CHAPTER 10: THE FATHER'S SLOW WINTER
The solar was warm enough to kill someone.
Two fireplaces were blazing. Furs were piled on every chair. The windows were sealed tight against the November wind. Yet King Viserys I Targaryen sat wrapped in a thick bearskin like a man waiting for a cold he could not escape.
His breath clouded in the air.
Inside a heated room.
Valerion noticed it the moment he stepped inside. The cold wasn't coming from the room. It was coming from his father.
He closed the door behind him.
---
Viserys didn't look up right away. He was staring into the fire, his right arm resting carefully on the chair's arm. The bandaging had climbed past the wrist now, halfway up the forearm. The linen was clean, but it looked wrong — too white against something that should not be there.
His left hand held a cup.
The cup was still full.
"Close the door," Viserys said quietly.
"It's already closed."
"Then sit."
Valerion sat down opposite him.
The fire crackled between them. Viserys breathed slowly, deliberately — the kind of breathing a man uses when even breathing has started to cost him.
Valerion waited.
---
"I had a dream," Viserys said at last.
His voice was quieter than usual. Not weak. Just smaller. The voice of a man speaking in a room he had made very private.
"About the dragon," Valerion said. It wasn't a question.
Viserys looked at him. His eyes were clear this morning — clearer than they had been in weeks.
"I dreamed I was standing in a cold field," he said. "There was a fire at the far end. Between me and the fire stood your mother. Your sister. The baby. They were warm. They were laughing. They couldn't see the cold."
Valerion stayed very still.
"I couldn't reach the fire," Viserys continued. "But I understood… I was the reason they were warm. I was standing in the cold so they could have the fire."
He looked straight at his son.
"Tell me," he said softly. "How much did it cost?"
The familiar stone in Valerion's chest pressed hard against his ribs.
He had prepared many answers for many questions. He had not prepared for this one.
"More than I told you," he said quietly. "Less than it could have been."
Viserys nodded slowly, as if confirming something he already knew.
"She is alive," he said.
"Yes."
"Baelon is alive."
"Yes."
"And I—" Viserys looked at his bandaged arm. Something quiet crossed his face. Not anger. Not grief. Just acceptance. "I am the cost."
The fire popped.
Valerion's voice was low. "Father—"
"No." Viserys said it gently. "Don't apologise. I have been sitting here for hours deciding how I feel about this. I have decided." He met Valerion's eyes. "If you had asked me that night — give me the choice — I would have chosen exactly what you chose."
His left hand reached out.
Valerion took it. His father's hand was cold. His own hand, burning at 40.5 degrees, wrapped around it. The contrast between them said everything words could not.
"You are burning up," Viserys whispered.
"The bond runs hot."
"Does it hurt?"
"No." A pause. "Not anymore."
Viserys looked at their joined hands for a long moment. Then, very quietly:
"*Nyke jorrāelan ao, ñuha riñnykeā.*"
*I love you, my strange child.*
Valerion closed his eyes.
He stayed until his father fell asleep in the chair.
He did not let go until then.
Later, in the forbidden archives, Valerion found a dust-covered ledger. It wasn't a story for the history books. It was a secret of the Old King, Jaehaerys. He had used his own dragons to trap the Cannibal, chaining him in the deepest vaults to hide the Targaryen's greatest shame. The dragon didn't break the window for Valerion. He broke it because he finally had a chance to strike back at the city that had caged him for sixty years.
---
Later that day, Rhaenyra found him in the corridor outside the library.
She was wearing her riding leathers. Her jaw was tight, her violet eyes bright with frustration that had been building for weeks.
"Walk with me," she said.
They walked until they reached the outer corridor with its view over the city. Then she stopped and turned to him.
"My father is dying," she said. Not a question.
"Yes."
"Slowly."
"Yes."
"And Otto is watching it," she continued, her voice hard. "Every time my father coughs, Otto sees an opportunity. I have been watching him watch my father for weeks, and I am doing nothing while you keep saying *wait*."
She looked at him directly.
"I am not built for waiting, Valerion."
"I know."
"Then stop asking me to." Her voice was steady, but the hunger was clear. "You have the sky. You ride the largest dragon in the world and the people call you a god. I am still on the ground. I need a dragon. Not later. Now."
Valerion looked at her.
She meant every word.
"Syrax," he said.
Rhaenyra blinked.
"She has no rider—"
"She is young. She knows your voice. She knows your scent. She has known you for six years. You have been walking past your own dragon twice a week and calling it a visit to the Pit."
Rhaenyra stared at him. The frustration on her face cracked. Something brighter broke through.
"Tomorrow morning," Valerion said. "Third hour. I will arrange the keeper."
She held his gaze for a long moment.
Then she gave one sharp nod.
"Don't be late."
She walked away.
Valerion watched her go and thought: *That is what Rhaenyra looks like when she has a direction.*
Good.
She was going to need it.
---
In the Tower of the Hand, Otto Hightower spoke quietly with Grand Maester Mellos in an empty corridor.
"The King's pain," Otto said. "Is it being managed adequately?"
Mellos heard the real question hidden beneath the words.
Otto continued, his voice pleasant. "The Milk of the Poppy exists to provide comfort. The King is a man in distress. A higher dosage would ensure he suffers less. Would allow him to rest. Properly. Consistently."
He smiled faintly.
"An unconscious king requires guidance. The guidance of a Regent, properly appointed, is the most stable form of governance."
Mellos stood very still.
Otto placed a hand on his shoulder.
"I leave the medical decisions to the Grand Maester. Naturally."
He walked away.
---
That night, Valerion felt the bond spike.
He was at his desk when the surge hit — a rush of heat through his chest. The Strings flared to life without being summoned.
His father's thread, three floors above, had changed.
The steady golden pulse had become irregular. Long beats. Short beats. Depleted.
And then he heard it — a woman's voice, muffled by stone, but unmistakable.
His mother.
He was moving before the sound finished.
---
**◈ STRINGS OF FATE — SYSTEM ANALYSIS ◈**
**CURRENT CHAOS RATING: 9.3**
*(Status: CRITICAL — Institutional Pillars Collapsing)*
**RIDER INTEGRATION: 88%**
Note: Symbiosis is reaching terminal velocity.
Note: The Host no longer fully distinguishes between his own rage and the Dragon's.
**KING'S SACRIFICE — STATUS: TERMINAL**
Visual Confirmation: The 'Rot' has reached the King's shoulder.
Note: The life-force siphoning has outpaced natural recovery.
Note: External interference has been initiated.
Note: Revise estimate downward. Significantly.
**THE REGENCY GAMBIT — ACTIVE**
Threat: Otto Hightower has secured the Grand Maester.
Action: Milk of the Poppy — dosage elevated.
Purpose: Induce sustained unconsciousness.
Conclusion: If the King does not wake, Otto does not need the throne. He only needs the hand that signs the papers.
**THE ORACLE'S GAMBIT — PHASE THREE: INITIATED**
The Father is fading.
The Sister is demanding.
The Hand is reaching for the quill.
The Dragon is awake and running hot.
Next Objective: Survive the Regency.