Capítulo 18: The Lost Dragon
Viserys Targaryen
Viserys had not dreamt since the night his mother died.
The unforgiving storm outside mingling with the agonised cries of child labour in the next room frightened the young boy of eight, curled at the foot of his bed with his face hidden in his black tunic. He dreamt that his mother held him, keeping him nestled safely in her arms away from the unrelenting cries of the wind and severe rhythm of the raindrops. In his dreams she smelled as she always did; like jasmine and warm summer days, and he was safe.
The following day Viserys he was an orphan, and an older brother.
It had been eight years since that night and he once again found himself curled up with his head ducked into his tunic. This time it was not to drown out the sounds of his mother dying, but to shield him from the shame of sleeping on the streets for almost seven moons.
Viserys Targaryen, third of his name, king of the Andals, and the First Men, ruler of the seven kingdoms, and protector of the realm, was homeless.
The people of the Free Cities shunned him in the streets, laughing and calling him the Beggar King as he dragged his young sister merchant to merchant in the market square, pleading for scraps and fighting with rabid strays for their evening meal.
Ser Willem Darry had taken them when their mother died, smuggling the last of the Targaryen dynasty across the narrow sea to Braavos. They had lived with the man until Dany's sixth year, when the old knight died and his servants sent the young children to the streets. Daenerys had loved that house, but Viserys could never feel comfortable there. What was a meagre four bedroom home to the Red Keep? Braavos to King's Landing? The protection of an aging knight to a mother's love and father's wisdom? Viserys Targaryen was of the blood of old Valyria and he would not be so easily satisfied.
They had found shelter elsewhere, relying on the kindness of other wealthy strangers living in the Free Cities at the time; but the novelty of hosting the Mad King's last living children soon wore out after a year. It then became Viserys' responsibility to beg for their meals and find safe alleys for them to sleep in.
He had sold every last possession he could, save for one. Rhaella Targaryen's crown remained clutched to the silver-haired boy's side since the night they had fled. He would sleep with it held tight against his chest underneath his tattered tunic - once his favourite article of clothing now hanging on by threads, the red three-headed dragon embroidery long since faded. Viserys had never dreamed of selling his mother's crown, he couldn't. But they had not eaten in almost five days and Daenerys had been crying for three from the hunger pains. She was already so frail and gaunt looking, he wondered how much longer she could go without food.
Shutting his eyes tight and hugging the crown even tighter, Viserys prayed for sleep to distract him from the painful objections of his empty stomach. In his dreams he saw vivid memories of his childhood.
He dreamt that he was in the throne room, sunlight streaming through the high windows that made the pillars cast shadows. Each window had brightly coloured stained glass depicting scenes of men riding dragons. The Dragonlords of old Valyria, father had called them. The colours shone brilliantly on the thick black skulls that lined the walls from door to throne. Most of the dragon skulls were large enough for Viserys to climb inside when his father was not around, though some were small enough that the young boy could hold them gently in his hands.
His father walking alongside him, they approached the great Iron Throne. They would start with the biggest dragon skulls today. Viserys knew this game well, and he loved to play. He had recited the names of the great Targaryen dragons each night before he fell asleep and had long since memorised them. The boy shivered with excitement and his lilac eyes lit up at the thought of being praised by father and presented with a sweet.
King Aerys crossed his arms loosely and set his sunken eyes on his youngest son. "From the beginning, boy." Viserys turned to the skulls and began.
"Bawerion, Mewaxes, Vhagaw-" He was cut off.
"What in the seven hells are you saying?" The king's face had twisted in anger.
Confused and panicked, Viserys remained silent.
"The king has addressed you, child. Speak up!" Aerys' eyes now flared with something the toddler could not discern.
"I... I don't..." Tears began swimming in his little eyes. "... I'm sorry..." He whispered. But Aerys had a firm grip on both of the child's arms now, his long fingernails digging through the fabric of his son's shirt and scratching skin. Viserys felt the stench of his father's stale breath as he yelled.
"How many times have I repeated their names to you?! How many times must it take you to learn?!" The king shook his son as he continued. "Rhaegar never disobeyed me in such a way! How dare you make a mockery of our house?! Are you some half-wit that cannot speak?!"
Viserys could not respond for fear of angering his father more, simply shaking his head no as the tears fell on his cheeks. He did not understand, father had never taken issue with the way he spoke before.
"Answer me!" Aerys shouted impatiently, inches from his son's face.
