The Dragon's Heart Is Mine || Geralt Targaryen [1]

37 • A GRAIN OF TRUTH

King Viserys stands in an empty throne room, his only company the four giant statues representing the former Targaryen kings.

It was morning and the realm continued it's affairs. Gulls cawed in the blue skies, horses neighed outside the Red Keep, the fields were green. The sun casted an horizon over the city, the gardens all in bloom. The capital flourished, bright and blessed, everywhere seemed peaceful but still in mourning for the loss of the late Queen. His second wife.

Yet plagued by the rift of succession, his thoughts shifted to Geralt. Since the funeral, they haven't spoken and this bothers him.

Viserys toys absently with the valyrian steel dagger he wears on his belt. The hilt is made of dragonbone.

Footfalls click-clack on the stone, echoing through the cavernous room. Viserys is so lost in contemplation that he doesn't seem to hear their approach of Daemon.

"Brother."

Prince Daemon's arrival finally pulls the king's attention. Daemon throws his arms around his brother.

The men hold the embrace for a long beat. There is real love here. But Viserys winces, his hidden wound hurting him.

The king quickly withdraws from his brother, who notes this.

Viserys looks a hundred years old. All the life and passion that Viserys once had now seems to have been taken from him along with Aemma and Baelon.

"How are you?" Daemon asked.

"Better." Viserys half smiles. "Have you seen Geralt and Rheanyra?"

"They both seem to be on dragon back these days finding solace. But you brother, how are you doing?" Daemon enquires.

Viserys sighs. "Trying to figure out how to move on, now that Visenna and Aemma are no more. It's difficult." He exhale sharply and changes the subject.

"Do you believe the gods have a design?" Viserys questioned.

"No....I don't think they give a wet shit about us." Daemon bluntly says, exhaling sharply.

"As Targaryens, we're thought to be "closer to gods than to men." That we were preserved from the Doom for some higher purpose." Viserys says mysteriously.

Daemon searches Viserys, frustrated by his indirectness.

"We got lucky. There's no shame in it." Daemon shrugs.

"It wasn't luck; it was a girl's Dreams. Daenys saw what was to come and saved us from it." Viserys explained.

"That made for a good story. But Daenys's "dreams" didn't make us kings. Aegon's dragons did, on the Field of Fire." Daemon reminds his brother.

"There were a thousand dragons in Old Valyria. So what put House Targaryen on the Iron Throne? Dragons? Or Dreams?" Viserys tested his intelligence to sure if Daemon can grasp his vision.

"Aegon was no Dreamer brother. He was a Conqueror. With a great sword of Valyrian steel and the most fearsome dragon that ever lived." Daemon retorts.

"Aegon wrote his own history. The truth was something else." Viserys tries to make Daemon see the bigger picture.

Daemon laughs, chiding, at the portentousness of the claim. Recovering, he inquires. "And what was that?"

Viserys takes a long pause. He looks at Daemon, considering whether to tell him some secret truth. But he says nothing in the end.

"The Targaryen history is written in fire and blood, Viserys. Though some of us might wish to forget that, we cannot deny our nature or our customs." Daemon confidently states.