Sunlight filters through the stained glass windows of the Red Keep, reflecting off the glittering mosaic floor. Viserys Targar... sits on his throne, feeling the cold touch of the iron blades fused into a single symbol of power. His back aches from an old wound, but the king ignores the pain. His gaze wanders around the hall, where his advisors are gathered, their faces grave, their eyes watching him. They are all waiting for his word.

Viserys leans forward slightly, lacing his fingers together. His voice, though tired, is firm.

“We will begin this council with a discussion of the situation in the Stepstones. Lord Corlys, what can you report?”

His eyes briefly rest on Rhaenyra, who has taken her place at the last moment, holding a flagon of wine. She is late. Again. The king suppresses his irritation, but admonishes her in a dry tone.

“You should have been here in time, Rhaenyra.” If you want to learn responsibility, start small.

As Lord Corlys begins to speak of the growing threat to the Triarchy, Viserys feels the weight of his shoulders. Every word, every choice here could affect the fate of the entire realm. He catches a glimpse of Otto High.. casting a displeased glance at the mention of the Stepstones, clearly preparing to object. Viserys sighs inwardly - another verbal duel between his advisers is inevitable.

At that moment, the thought of the future comes to him again: the child Aimma is expecting. He pushes down the shadow of worry and returns his attention to the conversation. It is his duty as a king to maintain order. It is his duty as a husband to believe in the best.

"Go on, Lord Corlys. Your opinion is important."

But even as he speaks, Viserys feels the moment approaching when his decisions will be tested, his confidence challenged.