King's Landing
98 AC (Eighth Moon—Day 08)
Viserra III
His hands rasped against her skin—rough, warm, callused by toil and steel—a man's grip.
A shiver snaked up her spine, a low moan spilling free. Vanys quickened, thrusts sharp and measured, piercing her core. Her sex ached, long ignored, clutching him fierce, greedy. Back bowed, rump high, thighs splayed wide.
The Valyrian guard took her from behind, a stallion's fire in his bones—tall, lilac-eyed, forged hard as his kin. Viserra relished it, her mind weaving Maelys atop the man—high cheeks, soft smile, eyes burning with want.
She fucked the guard but felt her brother, or his shadow—harsher, hungrier, lust soured by Gael's chaste hold.
"Harder," she barked, voice trembling, thick with heat.
Vanys answered, snagging her hair like a silk street drab, rough as she craved. She savoured the bite of it. His sack slapped her folds, a wet, brutal rhythm, pleasure coiling tight. The bed creaked, a wounded thing, lust's clamor bouncing off the chamber's stone.
She broke in a minute, a thrill spiking sharp—walls clamping, pulsing round his cock.
He chased her over the edge, seed thick and hot, flooding her womb as he groaned, lost. Moon tea would scour it out later—no lowborn whelps for her, not unless the blood was worth it. This was her dull husband's lone wound, and she'd keep it so.
Vanys pulled free, cock softening, spent. She collapsed, linens cool against her sweat-slick skin, eyes glazed, breaths heaving deep. Good rutting, this—last night and now. She'd half a mind to drag him to Sweetport Sound, a warm cock when Luras knelt at his sept's cold walls.
Fancies, naught more.
"No watch today?" she asked, rolling to her back, pleasure's echo ebbing slow.
His gaze snagged on her breasts, a quieter hunger there. "None—day's mine, tomorrow too." He looked off, scrubbing a hand through dark hair. "Prince gives us leave when he's in a mood—fair man, free with it sometimes."
She smiled, faint and sly. "That so? Goes for all under him, I'd bet?"
"Aye," he said, shrugging. "Most, leastways. He's got a way—folk'd bleed for him, and he don't even ask."
Viserra chewed that over, piecing Maelys together—her brother's pull, unhealthy almost. Loyalty like that, unbending, even in this guard's tight lips. She'd pried, light as air, but Vanys gave up nothing—stubborn as stone, no gossip, no cracks. Maddening.
For a heartbeat, she wondered if her charm was slipping, if age sagged her at last.
Minutes bled by, then she rose, dawn's grey spilling through the shutters. She'd not miss breaking fast with kin—save the old king, damn him. Vanys' eyes tracked her, hot still, as she stretched, shaking off the last dregs of weariness.
"Off to wash," she said, hips swaying as she crossed the room. "Be gone before I'm back—lest Jaedar stumbles in and finds you sprawled in his mother's sheets."
He grunted, a half-laugh, already tugging on his breeches. The dismissal sat easy—she felt it clean.
———————
The bath scalded her skin, a fierce heat that sank deep, steam curling thick in the air. Valyrian hands worked over her—lithe fingers, pale as milk, worn but deft—her own maids shunted aside for these few her brother had plucked from Lyseni brothels.
Old blood, he called them, freed now, scrubbing her with a knack that spoke of years bending to scented soap—jasmine and bitter rind, sharp on her flesh.
Lowborn raised to ape nobility. Her brother was half-mad.
It ended too quick—coarse cloths sucked the wet from her, steam still rising off her skin like a forge's breath as she stepped from the haze. A silk drape fell over her, thin and clinging, guarding what modesty she cared to keep.
Vanys had cleared out, the chamber bare—no trace of him or Jaedar. The boy was likely off in the yards, lost in dreams of steel and spurs, or chasing Aemma's squalling whelp through the keep's dust.
They dressed her, those Valyrian hands—slipping her into indigo, a gown cut tight at the bodice, skirts rustling soft and fine. No provincial rag this—she wore her rank, a gift from some simpering lordling.
She stepped from her chamber, the door's groan lost in the corridors now thick with clamor—Dragonstone's hands shoving past.
The old king had barked for Viserys a day after Maelys's rise, a summons sharp as steel.
Daemon had swept in on Caraxes a day after, all flame and haste, the dragon's screech splitting the sky. Viserys trudged in two days later, his ship groaning under Aemma's weight and Rhaenyra's cries.
