❝ There was a feeling of inevitability when I met you. And our lives were fated to converge like some cosmic dance. And I think I had to break your heart and you had to break mine. ❞
As Cressida Black's lungs ceased to draw breath, Aurelia Martell's...
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The scent of Viserra's favorite dishes fills Viserys' solar as he paces around the room, waiting for his lady aunt. He tries to distract himself with his model of the Valyrian Freehold but to no avail. The anxiety makes him restless, and Viserys has no doubts that he won't be able to relax until their meeting is over — hopefully with a positive outcome.
Finally, Ser Harrold Westerling announces Viserra's arrival.
Viserys smiles as she enters the solar. Tonight, she's wearing the black and red of House Targaryen, and he takes it as a good sign.
"Nephew," she greets as she squeezes his hand gently. As she glances around the room, her eyes find the model of Old Valyria and her smile widens. "Gods, a few more years, and you'll need another room for it."
She takes a few steps and leans to get a closer look at various elements, admiring the work. "Fine craftsmanship," she compliments. "But I'm surprised a King has the time for it."
"I find that sometimes it's good to have something to distract us from the stress of governing," Viserys replies, choosing his words carefully. "Other times, sitting here helps me to think, find a solution to whatever problem I am facing," he says, shrugging. "But let us sit. I had the cooks prepare all your favorites."
As always, Viserra is a paragon of good manners and everything expected of a Princess. She sits with her back straight as a board – a perfect posture befitting a Princess of House Targaryen, and says all the right words. She praises the cooks and thanks Viserys for his thoughtfulness with a well-practiced smile on her lips.
Not for the first time, Viserys wonders what kind of Queen Viserra would be if she had been given the chance. He knows the stories of how she'd attempted to seduce his father before being sent North. Even with his father's early death, she would have been Princess of Dragonstone, had more children — had a better, stronger position at court.
They start their supper with the mushroom soup, conversing about matters of little importance. It is only when the servants bring strawberry tarts and pour them the Pentosi pear brandy his aunt favors that Viserys feels it's time for more honest conversation.
He grasps Viserra's hand in his gently. "I wish to thank you for returning to court after our summons."
"Most think it is a great honor to be summoned directly by the Princess of Dragonstone."
Most, but not all. Viserys knows his aunt doesn't see it as some great honor. She was born a Princess, cosseted beyond belief as the youngest Targaryen child for the first three years of her life. Then, after her failed attempt at becoming his stepmother, she was the Lady of White Harbor, not something anyone can sniff at. His aunt is beyond what most nobles would consider an honor. She is too proud for that.
He purses his lips, searching his head for the right words. "Yes, but you are not most. You are a Princess in your own right, Viserra. You could have ignored the summons but you chose to come back," he pauses for a second to take a sip of wine. "Rhaenyra has been closed off since Aemma passed. Danae is the only one who can bring out a true smile from her. Yet, it's only been one sennight since your arrival and I can see the difference. She's better off with you here."
