When Viserys, returning after pacifying the Iron Islands, arrived at Lannisport, Asha was already weak to the point of collapse.
Before the ruins of the Great Sept, a crowd packed tightly together—people whose hatred for Greyjoy blood ran deep. For three whole days, not a single local gave her food. Only filthy insults accompanied her, and hostile gazes that, at every moment, wished to flay the girl alive. On her thin, grime-smeared face, tears carved two dark tracks through the dirt. Her lips were pale and cracked. Only when thirst became unbearable would Asha inch toward the water jar, endure rough hands reaching through the iron bars to grab and harass her arm, and hastily gulp down a few mouthfuls.
She thought she would die here.
Just like the threats promised—her corpse tied behind a horse, dragged from one end of the city to the other, her blood and flesh offered as sacrifice to the souls who had died in the plundering.
Her mind grew heavy, her consciousness drifting. She stared dully at the black shadows on the ground—
Suddenly, hoofbeats. The clatter of armor. The dark mass surrounding the iron cage split apart and retreated, and a tall, slender shadow fell lightly toward her.
Asha jerked her head up like a startled little black cat, eyes wide as she stared at the newcomer.
The Targaryen demon.
Lofty. Dazzling. Untouchable—
Viserys's shining hair was tied back and slanted over his shoulder. He wore light summer riding leathers, and the silver dragon-shaped belt at his waist looked, in the frightened girl's eyes, like a venomous snake flicking its tongue as it drew closer and closer.
"That's enough." The prince gestured for the soldiers to take Asha out of the cage. He frowned at her miserable state and tossed a leather water skin to her.
Asha didn't care whether it was poisoned. She grabbed it and drank greedily—
Salty, like seawater. Sweet, like honey!
She had never known water could taste this good. She gulped it down in great swallows, drinking so eagerly that by the end she practically wanted to stick her tongue into the skin to lick out the last drop.
One of the prince's attendants handed her a fist-sized white loaf of bread. This time, the girl didn't angrily knock it away. Her eyes gleamed green as she snatched it and devoured it, nearly choking.
Viserys waited until she finished eating, then looked at her.
Asha met his gaze, fear plain on her face, yet still forcing herself to hold onto the last shred of defiance.
"From now on, you're a commoner," Viserys declared calmly. "You didn't personally loot or kill anyone, so as a family member with knowledge of the crimes, three days of confinement is about enough."He pronounced, "You're released."
Asha froze. She glanced around at the Westermen waiting eagerly to snap her neck.
"Then come with me," the man said evenly as he swung up onto his horse. "I'm the only one who can take you away from here. Of course, if you want to stay, I'll allow that too."
There was no way Asha would remain in this hellish western city, where everyone hated her.
I can look for a chance to escape, she thought, go find my brother.
"I'll take you to Summerhall," Viserys continued lightly, saying terrifying things as though they were nothing. "I'll find you a job there. You can save money, and when you're grown, go to the North to visit your brother. But if you run off on the road and fall into the hands of bandits, I won't be responsible."
He smiled faintly. "As for what they'd do to a little girl like you—probably cut off your limbs and make you beg in the streets as a cripple, or stuff you into a jar and sell you to a circus."
Asha trembled all over. Every word from this wicked Targaryen filled her with terror.
She lowered her head, wiped away the tears spilling from her eyes, and whispered weakly, "I won't run."
"If you do, I won't waste effort looking for you. The West knows your name is Greyjoy. Once you leave my convoy, it's the same as suicide. I trust these past few days have taught you that."
Viserys had no qualms about scaring her.
Asha nodded slowly, looking much more obedient now. Viserys ordered her to ride in the supply mule cart—
"Wait."
Asha flinched and obediently stopped.
The prince couldn't stand the smell on her. "Wash her first. Strip off those filthy clothes and put her in a clean robe before we depart."
Asha was taken away, looking quite docile.
Once we reach Summerhall, Viserys thought indifferently, I'll toss this little girl into the White Hart Inn chain and tell her she has to work for her food and lodging. That's how everyone lives—labor is more honorable than plunder.And to make her accept reeducation, to truly understand how much hatred robbery breeds… let her be robbed a few times herself, lose all her savings.He didn't care.
