Slaves obey, men choose: chapter 28: Ember and flower prince

The city breathed around him, a living, sleeping beast. “Walk through it,” his nephew had said, his voice still echoing in the caverns of Viserys’s mind. “Walk through them, try to act, be like them. Learn what they will learn tonight, and I promise to give you something I’m sure you’ve always wanted.”

A promise. Viserys’s life had been built on the crumbling foundations of other people’s promises. They were stones given to a drowning man, too heavy to hold him afloat yet too precious to let go.

And oh, how the promises had stacked up, one upon the other, until they formed the shaky tower of his identity. Ser Willem had promised safety, then died and left them to the streets. The Magister had promised support, then demanded a child bride in return. He himself had promised Dany a army, a home, a crown of stars, and all he had ever given her was fear and a waking sleep full of monsters. But this promise, from a boy with a ghost’s face, felt different. It felt like a hook in his chest, pulling him toward a memory he both craved and feared.

“What?” he had demanded, the word sharp and brittle. “What could you possibly give that I truly want? Other than the throne of our family? Other than you finally realizing who you are, Aegon, and helping me avenge our blood? Other than taking back our home?”

The name—Aegon—had hung between them, a ghost he kept trying to clothe in flesh. The boy who called himself Aegor had only smiled, a flicker of amusement dancing in the amethyst depths of his eyes. It was a look that knew secrets, a mischievous, infuriating, and utterly disarming look.

It was Rhaenys’s look.

The memory was a physical blow, sweet and suffocating.

It was the look she’d given him when she’d convinced him to steal a whole lemon cake from the kitchens, their sticky fingers and guilty giggles hidden behind a tapestry in the Red Keep’s longest hall. It was the look that preceded a dare to race their horses along the Blackwater Rush, her dark curls streaming behind her like a banner. It was a look that promised shared trouble and shared laughter, a conspiracy of two. Facing it again, on the face of this stranger-prince, was like having a healed wound torn open to reveal not scar tissue, but fresh, bleeding skin underneath. He was seven years old again, trailing after his brilliant, beautiful cousin, desperate for a sliver of her light.

Facing it again, etched onto the features of a white-haired stranger who wore his dead nephew’s name, had drained all the fight from him. He had never been good at telling Rhaenys no. Some part of him, it seemed, still wasn’t.

“Closure,” Aegor had said. The word felt too small, too simple, to hold the weight of all his years of rage and grief.

Closure. What was closure to a man whose life was a monument to a wound? It was the opposite of a crown. A crown was a beginning, a purpose forged in gold. Closure was an ending. It was a door closing, a lid sealing shut on the last box of things he had left of them. Did he want that? To stop being the last dragon? To lay down the blazing, terrible weight of his anger? Who would he be without it? Just a man in a borrowed city, with a sister who flinched at his shadow and a nephew who preferred a false name. The thought was more terrifying than any sellsword’s blade.

Now, standing in the falling snow, Viserys tried to hold onto that anger. But it was hard. Astapor did not feel like a city; it felt like a dream given form. Above it all, the heaven-piercing tree his nephew had wrought from magic and will pulsed with a soft, internal light. Its glow mingled with the mundane lanterns and braziers, transforming the falling snow into a cascade of diamonds. It was magic. It was a memory made real.

A thought, treacherous and quiet, unspooled in his mind: Is this what Valyria looked like? Before the Doom? He pictured the Freehold not as a place of terrifying dragonlords and fiery forges, but as this—a paradise, a testament to beauty so profound it could only be born of blood and power. This beauty came from his nephew, from the magic in a Targaryen prince’s veins. It was his birthright, made manifest in a foreign land.

Would Westeros look as such? He wondered.

Of course Westeros will look like this, he assured himself, the thought a familiar prayer. When we purge the traitors, when the world is set right, we will make it so. He would even make a garden. The idea felt foreign, uncomfortable. He had never understood the point of flowers, the way they made women sigh and poets weep. They were fragile, temporary things, even more than all things.

But Rhaenys had liked them.

The memory was a shard of glass in his heart. Rhaenys, not as the butchered girl forever staining the history books, but as she was: rolling in a field of Dornish desert flowers, her laughter a bright, clear thing even as she knew she’d be scolded for dirtying her dress.

He could still smell the pollen, the dry, sweet scent of the blossoms crushed beneath her. He could see the smudge of dirt on her cheek, the way her eyes, dark and bright purple as a starry night, had squinted shut with her laughter. She had woven a crown of them, a lopsided, wilting thing, and plopped it on his head. “There,” she’d declared, her voice full of triumph. “Now you’re a flower prince, Vis. Not just a dragon prince.” He’d scowled and torn it off, his pride stung. “I am not a flower prince,” he’d snapped, and her laughter had died. He would give anything, now, to feel the weight of that stupid, dying crown on his head again. He would wear it until it turned to dust.

