Chapter 4- All hail Prince Viserys IV

I knelt at the altar, surrounded by the statues dedicated to the Faith of the Seven, Each effigy stood tall, fashioned from the masts of the ships that had carried the first Targaryens from Valyria. I liked that, the rich symbolism in it. They seemed to be saying, we burn this bridge and renounce all that we once were, in favor of all that we are now.

Our gods for your gods, and our ways for your ways.

"Father in Heaven," I whispered, the words barely audible in the solemn silence of the chamber, "hallowed be thy name, thy kingdom come-"

I was no worshipper of the Seven myself, my old loyalties made it hard to convert.

"Thy will be done on earth, as it is in Heaven-"

I remembered the confusion I'd felt when I'd closed my eyes, bloodied and battered on the floor, only to wake up later, bloodied yes, but not my own.

It was nearly enough to shake my faith, but I've always been too stubborn for my own good. I knew enough from the books to perhaps come to the conclusion that these Seven must be real, and yet to them my prayers were never directed at.

"Give us this day, our daily bread. And forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us."

It helped that there were great similarities between my old world's faith and this new faith of new gods. Everyday I'd pray to the Father, and the septas would think I was praying to their Father.

"And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil."

No doubt they felt it was an odd prayer. But a pious Targaryen, however strange, was better than an indifferent one, or worse yet, another Maegor come to life. So they left me to my prayers.

"For thine is the kingdom, the power and the glory, forever and ever. Am-."

"My prince." called a voice to my left.

"Amen."

It was an odd life, being the only believer of a world spanning religion. I bowed and made the sign of the cross.

"Yes? Good Ser." I rose from my kneeling position, ignoring the pain I felt, having knelt for so long.

"My prince," he repeats nervously, "The lord Bar Emmon commands your presence in the Chamber of the Painted Table."

I raise a pale brow, my pale lilac eyes bore into his common brown. "Commands?"

He swallows audibly, "I was given orders-"

I raise my hand, silencing him mid sentence. "I understand. Go report to Ser Willem."

"M-my Prince?"

"You heard me." I replied coolly, meeting his gaze with an unwavering stare.

The man bowed quickly and rushed out the sept as though he feared I would burn him with just a gaze.

So it is to be treason then? I knew this day would come. Amidst all the talk of loyalty and honor, men know that sometimes they must put aside such notions, if they wish to survive. I held no grudge, I would do the same.

The Chamber of the Painted Table. A round room on the top floor of the Stone Drum. It holds a large table, the Painted Table, carved and painted in the form of a detailed map of Westeros. Little under three-hundred years ago, Aegon Targaryen, Lord of Dragonstone, had ordered for it to be built. It was from this map, Aegon the Conqueror planned his invasion of Westeros.

I arrived to the top, to find the four men, each representing houses sworn to Dragonstone for generations. Fire crackles steadily in the hearth.

"My Prince." calls Lucerys of House Velaryon, fair haired, though green eyed, his and my family had long parted ways, for a generation or two. He stood with a face riven with the classic Valyrian beauty, though this did nothing but hide the foulness within.

He served as my father's Master of Ships and was a strong supporter of his as well, choosing on occasion to speak ill of my brother Rhaegar, to the mad king.

"Lord Velaryon," I acknowledged, offering a respectful nod.

Turning to the others, I addressed them each in turn. "Lord Celtigar, Lord Sunglass, Lord Bar Emmon." My gaze lingered on Bar Emmon, offering the briefest of nods.

"You called?" I inquired, my tone neutral.

The others exchanged uncertain glances, but it was Lord Guncer Sunglass who stepped forward to deliver the news.

"My Prince, I fear there's no easy way to say this," he pause for a moment, "Your father, King Aerys Targaryen, second of his name, has been declared dead."

I pretend to pause as though stricken by this revelation. 

He continues, "The letters aren't very clear, but it seems that he was unjustly murdered by his own kingsguard, Ser Jaime Lannister."

He sees my silence, thinking perhaps that I'm still in shock.

"What of Elia and her son Aegon, I hardly doubt they'd just let them rule in my father's place."

At that, the men looked at one another, uncomfortably. 

"I see." I simply say.

"It was the Lannister dog, Ser Gregor Clegane." I would not say I was entirely heartbroken by the news, afterall, I always knew this would happen, but still, the news left a bitter taste in my mouth.

