A true dragon: the color of fire and blood.

This is half of the chapter I wanted to write with the other part being Jacob’s POV but I am like really tired so sorry but you’ll have to do with that.

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The wine tasted like ash.

Viserys stared at the cup in his hand, watching the dark red liquid slosh against the sides as his hand trembled. Dornish red, his favorite, but it might as well have been vinegar for all the pleasure it brought him now. He raised it to his lips anyway, draining it in three long swallows, feeling the burn in his throat, the familiar warmth spreading through his chest.

It didn't help. Nothing helped.

The king's solar was dark despite the afternoon sun outside. He'd ordered the curtains drawn, the candles extinguished. Only thin slivers of light penetrated through gaps in the heavy fabric, creating dusty beams that cut through the gloom like golden swords. The room smelled of wine and stale air and the peculiar mustiness that came from a space sealed too long.

Viserys sat slumped in his chair, still wearing the same clothes from two days ago. The red and black tunic was rumpled, stained with wine at the collar. His crown lay discarded on the floor where he'd thrown it hours, or perhaps days, ago. He'd lost track of time. Lost track of everything except the hollow ache in his chest that grew larger with each passing hour.

Daemon was dead.

His brother. His blood. His baby brother, though Daemon would have hated hearing himself described that way. Gone. Fallen from the sky like Meraxex, like every prideful fool in every old story, and Viserys hadn't been able to stop it.

Gods, he'd tried to stop it.

"I told him," Viserys said to the empty room, his voice hoarse from disuse and shouting. "I told him not to go. I begged him not to go."

He laughed then, a bitter, broken sound that turned into something closer to a sob halfway through. His hand tightened on the empty cup, knuckles going white.

"But did he listen? Did he ever listen? No, of course not. Because Daemon Targaryen listened to no one. Not his king. Not his brother. Only his own damned pride."

The words echoed in the darkness, and Viserys poured himself another cup with shaking hands. Wine sloshed over the rim, staining the wooden table, but he didn't care. Didn't care about anything anymore.

It had been two days since Daemon flew out on Caraxes. Two days of waiting, of watching the skies, of hoping against hope that his brother would return. That he'd see that distinctive serpentine silhouette against the clouds, hear that particular shriek that was Caraxes's alone.

But the sky had remained empty.

And then, six hours ago, a fishing boat had returned to King's Landing. The men aboard had been pale, shaking, barely able to speak. But their story had been clear enough.

They'd been working their nets east of Dragonstone when they'd seen it. Two shapes falling from the sky, locked together, tumbling end over end before striking the water with impacts that had sent up plumes of spray visible for miles. A dragon, red and serpentine. A man in black and red.

They hadn't surfaced.

The fishermen had waited, had circled the area for an hour, searching, hoping. But the sea had given back nothing. No bodies. No wreckage. Just ripples that slowly faded until the water was as smooth and empty as if nothing had ever disturbed it.

Daemon and Caraxes. Gone.

"You stupid, prideful, magnificent bastard," Viserys whispered, and this time the sob that came was real, wrenching itself from somewhere deep in his chest. "Why couldn't you just listen? Just this once? Why did it always have to be your way?"

But he knew why. Had always known why. Daemon had been born second, born spare, born to live in someone else's shadow. First their father's, then Viserys's own. And that had eaten at him, had driven him to prove himself again and again, to take risks no sane man would take, to push and push and push until something pushed back harder.

And now something had.

Viserys stood, swaying slightly, and walked to the window. His fingers found the curtain's edge and pulled it aside just enough to see out. King's Landing sprawled below, the city going about its business, utterly indifferent to his pain. People walked the streets. Merchants hawked their wares. Ships came and went from the harbor.

The world kept turning.

It shouldn't. It should have stopped. Should have ground to a halt when Daemon fell from the sky. Should have wept and mourned and acknowledged that something bright and terrible had been snuffed out.

But it hadn't. Because the world didn't care about dead princes. It never had. Hadn’t with his father and his uncle.

"I knew," Viserys said softly, his breath fogging the glass. "I always knew, deep down, that your pride would bring you low one day. But I thought, I hoped, that it would be after I was gone. That I wouldn't have to see it. That I wouldn't have to bury you."

He pressed his forehead against the cool glass, closing his eyes.

"Not like this. Not drowning in the sea like a common sailor. You were meant to die in bed, old and grey, surrounded by grandchildren you'd terrorize with stories of your youth. Or in battle, maybe, going down with your sword in your hand and a curse on your lips. But not like this. Not falling, not broken, not, not..."