She had loved the flowers of her mother’s homeland.

A field of them, then. A field so vast it would swallow the horizon. A living monument. So that when Viserys was ash and memory, she would be remembered for the flowers she loved, and not for… for the other thing. The thing that lived behind his eyes every time he closed them.

Not for the way the songs said she’d been found. Not for the number of times they said she’d been stabbed. Not for the name of the knight who did it, a name he whispered like a curse into his pillow every night. She would be remembered for beauty, not for blood. It was the only gift he had left to give her, the only act of love he could perform for a girl who had been dead longer than she had been alive. He would build her a garden with his own two hands, and maybe, in the planting, some of the blood would finally wash from his.

Yes. He didn’t like flowers, but he would make this.

“Hey! You!”

The voice was like gravel grinding against stone, a sound smoked raw by a thousand fires. It shattered his fragile reverie.

Viserys turned, his posture instinctively coiling, his chin lifting to a regal angle he had practiced in a hundred cracked mirrors. The owner of the voice was an old man, his face looked as if it should have been a roadmap of wrinkles and hard living yet it was. It looked too perfect, inhuman, almost uncanny, more like all the other people living under the shield of his nephew. Even then, he had the look of Ser Willem in his final, sickness-ravaged days, but none of the kindness. This man looked like he preferred his fists to his words, and his grunts to either.

A familiar, cold dread began to pool in Viserys’s stomach. This tone, this gruffness—it had always been a prelude to pain. To humiliation.

̷̘̗̽͛̈́̀͜ͅA̴̡̨̝̬̠̠̲͇̠͗ ̸̤̭̰̳̯̠̽́̈́c̸̡̮̮̪͖̽͊̄̽̀͌̚ṙ̵͓̗̫̪̱̞̲̯o̴̳̜͌̀͋̌̆w̴̡̨̩̥͇͆̅̍́̒̉̚̚͜ņ̴̠͓̾̏̊̇͊͆̔̚ ̷̧͚͖̞̳̣̟̹̈͛͑̐̇ͅo̴̠̖̝̞̦̝̪̣̭̐̊͋͗͌̅f̵̡̱͕͚̟͎̌̇̕͝ ̶̡̠̲͒͂̀̍͝ǵ̶̩̞͈̹̤̐͝ͅo̸̤͍̼͆̒̑͑̈́̌̚͠ļ̸̺̰̮̹̻̹̈́̎̇͊͜d̷̗͊̑,̵͚̪̬͙̔̑̓̒ͅ ̸̳̝̮̣͇͊͐̊̓́͂̄p̶̭̯̾o̴̪̱̝̺̽̿͑͋͜u̷̢̙̪͇̜̼͒̋͐̈̏́͆ŗ̸̗͖͖̖̭̊̒̎e̷̛̛̱̤̝̯̅͛̅̀͛̃͝d̷̲̞̣͋ͅ ̴̝̣̣̦̒̽̾̎͗͝ą̴̥̦͈͈̜̯͓͍̑͒̀͗̽̀̀͆͐ņ̸̺̪̣͙̟̤̀͑̏̈̋̆ď̵̛̰̳̭̩̬̫͍̼͗̋̌͂̔͠ ̷̜͇̄̑̊͐̃̓̅͘ś̵̡̥̜̜̲̫̦̰̤͌̃̋͒́̃̾͝c̵̬̣̉̄̒͜͝ḁ̸̧̛̱̏̑̉̔l̴̗͚̦̝͕͇͔̖̼̎̓̒̎d̵͚͙̭͓̏͂̇̚̚͜͝ḯ̶̠͚̙͚̜͇̋̈́̂͛͘͝ṉ̷̠̥͍͙̥͚̞̽͗̿͘͜͝͝ģ̵͔̜̝̱̭͚̱͕̋̑͋̆.̵̧̱̻̤͓̩̪͂͋̐ ̷̫̤̋ͅ

His hand twitched for a sword he did not carry.

But then he remembered. He was in Astapor. His nephew—Aegon—was a god here. A sorcerer who saw all. And while the boy refused to speak, recognise his true name, his actions screamed a possessive, maddening kind of care.

It was a care that felt like being wrapped in iron bands. It was not warmth; it was security. It was not love; it was ownership. His nephew cared for him the way a man cared for a valuable, temperamental sword—he would keep it polished and safe in its scabbard, but he did not wish to see it used, for fear of it breaking almost as if he was a relic, kept for the sake of memory, and the realization was a different kind of humiliation. But it was a humiliation with a full belly and a solid roof, and after a lifetime of begging, a cage could feel an awful lot like a home if it were gilded enough.

