The Three-Headed Dragon: A Viserys Targaryen Quest Continuation [abandoned]

Day by day, camps appear outside the city walls, and highborn lords come to expect either some rooms in the Red Keep or to be put up at the Crown's expense in the better inns of the city. The more you meet with them, the more exhausting you find it. One meeting isn't nearly as exhausting as the others, and comes with good news for you.

"I cannot tell you how happy I am to see your face, Garret," you confess in the privacy of your solar. "Lords and ladies tend to start blending together after a while."

"I'm just happy to be back, Your Grace," Garret answers you, "but I won't say I missed the city." His nose crinkles. "Armies and dragons can do a lot, but they can't clear that fucking smell away." You shrug, thinking to yourself that there's probably something that could be done, but you don't know what, and there's more pressing concerns. Like the familiar little book in Garret's hands.

"Am I happy in your news?"

"Probably happier than you were to see my scruffy mug," he says with a grin.

He offers you the book, but you demur. "Unfortunately, I don't think I'll have time to go through it anytime soon. Would you mind giving me the highlights?"

He nods, and starts leafing towards the back of the book. "Ravens from Braavos and Lys came into Dragonstone, and the maester there is now in here," he wiggles the book in his hand for a moment. "20 gold a month is really a small price to pay for his discretion and his loyalties, considering who else is out there. Anyhow, balances and expenses are all detailed here, and while I can't say that the Restoration came cheap, it did come cheaper than we had hoped."


[Your Domain has been updated! Personal Finances have been added!]


In the company of an old friend, you don't mind letting a low whistle escape you. "That … could make quite a difference for things to come. Certainly gives me more breathing room with the Iron Bank and the other creditors banging on the castle doors."

Garret tilts his head back and forth noncommittally. "I wouldn't imagine to advise Your Grace on matters of finance without your say-so."

You don't bother looking up from your food, grabbing a fast lunch between meetings. "Of course you wouldn't. I also wouldn't imagine you'd have any such hesitations with your employer, Master Vaeltigar."

"Thank fuck," Garret relaxes in his chair a bit more. "Never know how a new position or title might change a person, 'til you do."

"You never used to display such caution with me, Garret."

He sets the book down a moment, and ticks off fingers. "You never had an army, gold cloaks, castle guards, and Kingsguards between me and you. Used to be just Warrek and Jaime I had to get past if I wanted your time."

"Point taken," you say before taking a bite, and wait until you've finished to speak again. It might be an old friend with you, and that friend might be Garret, but you still had some standards of propriety. "So what's your thinking?"

"Those other creditors are banging on the door 'cause they don't know how much gold you really got, so they think if they aren't first in line they'll have to wait to get paid." Garret fiddles with the book again. "They find out, they're gonna climb over the doors, look for faster payment, and then try to get you to borrow more. Right now, they're invested in propping you up 'cause if you're gone the next person might not repay any debts at all. You pay them all off too quick, they're not invested in keeping you in place anymore. Make it clear how much is really there, they might just try and take it."

"Your advice?"

"See about renegotiating those debts the Crown has, and use a portion of what we've got here as a bartering chip. Buys us time to start getting busy elsewhere," Garret answers. "Mind if I have some wine?" At your gesture, he takes a glass, and drinks a bit. "Thank you. Of course, if you want to go public with all this, that's your choice, and I'd understand the politics of it. My instinct, though, is keep it private, and quiet, and start getting into the shadows."

"The shadows?" You arch an eyebrow over your wine. "Are you suggesting the King of Westeros start a criminal enterprise?"

"Someone who works for the King of Westeros starts a criminal enterprise," he points with the glass-holding hand. "Think about it, Your Grace; it's a lot harder for someone to smuggle people or things in or out if you're the one running the lawkeepers and the lawbreakers. If someone becomes a problem, they can start seeing consequences that don't get traced back to you, the way new taxes or other legal-type punishments will."

Hmm. "I won't say the idea lacks merit, but that isn't something one accomplishes overnight, and it could get very messy if it ever got out."