In the long summer of the Year of the Conquest 283, the wind swept through the forests and mountains of the eastern Westerlands, passed over Summerhall once again celebrating a bountiful wheat harvest, and also stirred the heavy golden waves of grain on Dragonstone.
Rhaegar stood at the pier, facing the wind. His long silver hair was blown slightly out of place, his impossibly handsome face filled with joy and aching longing.
These days had been torment for him.
He had worried constantly for his younger brother, who had personally gone to the battlefield. Sleepless and restless, he waited anxiously for news every day—
Finally, a raven arrived, bearing word of a great ambush victory by the royal army!
What a brilliant lure-the-enemy tactic! Barristan, who commanded the fleet, praised the little prince without restraint.
In the Iron Islands campaign, the enemy lost all their warships. Rhaegar judged the war nearly over—but he hadn't expected it to end so quickly.
On the seventh day, ravens announced to all Westeros: every Ironborn noble had submitted, and the Iron Islands were placed under direct crown rule!
Viserys had raised the Targaryen banner over every island stronghold.
Rhaegar felt nothing but heartfelt joy—and pride in his brother. My Viserys is truly outstanding. He deserved glory beyond measure.
Yet as Rhaegar carefully reviewed the known details of the campaign, some news weighed heavily on him. In the battle of Fair Isle alone, nearly ten thousand Ironborn had been burned to death. They died without honor—brutally, cruelly.
Rhaegar sighed. As he learned more, he came to understand Viserys's unparalleled tactical use of fire in both land and sea battles—including the wildfire taken from their father.
He demonstrated what wildfire was truly meant to be.
Rhaegar didn't like burning people. But he found justification for his brother: This is war.
His worry lay elsewhere—that their father, encouraged by this success, would rely on wildfire even more, replacing other punishments. Those who did not deserve death—perhaps even the innocent—would become screaming human torches.
Rhaegar resolved to influence and restrain his father.
As he continued studying the records on wildfire, he noticed something odd.
Wildfire was extremely dangerous, a mysterious flame touched by magic. A ship carrying it had to be buried in sand, wrapped in soaked hides, and travel slowly. Drifting with the current, it would have been impossible for such a vessel to keep pace with Viserys's rapid march south.
After calculating, Rhaegar formed a hypothesis:
The wildfire that played such a decisive role had been transported to its destination long before the campaign—perhaps even before Viserys came to King's Landing to accuse the Iron Islands.
In that light, the entire rebellion took on a new shape in the crown prince's mind.
His brother…
Truly, no one can bully him, Rhaegar thought with a wry smile—biased, yet oddly relieved.
Viserys was clever. Cunningly so.
Though his plan caused devastating Ironborn casualties and the loss of their lands, Rhaegar understood clearly that his brother was fulfilling a Targaryen prince's duty—expanding territory.
This should have been his task, as the elder brother.
Instead, Viserys had stood in front of him, brilliantly eliminating a coastal destabilizing force and consolidating royal power. A dragonless Targaryen dynasty truly needed the flames lit in the Iron Islands to deter the lords of Westeros.
Such merit deserved every praise and honor.
So when word came from King's Landing—commanding the crown prince himself to ride out and welcome the triumphant prince at the city gates—Rhaegar felt only sincere delight.
His friend Jon, however, was deeply worried.
"Your Highness! This is improper!" the red-haired lord cried as he rushed to Dragonstone, shouting at the crown prince preparing to depart. "You are the heir, your status higher than that of the second son! The king's arrangement puts you in an awkward position! Please allow me to go in your stead!"
Jon was genuinely devoted to protecting the Silver Prince.
Rhaegar only laughed, in excellent spirits."Jon, there's no need to distinguish rank between Viserys and me. I won't entrust this task to anyone else. I should welcome him personally. As for the people in King's Landing—let them say what they like."
He smiled softly."To borrow Viserys's words: true dragons don't care about the mosquitoes flapping their wings."
Jon knew how much the crown prince longed to see Viserys. His love for his brother was deep and all-encompassing.
But Viserys?!
