The morning after his private reckoning, Viserys summoned his strength to attend the royal breakfast. It was a tradition more than a meal—an effort to present the Targaryens as both rulers and family. But today, it felt more like theater.
Aemma sat pale and poised at the high table, her hands folded delicately, eyes rimmed red but dignified. She had insisted on joining, despite her weakened state. Viserys had protested, but she refused to hide away while the crown loomed so near.
"I may not rise for your coronation," she had said with soft sorrow, "but I will not be absent from your side."
Rhaenyra was already seated, her braid neat, her eyes sharp. She watched the servants with the quiet calculation of a dragonet learning the weight of flame. She greeted her mother gently and her father with a careful smile.
"My husband comes late," Aemma remarked, trying to sound amused, but her voice cracked with effort.
Daemon arrived not long after, boots muffled and cloak damp from sea wind. He entered with a casual swagger, but his eyes found Aemma first—and softened. He bowed low.
"Forgive me, my queen. I was delayed by... a flock of courtiers choking the hallways."
"You mean the ones that roost there nightly?" Rhaenyra said dryly.Daemon grinned. Viserys did not.The king-to-be sat in silence, hands curled around his cup. He watched his family with a sense of fragile warmth—and deeper unease. They were close, yet already splintered. Aemma, too delicate to fight the wind. Rhaenyra, too young to bear its weight. Daemon, the storm itself.
Talk turned to light things: ships returning to port, a new tapestry from Pentos, a septon's sermon against vanity. But every thread felt drawn too tight.
Viserys noted how Rhaenyra glanced at Daemon, and how he smiled at her with an older brother's charm—but something more watchful beneath. He noted how Aemma grew quieter with each bite she couldn't finish.
The crown was near. The court whispered like serpents beneath velvet. And even here, among family, there were shadows.Viserys looked at them—his blood, his legacy—and wondered how many of them would survive the storm he had seen.
He raised his cup."To family," he said.And sipped the wine, though it tasted like ash.