Maelys had let the reason slip to her, a hissed scrap of truth, but the deeper game stayed shadowed. Her brother saw it—his eyes glinted with it—but he kept his lips stitched tight, hoarding the why like a miser with coin.
Now the keep brimmed with kin, a hive of blood and breath, though it stirred no warmth. Too many tasks clawed at her—plots to sniff out, chances to snatch—too much to waste on stiff nods and cautious kin.
This dawn feast was a ripe chance—to coax soft words from Viserys' meek mouth, to snag favors with a smile and a nod.
The dining chamber hummed as she drew close, voices bleeding through the gaping doors, a low roar of kin and clatter.
The table sprawled long, its wood gouged and worn, heaped with crusty bread, smoked sausages glinting oily, and pitchers of wine sweating dark.
Viserys hulked at one end, broad and flushed, his ruddy face tipped toward Maelys, words spilling thick and fast. Aemma perched further—the other end—slight in pale blue, her smile for Gael soft as dawn, easy as if the world hadn't shifted.
Jaedar slouched near Rhaenyra, picking at berries with idle fingers, his blond locks a sharp gleam against the babe's silver sheen, her tiny hands smearing juice.
Daemon wasn't there—off rutting some whore, like as not.
"…old books—ancient, crumbling things. They mutter of days before the Ghiscari skinks sank their claws into our kin's marrow. Back when dragonflame was a clean torch, not the warped jest it turned to." Viserys leaned toward Maelys, voice thick with conspiracy. "Sweeter times, I'd wager."
Maelys scowled, though the honesty of it was missing. "I don't swallow that rot—our blood's steeped in spite and sin, and those old tomes spill it plain, all the black rites and worse." He caught her eye across the table, dipped his chin in a quick nod, then pressed on. "Still, I'll back your hunt—tap the strings I've got in the Free Cities, sniff out those dusty tales you're mad for."
"Generous as ever, eh?" Viserys grinned, ruddy cheeks bulging. "I'll square it with you, mark me."
Maelys waved it off, sipping orange juice, a flush creeping up his neck. "I'm not fishing for debts, Viserys. Got coin enough to fund your little whims." His voice dipped, gruff with a shrug. "Foul or not, it's ours—blood of our sires. I can stomach some pride in that."
Viserra slipped in, skirts brushing stone, and took a seat by Gael, snagging a cup of wine—tart, unwatered. Alyssa's shadow lingered in Viserys's talk—her love of Valyria's lost days, her taste for steel and tales.
Gael glanced over, grey gown crisp and elegant. "Morning, sister. You're looking well—slept sound?"
"Hardly," she said, voice parched as old leather, a fostered bite in it. "You?"
Her sister's cheeks bloomed pink, a flush of sin and glee smeared across her face. Viserra knew the why, plain as day. Maelys had been buried thigh-deep in her last night, staking his claim for the first go. Must've been soft about it, if Gael still glowed like a maiden touched gentle.
"Ehh, aye," her sister muttered, words dodging the question.
Aemma choked a laugh behind her hand, lips brushing the rim of her wine cup. "No need to blush over it, Gael," she said, voice low and easy, taking a sip. "It's a fine thing—better still if it's sweet. I've heard women at Dragonstone moan dry of it, saddled with men whose hearts are cold as their blades."
That worked plenty, and Gael let it pour like tavern talk—mood, caresses, every little scratch and sigh, the hours that stretched it out. Pure romance, soft as a bard's tune. Her sister swam in it, all moony, while Maelys reckoned it normal.
By the end, Viserra's gut twisted hotter against Luras—useless prick that he was. Even Vanys caught her scorn, the cur, for not fucking her half as well as her brother did Gael.
The scrape of boots on stone cut her spite short, stomping it before it could root deep. Daemon swaggered in, rogue to the bone, sword slung low on his hip. He carved a line straight for them, brushing past the jabbering pair with a curt greeting.
When he loomed close, the reek of Maelys's spirits hung on him, sharp and sour, though his eyes cut through, bright, no haze dulling them. He was Alyssa with a cock—bold as brass—and it made him a sight. The years had carved him sharper, and the warrior in his bones doubled it.
"Ladies," he drawled. "Fine morn, eh?"
His gaze slid past her, old rancour flickering in those sharp eyes. Viserra was too worn to give a damn—too sour to waste breath on a whelp who'd never watched his sister bartered off, fucked dry by some withered lord, then broken by it.