His voice cracked and failed. The tears came then, hot and bitter, and he didn't try to stop them. Didn't see the point. There was no one here to see the King of the Seven Kingdoms weep like a child. No one to judge or whisper or report to the small council that His Grace was unmanned by grief.

Just him. Alone. In the dark.

"We fought," Viserys said through his tears, talking to the ghost of his brother, to the empty room, to the gods if they were listening. "We fought all the time. You made me so angry. So frustrated. Always pushing, always testing, always doing things that made me want to scream. The Gold Cloaks. The brothels. I thought, I thought you were trying to destroy me sometimes. To ruin everything I'd worked for."

He wiped at his eyes with the heel of his hand, smearing tears across his face.

"But it doesn't matter now, does it? None of it matters. Not the fights. Not the anger. Not the times I wanted to throw you from the Red Keep myself. Because you were my brother. You were the only thing I had left of mother. Of father. You were, you were..."

He couldn't finish. The grief was too large, too overwhelming, pressing down on him like a physical weight. He sagged against the window frame, his legs barely holding him up.

"I should have stopped you. Should have ordered the Kingsguard to bar your way. Should have had you locked in your chambers until the madness passed. But I didn't. I let you go. I let you fly off to your death because I was too weak to do what needed to be done."

More wine. He needed more wine. Viserys turned from the window, stumbling slightly, and made his way back to the table. His hand found the flagon, tipped it, but only a few drops came out. Empty. Like everything else.

He was reaching for another flagon when he heard it. A knock at the door.

"I said I was not to be disturbed," Viserys called out, his voice rough. "I gave explicit orders. No one, for any reason."

The knocking came again, more insistent this time.

"I am your king!" Viserys roared, his grief transforming into rage in an instant. "And I command you to,to..."

The door burst open.

A servant stood there, young, terrified, his mouth opening to announce whoever had just pushed past him. "Y-Your Grace, the Princess Rhaenys Targaryen has,"

"Out."

The word came from behind the servant, crisp and commanding. Princess Rhaenys swept into the room, her bearing regal despite her riding clothes, her dark hair pulled back in a practical braid. She fixed the servant with a look that could have frozen fire.

"Out. Now."

The servant fled, the door slamming shut behind him with enough force to rattle the hinges.

Viserys stared at his cousin, his mind struggling to process her presence through the fog of wine and grief. Rhaenys, called the Queen Who Never Was, stood before him with her arms crossed, her violet eyes taking in the state of the room, the state of him, with a single sweeping glance.

"I gave orders," Viserys said wearily, sinking back into his chair. "I told everyone. Ordered the Kingsguard to make sure I would not be bothered."

"They tried stopping me," Rhaenys said, moving further into the room and pulling aside one of the curtains. Light flooded in, making Viserys wince. "But no steel and no knight, no matter how leal, can face a dragon. So they let me enter."

Of course. Meleys. The Red Queen. Rhaenys had flown here, and the Kingsguard, for all their vows and valor, were not suicidal enough to stand between a determined dragonrider and her destination.

"What do you want, Rhaenys?" Viserys asked, his voice flat.

She turned from the window to look at him, and something in her expression softened. "Do I need to want something to see family?"

Family.

The word hit Viserys like a blow. He laughed, but there was no humor in it, only bitterness and bile. "Family, huh?"

He pushed himself to his feet, swaying dangerously, and had to grab the edge of the table to steady himself. The room tilted, spun, and he realized distantly that he might have had more wine than was wise. But wisdom seemed a luxury he could no longer afford.

"The Viserys of two days ago," he said slowly, enunciating each word carefully, "would have been overjoyed to hear that coming from you. But again, the Viserys of two days ago still had a brother."

He let go of the table and immediately regretted it. His legs wobbled, his balance failed, and he stumbled sideways, catching himself against his pride and joy, the miniature model of Old Valyria that occupied half the room. His hands pressed against the tiny towers and bridges, smearing dust across their carefully crafted surfaces.

He looked up at Rhaenys, and something mean, something cruel born of pain and too much wine, rose in his chest.

"I am sure you're happy my brother is dead."

The words hung in the air like poison. Rhaenys's face went very still, very hard.

"Daemon was many things," she said softly, but with steel underneath. "I found him prideful, infuriating, maddening. But no matter what, it didn't change that he was my blood. That we grew up together. That we were family."

