The Fury
Chapter 19: The Fury
Viserys stood in the Red Keep’s throne room, but the hall was twisted and wrong. The Iron Throne loomed larger, its jagged edges casting eerie reflections. Aegon sat atop it, a cruel smile twisting his lips. Around him, the cries of the smallfolk echoed—pleas for mercy that fell on deaf ears.
“Burn them,” Aegon said, his voice cold and commanding.
Viserys tried to speak, to stop him, but his voice was caught in his throat. He watched in horror as Sunfyre’s golden form descended, flames pouring forth, reducing the screaming masses to ash.
“Father,” Aegon turned his piercing gaze on him, his eyes filled with contempt. “This is your legacy.”
Viserys jolted awake with a gasp, his chest heaving as he clutched the fabric of his tunic. His vision was blurred, his mind still clouded with the vivid nightmare. For a moment, he didn’t know where he was, the weight of the dream pressing down on him like the Iron Throne itself.
A quiet knock came at the door, followed by the creak of it opening. One of the healers sent by Rhaenyra entered cautiously, her expression a blend of concern and professionalism.
The healer hesitated, her lips pressing together as though choosing her words carefully. “Your Grace, your health is fragile. The Maester and I agree that the loss of your dragon has weakened you deeply. Dragons and their riders are bonded in ways we still do not fully understand. Without that bond, your body and spirit have suffered. The grief over Princess Helaena has only worsened this.”
Viserys closed his eyes, the mention of his daughter cutting through him like a blade. “My sweet girl,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “Gone, and now… I feel I am soon to follow.”
The healer reached out, placing a gentle hand on his arm. “You must rest, Your Grace. Stress will only hasten your decline.”
When she left, Viserys lay back against the pillows, staring at the canopy of his bed. The room felt oppressively silent, his thoughts echoing loudly in the void. He thought of Rhaenyra, strong and capable, and of Aegon, brash and cruel. He thought of Daemon, ever the rogue, and of Alicent, with her quiet manipulations.
What would become of the realm when he was gone?
***********************************
The chamber on Dragonstone was warm with the heat of the roaring fire, but Rhaenyra’s face remained cold and unmoved as she read the letter in her hand. Viserys’s words were shaky, the script uneven—a reminder of his deteriorating health. Yet his sentiments were clear: sorrow for Helaena’s passing, curiosity about Dreamfyre’s flight, and a veiled hope for the future. He mused that perhaps Dreamfyre sought out a new rider, hinting at Rhaenyra’s unborn child.
Rhaenyra scoffed quietly, folding the letter with deliberate care before setting it aside. Across from her, Laena sat comfortably in a chair near the hearth, her own form mirroring Rhaenyra’s. They were both nearing their due dates, and the air in the room was thick with unspoken tension.
“A poetic exit for Helaena’s beast, don’t you think? Freeing herself from chains after the loss of her rider,” Laena said, breaking the silence. Her lips curved into a faint, knowing smile. “A fitting omen, wouldn’t you say?”
Rhaenyra raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
Laena tilted her head, watching her sister-by-law carefully. “I can’t help but wonder if you regret it, though,” she continued. “Not Dreamfyre, of course. But the pain you’ve caused. Alicent, your father—they loved her, you know. Helaena. She was… untouched by all of this.”
Rhaenyra’s gaze snapped to Laena, her expression hardening. “Untouched?” she repeated, her voice sharp. “Untouched, like Jace was when Aegon attacked him? Or like Luke was when Aemond tried to take his life while they were playing in the Red Keep? My sons have been in the shadow of their malice since the day they were born.”
Rhaenyra’s lips curled into a faint, bitter smile. “Alicent,” she repeated, her tone sharp. “Do not ask me to mourn for a woman who has brought nothing but pain to my house. Alicent has made her choices, and she must now live with their consequences.”
Laena leaned forward, her voice quieter but cutting. “And yet, it was you who set this particular chain of events into motion. Do you feel no guilt? No regret for the pain this has caused your father? For what Alicent must feel, as a mother grieving her daughter?”