The Lord Velaryon interjected, "The king is dead, as is the young prince Aegon, by all the laws of men, you are king." A strange look passes over his face, and then all doubts went down the drain.

Instinctively, I reached for the letter, and Lord Bar Emmon handed it over without hesitation. I skip the top part detailing the deaths of my father as well as Elia and her son, down to the bottom, where promises where made in exchange for my seizure, at least until one of the Baratheon's men come for me.

I regarded each of them in turn, my pale lilac eyes piercing into theirs. "What is your verdict?"

"My Prince," Lord Sunglass began, his voice laden with regret, but before he could finish, Lord Bar Emmon intervened.

"Enough of this, Guncer," Bar Emmon interjected, thin white hair framing thin lips as he turned to address me directly. "Viserys of House Targaryen, you will be placed under house arrest until the men of the true king come to take you away."

As I looked at each of them once more, Lord Guncer at least had the decency to avert his gaze. But that mattered little to me, a man's guilt does not erase the blood on his hands. "Are you all truly in agreement?" I demanded, though no response was necessary.

A cold rage takes over, this was not the famous wrath of my ancestors, theirs was a fire, wild and untamed, ready to burn away any and everything in its path. No, this was not it, this was chained rage, cool and ice-cold. In that moment something reptilian takes over. Whatever hesitation I had previously felt was long gone replaced by something that felt alien even to me.

I breathe in, letting the cool winds inward and letting hot breath out, "Dracarys." I shout.

The four look at me in confusion, then suddenly, the door bursts open. A dozen men in armor, stride forward, with Ser Willem leading in the helm. The men quickly form a circle around them, swords gleaming in the light of the fire.

Panic seized the four as they instinctively drew their swords, calling for their guards who remained conspicuously absent.

Lord Velaryon stared at me in disbelief, his sword still clutched awkwardly in his hand.

"I'd drop those if I were you," I advised calmly, my hands folding behind my back.

The men hesitate for a moment, but only a moment. 

Clang.

The sound of dropped swords reverberates through the room, and instantly they drop to their knees.

"Ser Willem," Bar Emmon began, his voice trembling with uncertainty, "What is the meaning of this?"

Ser Willem does not answer, so I answer for him.

"Whatever the boy has promised yo-"

"Loyalty," I interjected firmly, cutting off Bar Emmon's words. The man's attention turned to me then, and for the first time he truly sees me.

"Something you surely lack."

His breathing seemed to get louder, old as he was, this was no doubt causing him a great deal of stress. I pay no mind to him though. Turning my attention to Ser Willem, I inquired, "How are the Queen and princesses?"

Ser Willem bowed respectfully. "They are fine, my Prince. There was a bit of trouble, but otherwise, they are doing well."

"Good." I nod.

"My prince." smiles Ser Willem, "What do we do with them?" He points his steel at the kneeling four.

I considered for a moment, then spoke with a firm resolve. "Bind them and take them to the dungeons. They'll await their true king."

As Ser Willem nodded in understanding, the men wasted no time in seizing the kneeling lords. They were dragged none too gently, the four were escorted out of the chamber, leaving only Ser Willem and me in their wake.

Alone in the room, a heavy silence descended upon us, broken only by the crackling of the flames. 

I turned to the Painted Table, my small arms resting on its sturdy surface as I gazed over the intricately detailed map of Westeros. More than fifty feet long and roughly twenty-five feet wide at its widest point, the table bore the weight of over three centuries of history, its surface coated in layers of aged varnish. Briefly I wondered if it was possible to take it with us. I asked Ser Willem so.

The old knight paused, considering my suggestion before shaking his head. "It's too conspicuous, My Prince. And with the Baratheon men fast on our trail..." He trailed off, leaving the unspoken implications hanging in the air.

I understood his reasoning, though I couldn't help but feel a pang of disappointment. With a resigned sigh, I conceded, "I suppose I'll have to see it later then."

....

Ser Willem and I along with two men carrying a large chest, descended down the dark vault. Torch and key in hand. Ser Willem held the torch high above our heads while I held the key.

As I'd done, a week prior, I twisted the key until we heard a satisfying click and pushed against the heavy door.

"Seven be good." Ser Willem whispered, staring at the motionless eggs. There was a peculiar glint in his eye as he turned to me. "You're going to sell all of this?"

I shake my head, "Not all, but most. Essos still holds a reverence for Valyrian artifacts. These eggs will fetch a handsome price there."

"Too bad its come to this." I say.

"Aye. Too bad."