The Red Keep, Maegor's Holdfast.
The air here was different from the dragonpit. It smelled of herbs and incense, of sickness and sleep.
Alicent Hightower sat by the window of the king's bedchamber, a letter in her hand. Sunlight streamed through the stained glass, casting dappled patterns of light and shadow across her dark green skirts.
She read slowly, her voice soft, as if afraid to disturb something:
"…Prince Daemon and Princess Rhaenyra have arrived safely in Pentos and reached an agreement with the Volantene envoy, Eluza Vhassar.
The three parties shall form a joint fleet to destroy the remaining pirate forces in the Stepstones and restore the trade routes…
The Prince of Pentos has agreed to surrender in exchange for the blacks' military protection…"
She was reading a forged letter.
Not a word of it was true. The letter had been carefully crafted by Grand Maester Orwyle, every line tailored to fit the vision of the world that Viserys I wished to see.
The blacks had accepted the division of east and west. They would turn their attention to Essos. The greens would rule Westeros. The two sides would never trouble each other. The Targaryen civil war had been averted.
On the sickbed, Viserys I lay half-reclined.
His eyes, visible beneath his golden half-mask, were half-closed. At certain passages, they would flicker open, revealing a faint glimmer of relief.
«Good,» Viserys whispered. His voice was thin as wind-blown smoke.
Alicent finished reading.
She folded the letter, placed it on the small table beside the bed, and took up a cup of milk of the poppy. She brought it to Viserys's lips.
«Your Grace. It is time for your medicine.»
The king sipped. Half of it ran down the corner of his mouth, soaking into his beard.
«Do you wish to rest?» Alicent asked softly, dabbing the moisture from his face with a silk cloth.
Viserys shook his head—the movement so slight it was barely a tremor.
«No… stay awhile. The sun is good…»
He looked toward the window.
From this tower, one could see the whole of the Red Keep. The towers, the courtyards, the battlements—all of it lay spread below like a tapestry.
Alicent followed his gaze. Her heart stirred with something she could not name.
She no longer loved this man. Perhaps she never truly had. Their marriage had begun in politics and been sustained by duty. What remained was habit, and pity.
But she pitied him. This husband of hers, consumed by disease, reduced to a husk of the man he had been. This naive monarch, who had believed in beautiful fantasies until the very end.
«Alicent,» Viserys said suddenly.
«I am here, Your Grace.»
«Do you hate me?»
Alicent went still.
She turned her head. Looked into his eyes—clouded with age and illness, but still sharp enough to see.
Viserys watched her.
«Why… do you ask?» Alicent's voice was dry.
Viserys lifted a hand—thin, wasted, spotted with age—and touched her cheek. The gesture was gentle. Almost loving.
«Because I owe you… so much.»
«The queen's crown. The children. The honor of your house. I gave you all of it.»
«But some things… I could not give.»
He paused. His breath quickened.
«I know… in your heart, there is resentment. You blame me for favoring Rhaenyra. For ignoring Aegon and Aemond when they were young.»
«You blame me… for never putting you first.»
«I am sorry. For Aemma. And I am sorry for you, Alicent.»
Tears came to Alicent's eyes without warning.
She blinked furiously, trying to hold them back. She could not.
A tear rolled down her cheek and fell onto the back of Viserys's hand.
«I do not hate you, Your Grace,» she said. Her voice shook.
It was the truth.
Hate was too wearying. She had spent years in this marriage, years of duty and disappointment. There was nothing left but exhaustion.
Viserys seemed relieved. He sank back into his pillows, closed his eyes.
«Good… good… Call the children. I wish to see them…»
Alicent nodded. She rose, went to the door, and murmured instructions to the maids waiting outside. Then she returned to the window and lifted Jaehaerys from his cradle.
The boy was a year old. His silver-gold hair caught the light, soft as dandelion fluff. His violet eyes were wide and bright; he giggled when he saw his mother.
«Come, let your father hold you.» Alicent placed Jaehaerys carefully on Viserys's lap.
Viserys opened his eyes. He looked at his youngest son, and his gaze softened.
He tried to lift a hand to touch the child's face. The hand rose halfway, then fell back, strengthless.
Jaehaerys grabbed one of his father's fingers and stuck it in his mouth.
«He looks like me,» Viserys murmured. There was infinite regret in the words. «So much like me…»
---
The door opened.
Aelinor Rogare entered.
Prince Aegon's wife was near her time—her belly swollen beneath a loose gown of dark blue silk. Her face was drawn, her eyes red-rimmed, as if she had been weeping.
When she saw the king and queen looking at her, she forced a smile.
«Your Grace. Mother.»
Viserys nodded. «Come. Sit.»
Aelinor settled onto a chair by the bed. Her discomfort was plain.
Alicent glanced at her. The look said: Do not speak foolishness.
But Viserys noticed his good-daughter's distress.
«What troubles you?» he asked. «You seem unhappy.»
He knew, of course, that Aelinor's family was in Lys. He knew the Rogares were caught between the blacks and the greens, their city besieged. He had written to Rhaenyra, asking her not to harm them—a small gesture, a hope that the Rogares might be spared the worst of the war.
«Nothing,» Aelinor said quickly. Her smile wavered. «Only… the sickness of pregnancy. It passes.»
«Where is Aegon?» Viserys asked. «Why did he not come with you?»
Aelinor looked at Alicent. Her eyes begged for help.
Alicent spoke smoothly.
«Aegon has gone to a naming feast, Your Grace. Lord Harward's son. You remember.»
It was a lie.
At this moment, Aegon lay in his own chambers, his right leg broken, burning with fever. The wounds from the dragon battle had festered.
But Viserys did not know this.
«A feast is good,» Viserys said, accepting the explanation. «As crown prince, he should be seen among the lords. He will need their support when he is king.»
Aelinor lowered her head. Said nothing.
She remembered the things Aegon had muttered in his fever dreams the night before.
«The dragon… the dragon is burning me… so hot…»
«Mother… save me…»
She was angry at Aemond. She was angry at the king and queen. She hated what Aemond had done—dragging Aegon into that dragon battle, using him as a pawn, leaving him broken and fevered.
And she hated that her own family, the Rogares of Lys, were besieged by the blacks and the Volantenes—and the greens, her husband's family, Queen Alicent herself, had chosen to do nothing.
All of it was Viserys's doing. His compromise. His sacrifice of her family, in a vain attempt to reconcile the blacks and greens.
But Aemond had killed Rhaenyra's sons anyway. The war would go on.
She hoped the greens would win. She hoped Aegon would win.
For now, she would swallow her bitterness and play the dutiful good-daughter before the king and queen.
---
Viserys looked out the window.
«Take me to the garden,» he said.
Alicent blinked. Then she nodded.
She spoke to the maids at the door. Soon, four serving women entered, carrying a special chair—padded with cushions, fitted with armrests, designed to hold a man half-reclining.
They lifted Viserys gently from his bed and placed him in the chair. Covered him with a blanket. Then they carried him out of Maegor's Holdfast, through the corridors, and into the godswood.