Rhaenyra turned her gaze to Laena, her eyes hard, unyielding. “Pain?” she said, her voice low but heavy with fury. “Do you think Alicent spared even a moment’s thought for my pain when Aemond tried to kill Lucerys? When Jacaerys was struck down? Twice, my sons were endangered, their lives hanging by a thread, and what did I receive in return? No apology. No justice. No action from Viserys, my father, who claims to love me but turns a blind eye to the Hightowers’ scheming.”
Laena opened her mouth to respond, but Rhaenyra raised a hand, silencing her.
“Yes,” Rhaenyra continued, her tone now icy, “Daeron was sent away, but we both know that was a distraction, a feeble gesture to appease me. It was Aemond who tried to kill Lucerys, and we all know it. Aemond, consumed by Hightower ambition, is too far gone to be saved. So no, I feel no guilt. No regret. I merely removed a piece from the board before it could harm us further.”
Laena leaned back in her chair, unfazed by Rhaenyra’s tone. “And yet, you are their queen-to-be. Their sister. Their daughter. Does that mean nothing to you?”
Rhaenyra pressed her lips together, the weight of years of betrayal and disappointment flashing in her violet eyes. “I tried, Laena,” she said finally, her voice low but filled with conviction. “I tried to be kind. To be patient. To extend my hand in peace. And each time, they have bitten it. Alicent’s prayers mean nothing without action. My father’s sorrow rings hollow when he does nothing to protect his own blood.”
Laena nodded slowly, considering her words. “And Daeron? Removing him from the Red Keep—it was a move on the board. A calculated play.”
Rhaenyra did not flinch. “It was,” she admitted. “Yes, Daeron is safer far from King’s Landing, where this game of thrones is being played with fire and blood. But do not mistake my mercy for weakness, Laena. I knew Aemond would never apologize. He is too far gone in his mother’s ambition and Otto’s schemes. Daeron was the only piece I could remove without direct bloodshed.”
Laena studied her in silence, her expression unreadable. The fire crackled between them, casting shadows that danced along the walls.
Laena leaned back in her chair, her expression thoughtful. “You’ve changed, Rhaenyra. There was a time when you would have sought compromise, tried to find peace.”
Rhaenyra’s gaze softened briefly, but only for a moment. “That time is gone,” she said firmly. “I am done placating everyone, bending so as not to break. I will not let the Hightowers destroy everything I hold dear, not my family, not my claim, not my children. If Alicent and her brood wish to play this game of thrones, they will find that I am no mere pawn to be sacrificed.”
“You’re done playing nice, then,” Laena said finally.
Rhaenyra’s lips curved into a bitter smile. “I am done pretending that my kindness will be repaid in kind. Alicent’s grief is a consequence of her own ambitions. My father’s sorrow is the price of his complacency. And my focus now is on protecting my children. No one else will.”
Laena let out a low hum of approval, her smile widening slightly. “It seems you are a queen ready to claim what is yours,” she said.
Rhaenyra looked to the window, where the gray skies of Dragonstone hung heavy over the cliffs. “They’ve made their choices,” she said softly, more to herself than Laena. “And now, I make mine.”
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Aemond Targaryen sat by the fire in the great hall of Winterfell, his eyes fixed on the flickering flames as the howling winds outside rattled the heavy wooden shutters. Snow fell steadily beyond the thick walls, blanketing the world in a suffocating white. A raven had arrived that morning, its message sealed with the Hightower crest. Aemond had known, even before breaking the wax, that it would carry dark tidings.
Now, hours later, the words still haunted him.
Helaena is gone.
His sister, the gentle thread that tethered their fractured family to what little humanity remained, was dead.
He had read the letter twice, then once more, tracing the words written in his mother’s trembling hand. Alicent’s grief was palpable, even from a distance.
Across the hall, Lord Rickon Stark watched Aemond in quiet study, his expression unreadable. They had been traveling together for weeks now, forging an uneasy camaraderie with his bannermen. Stark was not a man to indulge in pleasantries or feigned sympathy, and for that, Aemond was begrudgingly grateful.
“You’ve been silent all day,” Rickon said finally, breaking the oppressive quiet.
Aemond’s jaw tightened. “I’ve received word of a death in my family,” he said, his voice clipped but steady.
Rickon nodded, his eyes narrowing. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he said after a moment, though his tone lacked warmth. He sipped his ale, his gaze never leaving Aemond. “Do you wish to return south posthaste?”
