Viserys lowered himself into his seat at the Small Council, the effort far greater than it had any right to be.
Alicent shifted beside him, her hands hovering for a moment, though she did not dare reach again after being cast off.
Around the table, the councillors watched him as one might a corpse dragged from the grave, uncertain whether to fear it or doubt its presence altogether.
Viserys pressed his lips thin as his gaze fell to his hand resting upon the table. Bone jutted where flesh had long since withered, the skin stretched tight and pale over it, as though it no longer belonged to a living man.
By the Seven, he knew he was ill.
But dead?
Not yet.
"Silence?" Viserys turned his head slowly, his gaze passing over each of them in turn. "Is that all you have?" His voice hardened. "Where has your confidence gone when you demanded my grandchildren be held as hostages?" His hand tightened against the table. "Where?"
The word cracked through the chamber, and with it came a sudden, violent fit of coughing which seized him without warning.
Heuk! Heuk! HEEEUUUGH!
The sound seemed to go on far too long, lingering until even the bravest among them dared not meet his eyes.
Alicent leaned toward him again, concern breaking through her composure but once more.
Was it genuine? Or, a mask to stir his emotions?
He did not know. Nor did he care by now.
He waved her off, forcing the fit down through sheer will.
When at last it passed, he drew in an ugly breath.
"Otto," Viserys said hoarsely, turning toward his Hand. "Go on. Speak freely." A faint, humourless curve touched his lips. "I am no tyrant. Speak your mind."
Again—
Silence.
Otto Hightower held his gaze, his expression composed, yet his lips pressed thin as he said nothing. The air between them stretched, taut as a drawn bowstring.
Viserys watched him for a long moment.
Then he laughed as he shook his head faintly.
"It seems your tongue is tied, just like the rest of them." He leaned forward, resting his forearms upon the table, his gaze sharpening despite the exhaustion that clung to him. "Then it is only fitting that you hear the decision of your king."
The room stilled.
"Daemon Targaryen is no traitor."
He did not raise his voice, yet the words struck harder than any shout. His gaze moved from one face to the next, holding each of them in turn, daring them to challenge it.
"Nevertheless," he continued, more quietly, "I will see that he answers for the damage he has dealt to the crown."
Viserys closed his eyes for a brief moment, the tension in his brow deepening as frustration surged within him. Of all the burdens he carried, none wore on him quite like his brother.
He had sent Daemon to Dragonstone once, three long years, in the vain hope that distance might temper him, that time might dull the edge of his recklessness.
And yet—
Not even two years had passed before he returned to his old ways.
'Damn it all…' Viserys thought bitterly. 'Will the man only find peace when I am laid in my grave, driven there by his folly?'
A breath escaped him.
So be it.
If gentler measures had failed, then sterner ones would have to suffice.
"With immediate effect," Viserys said, opening his eyes once more, "Daemon Targaryen is to be exiled from the court…and charged to hold the Stepstones in the name of the Crown."
The words elicited visible surprise as around the table, eyes widened.
Alicent stiffened beside him, her carefully held composure slipping for but a moment. Rhaenyra went still, caught between relief and something far more uncertain.
The others on the table seemed to want to speak up, but their words died on their tongues as he stared at them.
Nevertheless, this punishment was a leash.
A leash, whether Daemon chose to see it or not, but it would serve its purpose all the while.
Viserys drew in a slow breath, then raised a shaky hand.
"My word is final."
The tremor did not leave his hand, but neither did it fall.
And that, more than anything, held the room in place.
Viserys could only hope this would suffice.
Daemon had always been a creature of impulse. If left to his own devices, he would entangle himself further with the Twin Daughters.
Now he had to guard the Stepstones and stand against the very powers he had so recently stood beside.
This was not merely punishment for the arrogant fool…it was containment.
Keep Daemon away from Westeros in hopes his ambitions may die whilst using his competence to seize the Stepstones at a time when the other major powers are weak and break his alliance with the Twin Daughters.
This way, Daemon would have no ground to leverage those prior alliances, no room to circle back and play his games within Westeros.
And the Twin Daughters, for all their bluster and ambition, would find little purchase against him now. They had spent years mired in war, their strength worn thin, their victories hollow.
Even the fall of Volantis did little to change that.
They were in no state to challenge a Westeros that, for once, had chosen silence over struggle; thus, having done nothing, and in doing so, gained everything.