"Maybe so, Your Grace," Garret acknowledges. "But there's very few people that gold won't buy, and the few who won't, there's other metals for that." At your look, he hastily adds, "I meant an official seal of some kind saying "this is fine, stop sticking your nose where it doesn't belong", like letters of marque, not 'murder everyone who gets in the way' – I'm not like that!" After a second, he adds, "Although that kind of metal does buy silence and passage, too."

"Let's leave that aside for now," you try to steer the conversation away from murder and bribery. "What sort of thing were you thinking? Smuggling?"

"For trade, sure, but that's hardly the only crime that makes money," he finishes his glass. He doesn't go for another. "As long as there's been unmarried men there's been brothels. Long as there's been things worth having, there's been people having those things that shouldn't."

"Smuggling, thieving, whoring," you tick off with an amused smile. "I think the High Septon would have a heart attack if he overheard this conversation."

Garret shrugs. "It's an open secret that he's into at least two of the three, and more besides, so a genuine heart attack seems unlikely. Be a funny performance of a heart attack, though, he does so like his theatrics."

You take a long drink, partly to finish the glass and partly to give yourself a moment to think. Eventually, you give Garret your instructions.


What will you do with your trading company from your days as Valarr Vaeltigar?
[ ] You'll go public, make it part and parcel of the Crown and the government
[ ] You'll go into the shadows, start trying to gain control of the underside of Westeros
[ ] Write-in


He nods. "By your command." He pockets the little black book for the moment, before a final thought occurs to him. "Oh, there is the one other thing, Your Grace: d'you want to put a name or face to it?"


Who will run the business?
[ ] Garret of Saltpans. Who better than the man that helped you get started with it all?
[ ] Davos Seaworth. Who better than a man familiar with both sides of the law and both sides of trading?
[ ] You'll do it yourself. It'll be a real burden of extra workload, but you have a thing about control.
[ ] Write-in

What's it called?
[ ] Write-in


-------------


The Grand Maester is younger than you expected. He's not a young man by any means, the hints of white around his face and head belie that, but you expected another old man in the mold of Pycelle. He's a strong-jawed man, with crow's-feet wrinkles framing eyes of midnight blue, and smile lines that take some of the hard edge off of his otherwise stern-looking features. His maester's chain features silver, yellow gold, irons, copper, and one lonely-looking bronze link, but it is the Valyrian steel that catches your eye the most. His Valyrian steel links are all on a separate chain from the others, and it is not a small chain either -- you find yourself eager to get to picking his brain soon.

"It is a pleasure and a privilege to meet you, Your Grace," the Grand Maester says. It's the same kind of flowery language you remember Pycelle using, so common to men who spend too much time in the Reach, but his delivery feels far more genuine than anything Pycelle ever said.

"The privilege is mine, Grand Maester Jacaerys," you answer easily. He's much more personable than you were expecting, and it's a pleasant surprise. "I confess, the most I expected from enquiring about a master with Valyrian steel was to get someone with two or three links at most."

"It is our hope to now better serve the king and the realm than we were able before," and you don't have to be as clever as you are to catch the profound dislike in his voice as he references Pycelle. "So, when our king asks for someone versed in the higher mysteries, the archmaesters want to be obliging. And they did ask for volunteers for consideration among our number, so I took the opportunity."

"Opportunity?"

Jacaerys' face crinkles into a disarming smile, one that's surprisingly infectious. "Well, I haven't been home, so to speak, in many years. I hoped to spend any free time I might be gifted to reacquaint myself with the Crownlands, reconnect with places I've not seen since, oh," he puzzles on it for a moment, "before you were born, Your Grace."

The smile he infected you with becomes a bit less cheerful. "I'm afraid spare time may be in short supply for the next several months, Grand Maester. The Usurper," and you almost miss a tiny flash of something in his eyes as you say that name, "has left us a bit of a mess to clean up. When we can, though, we'll see about some travel for you."

"Of course, Your Grace," he gives an understanding nod. "I should be most pleased to help however you need."

