SEE HOW IT SHINES

VI.

Viserra fights the urge to cover her nose as she enters the king's chambers. The stench is worse than anything she's smelled before, sulfuric and oppressive as it clings to the stale air. Beside her, Joffrey nearly gags.

"What is that?" Her brother whispers, his dark purple eyes watering at the smell.

Grandsire, she almost replies, but gives Joff a tiny shake of her head instead. She puts a hand on his shoulder and guides him forward, the Velaryon siblings and twins filing into the room behind Rhaenyra and Daemon. They'd all shared breakfast together this morning, where their parents announced their intention to remain in King's Landing for another six weeks. To appease the king, Muña said, and to celebrate the thirtieth anniversary of his coronation with him. Viserra knows, though, that their decision was a strategic one as much as it was familial. She'd known from the moment the king asked yesterday morning that they'd stay. His Grace is dying, slowly but surely, and his beloved daughter and brother could hardly deny his request. But more than that, the Blacks cannot let the Greens reign unchallenged any longer.

They knew, of course, that Viserys had been ill and ailing for years. What they didn't know was just how much control Alicent and Otto Hightower exerted over court and council. They keep His Grace addled on milk of the poppy and spread their green rot into every corner of the castle, winning favor with smallfolk and nobles alike, slowly diluting any love for the Realm's Delight and Rogue Prince that remains. Now, Rhaenyra and Daemon have returned, and intend to remind the city and realm beyond that the Iron Throne belongs to House Targaryen, not House Hightower.

Viserra knows her part. She must be the model princess she always has been. She must stand tall as a testament to her mother: beautiful, charming, clever, and kind. The perfect daughter. The perfect heir. Dutiful. Graceful. Good. The sort of girl one cannot help but love. The sort of girl who will one day make a wonderful queen. Her brothers are trained to fight with swords and axes and morningstars, but she is trained to wield a woman's weapons—and in this, wit is just as deadly as steel.

She'll play her part, and play it well. She always does. And she'll only resent that she has to play it at all when she's alone, and hide away the tender flesh of her heart behind armor of silk and samite. She'll befriend noblewomen and endear herself to lordlings and knights, give alms to the poor and patronage to the shopkeepers and artisans, flaunt her dragonriding and dancing skills for all the city to see. She'll make them love her these next six weeks—for Muña's sake, of course, not for the tiny corner of her spirit that thrives on praise and adoration. For if the people love the Crown Princess's children, surely they will come to remember their love for her and forget whatever half-assed loyalty they've gained for the Hightowers in Rhaenyra's absence.

Or something like that.

Right now, Viserra can hardly focus on anything but the smell emanating from her grandsire's back. He sits hunched over in a chair while a trio of maesters tend to the open wounds on his flesh. The sight of the gaping, festering, pus-filled holes in his skin is enough to make Viserra's breakfast rise in her throat again, but she swallows the nausea down forcefully and fixes a smile to her face.

"Father?" Rhaenyra calls out over the moans and groans the king makes each time a maester sets a compress on his back.

Viserys looks up, seemingly confused at first, but when his rheumy eyes find his daughter he smiles. "Rhaenyra. My girl."

Viserra notices Daemon's jaw twitch, and he lets go of his wife's hand as she approaches her father. Two of the maesters back away bowing, but Grand Maester Orwyle continues his work after nodding in greeting to the princess. Rhaenyra bends to press a kiss to the king's sallow cheek. "We can come back later, if we are interrupting your treatment."