Aemma piped up, "Daemon, why're you late?" Her voice carried old weariness, frayed at the edges. "Drunk too, I'll bet."
The rogue prince had the grace to dip his head, a rare softness tugging his sharp face. He snagged a small loaf, a bowl of steaming soup, half a fried chicken—crisp and golden—and, queerest of all, a cup of apple juice.
"Got tangled in bed," he said, grinning wide. "Pair of beauties held me—well-bred stock, plump with want, legs parted eager. Sweet girls."
Viserra was half-set to agree before words interrupted her.
"I'd ask you keep your lust away from the servants," Gael said, voice thick with reproach, a warning coiled in it. "Especially the Lyseni ones. They were swore a new start when the chains came off, but that old meekness still sticks. Wave your lust about, Daemon, and you'll find them barred to you—no more service."
A hush dropped over the table, heavy as a sodden cloak. All but the bairns froze, struck dumb, jaws slack. Gael didn't spit words like that—her hunger for kin usually softened her tongue.
Maelys's seed must've stoked a fire up her spine.
Daemon's eyes slit narrow, but he eased back—too quick, too smooth for Viserra's taste. "Fair enough," he said, draining a gulp of the apple juice. "Yet I shall not deny them my embrace should they seek it of their own will."
Gael's smile broke true, warm and open. But Viserra reckoned the rogue's hopes would crash hard—nothing but Andal cunt waiting for him come tomorrow.
"Speaking of embraces," she cut through the quiet before it curdled awkward, "got any prospects for a wife, Daemon? Plenty of houses'd leap to snag a dragonlord for a good-son."
The prince barked a scoff, Aemma smothering another laugh behind her hand. Viserra flicked a look at Maelys and Viserys, but they stayed hunched, lost in their own muttered knot, deaf to the rest.
"Mother had a match picked for you," Gael said, and eyes swung back to her. "Wanted you bound to the Royce girl—lash Runestone to your hip. A storied house and a comely wife, a fine match, no?"
Viserra saw the shape of it. A woman's grip was a shaky thing—lords loved to bray against it—but a royal match would've clamped it tight, made the loud ones cringe. And Daemon? He'd have relished a lord's weight, his iron will bending those mountain knights to his fist.
A damn good pairing, especially for him—landless but for Caraxes's wings.
Trouble was, the rogue prince was a thick-skulled fool, drunk on his own swagger and strut.
"I'd sooner be ash than chain myself to some mountain whore," he bellowed, voice crashing loud across the table.
Aemma cracked his ribs with a quick slap. "Watch your filthy mouth round the bairns," she snapped, voice a low bite. "Rhea's solid—you'd have warmed to her if you weren't so…" She let it hang, breath puffing out in a gust. "Matters naught now—Rymond's got her leashed since the Stone Crows got smashed."
Gael and Aemma prattled on, their chatter veering sharp to the latter's Arryn blood and all its tangles. Viserra, though, slid a sly glance at Daemon—his eyes lingered on the kids, heavier with thought than she'd seen before.
She gave it a year, tops, before the rogue prince was shackled to some Reach girl—plump and perfumed—to grease trade or buy a favor. Mother might've weighed her matches gentle, but Father didn't muck about with such niceties.
Soon the other pair drifted over, and Havenhall took root in their talk. Maelys spilled his schemes, no guard on his tongue—some sounded mad as a hare, others pricked her curiosity. A few gleamed pure genius, but they'd suck coin and steel dry, and she'd already bled House Sunglass's coffers near to dust.
"I'm off to Driftmark in a sennight," he said, then he and Gael slipped out.
Viserra cornered Viserys with talk. He played nice enough, probing about Sweetport Sound, the doings there. She nudged him toward marriage plots—prodding if he'd mused on who'd get her lass when the years ripened her right.
"Bit early for that, I'd say," Aemma cut in, sharp-eyed, sniffing out her play. That little niece of hers saw the hook and didn't care for it one whit. "Thought we'd set her for Rhaenys's lad or Gael's brat once she's plump with Maelys's get."
"Risky, banking on a babe not even quick yet," Daemon tossed in, sour on the marriage chatter—he didn't stomach it well.
"Gael'll have a whelp swelling her gut before the moon turns, you watch," Aemma told with a flush of the cheeks.
Viserra grudged it, sour in her gut, but she wasn't done sniffing out a fat match for her Jaedar yet.
They jawed a bit longer, scraps about the Velaryons feeding her nosiness, but soon she was out the hall, Jaedar trailing at her heels.