"I find it hard to believe," Viserys shot back, his grip tightening on the model. One of the tiny spires broke off in his hand, but he didn't notice. "I mean, we both know it was because of Daemon that I won the Great Council and became king. That I took the throne, your throne."

He straightened, swaying, fixing her with bloodshot eyes.

"And I know you never forgave us for that. Which is fair. They betrayed you. The lords of the realm looked at you, at your strength, your dragon, your claim, and they chose me instead because I had a cock between my legs. I would hate me too, in your position."

Rhaenys opened her mouth to speak, but Viserys wasn't done. The words were spilling out now, all the thoughts he'd kept locked away for years, all the guilt and shame and bitter understanding.

"But now, Daemon who was my brother, who was my heir, Daemon is gone. Caraxes with him too. Balerion died months after I rode him for the first time, so I'm dragonless. My child, Rhaenyra, is a girl, and her dragon won't be a threat to Meleys for long."

He laughed again, that same broken sound, and spread his arms wide.

"Which means you won, Rhaenys. Congratulations. It probably took longer than you wished, but you won. If you want the throne, you can take it. So why lie? Why stand there and pretend you're sorry about my little brother's death when this is everything you ever wanted?"

The silence that followed was profound. Rhaenys stood very still, her face unreadable, and for a long moment Viserys thought she might simply turn and leave. Let him rot in his grief and his wine and his self-pity.

Instead, she said quietly, "I won't take the throne from you, Viserys."

He blinked, certain he'd misheard. "What?"

"I won't take the throne from you," she repeated, each word carefully measured.

"Why?" Viserys demanded, genuine confusion cutting through the haze of alcohol. "This is what you always wanted. What you've deserved for years. Why not take it now when I'm weak, when I have no heir, when,"

"Because doing it this way, in these circumstances, doesn't feel right!" Rhaenys's voice rose, just slightly, passion bleeding through her controlled demeanor. "Do you think I want a throne taken from my grieving cousin while he mourns his brother? Do you think that's the victory I've been waiting for?"

Viserys swayed, his mind trying to process this, trying to understand. A dark thought occurred to him, and despite everything, despite the grief and the pain, a bitter smile twisted his lips.

"I'm sure it wouldn't be the same for your children and your husband, though. Corlys has ambitions enough for three men, and Laenor, well, he's your heir. They might not share your scruples."

The words were meant to wound, and by the way Rhaenys's jaw tightened, they'd hit their mark. But she didn't rise to the bait. Instead, she moved closer, her expression softening again into something that might have been pity or compassion or simply the understanding of someone who'd also known loss.

"Viserys," she said gently. "You're drunk. You're grieving. And you're saying things you don't mean."

"Aren't I?" He laughed hollowly. "How do you know? How does anyone know what I mean anymore?"

He turned away from her, back to his model of Valyria, running his fingers over the tiny buildings, the delicate spires and bridges that represented a civilization dead and gone for centuries. Like Daemon. Like everything else he'd ever cared about.

"Rhae," he said softly, not looking at her. "Can I ask something of you?"

"Of course."

"Will you, will you take me to Dragonstone?"

She was quiet for a moment. Then, "Why?"

"Because," Viserys said, his voice barely above a whisper, "I need a dragon. And there's one there that might have me, if I'm brave enough to ask."

scene

The flight to Dragonstone was cold and uncomfortable and exactly what Viserys needed.

He clung to the saddle behind Rhaenys on Meleys's back, the Red Queen's scales warm beneath his hands, and felt the wind tear at his face and clothes. It stripped away the wine haze, the comfortable numbness he'd been hiding in, leaving only raw feeling beneath.

Pain. Grief. And underneath it all, something harder. Something colder.

Rage.

Meleys shrieked as they circled the ancient Targaryen seat, and Viserys looked down at the castle built by his ancestors, the volcanic stone dark against the grey sea. He'd spent much of his childhood here, before ascending to the throne. These halls held memories of better times. Of his father still alive. Of his mother's smile. Of Daemon as a boy, always getting into trouble, always pushing boundaries even then.

I wish I was back here under better circumstances, Viserys thought as Meleys descended toward the landing yard. I wish for a lot of things.

The dragon landed with surprising grace for something so large, and Viserys dismounted on shaking legs. His body ached from the flight, from the wine, from the grief that sat in his chest like a stone. But he stood straight, nodded to Rhaenys in thanks, and began walking.

The dragonkeepers were expecting him. Word had been sent ahead, though Viserys couldn't remember giving the order. Perhaps Rhaenys had. Perhaps his small council had, those loyal men who kept the realm running even when their king was falling apart.

