Chapter 13: The Beggar King's Judgment

Chapter 13: The Beggar King's Judgment

The royal galley carrying Viserys Targaryen cut through the waters of Blackwater Bay like a hearse. For the eight-year-old boy, the journey from Dragonstone had been a torment of fear and confusion. He had been treated with a detached, impersonal courtesy by the black-clad soldiers of the Unseen, a courtesy that was somehow more terrifying than open hostility. They did not acknowledge his kingship, but they did not mock it either. They simply ignored it, handling him like a fragile, volatile piece of cargo.

Now, handed over to the gruff, loud soldiers of the Usurper, the world had changed again. The Baratheon men stared at him with open hatred, their jokes loud and cruel. They called him "dragonspawn" and "Viserys the Vain." He tried to command them, to puff out his chest and remind them that he was the blood of Aegon the Conqueror, but his high-pitched declarations were met only with derisive laughter. The authority he thought was his birthright was a currency no one in this new world accepted.

As the ship docked at the King's Landing waterfront, the stench hit him first. It was the smell of a great city, but soured with the lingering miasma of smoke, rot, and stale blood. He was marched onto the docks, and for the first time, he saw the capital of the kingdom he still believed was his. It was a wounded, sullen beast of a city. He saw buildings with their roofs caved in, Lannister soldiers with their crimson cloaks swaggering through the streets, and common folk who looked at him with a mixture of pity and fear, hurrying away as if his mere presence was a curse.

He was led by a column of knights under the command of Ser Barristan Selmy. The old knight of the Kingsguard was the only one who did not mock him. He was grimly silent, his face a mask of profound sorrow and shame. He looked at Viserys not as a king or a traitor, but as the last, sad remnant of an oath he had failed to uphold. This quiet pity was, in its own way, the cruelest cut of all. It told Viserys more than any insult that his cause was truly and utterly lost.

The procession snaked its way up Aegon's High Hill towards the Red Keep, the fortress looming over them like a blood-red predator. As they passed through the gates, Viserys saw the banners of the wolf, the stag, and the falcon, and a fresh wave of impotent rage washed over him. Traitors. Usurpers. Dogs feasting in my halls.

The Great Hall was packed. Lords from a dozen houses, their faces flushed with victory and wine, had assembled to witness the final act of Robert's Rebellion. They were a sea of unfamiliar faces, a gallery of his enemies. And there, at the far end of the hall, perched atop the twisted, monstrous Iron Throne, was the Usurper himself.

Robert Baratheon was larger than life, a giant of a man clad in black steel, a heavy crown of gold and iron resting on his brow. He was drinking, and even from this distance, Viserys could see the manic, triumphant glare in his eyes. This was the man who had murdered his brother Rhaegar, who had stolen his kingdom. This was the demon.

Viserys was marched down the long aisle, the whispers of the assembled lords following him like scavenging gulls. He felt a thousand eyes on him, and his terror warred with his pride. He would not show fear. He was a dragon. He was the King.

He was halted before the dais. Ser Barristan bowed his head. "Your Grace," the old knight said, his voice thick with emotion. "I bring you Viserys of House Targaryen."

Robert leaned forward, his massive frame looming over the hall. He stared down at the small, silver-haired boy, a predator savoring his captured prey. "So," his voice boomed, a clap of thunder that made Viserys flinch. "The last little dragon. I had expected… more."

The hall erupted in sycophantic laughter. Viserys's face flushed with humiliation, and his fear gave way to the Targaryen fire. "I am King Viserys the Third!" he shrieked, his voice cracking. "And you are the Usurper! A drunken dog sitting on my father's throne!"

The laughter died instantly. Robert's face, which had been alight with triumphant mockery, contorted into a mask of pure, black fury. He slammed his fist on the arm of the throne, the sound of metal on metal ringing through the hall like a hammer on an anvil.

"SILENCE!" he roared. The force of his voice alone was a physical blow. "You will address me as 'Your Grace,' or I will rip your insolent tongue from your head!"

Standing beside the throne, Jon Arryn put a calming hand on Robert's arm. "Robert, he is a frightened boy."

