Far Fades

'Say that black and white are opposites. A pair of light and dark. What happens when one loses the other? 

We lose that shade of gray.'

-From 'The Early Musings of Prince Rhaenar' by Brien Flowers.

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Gray.

That's how Viserys felt.

As King, he could gorge on the richest meals — lamb shepherded from the lush, grassy hills of the Reach, slaughtered only at the peak of readiness to ensure the freshest preparation.

As King, he could sip the finest wines — grapes cultivated on the Arbor, aged in barrels of applewood, their year-long voyages culminating in vintages reserved for grand occasions.

But none of that mattered now.

The finest dishes tasted of ash. The rarest vintages burned like acid bile down his throat.

The touch of silk garments no longer tantalized his skin. Even his eyesight betrayed him, rejecting the solace of heavy tomes. The histories, once a comfort, now lay untouched.

Numb. That's how Viserys felt.

There he sat, King of a continent, yet hollowed out by grief. Just days after his wife's passing, the small council demanded his presence. As if anything mattered anymore.

He barely noticed Rhaenyra, the cupbearer, pouring his wine, face a mask of concern. He couldn't hear the words spoken by those around him.

It was as though he was trapped in a bubble, isolated, much like the foam-tipped waves crashing on the black shores of Dragonstone. He recalled walking those sands on brighter days, when the burden of his crown felt lighter.

Ser Otto sat to the King's right, watching with unease. He understood the hollow agony of losing a wife.

The despair etched into Viserys's face was all too familiar. Otto could see his friend drowning — submerged in guilt, lungs filled with sorrow, trapped in a torrent of what-ifs.

Otto admired the strength it must have taken for Viserys to even rise from his bed. Here he was, presiding over the small council, though his clouded eyes betrayed a mind adrift.

The meeting drew to a close, and the lords began to rise. But just as it seemed adjourned, Grandmaester Mellos spoke unexpectedly.

"Your Grace, my Lords, an urgent matter calls me to the Citadel. I must leave at once."

Viserys blinked, his foggy gaze sharpening. "I beg your pardon?" he murmured, a hint of life returning to his voice.

He shook his head, his tone growing firmer. "Now, of all times?"

"My apologies, Your Grace. It is a sensitive matter. Perhaps we could discuss this in private—"

Lord Corlys leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table and clasping his hands. He resembled a Cyvasse player inspecting the board, his gaze sharp and probing.

"And what, pray tell, divides your attention, Grandmaester? I struggle to recall a time when a maester would leave his King's side in…"

The Seasnake caught himself before speaking too bluntly.

"… such dire circumstances," he finished.

'Gods be damned,' Otto thought bitterly.

Ser Otto had always been wary of Lord Corlys. The Seasnake was shrewd, his eyes sharp and glinting as though privy to secrets others missed. That cunning only grew sharper through his marriage to Princess Rhaenys.

Over the years, it had seemed as though Corlys had become part of the House of the Dragon itself. That meant the movements in court — the calculated, confident maneuvering— resembled the poise of a Targaryen. They who walked the earth as though they owned it.

And now, here was Corlys, sniffing out a ruse in the Grandmaester's sudden departure.

.

..

Ser Otto, of course, knew the real reason for the Grandmaester's sudden leave.

Otto, too, was a man of keen observation, particularly when it came to the workings of the Red Keep.

It hadn't escaped his notice that every maid and servant present during Queen Aemma's death had disappeared.

'You must leave at once,' Otto said the night before, stepping into Mellos' chamber. 'Your life is in great danger.'

'We are the King's advisor's,' Mellos replied calmly. 'Our lives are always in danger, are they not?'

'You don't understand,' Otto insisted, gripping the older man's shoulders. 'All the midwives who attended the Queen — they're gone. Not just them, their families too. Do you know what this means? It's only a matter of time before they come for you.'

'They?' Mellos asked.

'The Prince!'