"No!" Viserys kept shaking his head. "No! I'm sorry!" He said desperately.
A loud crack reverberated off the dragon skulls and pillars throughout the throne room when the king's hand connected with his young son's cheek. Finally he released the boy and turned his back, climbing the stairs to sit on his throne.
Viserys fell to the floor and lay there silently clutching his cheek for a moment. He could already feel the warm blood spilling from the scratches his father's jagged nails had raked into his pale skin. Rising to his feet slowly, he stood before the king, face down-turned as he stared intently at the tears falling to his feet.
"Go and run to your mother! That wretched woman who must be instructing you to speak this way! To mock me! To humiliate me!" Aerys' tone remained hostile as he sat at the edge of the throne, careful not to touch too much of it at once.
Viserys could not bear being in the empty throne room another second. He could feel the judgmental stares from the hollow eyes of each dragon skull as he raced to the double doors. While the boy struggled to pull one open Aerys continued ranting.
"The blood of the dragon does not run through half-wits!" Was the last thing Viserys heard as he slipped through the doors and down a long corridor to his mother's room.
As he ran through the labyrinth of the Red Keep Viserys struggled to understand why his father had been so upset. It had been the first time the king showed anger toward his youngest son, much less laid a hand on him. Aerys had mentioned his mother, was he angry that she always pulled the boy away from court when his father would punish men?
Just the week before Viserys had been standing in court beside his mother when a man was brought in wearing shackles. The boy could not remember what the man had been accused of, nor could he understand the cacophonous murmur among the crowd around the throne room when the man had begged and cried for his life.
The child remembered seeing how this had brought his father great joy, and so he had smiled too; especially when father had ordered the old pyromancers to bring the Wildfire. Viserys loved to see Wildfire, its pretty green glow reminded him of the colour of scales he would want his own dragon to have. But Rhaella had dragged the young boy abruptly from the throne room without the king's permission before the prisoner's punishment, much to the little prince's protest.
"One day I will be king! And I will be just like father! I won't know how to rule if you never let me see!" Viserys whined, lips firmly in a pout.
"If the gods are good my little dragon, you will never be like your father." The queen had said, glancing back at her son with a sorrowful look while she led him to the gardens. He did not understand.
Lost in memory the toddler rounded a corner too quickly and rammed with full force into his mother's door, knocking furiously with tiny fists. The queen spent many hours of the day in her room with her door locked, though Viserys had never noticed until now. When the smooth wooden door finally opened the boy fell against his mother and buried his face in the skirts of her crimson gown.
"My sweet boy, what is the matter?" Rhaella sounded tired, though her amethyst eyes showed concern for her young son as she ran her fingers through his long silver locks.
Viserys did not answer and continued sobbing into fistfuls of his mother's skirts.
"Who has made my little dragon cry?" The pale woman tried to get the boy to look at her but he would not budge.
"F-f-f-ather." Was all Viserys could manage to say properly, his sobs wracking his small frame.
"Who?" Rhaella prayed she had heard incorrectly. She forced a delicate hand underneath the child's chin and had him look up at her. The queen gasped when she saw the blood stains smeared across his young face. Rhaella knew those cuts well. She had many just as deep covering her own body, some on her arms and neck where her gowns could not cover the marks of her husband's possession. A look crossed her regal features that the boy did not recognise. She looked... distracted? Remorseful? Guilty?
Her dark eyebrows knit together as she turned to shut her door and latch it tightly. Rhaella guided her son to a chair near the window and ordered him to sit while she dampened a cloth in the wash basin. Gently cradling the boy's chin in her shaking hand she turned his face to the light from the window and began gingerly washing his cuts.
"It stings!" Viserys winced, trying to break free of his mother's grasp.
"I know little one, but we must clean it. Dry your eyes now, dragons must not cry." The queen spoke the last words softly, like a prayer she had recited many times before.
The little prince wiped his eyes roughly with the back of his hands then curled them up in fists at his sides, willing himself not to cry again.
"I didn't mean to upset him." He spoke slowly, avoiding words he could not pronounce. "He said I'm a half-wit."
Rhaella paused for a moment and put a hand on each of her son's cheeks. His face made him look like Aerys born again. "You are not a half-wit my love. You are of the blood of old Valyria. The blood of the dragon flows through your veins. Never let anyone tell you that you are less." She kissed the boy's forehead and lingered for a moment, her heart feeling heavy.
"I don't want to upset him again." Viserys looked worriedly up at his mother. Tears threatened his lids but he ground his teeth together and held them back.