"He is the seed of Aerys!" Robert bellowed back, shaking off the Hand's touch. "The brother of Rhaegar! There is no innocence in him. Only poison."

From the crowd of assembled lords, a new voice, smooth as silk and sharp as a razor, spoke up. "Indeed, Your Grace. So much passion for such a small thing." Prince Oberyn Martell, the Red Viper of Dorne, stepped forward. He had arrived only a day before, ostensibly to swear fealty, but everyone knew he was there for answers about his sister Elia's murder. He was dressed in flowing silks of orange and red, and he moved with a snake's fluid grace. His dark eyes glittered with unconcealed contempt as he looked not at Viserys, but at Robert.

"It seems a great waste of a King's breath," Oberyn continued, a dangerous smile playing on his lips. "To scream at a child. I had thought the dragons were all dead. But your fury suggests you fear this little newt might still have fire."

Robert's rage shifted its focus. "Have a care, Martell," he growled.

"Oh, I have nothing but cares, Your Grace," Oberyn replied, his smile widening. "I care that my sister and her children were butchered in this very castle by dogs wearing the colors of your new ally, House Lannister. And I find it curious that their murderer, the Mountain Gregor Clegane, still breathes, while all the Usurper's fury is reserved for this… terrified boy."

A tense silence fell. Oberyn had laid the unspoken hypocrisy of the new regime bare for all to see. Jon Arryn shot him a look of pure fury, while Ned Stark's face grew even stonier.

"Justice will be done, in its own time," Jon Arryn said, his voice cold. "We are here today to deal with the matter of the Targaryen succession."

"Succession?" Viserys screamed, finding his courage again. "There is no question of succession! I am the King by right of blood!"

"Your blood is forfeit, boy!" Robert roared, finally pushing himself off the throne. He descended the steps, each footfall a heavy, deliberate threat. He was a mountain of muscle and rage, and he stalked towards the small boy. Ser Barristan instinctively moved to place himself between them.

"Stand aside, Selmy," Robert commanded.

"Your Grace," the old knight pleaded, "He is only a boy. Let him be sent to the Wall. Let him serve the Night's Watch."

"The Wall is too good for him!" Robert spat. "The Wall is for honorable men, not dragonspawn. I will send his head to Dorne as a wedding gift for the next Martell who thinks to defy me!"

He shoved Ser Barristan aside and loomed over Viserys. The boy, finally faced with the full, unrestrained fury of the man who had destroyed his entire world, broke. His defiance shattered, and he began to sob, shrinking back, his hands held up as if to ward off a physical blow.

Ned Stark took a half-step forward, his hand resting on the pommel of Ice. "Robert," he said, his voice a low rumble of warning. "Enough. Do not do this. Not like this."

The friendship between the two men, the bond that had started a war, was a palpable thing in the hall. Robert paused, his heavy breathing ragged. He looked from the crying boy to the cold, disapproving face of his oldest friend. He wanted the blood. He craved the vengeance. But he also did not want to lose the respect of the one man whose opinion he truly valued.

Jon Arryn seized the moment of hesitation. "Your Grace," he said, his voice calm and authoritative. "Lord Stark is right. Your reign must begin with justice, not with a butcher's work in the throne room. The boy is a traitor by his own admission. He claims a throne that is yours. But a public, bloody execution will make him a martyr in the eyes of some. It will be a stain on the dawn of our new age."

"Then what do you suggest, Jon?" Robert growled, still glaring at the sobbing Viserys. "We let him live? To plot and scheme?"

"No," Jon Arryn said. "We will not kill him. We will erase him. He will be stripped of all titles and claims. He will live out his days as a ward of the crown, confined to a comfortable suite of rooms within this very Keep. He will have books, fine food, soft clothes. But he will never leave these walls. He will never marry, never have children, never speak to a foreign envoy. He will be a ghost in a gilded cage. The world will forget him. The Targaryen line will die out, not with a bang, but with a whimper. That is a fate far crueler, and far more politically astute, than a swift death."