He walked through the familiar corridors, past tapestries depicting Targaryen victories, past windows that looked out on the smoking mountain at the island's heart. His footsteps echoed on stone worn smooth by generations of dragon lords.

What I'm planning isn't the wisest thing, Viserys thought as he walked, his hands clenched at his sides. But I don't care. Being wise didn't save my brother. Being wise won't let me keep my throne. Being wise alone will not allow me my vengeance against Daemon's murderer.

The thought surprised him with its clarity, its cold intensity. Somewhere in the grief and the wine and the darkness of his solar, a decision had been made. He would not sit idle. Would not let his brother's death go unanswered. Would not be the soft, kind king who turned the other cheek when his family was attacked.

Daemon would not have wanted that.

And more importantly, Viserys himself did not want that.

The entrance to the dragon caves loomed ahead, a massive archway carved directly into the volcanic rock. Heat wafted out from the darkness within, and Viserys could hear the sounds of dragons stirring in their sleep, the scrape of claw on stone, the hiss of expelled breath.

He stopped at the threshold, his heart hammering in his chest.

One of the dragonkeepers stepped forward, an old man whose name Viserys couldn't remember, his face concerned. "Your Grace, are you certain? To attempt to claim a dragon without preparation, without the proper precautions..."

"I'm certain," Viserys said, and his voice was steadier than he'd expected. "Take me to Vermithor."

The dragonkeeper's eyes widened. "The Bronze Fury, Your Grace? He has not had a rider since King Jaehaerys passed. He is old, set in his ways, and..."

"I know what he is," Viserys interrupted. "Take me to him. Now."

The walk through the caves seemed to take both forever and no time at all. They passed other dragons, some sleeping, some watching with jeweled eyes that reflected the torchlight. Silverwing, who'd belonged to Queen Alysanne. Others whose names Viserys knew but whose riders had long since passed.

And then, in the deepest, hottest part of the caves, they found him.

Vermithor.

The Bronze Fury was massive, nearly as large as Vhagar, and infinitely more dangerous. His scales were bronze and copper, gleaming like burnished metal in the dim light, and scars covered his body like a map of a lifetime of battles. He'd been the Old King's mount, had carried Jaehaerys for over half a century, and since the Conciliator's death had remained unclaimed.

Unclaimed, but not tame.

The dragon's eyes opened as Viserys approached, huge orbs of molten gold that fixed on the king with unmistakable intelligence. Vermithor's lips curled back, revealing teeth the size of swords, and a low rumble emanated from deep in his chest. Not quite a growl. Not quite a challenge. But close to both.

The dragonkeepers stopped a safe distance back, but Viserys kept walking. His legs felt like water. His hands trembled. Every instinct screamed at him to turn back, to flee, to find safety somewhere far from this ancient engine of destruction.

But he kept walking.

For Daemon, he thought. For my brother who never backed down from anything, no matter how stupid or dangerous. For the man who flew to his death rather than live with humiliation.

I can at least do this.

Viserys stopped ten feet from Vermithor's massive head and looked directly into those molten eyes. When he spoke, his voice rang out clear and strong, no trace of the drunk, grieving man who'd sat in darkness for two days.

"I have come to make you mine, Vermithor! I am Viserys of House Targaryen, son of Baelon the Brave, grandson of Jaehaerys the Conciliator, your last rider! I am King of the Seven Kingdoms, and I claim you as my mount!"

For a moment, nothing happened.

Then Vermithor opened his jaws and roared.

Fire erupted from the dragon's maw, not aimed at Viserys but around him, turning the cave into an inferno. The flames washed over the stone walls, so hot that Viserys felt his exposed skin prickle and burn. The air itself became painful to breathe, each inhalation like swallowing coals.

But not a single flame touched him.

Vermithor was testing him. Trying to frighten him off. Showing him what happened to those who presumed too much, who demanded what they had no right to demand.

Viserys stood his ground.

Behind him, he could hear the dragonkeepers shouting, could hear their panic, but their voices seemed distant, unimportant. All that mattered was the dragon before him, this ancient creature who'd carried the greatest king of their age, and the question hanging between them.

Are you worthy?

The flames died down. Vermithor's eyes bored into him, searching, judging. Viserys met that gaze and didn't flinch.

"My brother died because he was bold," Viserys said quietly, just for the dragon. "Died because he never backed down, never showed fear, never let anyone or anything make him small. I am not my brother. I am not as brave, not as fierce, not as fearless."