You nod back. "I'd truly enjoy setting you on some task in your field of expertise," you gesture to his shining chain, "but unfortunately for the moment we need help in the Black Cells and the catacombs."

He gives you an odd look. "What might await me there?"

"Victims," you sigh. Rage has long since burned through the fields of your heart where it came to Robert, so now you are just left feeling tired, and regretful that you could not have come any sooner. "You heard stories about the Dragons' Screams?" He nods, and you notice him unconsciously fiddle with his aquamarine scarf, which seems a bit warm for summer in King's Landing, but you have bigger things to mind. "Some survivors were locked away down here. Many have clung to life, but far more met the Stranger in the dark. We've been trying to account for who's still there, who died there, who is still missing, hoping to track down as many as we can."

"Track down?"

You gesture for him to walk with you, and after an ever-so-slight hesitation, he does. "My kin deserve to know what's become of their families. Lord Protector Waters and Alyn Velaryon know what happened to Lord Monford, but imagine if they did not – how many hours would it consume them, day and night, to think that maybe he was locked in a Black Cell or hiding somewhere beyond the Crownlands? It would drive them to distraction, maybe cause them to be foolish, hiring sellswords to try and find him or burning through what gold they have left to track him down." As you pass a window, you take a moment to look out to the harbor below. "I don't know much about healing myself," you idly gesture to his silver links, "but I do know that wounds cannot heal so long as they remain open, and this wound has been open and festering for far too long."

When he speaks, there is no hesitation at all. "How can I help?"

"However you see best," you answer honestly. "Some of them we haven't dared to move for their conditions, some cannot bear any light harsher than the weakest candle, many are ill, and most of them are missed by someone. If you'd be best used helping the sick or the stricken, or tracking down family members, I trust your choices. All I ask is that you help."

He nods. "Thank you, Your Grace. I'll begin immediately," and true to his word, you watch as Jacaerys strides off in the general direction of the Black Cells.

You wonder, for a moment, at that scarf. The way it contrasts with the particular blue-ness of his eyes. His close-cropped hair. And you consider that, perhaps, the stress lines you perceived radiating from the scarf could come from him passing himself off as merely an old man instead of, say, a dragonseed … and a guilty conscience that he didn't or couldn't help others pass off as he did. Without that scarf, it might have been much easier to guess if he was one or not.

But such thoughts will have to wait for later, you decide when you look out the window again. A Dornish ship approaches the harbor.


-------------


You're able to get down to the docks fairly quick, all things considered – benefits of being the king, you suppose. You don't have everyone yet, but you have enough of a 'household' to greet the incoming ship, with your nephew having returned only three days prior, and a few others about, including Ser Warrek. He'd tried to argue that his rank didn't merit accompanying you, but you wouldn't hear of it from someone who'd been there for you and Dany almost from the beginning. He deserved to see her return as much as anyone.

It doesn't take long for the ship to be brought in, and a gangplank brought over to allow the occupants of the ship into your city. You hear an inhuman screech and odd trilling sound, and then watch as a body of green and copper lifts its head above the ship's deck to observe its new home. Apparently satisfied, you and Aegon watch the chittering dragon Ñāqes launch up from the ship and join the other two dragons in the sky as the ship is moored to the dock. Your eyes quickly return to the ship, though.

The party from Dorne is, simply put, massive. Prince Oberyn alone is surrounded by eight children and a paramour, the mother of four of them. The young princes, Quentyn and Trystane, have their own small entourage, but are quickly subsumed into the Viper's massive party. Oberyn, irreverent as ever, gives you a cheery wave and a yell as his group makes their way up the docks to you. The Sand Snakes, as you know their common name to be, have standing with them (and in similar attire) your sister Dany, looking windswept and tanned by the Dornish sun and as lively as you've ever seen her. Seven Hells, but for her hair and eyes, she could almost pass for another Sand Snake as she stands among them. She spots you and waves with a grin as wide as Oberyn's.

It should probably cause you some concern about how much time she's spent around the rogue Prince of Dorne, but you're distracted by the other companions among the Snakes. Also walking intermingled with them is Beshka, who looks ... it's odd, you'd describe the look as "happy", except you've never really seen what the emotion looks like on her. And finally, walking closely next to Beshka, is a woman about your age who looks nothing like Oberyn or the young princes (who you presume resemble their father, Doran) so there's really only one other candidate you know of -- Asha Greyjoy. She has the eyes and facial structure of the Greyjoys you've met, but her dress leans more Dornish than Ironborn, same as her weapon at her side, her skin is even more tanned than Dany and Beshka, and there is an edge to her expression that you can't quite place. You would puzzle more on that, but then you see the last of the group, helped down by a large bearded Norvosi man (with, you note, an impressive longaxe on his back). Arianne Martell, now Queen-Consort of the Seven Kingdoms, is as beautiful as you remember. You do not remember her looking like she'd swallowed the moon.

Wisely, you only voice one of those thoughts. "My Queen, you are as beautiful and refreshing as the Water Gardens themselves."

"Flatterer King," she smiles back, though it tightens a little as she gets down the plank. "I look like an unsheared sheep. But your lies are appreciated. Urgh," she grunts, "and I move like a boulder."

Luckily, you thought ahead and had a palanquin brought, so she needn't walk or be rattled about by a carriage on the city's … well, abysmal roads. You want to try and do something with that someday; considering how much better the roads were in Essos, you know it can be done. But not today.

You bring forward the traditional bread and salt, which you first offer to Asha Greyjoy. You want to be especially clear with her, given what her family's gone through these past years, and she seems to recognise that as she participates. Beshka's next, though she gives you a funny look, clearly unfamiliar with the practice. You work your way through the Sand Snakes, smiling as one of the smaller ones (Dorea, you think?) tries to get more salt and bread -- apparently a fan of the taste, a rare oddity in Westeros. As you approach the adults, though, things change. The Norvosi man, who gives his name as "Areo Hotah" takes the offering fine, but Arianne turns a bit green and looks woozy as she smells the stuff. Then she doubles over, or tries to given the size of her belly, and clutches her stomach with an alarming groan.

Immediately Oberyn is at her side, and after a quick exchange in what you vaguely recognise as Rhoynish, Oberyn announces "the baby is coming!" and begins to hurry Arianne as best he can towards the palanquin. You're struck dumb for a moment, but a short one, and you take her other side to help her forward, calling the servants to bring the litter closer.

"I'm sorry about the bread and salt," you tell her. "Are you okay?"

She grits through her teeth, "I trust you not to kill me under your roof, if that's what you're asking."

You look to Oberyn. "I thought she was safe to travel, not due for weeks yet."

"She was," he answers, though his focus is entirely on his niece. "Three weeks yet, we thought."

Arianne grabs onto your shoulder, and for a moment you think she might break it. "It's not waiting three weeks," she gasps.

"Get her up to the Red Keep, quick as you dare to move," you order the servants. "You'll stay with her?" Oberyn nods. Satisfied, you look back to your assembled groups. "Ser Warrek, Beshka, you can take care of Dany and the others." Your nephew hears, "To horse. We're clearing the way," nods, and starts ordering goldcloaks about. You note, absently, he seems to take well to the role, when he isn't given a moment to think or doubt himself.

Then you're riding ahead of your wife and her uncle, with the City Watch as calls of 'make way', 'clear out', and 'fucking move' are made ahead of you.


-------------


Your perception of the next several hours is skewed, swinging between speed and sloth, going long into the night and past the point when it theoretically crosses into morning hours. You know that the pace you set and managed was much faster than you'd ordinarily be able to make from the docks to the gates of the Red Keep, but it felt far too slow. Getting Arianne inside and to a room had been quick and comparatively easy, but it seems to take hours for the Grand Maester to be recalled from his work. But he does arrive, and after a quick apology to Arianne for how quickly familiar they're about to become, he gets to his work, Oberyn aiding him capably when he isn't worrying over Arianne.



