Chapter Text
“A portrait?” His sister was smiling. Of course she would be glad to have a portrait painted. Only she for that matter. The rest of humanity, sane folks as it were, did not relish the possibility of sitting for hours on end in the same position while a short, stout creature hummed and grunted. Needless to say, Viserys was decidedly unimpressed by the inspired gift. He levelled a hard stare at his nephew. But the King was much too busy assessing the response of the recipient to be bothered.
“Indeed and I have just the man,” Aegon nodded, moving his son from one knee to the other when little Daeron became restless. “You always did so admire the paintings in the gallery.”
The gallery. Cursed place filled with dust and best-forgotten faces. Viserys rolled his eyes at his sister’s sigh. Would that all those painting had burned into a heap of ash. Unfortunately life was about as amenable to his desires as the wild horse was to being mounted. “And now you will have the chance to admire yourself. Although I must point out, a looking glass if just as accurate and a lot less taxing on one’s purse,” he felt obligated to say. Which earned him a none to gentle glare from their esteemed leader.
“A looking glass is a sign of vanity,” the Queen answered, presumably seeking to chastise him. “A painting is an entirely different matter. Her Grace should have one as befits her station.” And that of merchant’s daughters and just about any other man or woman who had coin to pay. Viserys found himself cornered by the unrelenting urge to roll his eyes yet again. He feared they would soon be stuck somewhere out of sight and he’d go through life as a blind, bumbling fool. And bumbling fool though he may be even with sigh, the thought of navigating the Red Keep with a cane in hand merely threw him into deep depression to think about. “With the added benefit that a portrait will never betray one’s expectations.”
It took all of his years of careful mask-crafting to keep from laughing out loud. It should not amuse him. Or rather it should not amuse him in such a pleasant manner. Betray one’s expectations, indeed. “That would depend on what those expectations entail, Your Majesty.” He picked up his cup and drank of the sweet wine.
“And what exactly do you hint at?” Viserys gazed at the speaker, striving for neutrality. The Queen-mother did well by him too. She presented so very little to the outside world, it was a certain thing no one guessed her thoughts. “If Your Grace will rile our curiosity, it is only fair he soothe it as well.”
“I suppose I must.” He put his cup away and shifted in his seat. “But I fear it might come amiss and have no wish to sour our celebrations with such musings.”
“Nay; I insist,” Aegon joined in as well. A yank of the leash and not even that much. So much for proud dragons. “Come now, uncle, no one will take your words amiss. You have my word.” The world of a lapdog. Viserys wondered that he didn’t thrill at the joy of it. Still, releasing biting frustration in his mind was a lot less satisfying that flaying his kin.
“Very well. If you insist.” He felt his sister’s foot press atop his own in warning. They had asked tough. And he had agreed to enlighten them. “Constraining expectations can only breed dissatisfaction. Should one glace at the looking glass with the desire that they be presented ideally, they will be imminently disappointed. Should one exercise common sense, I am persuaded the blow is softened by the knowledge one’s looking glass can only say so much.”
“The typical thought process of a man,” the Queen dismissed his words with a light chuckle, no doubt thinking herself to be the height of adorable. “Your looking glass must miss you sorely.”
“Indeed not,” Viserys contradicted, might be harsher than he should have. “Your see, Your Majesty, I do not put stock so much in my face as I do in my deed. And I certainly have no need of a looking glass to measure my worth. Nor does my sister to the best of my knowledge.”
Silence stretched out between them. Viserys pierced the Queen with a challenging look. He would like to see her try to reduce Daenerys to a mere pretty face.
The King cleared his throat. “You must feel very strongly about this, uncle. I do believe you have left us all speechless.”
“Speak for yourself, Your Majesty,” Arianne cut in. “I am merely insulted. Are you saying a woman’s worth is as high as her face is beautiful?”
No wonder she did not wish for that to be the case. What with the slight lines he was already seeing. Viserys shrugged. “I have not made the point, Your Majesty. A woman’s worth is tied to her character as much as a man’s is. I do think, however, that too much stock is being put behind this looking glass reflection. That was my point, Your Majesty. Might be I was not clear enough. Allow me to make another attempt. A woman, any woman, would be best served to increase her inner beauty. That one at the very least will stay with her for a while longer.”
“Well spoken, Your Grace,” the Queen-mother allowed. “But I fear you are disproven by a rather alarming trend. Men prefer outwards beauty to the inner.”
“All people prefer that which is attractive. However, fewer will venture for the fool’s gold knowing fully well there is true gold to be found in this world.”
“Do not underestimate the power of the foolish.” Sound advice. Given that ne never had, nor did he plan to, Viserys merely nodded his head.
“No matter, I have made my mind up about this, uncle, and no amount of lamenting the false image of the painting, there will be a portrait.” Viserys blinked at his nephew. By the gods, he’d been so very close; lamenting. One of these days, Aegon would understand the very subtle cues encouraged in conversations which were in truth meant to be private. Until that time came though, he would be forced to endure more instance of the King falling just short of the mark.
“I would never dream of robbing my sister of the pleasure should she wish her portrait painted.” And that was that as far as he was concerned. Le the two queens and their chatter occupy the space. He had wine to drink and morons to ignore.
The remainder of the evening was filled with song and dance and a great many courses of food. They’d even had the pleasure of seeing lamprey pie in their midst, on which one of the drunker lords managed to choke. To great relief, the man did not die. To great disappointment, he did waste a good portion of the lamprey pie.
Viserys would mourn privately for the lost delicacy. In the meantime, the heat and noise was growing steadily into a wealth of annoying displays. He sat up, excusing himself with a murmur. The night’s air found without, with its rejuvenating caress, put him at ease as soon as he was free of all others.
Glancing at the moon, he noted its round shape was finally full. The sort of moon one could replace with a coin. He did not have any Dragons on him though. Just as well, it was neither the time, nor the place to be reminiscing about such things. He leaned over, glancing at the expanse of grass down below. Despite the relative darkness, he could still make out, in the very faint light of the lamps strewn about the gardens, the shapes of flowerbeds and bushes.
Something scarped against the ground behind him. Viserys straightened. He did not look over his shoulder straight away. Instead he inspected the full moon for a few moments longer. “You would not happen to have a Dragon one you, would you?”
“I beg your pardon, Your Grace?” Viserys’ eyes met the faithful Kingsguards’. Arthur Dyane remained in his spot.
“A Dragon. