nothing, watching the play with amusement.
The scene then transitioned to the Greyjoy Rebellion, with Danelius portraying an older Maekar. The stage was transformed into a stormy sea with painted waves and wooden ships. The mummers dramatized Maekar’s heroic actions—showing him saving women and children from burning villages while fending off raiders. Euron Greyjoy was depicted as a sneering, monstrous figure, hurling insults and threats at Maekar before being defeated in combat.
Aegon appeared as well, portrayed as aloof and uncaring—standing to the side and dismissing the plight of the innocent. When Maekar offered his hand in friendship and brotherly love, the mummer playing Aegon turned away with a disdainful sneer, prompting hisses from the crowd.
“This is not right,” Viserys muttered upon seeing Aegon’s portrayal.
“This is how it has to be,” Basil replied.
Next came Maekar’s time in King’s Landing, with the stage depicting the capital’s crowded streets. The mummer playing Maekar was shown helping the poor, distributing food, and mediating disputes among the smallfolk. The audience murmured in approval, clearly relating to this part of the play—many had lived through those very events.
The action then shifted to Maekar’s battle against Lord Commander Hayford, with painted backdrops showing Castle Hayford’s gates. The mummer Maekar fought valiantly, saving Rhaenys and Arianne from Hayford’s clutches in a dramatic sequence that drew cheers from the audience.
Once again, Aegon was shown in a negative light, this time angrily ordering an assault on Castle Hayford despite warnings that Rhaenys and Arianne might be harmed in the process. The mummer playing Aegon stomped around the stage, barking orders and refusing all counsel.
The scene reached its emotional climax when Rhaenys—played by a beautiful Dornish mummer with flowing dark hair—turned to Maekar after he rescued her. Falling to her knees, she clasped his hands and proclaimed, “You are my savior, my protector… my love.”
Viserys nearly choked on his laughter, covering his mouth to stifle the sound. “Does the queen know about this?” he asked Basil, his voice shaking with mirth.
Basil smirked and leaned closer. “No, my prince, and she must not.”
The play then entered its final, dramatic act. The stage was bathed in shadows, and an ominous drumbeat echoed through the room.
The mummer playing Aegon strode onto the stage, his face twisted into a sneer. He wore dark robes to symbolize moral decay.
“I am the true king!” the mummer declared, his voice dripping with venom. “And I will not let my bastard-born brother steal what is mine by right.”
The crowd hissed and booed loudly, with some spectators hurling insults at the mummer.
“I’ll raise their taxes to bleed them dry!” the false Aegon bellowed. “They will beg for mercy, and I shall give them none!”
A chorus of jeers arose. Someone shouted, “Evil bastard!” while another cried, “Down with the whoreson!”
At one point, Rhaegar even made an appearance, contemplating whether Aegon should be removed as crown prince and replaced by Maekar.
The play’s climax approached as Aegon conspired with the Faceless Men, speaking in hushed tones to a shadowy figure cloaked entirely in black.
“Do it,” the mummer Aegon hissed. “End him, and your weight in gold shall be yours.”
The stage darkened for the attempted assassination. The mummer playing Maekar knelt in prayer before a painted altar to the Seven, unaware of the assassin creeping up behind him. Suddenly, the lights on stage brightened, and seven mummers dressed as the Seven themselves walked onstage, surrounding Maekar.
“Stand, son of the Seven,” one intoned, their voice booming. “Your work is not yet done.”
A figure in a massive weirwood tree costume stepped out from the shadows, symbolizing the Old Gods. “The darkness stirs in the far North. A storm comes that only you can weather. You must prepare.”
Viserys’s brow furrowed at the mention of the North. He leaned toward Basil. “What storm are they talking about?”
Basil kept his voice low. “The king helped write certain parts, my prince.”
Viserys sat back, his expression unreadable.
On stage, the Seven and the Old Gods gifted Maekar a massive dragon. A man in a dragon costume, representing Neferion, entered accompanied by triumphant horns and drums. The crowd erupted into cheers and applause.
“This is Neferion, the greatest dragon to have ever lived!” proclaimed the Seven in unison. “Greater even than Balerion the Black Dread. With him, you shall defeat your wicked brother and bring the Seven Kingdoms into a golden age.”
As the play transitioned to show Maekar riding Neferion into a great battle against Aegon, the mummer portraying Maekar delivered an emotional speech before the final confrontation:
“I did not want this!” he cried. “I extended my hand to my brother in peace, but he has left me no choice. For the sake of the realm, for the sake of the people... I will end his tyranny and bring peace to this land!”
The crowd cheered loudly, shouting, “For the king! Long live the king!”
What followed was a dramatic, exaggerated depiction of the Second Field of Fire. The mummer playing Maekar rode Neferion (with the dragon mummer performing a mock aerial battle), raining fire upon Aegon’s forces. Aegon’s death was dramatized by him hurling curses at Maekar as he fell.
The play concluded with Maekar victorious but standing solemnly on the battlefield, mourning the loss of lives.
“I will unite the realm,” the mummer declared in Maekar’s voice. “I will heal its wounds, and I will prepare it for the darkness that looms beyond the Wall. This, I swear.”