[Arianne Pregnancy Roll: 1d1000 = 900]



It takes a long time, and there's a lot of screaming and swearing in Common and a few words of Rhoynish you don't recognize ... but the context of the Common words in their company gives you a pretty good idea. Prince Oberyn's face shifting between concentration on the task, and impressed surprise when he hears some of those words and phrases also helps. The fact that Arianne nearly breaks your hand as the Grand Maester tells her to push one final time would seem to confirm your suspicions.

But then you don't have time for those thoughts. Because Arianne is gasping for air, flailing her arm slightly as she slips her hand from yours. And because her state is mirrored by the tiny, screaming creature that Jacaerys gives to you.

It's a boy. A boy with lungs that make you suspect he inherited your shatterpoint abilities and is testing them on your skull, a boy with reddened skin and the tiniest hint of silver fuzz upon his head. A boy whose flailing arm catches your hand as you numbly take him, and whose tiny hand grips your finger like a vise. It's a boy.

It's your son.

As desperately as you might wish to keep the moment all to yourself, you just as badly want to share him with his mother. You lean down a bit as her uncle wipes some hair from her sweat-soaked face, and her exhaustion seems to melt away as you just manage to whisper, "Ari, look. It's our boy." Arianne's face lights up all over again, and she gingerly reaches up to hold his hand with you.

"He's perfect, raqiarzy," she breathes out, a warm smile on her face.

You smile back, "Seven forbid: he'll look nothing at all like me and entirely like you." She laughs slightly, releases your son's hand to pat your cheek.

Well, you think that's what she intended to do. It comes out a little more like a slap and your face being mushed. "Flattery's a good…good decision for you right now."

Then the Grand Maester speaks. "Your Graces, I'm terribly sorry to interrupt, but I'm afraid I must," and your stomach drops. You feared this, every moment you weren't thinking about the realm or the war or anything else, you feared exactly this. You'd never seen the deliveries of your unborn siblings firsthand, but you remembered your mother afterwards, how each time you were less and less sure she'd survive. And you remembered how she looked the last time, when she didn't. You feared this and feared this and prayed for her health and her life and prayed and prayed and now here you were –

"My Queen," he looks to Arianne, completely ignoring you, "I'm going to need you to push again very soon. The other child is waiting."

The what.

You're quite certain that your son has managed to shatter your skull and your brain is leaking out your ears, because you can't have heard him right, but apparently you did because Oberyn is quickly taking Arianne's hand again, and distantly you hear him tell you to do the same. Eventually, you come to, and you think that this took less time than the first did, but you can't really be sure given your mental state (your hand also hurts slightly less in Arianne's grip this time. slightly). But none of that matters, because Oberyn takes a second mewling, messy little thing from the Grand Maester and is holding it next to Arianne.

"My king, meet your daughter," Oberyn smiles broader than you've ever seen. Best you can tell with the size of her smushed little face, she looks exactly like Arianne, even the same skin and the same ebony hair. Then she opens her eyes, and they are the exact same lilac colour as yours. Your heart melts in an effort to join your brain in liquid state. Her eyes meet yours, then, and rather than scream like her brother, she coos rather like a dove. You can't find your voice, but you think she might be the perfect one of the two. Two. Twins.

Gods be good, twins.


What do you name your firstborn, your first son?
[ ] Aegon
[ ] Aemon
[ ] Daeron
[ ] Jaehaerys
[ ] Rhaegar
[ ] Viserys
[ ] Jaime
[ ] Write-in

What do you name your secondborn, your first daughter?
[ ] Adara
[ ] Calla
[ ] Daenys
[ ] Jaenara
[ ] Rhaella
[ ] Visenya
[ ] Elia
[ ] Write-in

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AN: I had originally hoped to get the Kingsguard vote into this update, but this one got a little carried away, and the babies decided they wanted to come now rather than wait another update. So, yeah: babies. If you're interested, I'll place the mechanics I used below.

Any of the provided options for names are of course available, but I'm very interested to see if anyone wants to write something in. As usual, write-ins are subject to QM approval (no, you OOC cannot and IC would not name your son Aerys. troll-worthy as it may be.)