If he truly had no ambition, shouldn't he have declined the king's order to have the crown prince greet him? Was he using his achievements to overshadow his brother?
Jon was indignant.
Viserys did have ambition.
Secret ambition.
When he learned that the welcoming party outside King's Landing would be led by the crown prince himself, he was thrilled.
He jumped down from his horse."Quick! Polish my black helm! I'm wearing it to see my brother!"
Throughout the campaign, confident in his swordsmanship and his invincible flames, Viserys hadn't bothered much with armor—it was heavy, and the remaining enemies were beneath notice.
Now, however, he hurriedly donned a full set of gleaming black plate. His thoughts were clear only to one person who understood the truth.
Tyrion.
On the lush green King's Road, Viserys couldn't wait. He spurred his horse and charged ahead—
Tyrion shrugged and led the rest at an unhurried pace.With Rhaegar present, there would be nothing else in Viserys's eyes.
The horse carried the knight, desperate to see his brother, at full speed through the dappled green light. Around a bend, over a small hill, up to the crest—
Viserys's eyes lit up.
The black banner with the red dragon was flying!
Brother! Brother!!
Rhaegar stood with the white-cloaked Kingsguard, the gold-cloaked City Watch, royal attendants, and gathered nobles. Banners rose magnificently as they waited ten miles outside King's Landing to welcome the prince's triumphant return.
Just as Viserys had expected, the crown prince wore the famous black helm set with rubies.
Since childhood, sitting in his brother's arms, Viserys had loved—and feared—that armor. Rhaegar's silver hair and heroic beauty matched the black helm perfectly. But the rubies set in the chest had once been his worst nightmare.
Now, with the Iron Islands pacified, Viserys finally believed he had changed the course of House Targaryen.
His brother would become a king unlike any before!
The three-headed dragon of rubies was no longer an omen of dread, but the most beautiful adornment of armor.
Wearing the same style of black-forged plate as his brother—anyone would think them a matched pair—Viserys rode downhill, charging forward.
He'll understand my unspoken message, won't he?He couldn't wait another second.
Rhaegar adjusted his breathing. As if sensing him, he spurred his horse out from the ceremonial escort as well. Rounding the bend, atop the shaded slope, he saw a dazzling rider far ahead—having left all attendants behind!
The crown prince immediately urged his horse forward, faster than he ever rode in a joust.
Viserys saw his brother too.
His Dothraki bay horse seemed to fly, hooves leaving the ground.
On the King's Road, a meeting of speed and passion was about to unfold.
Their hearts thundered. Neither thought to slow down. They rushed toward each other—
Viserys's silver hair broke free of its dragonbone clasp, whipping wildly like a mad silver dragon. His eyes burned with longing, violet and clear, the forbidden beloved growing larger and larger before him.
His pupils dilated.
Brother!!
The two riders were moving too fast. Viserys completely forgot why jousts required barriers between charging knights. He only knew to rush toward his goal—
Rhaegar, more experienced and calmer, finally sensed the danger when they were too close. He yanked hard on the reins.
The black horse reared, hooves striking the air. Rhaegar tightened his grip, clamped his legs, struggling not to be thrown as he desperately tried to stop.
But Viserys—
He never practiced mounted combat. The moment he saw his brother's actions, he understood—
He panicked.
Terrified of colliding with his brother!!
In his desperation, he hauled violently on the reins as well—
"Viserys!!" Rhaegar roared. "No—!"
Viserys was confused. Brother?
The next instant, his world flipped.
His riding skill was no match for the crown prince's. He fell from the saddle without suspense.
Armor-clad, he rolled across the ground. Though Rhaegar lunged toward him at once, Viserys still slammed into a roadside tree, his head spinning into darkness.
He heard his brother's anxious voice.
His consciousness blurred, but he stretched out desperately, grasping at the silver before him—the only thing he wanted.
"Brother…" he murmured softly.
Wrapped once more in the familiar scent of dragon's breath grass, dizzy, relieved, blissfully content, Viserys sank into unconsciousness.
...
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Here are a few fan-fic titles that I've recently uploaded on my Patreon:
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(End Chapter)