“The snows have begun,” Aemond replied, gesturing vaguely toward the window. “Travel would be foolish.”
Rickon studied him for a long moment, then nodded. “And yet, you’ve the look of a man who wishes to do something rash.”
Aemond’s lips curled into a bitter smile. “Rash? Perhaps.”
He rose from his seat and began to pace the hall, the weight of his anger and grief pressing down on him like the heavy furs draped over his shoulders. His mind churned with possibilities, each darker than the last.
The Lannisters. Jason Lannister in particular. That fool had sent the insect that killed her, a careless, thoughtless gift. Aemond’s hand clenched into a fist, his nails biting into his palm. The arrogant lord of Casterly Rock deserved to pay for his stupidity.
But even as his fury turned toward the Lannisters, another thought wormed its way into his mind, twisting like a knife. Rhaenyra. She had reason to strike. Hadn’t her sons suffered indignities they blamed on Alicent’s children?
“I know that look,” Rickon said, his voice cutting through Aemond’s spiral of thoughts.
Aemond stopped pacing and turned to face the Northman. “And what look is that?”
“The look of a man looking for a fight,” Rickon said. He leaned back in his chair, his arms crossed over his broad chest. “Revenge will not bring her back, Targaryen.”
Aemond’s lips twitched, his smile humorless. “Revenge is not about bringing her back, Stark. It’s about making them pay.”
Rickon’s expression darkened. “And who will you make pay? The man who sent the bug, or the sister you’ve always loathed?”
Aemond’s eye flared with anger, but he said nothing.
Rickon leaned forward, his voice low and unyielding. “Be careful where you aim your grief, Aemond. It has a way of turning into something else entirely. Something you can’t control.”
Aemond turned away, his fingers brushing the hilt of his sword. He knew Rickon was right, but the fire of his rage refused to be quenched. He would sit here, in this frozen keep, biding his time, but his vengeance would come.
And when it did, it would burn hotter than dragonfire.
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The chill of morning lingered in the Red Keep as King Viserys sat slumped in his chair, his breathing labored. The room was dimly lit, the sunlight weak against the thick clouds rolling over King’s Landing. He had called for Daeron early, before the household stirred fully, wanting to ensure privacy for their meeting.
The door opened with a soft creak, and Daeron entered, his youthful face composed but concerned as he approached his father. Despite the decline in Viserys’s health, Daeron knelt before him, his head bowed in respect.
“You summoned me, Father,” Daeron said, his voice steady but tinged with unease.
Viserys smiled faintly, though it did little to mask the pallor of his skin. His once-vigorous frame had withered, leaving him shrouded in furs to keep the chill at bay. “I did, my son,” he rasped, motioning for Daeron to rise.
Daeron obeyed, standing tall but uncertain as he waited for his father to speak.
“I’ve considered your desire to return to the Celtigars,” Viserys began, his voice heavy with fatigue. “They have been good allies to you, and to our house. It is a fitting place for you to continue your studies.”
Daeron nodded. “They have been gracious hosts, and their temple is a place of great learning. I am grateful for the opportunity, Father.”
Viserys regarded his youngest son with a mixture of pride and sadness. in the shadow of the realm’s growing unrest, Viserys felt the weight of every decision he had made—or failed to make.
“I called you here,” Viserys said slowly, “because I wished to send you off with my blessing, and with something more.”
From the table beside him, Viserys lifted a small bundle of rolled parchments, tied with a black ribbon. His hands trembled as he offered them to Daeron, who stepped forward to take them with care.
“What is this?” Daeron asked, his brow furrowing as he studied the documents.
“Letters of approval,” Viserys said, a hint of pride breaking through his weary tone. “Sanctioning your studies as a priest of the Fourteen Flames. With these, no one may question your dedication or your place among them.”
Daeron’s eyes widened, and for a moment, he seemed at a loss for words. “Father… this is an honor beyond what I expected.”
“You are my son,” Viserys said firmly, his voice gaining a fleeting strength. “And though you walk a different path than your brothers, it is no less worthy. The old ways hold power, and the realm will need that power in the days to come.”
Daeron knelt once more, clutching the documents to his chest. “I will not fail you, Father.”