What Viserys noted during the play was how Daenerys had been portrayed: she appeared as a tragic figure, caught between Maekar’s love for both her and Rhaenys, with the suggestion that he was unable to marry them both. The audience clearly picked up on that implication, as some in the crowd yelled, “Marry Daenerys as well!”
Viserys rubbed his temples, both impressed and baffled. “They’re practically begging for Targaryen polygamy now,” he muttered. “This is madness.”
Basil chuckled beside him. “Madness it may be, my princess, but it’s effective.”
Viserys couldn’t deny that. If this was being performed across the realm, it was little wonder Maekar’s popularity had surged. He could only imagine what the bards were singing, too.
When the play ended, Viserys and Basil exited the building along with the crowd of smallfolk, their laughter and chatter filling the cool evening air. The Street of Silk was alive with energy, the people’s spirits clearly lifted by the performance. Men and women were smiling, children tugged at their parents’ sleeves, reenacting scenes from the play. The name “King Maekar” echoed through the streets, spoken with admiration and affection.
“That play was indeed something,” Viserys admitted, his hands clasped behind his back as he walked beside Basil.
Basil nodded, his sharp eyes scanning the faces of the smallfolk. “The people need this, my lord Hand, especially with what is coming.”
Viserys narrowed his eyes at the cryptic tone in Basil’s voice. He stopped walking, causing Basil to pause as well. “And what is coming, Master Basil?” Viserys asked, his voice low but firm.
“Winter is coming, my prince. And the darkness that comes with it.”
Viserys straightened, his expression turning serious. “What darkness?” he demanded.
Basil hesitated for a moment, then shook his head. “That is for the king to tell you, my lord Hand. It should not come from me.”
Viserys’s lips formed a thin line.
Basil’s gaze returned to the smallfolk around them, their happy faces lit by lanterns and the lingering twilight. “I only hope,” he said quietly, “that it stays like this... even after winter has passed.”
Viserys followed Basil’s gaze, watching the people as they mingled and laughed. He saw a young boy pretending to be Maekar, bravely “slaying” an imaginary Aegon with a stick. He saw men and women with faces alight with hope for the future.
Viserys frowned slightly, uncertain what to make of Basil’s words. Still, as he continued through the crowd, he couldn’t help but feel a small flicker of hope himself. He doubted anything in the near future could shatter this newfound joy, this sense of unity.
He hoped he was right.
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The Lands of Always Winter
The icy tower loomed like a jagged shard of frozen death, rising high into the gray, storm-laden sky. Its structure glimmered with a cruel beauty—a fortress of jagged ice that seemed to breathe with the cold winds swirling around it.
Atop the tower, nine figures stood on a circular platform, their blue, ice-encrusted forms both monstrous and unnerving. They wore jagged armor forged of glacial ice, wielding weapons that shimmered with a frosty glow—spears, swords, and hammers, all hewn from pure ice.
The figures knelt in a semicircle before the one who sat on a throne at the center. The figure on the throne was the most terrifying of all—taller than the rest, his form emanating an aura of malevolence. His face was nearly human, yet grotesque, with deep wrinkles carved into his icy flesh and glowing blue eyes. Atop his head rested a crown of jagged ice, marking him as the ruler of this frozen domain.
One of the kneeling figures spoke: “Lul-laḫ šu-ub-zu ul-lu-ge-en. (The grunts are not performing well.)”
Another one spoke up: “Dumu-a me-luh-ha šu zi-da i-ne-ni. Šu-um-ma-ke-en šu-re-šu e-ma-ab-du. (The Son of Ice and Fire has revealed himself. He was there, and he killed many of the grunts.)”
A third voice joined in “A-a-me ba-da-mu-un-maḫ-e. Si-i-ne-e giš-tu-a ul-li. (The Horn has not been found. It still eludes us.)”
The figure on the throne stirred, the movement sending small shockwaves rippling across the platform. The others braced themselves, frost cracking and shattering beneath their knees. The leader’s glowing blue eyes pulsed violently; as he stood, the weight of his presence seemed to bend the air around him. Ice began to spread in spidery veins across the walls of the tower, creeping with a life-like intent.
His massive form approached the arched windows of the icy platform, where the storm outside howled like a tortured beast. The leader gazed out over the frozen expanse, his expression unreadable yet seething with fury and dark resolve.
The winds grew louder, more violent, as though summoned by his attention. From the depths of the storm, a shape emerged—a monstrous dragon forged entirely of ice. Its crystalline scales refracted light in a thousand colors, while its eyes burned with the same blue glow that marked its master. It roared, the sound deafening, shattering the lingering silence. Its wings, jagged and sharp, flapped with immense power, scattering the snowstorm around it.
The icy dragon circled the tower, its roar akin to a battle cry.
The leader turned back to his kneeling servants, his glowing eyes narrowing. His voice was cold and sharp, each word dripping with authority and menace.
“Ga-e, za-e šu-ul-mu-gi-in. (Fine, I will do it myself.)”
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This took a While to finish.
Comments
Illusiveone
A Standing army inspired by Landsknecht (without early firearms) Maekar has already done a mini naval upgrade in the north he is now going do that with the royal navy.
BEMA45
Great Chapter!! Hope to see the new dragons soon. Question, how is this new army formed is it based in the modern herarchy or the ancient armies like the romans? And is Maekar planning to do the same with a naval force?