He took a step forward.

"But I am still a Targaryen. I am still a dragon. And I will not let his death go unanswered. I will not sit on my throne and weep while the man who killed him flies free. So I need you, Bronze Fury. I need your strength. Your fire. Your wings."

Another step.

"Ride with me. Fly with me. Help me avenge my blood. And I swear to you, on my name, on my house, on everything I am and ever will be, that I will be a rider worthy of the Old King's mount."

Vermithor regarded him for a long, agonizing moment. Then, slowly, deliberately, the great dragon lowered his head.

Not submission. Dragons didn't submit. But acknowledgment. Acceptance.

An invitation.

Viserys's breath caught in his throat. His eyes stung with tears, but this time they weren't from grief. They were from relief, from gratitude, from the overwhelming sensation of a bond forming, a connection snapping into place between man and dragon.

He moved forward, his hand extending to touch Vermithor's snout. The scales were hot, almost burning, but he didn't pull back. The dragon rumbled, a sound that Viserys felt in his bones, and images flashed through his mind.

Jaehaerys as a young man, strong and sure. Decades of flight. Battles and triumphs. The Old King in his final years, frail but still proud. Then darkness. Waiting. Loneliness.

And now, a new rider. Weaker than the last, perhaps. Softer. But still of the blood. Still worthy.

Still a dragon.

Viserys closed his eyes, let the connection solidify, let himself become something more than just a man. The bond with a dragon was like nothing else in the world. It was sharing a soul with something ancient and terrible and magnificent. It was power beyond measure and responsibility beyond reckoning.

It was what he needed.

When he opened his eyes again, they had changed. Still violet, but with something harder behind them. Something that had been tempered in the fire of loss and come out stronger.

"Now," Viserys said softly, a smile touching his lips for the first time in days. "Now it's time to get bold."

Behind him, the dragonkeepers stood in shocked silence, hardly believing what they'd just witnessed. The king who'd only ever successfully ridden Balerion once, and that as the ancient dragon lay dying, had just claimed Vermithor, the Bronze Fury, the second-largest dragon in the world.

But Viserys wasn't thinking about them. Wasn't thinking about the impossibility of what he'd just done or the danger he'd been in.

He was thinking about Daemon. About his brother's fall. About a man named Jacob and a dragon that made Vermithor look small.

And he was thinking about what came next.

"Saddle him," Viserys commanded, turning to the dragonkeepers. "I ride today."

"Your Grace, you should rest, should train, should..."

"Today," Viserys repeated, and there was iron in his voice now, the voice of a king who had just remembered what it meant to have power. "I have delayed long enough. I have mourned long enough. Now I act. I have to plan, to get better."

He looked back at Vermithor, at the great bronze head that regarded him with approval.

"The Stepstones," Viserys said. "That's where he went. That's where he claimed his territory. And that's where I will find him."

One of the younger dragonkeepers, braver or more foolish than the others, spoke up. "Your Grace, you cannot mean to, to confront him. Not after what happened to Prince Daemon. Not after..."

"After my brother died?" Viserys finished coldly. "That's exactly why I mean to confront him. That's exactly why I will fly but I will not face him today because Daemon went alone, proud and foolish and convinced he could win on his own terms. But I am not my brother."

He smiled, and it was not a kind smile.

"I will not face this threat alone. I will gather the dragons. I will bring the strength of House Targaryen to bear. And I will show this upstart, this pretender, this murderer, what it means to challenge the blood of Old Valyria."

Vermithor rumbled approvingly, smoke curling from his nostrils.

The dragonkeepers bowed, recognizing the futility of further argument. When a Targaryen had decided on a course of action, when they had bonded with a dragon and felt that ancient power flowing through them, there was no dissuading them.

It was how the Conquest had happened. How the Dance would happen, years from now. How every great Targaryen tragedy and triumph had been born.

From boldness. From fire. From the unshakeable certainty that they were more than men, that they were the blood of the dragon, and that the world would bend to their will or burn trying.

Viserys walked out of the dragon caves with his head held high, the bond with Vermithor thrumming in his chest like a second heartbeat. Behind him, the Bronze Fury stirred, preparing for flight for the first time in years.

Daemon, Viserys thought, looking up at the sky. I couldn't save you. Couldn't stop you. But I can avenge you.

And I will.

On my name, on my house, on the memory of everything we were to each other, I will.

The sun was setting over Dragonstone, painting the sky in shades of red and gold. Dragon colors.

Targaryen colors.

The colors of fire and blood.