"You won't. You must be careful around him. Your father loves you, but you must be careful." Rhaella's words trailed off with her gaze as it wandered from her young son's face to the open window beside them. Her high cheekbones were illuminated and the stress around her eyes was almost washed out by the sunlight. "I will speak with your brother, he will know how to help you."
Turning back to the little prince, the queen managed a small smile, then opened her arms to embrace him as he crawled in her lap like he'd done so many times before. Viserys pressed his bruised face into her shoulder when he curled up and she began rocking him back and forth. Rhaella sang softly to her son, an old Valyrian lullaby he'd loved as a baby, as she stared out at the vast expanse of sky over the waterfront.
Later that night a rhythmic knock sounded on Viserys' chamber door while he was dressing for bed. The boy's older brother, crown prince Rhaegar, come for a visit just as their mother had promised. When the tall man entered the room he gave a polite nod to the chamber maid tending the fire, dismissing her for the evening.
"I shall be the one tucking the little prince in tonight, by orders of the queen." His mellifluous voice filling the room though he spoke softly. The maid curtsied and left, closing the door behind her.
The prince turned to the young boy and gestured to a small ottoman bench at the foot of the bed. "Sit with me, brother."
When they were settled and Viserys still said nothing Rhaegar brushed his brother's wild silver curls from his eyes to better examine the wounds on his face. "What has happened here?"
Viserys remained quiet, staring at the intricate patterns of the rug on the chamber's floor. They sat in silence for a time while Rhaegar decided what to say. He had pity in his eyes, mixed with other emotions. Rhaegar had their mother's eyes, to be sure. He resembled Rhaella in many ways, his gentle and thoughtful nature, his aristocratic facial features, his sad dark purple eyes.
"Mother tells me he was angry with the way you spoke." The man said finally.
"He said that I don't speak pwo-" Viserys gave up on the word 'properly' entirely. "That I don't speak good. He's never been upset with me." He mumbled dejectedly. The crown prince sighed.
"Our father is a man of whims these days. Delighted one moment, outraged the next, the entire kingdom has found itself walking on broken glass around him." Rhaegar began, tucking some stray feathery white locks behind his ear and turning to face his younger brother directly. "You must be mindful around him." He sounded like their mother.
"I just wanted to make him proud." Viserys did not dare cry in front of Rhaegar the Dragon. He hoped his eyes would not betray him.
"You are still a boy of five, there will be time enough for you to make father proud." Although his words were of encouragement, the man's dark violet eyes seemed far away and uncertain, much as Rhaella's had.
The little prince began to cry then; that was not the answer he wanted. His father needed to know how sorry he was, that he would never disobey him, and that he would make a great king someday.
"I'm not a half-wit."
"No. You are not a half-wit." Rhaegar had a chuckle in his voice, and when the boy looked up his brother was smiling. The crown prince hardly smiled, from what Viserys could remember, though he did not understand why. It lit up his face and brightened his features drastically from his stoic default. Rhaegar rested his hand on the little prince's shoulder. "You are a very clever boy, you just need to practise your words."
The man stood and gestured for Viserys to climb under the covers. He would normally groan at the thought of sleep, but the boy was exhausted from crying and welcomed the idea of rest. Rhaegar kneeled next to the bed and pulled the covers up to his younger brother's chin.
"I can help you with your words, though my days grow busier. You must promise me that you will continue to study on days when I cannot read with you."
Viserys nodded his head excitedly. "I promise!"
Rhaegar smiled gently again. "Sleep well, little dragon."
That night Viserys had dreamt that the great skulls in the throne room grew flesh once more and became dragons, sweeping him up on their wings to carry him across the seven kingdoms that would one day be his.
Viserys woke with a pain in his neck from resting at a wrong angle on the harsh cobblestone ground. The first rays of dawn began casting shadows on the alley's walls, and Viserys could hear the slow and steady breathing of his young sister in a deep sleep. During the night she had shifted and her head now lay on his side, likely due to a nightmare. He did not have the heart to disturb her, and remained nestled in discomfort between the stone of the wall and the ground.
The boy wriggled his fingers, cramped from holding the crown so tightly. He felt each finger, hoping he had forgotten about a ring that he might sell, but there was nothing. He knew there was nothing else. At midday he would drag Daenerys to the market square and pawn off his mother's heirloom to the highest bidder. They would not pay him what the crown was truly worth, he knew, but it would be enough to eat.
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