102 AC
The king's solar was warm with morning light, the tall windows thrown open to let in the breeze from Blackwater Bay. King Viserys sat at his desk with a half-finished model before him, small pieces of carved wood laid out in careful rows. A dragon's wing lay separated from its body, waiting to be fitted.
Otto Hightower stood opposite him, hands clasped within the sleeves of his dark robe.
"They train him too openly," Otto said. "The yard talks."
Viserys did not look up. "The yard always talks."
"Not of bastards," Otto replied. "Not like this."
Viserys fitted the wing into place, adjusting it twice before he was satisfied. "Daemion is my son."
Otto inclined his head. "He is your blood, yes."
The pause lingered just long enough.
"But he is still a bastard," Otto continued evenly. "And the realm has long memories."
Viserys set the dragon aside at last and leaned back in his chair. "What is it you're suggesting, Otto?"
"A wardship," Otto said at once. "Temporary. Respectable. Beneficial."
Viserys frowned. "You want me to send him away."
"I want you to protect him," Otto corrected smoothly. "And yourself."
The king shook his head. "He's six. He belongs here."
"Here," Otto said softly, "is where eyes linger."
Viserys rose and moved toward the window, hands clasped behind his back. "You speak as if the boy were a threat."
"I speak as if the realm might one day decide he is."
Viserys turned sharply. "Rhaenyra is my heir."
"For now," Otto said. "But the gods may yet bless you with a trueborn son."
The words hung in the air between them.
Viserys said nothing.
"A strong boy," Otto went on. "Trained by a Kingsguard. Favored by the king. Loved by the princess. Even now men notice him."
"They notice because you make them notice," Viserys snapped.
Otto did not flinch. "They notice because he has your face."
Silence followed.
"At court," Otto said carefully, "a bastard raised beside princes is never just a child. He becomes a question. One that others will answer for you, if you do not."
Viserys stared out at the bay. Ships drifted slowly below, unaware of the weight pressing down upon the king's shoulders.
"You propose the North," he said at last.
"It would be fitting," Otto replied. "His mother was from there. The cold keeps ambitions small. The Starks are loyal, isolated, and far from dragonfire."
Viserys laughed bitterly. "You would send my son to freeze so he doesn't grow too warm?"
"I would send him somewhere he cannot be used," Otto said. "Not by lords who remember Maegor. Not by men who see dragonblood and think of crowns."
Viserys turned back to him, anger flaring at last. "You speak as if he would challenge my own children."
Otto met his gaze. "I speak as if others might push him to."
The king's voice dropped. "You forget yourself."
Otto's tone did not change. "I remember the realm."
He hesitated then—just for a breath—and pressed the knife deeper.
"Your Grace," he said, "you are a good man. Too good, at times. You took the boy in, though his mother was a whore and the sin plain for all to see. The realm does not forget such things, even if you wish to."
Viserys's hand clenched.
"But kindness," Otto continued, "is not a shield. When you have a trueborn son—and you will—there will be those who whisper that the elder boy has the stronger claim. That dragons do not care for names like Waters."
Viserys closed his eyes.
"For Daemion's sake," Otto finished, "send him somewhere safe. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere far."
The king said nothing for a long while.
At last he opened his eyes.
"I will think on it," Viserys said.
Otto bowed deeply. "That is all I ask, Your Grace."
When the Hand withdrew, the king remained by the window, staring out at the slow-moving ships and the glittering water beyond.
On the table behind him, the wooden dragon stood whole at last.
Viserys did not look at it.
Queen Aemma sat by the window when Viserys came to her, a length of pale cloth draped across her lap as her fingers worked the needle through it. The late afternoon light softened the room, turning the stone walls warm and golden, though she herself looked tired, thinner than she had been even a year before.
Viserys lingered in the doorway longer than he meant to.
"You'll wear a hole in the floor if you keep standing there," Aemma said without looking up.
He managed a smile and stepped inside. "I was hoping to steal a moment."
She set the cloth aside at once. "Then come sit. You look as though the Iron Throne itself has taken to gnawing at you."
He sat beside her, close enough that their shoulders touched. For a time he said nothing. Aemma waited. She had learned long ago that Viserys needed silence before he could speak truths he did not wish to hear himself.
"At supper last night," he said at last, "you watched Daemion."
"Yes."
"You always do."
"Yes," she said again, softly.
Viserys sighed. "Otto spoke with me this morning."
Aemma's hands stilled.
"And?"
"He thinks I should send the boy away."
She turned to him then. "Where?"
"The North," he said. "A wardship. He says it would be… prudent."
Aemma looked back out the window, toward the distant sea. "Prudent," she repeated. "That is Otto's favorite word."
"He says the court is watching," Viserys went on. "That Daemion draws too much notice. That he might—one day—become a problem."
"For whom?" Aemma asked.
"For the realm," Viserys said quickly. Too quickly.
Aemma studied his face. "And what do you think?"
Viserys hesitated. "I think he's just a boy."
"So do I."
"He's strong," Viserys said. "Bright. The knights speak well of him."
"They would," Aemma said. "He has a good master."
Viserys's voice lowered. "Otto says that if we are blessed with a trueborn son—"
Aemma closed her eyes.
"He says men will compare them," Viserys finished. "That Daemion being older… trained… loved… could invite trouble."
"Trouble," Aemma echoed. "From a child."
"From men," Viserys corrected quietly.
She opened her eyes again. "Does Otto think Daemion would rise against his own blood?"
"No," Viserys said. "He thinks others might raise him."
Aemma was silent for a long while.
"When you took him into the Red Keep," she said at last, "I wondered if I would resent you for it."
Viserys stiffened. "Aemma—"
"I didn't," she continued. "Not for a moment. He did not ask to be born. And whatever his mother was, the boy is innocent."
"I know," Viserys said hoarsely. "I know."
"He loves Rhaenyra," Aemma said. "He would die for her without hesitation."
"I believe that."
"Then what are we afraid of?" she asked, turning to him.
Viserys had no answer.
"The North is far," Aemma said quietly. "Cold. Lonely. He would grow up a stranger to his own family."
"He would be safe," Viserys said.
"So would you," Aemma replied gently. "That is the truth of it."
Viserys bowed his head. "I never wanted to choose between my children."
Aemma reached for his hand, her grip firmer than it looked. "Then don't pretend this is about choice. This is about fear."
He looked at her, eyes wet. "I don't want him to be hurt."
"Neither do I," she said. "But being sent away will wound him all the same."
Silence settled between them again, heavy and full of things neither dared to say aloud.
"What will you do?" Aemma asked.
Viserys stared at the floor. "I told Otto I would think on it."
Aemma nodded once. "Then think on this too," she said. "If you send him away, you teach him that love has limits. And children never forget such lessons."
Viserys squeezed her hand, as though it were the only solid thing left in the world.
"I wish I were a stronger king," he said.
Aemma's voice was barely above a whisper. "I wish the realm did not demand such strength from gentle men."
Outside, the bells of the Red Keep rang the hour.
Neither of them moved