Robert listened, the logic of Jon's argument slowly penetrating his rage. The idea of the proud Targaryen line fading into pathetic obscurity, of Viserys living out his life as a well-fed prisoner just down the hall, appealed to his cruel sense of irony. It was a more satisfying vengeance than a simple beheading.

"Fine," he grunted, turning his back on the boy in disgust. "Do as you will. Lock him up and throw away the key. I never want to see his sniveling face again." He stomped back to the throne and bellowed for more wine. The judgment was over.

Meanwhile, on Dragonstone, an entirely different kind of kingdom was being built. While the lords of Westeros were focused on the fate of the last public dragon, Valerius was nurturing the secret one.

His days were filled with the ceaseless work of nation-building. He met with Corvin daily, reviewing the meticulous ledgers that detailed the flow of trade and tolls through the Stepstones.

"The Tyroshi have paid handsomely for our naval escort service," Corvin reported, his face alight with a numbers-man's glee. "And with the sea lanes secure, merchants are now willing to ship more valuable cargo. Our revenues have doubled in the last month alone."

"Excellent," Valerius said, scanning the reports. "Begin phase two. Use that revenue to buy grain, iron, and timber in bulk from Pentos and Myr. I want our storehouses on Aegis Point and here on Dragonstone filled to bursting. A kingdom that cannot feed itself in a long winter is no kingdom at all."

He spent his afternoons with Jax and Master Valerius in the newly constructed forges and workshops he had commissioned in the caverns beneath the Dragonmont, the island's volcano. The heat from the mountain itself was harnessed to power the forges.

"The prototype arbalest was a success, my lord," Master Valerius chirped, holding up a new, more refined model. "But with the new steel alloys we are developing, I believe we can do more. I have designs for articulated plate armor, lighter and stronger than anything forged in Westeros. And I believe… I believe I have solved the problem of the steam-piston."

He unveiled a small, chugging, hissing device of bronze and iron that was turning a small millstone. It was crude, loud, and inefficient, but it was a working steam engine.

Jax looked at the device with suspicion. "What is that infernal thing?"

"That, Jax," Valerius said, a rare, genuine smile on his face, "is the future. That is how we build ships that can sail against the wind. That is how we drain mines and power forges. That is a power greater than any army." He knew the Industrial Revolution had taken centuries in his old world. Here, with his knowledge and the inventor's genius, he planned to accomplish it in a decade.

But every evening, as the sun set, he would dismiss his advisors and commanders and walk to the hidden wing of the castle. Lyra would meet him at the door, her presence a silent, loyal bulwark.

Inside, the nursery was a small haven of peace. He would stand over the cradle where Daenerys slept. She was growing, her features losing their newborn softness, her silver hair already thick and shimmering. He would watch her for long moments, his face unreadable.

Nino Volpe, the master manipulator, saw a living key, the ultimate tool for his long-term ambitions. He saw the blood of Valyria, the dormant magic, the future mother of dragons. He mentally charted her growth, her education, her indoctrination. She would be taught history, but it would be his version of history. She would be taught politics, but it would be his philosophy of power. She would be raised to be intelligent, strong, and utterly devoted to the man who had saved her from the storm, the man she would know as her lord, her protector, and her god.

But as he stood there one evening, watching her tiny hand grasp his offered finger, another thought, unbidden and unwelcome, surfaced. It was not the thought of Nino the Fox, or Valerius the Storm Lord. It was a faint, alien echo of a man who had once enjoyed reading books about honor and heroism. He was building his empire on a foundation of lies, grooming a child for a purpose she would never choose. The thought was a flicker of static, quickly suppressed. Sentiment was a weakness. The world was a brutal, unforgiving place, and he would use every tool at his disposal to conquer it. This child was simply the sharpest tool he possessed.

He gently retracted his finger from her grasp. He turned to Lyra.

"The reports from King's Landing have arrived," he said, his voice once again the cool, detached instrument of command. "Viserys is caged. The Usurper has recognized our claim. Phase one is complete."

He looked back at the sleeping infant.

"Now," he whispered, more to himself than to anyone else, "the real work begins. Now, we raise a queen."