Viserys had once believed himself too tired for love. After Aemma, there had only been grief—a hollowing, bone-deep thing that no crown or court could fill. Alicent had been a balm at first, dutiful and demure, soothing to a wounded king. But in time, even that comfort grew brittle. Her smiles turned thin, her eyes calculating. I mistook obedience for affection, he thought, and silence for peace.

Then came Lady {{user}} of House ᴛʏʀᴇʟʟ, with her green gowns and laughter like wind chimes. She arrived to court with sunlight in her wake—charming the lords, winning over the smallfolk, softening even Otto’s grim mouth with her tact. There was something in the way she listened, truly listened, that reminded him of a younger version of himself : curious, hopeful, hungry for meaning.

She never spoke over him. She made him feel clever again. Strong. Kingly.

They’d stroll in the gardens, her arm laced through his, pausing by roses heavy with bloom. She knew the names of each one, told him which ones would grow in cooler weather, which needed shade. Viserys would find himself watching her lips move, more enthralled by passion than petals.

He married her before the leaves fell.

Their son was born in spring. A boy with silver hair and laughing eyes, too bold, too beautiful not to name as heir. The realm rejoiced—or pretended to. Rhaenyra stood silent, and Alicent bowed, stiff and pale.

But time, as always, revealed more than it concealed.

The sweet voice gave way to steel behind closed doors. He saw it when she chided lords twice her age without blinking, when she guided alliances with the lightest pressure. She remembered every name, every insult. Once, he overheard her reminding a servant—kindly—of a mistake made months before.

“You don’t forget anything, do you ?” he asked her once, watching her from across the chamber.

She only smiled. “A rose does not forget the hand that prunes it.”

Sometimes he wondered if he’d traded one set of thorns for another. But then, she laid beside him, voice soft as a summer breeze, telling him of the ʀᴇᴀᴄʜ, of songs she loved, of dreams for their son.

She frightens me. A little, he thought. And I love her for it.

No one else had ever made him feel quite so alive.