An insult to Viserys was an insult to him. The people in these streets, these content, well-fed sheep, would fling themselves into the sea if their god whispered the desire. Nothing could happen to him here. The fear was a phantom limb, aching from a life he had left behind.

It was just… the tone. The tone was the same.

“You’re Baeserys, aren’t you?” the old man grunted.

The mispronunciation was a spark to tinder. “Viserys Targaryen,” he corrected, his teeth gritted so tight his jaw ached. The lack of respect was a visceral insult.

His name was all he had. It was the banner he had carried through stinking alleys and across barren seas. It was the shield he held up against the laughter of merchants and the leers of magisters. It was the only thing of value he could ever give to Daenerys. To have it chewed up and mangled in this old man’s mouth was a violation. It was the first thing they had tried to take from him, all those years ago. They had taken their home, their crowns, their lives, but they had started with their names, twisting them into traitors’ labels. The Usurper. The Mad King. And for Rhaenys and Aegon, they had not even granted them the dignity of names, only… only what they had done.

“Baeserys, Viserys, sound the same,” the man dismissed with the grace of a stumbling ox.

“Viserys Targaryen,” he bit out, each syllable a drop of frozen venom. “Vi-se-rys. Tar-ga-ryen. Are you truly so ignorant? I am your—”

“Uselessly brooding guest?” the man cut him off, his voice flat.

Viserys recoiled as if struck. “What?!”

For a dizzying second, the world tipped on its axis. He was not a prince in a magical city but a boy in a dirty alley, being shoved by a older street urchin. “Think you’re better’n us, pretty boy? With your fancy clothes?” The clothes were gone, replaced by silks he had not earned, but the feeling was the same. The desperate, clawing need to assert a superiority that everyone else seemed blind to. It was the core of him, a diamond of pure, terrified pride formed under immense pressure.

“You heard me. You look like you’ve got nothing but piss and vinegar sloshing around in that head of yours.”

“How dare you?!” The words were shrill, a boy’s protest against a world that would never listen.

“More than that,” the man plowed on, utterly oblivious to the royal fury simmering before him, “you probably missed it, what with your head being so full. But people are being told to line up. Smiths, artisans, lot of us. We’re to teach you to make something. Something the God wanted all of us to learn. And since you were off in your own world, you didn’t notice. And since life, even under a god, can be a right bitch, I drew the short straw. I’m your teacher tonight. You’re my only apprentice.”

Now, shoving his indignation aside, Viserys saw it. The man wasn’t entirely an oaf. The square was organized into clusters, men and women gathering around those who clearly worked with their hands. He had been so wrapped in the silken shroud of his own thoughts he’d missed the entire tapestry.

A prince, however, does not admit to being wrong. A prince does not show embarrassment before the rubble. He smooths his features into a mask of bored assent.

“Of course I saw,” Viserys said, his voice dripping with condescension. “I merely deemed it beneath me to approach. It appears I was correct, as you have, naturally, come to me.”

The performance was everything. The lift of the chin, the slight sneer, the bored glance away. He had practiced it for Daenerys, for the mirror, for the empty rooms they’d slept in. It was the armor he wore over the constant, gnawing fear that he was, in fact, nothing. That he was exactly what this man saw: a useless, brooding guest, a placeholder for a king who did not want a kingdom. The act was so practiced it felt more real than his own skin.

The old man pinched the bridge of his nose, a long-suffering sigh hissing through his teeth. “By Aegor, my luck is truly shit. Whatever you say, Baeserys. Let’s just get this over with.” He turned to leave. “Follow me.”

“I still fail to see why I must partake in this… common labor,” Viserys protested, his feet stubbornly rooted to the spot.

The smith stopped and looked back, his eyes tired. “Honestly? I’d prefer it if you didn’t. But just so we’re clear… it would be going against the will of the king.”

The words were a door slamming shut. There was no arguing with the king’s will, even when the king was a stubborn boy using a false name. Viserys sighed, the sound a small, defeated thing in the magical air.

It was the finality in the man’s tone. It was not a request. It was not a suggestion. It was the law. And like all the other times in his life, the law did not belong to him. It was wielded by another. He was not the maker of rules but a subject of them.

The irony was a bitter pill. He had spent his life demanding obedience to the name he carried, and now that name held no power here. The power was in the living boy, and his will was that Viserys would learn a trade. The sheer, mundane absurdity of it was a greater insult than any slur. He, the last dragon, was to be apprenticed to a blacksmith like a commoner’s third son.

“Lead the way,” he said, the words tasting of ash.

He told himself this, a new mantra to replace the old ones. I am a Targaryen. I am blood of the dragon. This is beneath me, but I will master it effortlessly, and they will see.

He followed the old man, his mind already racing ahead. It wouldn’t take long. He was a Targaryen. Their blood was fire and genius. How hard could it possibly be?