Viserys reached out, his frail hand resting on Daeron’s shoulder. “I know you won’t,” he said softly.
For a moment, the room was silent, the only sound the crackle of the fire in the hearth. Then Viserys leaned back, exhaustion settling over him like a shroud.
“Go now,” he said, his voice fading. “The ship awaits, and I have little strength left for farewells.”
Daeron hesitated, his gaze lingering on his father’s sunken features. But he obeyed, rising and stepping back. “Goodbye, Father,” he said, his voice steady despite the emotion that flickered in his eyes.
As the door closed behind Daeron, Viserys exhaled slowly, his head tilting back against the chair. He stared at the ceiling, his thoughts a swirl of regret and hope.
“One son sent away to study the flames,” he murmured to himself, his voice barely audible. “While the other fans them into a fire that will consume us all.”
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The Red Keep had become a house of mourning. Shadows clung to the walls, and whispers of grief seemed to echo in every corridor. Alicent Hightower sat in her chambers, the curtains drawn tight to block out the day. Her mourning gown of deep green velvet weighed heavy on her, as did the silence that surrounded her. It was a silence she had not chosen but one forced upon her after the loss of her daughter, Helaena.
The door creaked open, and her lady-in-waiting entered, her expression uneasy. “Your Grace,” she began hesitantly, “I have news.”
Alicent turned her head slowly, her reddened eyes narrowing. “Speak,” she commanded, her voice raw from days of weeping.
The lady hesitated for a moment but finally said, “Prince Daeron has been sent back to the Celtigars. The king arranged for his departure early this morning.”
Alicent shot to her feet, the mourning gown swaying like the robes of an avenging goddess. “Sent back?” she hissed, her voice rising. “Without a word to me?”
The lady-in-waiting flinched. “I believe the king thought it best—”
“Best?” Alicent’s voice cracked with fury. She stormed past the servant, throwing open the door to her chambers. Her footsteps were sharp and purposeful as she made her way to Viserys’s private quarters.
The guards outside his doors barely had time to announce her arrival before she pushed past them, her grief and anger giving her strength.
“Viserys!” she shouted as she entered, her voice echoing through the room.
The king sat in his chair by the hearth, his frail form swathed in layers of furs. He turned to her slowly, his tired eyes narrowing at her tone. “Alicent,” he rasped, “I expected you.”
“Did you?” she snapped, her voice trembling with emotion. “You sent our son away without so much as consulting me? Without giving me the chance to say goodbye?”
Viserys sighed, his shoulders slumping. “I did what I thought was best for Daeron. This place…” He gestured weakly around the room. “It is no place for him. The shadows of this keep poison all who live here.”
“And yet you keep me here,” Alicent spat, her hands trembling as they clenched into fists. “You keep me to rot in this tomb of a castle, mourning my daughter, while you send away my child who only recently returned.”
Viserys’s expression softened, guilt flickering in his weary gaze. “Alicent, you are stronger than you realize. Daeron needed to leave, to grow. To be safe.”
“Safe?” she repeated, her voice rising. “And who will keep me safe, Viserys? Who will protect me from this grief, from the emptiness you leave me with?”
“I am trying to protect all of you,” he said quietly.
“You are failing!” she shouted, her voice breaking. Tears streamed down her face as she glared at him. “You are failing me, failing Helaena, failing all of us. And when you are gone, what will be left for me?”
Viserys closed his eyes, the weight of her words pressing down on him. “I am sorry,” he said, his voice barely a whisper.
“Sorry?” Alicent laughed bitterly, wiping at her tears. “Sorry does not bring Helaena back. Sorry does not undo the pain you have caused me.”
She took a step closer, her voice dropping to a cold, dangerous tone. “You have taken everything from me, Viserys. And I swear to you, I will not let this slight go unanswered.”
Viserys opened his eyes, looking at her with a mixture of sorrow and fear. “What would you do, Alicent?”
Her lips pressed into a thin line, her tears drying as her rage solidified into resolve. “Wait and see, my king,” she said softly, almost venomously. Then she turned on her heel and left the room, her steps as sharp and purposeful as when she had entered.
Viserys stared at the door long after she had gone, the firelight flickering over his pale features. In the silence that followed, he murmured to himself, “The gods help us all.”