Strange.
Who could have thought the Stepstones would fall into their hands once more in such an ill-fitting manner, opposed to conquest?
Viserys exhaled softly.
For once, he would not question it.
His gaze lingered on his Small Council members as he understood some had found their seats on this council to be too comfortable.
'It seems this council needs to be reshuffled...' He mused, however, his mind was soon tugged by a stray thought.
Now, his thoughts drifted elsewhere, to a matter far removed from councils and quarrels. To the invitation he had sent across the world, carried over seas and through lands long untouched by his reach.
And to the two figures who had lingered in his mind for years uncounted.
All he could do now…
Was hope they would return home safely.
***
Within the underbelly of what could only be an active volcano, Baelon awkwardly shifted his gaze away from a pair of burning amethyst eyes that bore into him.
The air was thick with heat and the choking scent of sulphur. Molten veins of lava crawled sluggishly along the cavern walls, casting a restless glow in their wake.
"Well, would you look at that…" He coughed into his fist. "It seems we're about to see another vision from the book! Isn't that exciting!"
He smiled with feigned excitement, though a bead of sweat rolled down his temple.
They were about to return to Westeros, having sorted things out in their realm. Thus, with a moment's curiosity, as he lay in bed for the night… he cracked open that book.
Alas, he had merely been consumed by a moment of curiosity. After all, that book had been tempting him since they had retrieved it, but his willpower had prevented him from doing anything too hasty with it.
Well…it seemed his willpower had faltered.
And, as Helaena's dissatisfied gaze burned into him, he had already begun to regret his actions.
"Come, look at the bright side." Baelon shuffled up to the silent Helaena, who had previously been ready to slip into sleep. "Maybe we can find some more interesting knowledge regarding Valyria." He gave her a hesitant pat on the shoulder as the slight guilt in his chest was swept away.
He was right, he tried to convince himself. Their last encounter had gifted them knowledge on the true reason behind the Freehold's demise, and even the Doom itself.
What could they find now?
"You…" Helaena spoke, eyes flitting over his face before she nodded to herself. "Can do well to sleep by yourself in coming days."
"H-hold on a second there." Baelon widened his eyes. "There is little need to escalate this. It was but a simple mistake on my behalf." Like a grubby merchant, Baelon rubbed his hands together in humble apology.
Her answer? A roll of her eyes and a scoff, both of which made Baelon's heart sink.
It seemed he was truly fated to hug nought but air in the nights that followed. Then again, what did he expect, dragging a dragoness from the comfort of sleep?
Baelon could only convince himself that perhaps what he would learn now would stave off his disappointment.
Then, he glanced around at the area before him.
A volcano.
Cracks spidered across the blackened rock, their depths glowing an ominous red, while distant rumbles rolled through the cavern like a beast turning in its sleep.
Even the walls wept heat, radiating it in relentless waves that warped the air before his eyes.
This was a place he would never dare to venture, even with his tolerance for heat and flame. It was a deadly environment, even for him.
However, his attention was soon snatched away by Helaena, who knelt nearby staring fixedly ahead.
He approached, careful not to disturb the already irritable dragoness. Yet, as he drew closer, irritation was the furthest thing from his mind.
He was mesmerised.
Before them, magma sloshed in slow, viscous rivers that carved through the volcano's underbelly. Now and then, droplets of molten rock spat outward as they struck nearby stone.
Tsssss! Crack! Hiiisssss!
At first, they sizzled violently, the air around them warping as the heat bled outward, but soon enough they cooled, darkened, and hardened into brittle fragments of rock.
If that was all, Baelon would not have given it a second thought.
However…that was not all. Not in the slightest.
Whilst most cooled, some did not.
Spiting the very laws of nature, some droplets refused to harden. Refusing to cool.
Instead, they lingered, glowing and shifting, before slowly drawing toward one another.
There was no slope to pull them, nor any guiding current that swept them along, nothing that should have allowed such movement.
And yet, as if guided by an unseen hand, the stray droplets gathered, merging together like beads of liquid fire pulled into a single basin.
A basin that should not exist.
A pool that had no right to be.
Baelon narrowed his eyes.
The molten surface quivered, once…then again.
Expanding.
Contracting.
Not bubbling. Not shifting.
No…
Baelon narrowed his eyes as he stared ahead.
He was certain, the pool was…breathing.