At that, Mellos laughed. 'Rhaenar? Nonsense. I know the boy far better than you. He would never harm me. I was his tutor. We have a bond!'

Otto saw the sincerity in Mellos' words, but sincerity didn't change the facts: The midwives were gone, and Rhaenar was of fire.

Young and prone to action. Who knew what he might do in his current state? Caution was best for all of them.

'Be that as it may,' Otto said firmly, 'the Crown cannot take such a risk. The King needs you, Mellos. Retreat to Oldtown for now. Let the Prince temper his reason. Surely you understand that your presence during the Queen's death might look… suspect… if you were questioned.'

Fear flickered in Mellos' eyes. The histories were filled with stories of witch hunts and trials born of madness, not justice. He swallowed hard.

'Now that you mention it,' Mellos said slowly, 'there is a pressing matter I must attend to at the Citadel. I will leave as soon as I can.'

'Good,' Otto winced with relief. 'Leave through the Gate of the Gods and take the Gold Road.'

Mellos frowned. 'The Gold Road? That would take me north and west through Lannisport —far extending my trip.'

'Yes, but it's the safest route,' Otto explained. 'The Roseroad would take you through the King's Wood, where Rhaenar could easily set up checkpoints. By ship, you'd face inspections by his navy on the Blackwater. Evenfall Hall would be on high alert by the time you reached Shipbreaker Bay.

Mellos was startled, 'I could sail part way up the Blackwater?'

Otto shook his head, 'Same problem. There are too many Rhaenari loyalists along the way.

'The Gold Road is your best chance. The Crownlands are under Rhaenar's control, but he won't expect you to head north. Checkpoints there are just a formality — unless, of course, he's predicted this. If that's the case then I'm sorry, my friend.'

The idea that Rhaenar might suspect him left Mellos shaken. He had never imagined the boy could turn against him. What about all hours where they discussed literature? The manner of Law?

'You're right,' Mellos murmured, uncertain,

'The Gold Road it is.'

..

.

Ser Otto held his breath as silence blanketed the council chamber. 

For a moment, his heart stopped. Would the King grant leave?

Viserys rubbed his temples. Everything felt muddled lately. Why couldn't he just go to bed?

Sensing the King's weariness, Otto deftly guided the discussion with a string of affirming phrases — "an excellent idea," "wise counsel", etc, — and soon, permission was granted.

Grandmaester Mellos quickly excused himself as the meeting adjourned.

Otto sent a silent prayer to the gods, watching Mellos disappear down the hall. But there was still one pressing matter to address.

Otto hastened to the king with long strides and said, "Your Grace, just one more thing."

Viserys groaned, his steps quickening. "What is it, Otto? Can't it wait?"

Otto easily matched pace they moved through Maegor's Holdfast. 

"I'm afraid not, Your Grace. The Silent Sisters have finished their work. Preperations are complete. None of us wish to move forward so soon, but it's time to lay the Queen to rest. The ceremony awaits your command."

Viserys paused, nausea rising in his chest. Of all times to bring this up… but Otto was right.

"Very well," Viserys said. "The funeral will be held on the morrow. Now, leave me."

Otto bowed deeply to conceal his concern. As he turned to leave, he clung to the hope that this painful step might help the King—and the realm—begin to heal.

The King pushed open the doors to his chambers and stepped inside with a weary sigh.

Was the day finally over? Nay.

Near the smoldering hearth, pale moonlight cut through the windows, falling on the stone replica of Valyria. 

Beyond it, a figure stood in the shadows.

Viserys froze, his breath catching. His first instinct was to call for the Kingsguard.

An assassin? Here?

Fear gripped sharp and cold. 

Then the figure spoke, and something in the voice tugged at familiarity.

Not a stranger, but still unsettling, distant.

"Did she beg?" Rhaenar's voice said in a tone far off from love. Distant to feeling and faded from nothingness.

Viserys shivered. He could see his son clearly now.

And the words cut like a blade from Death itself.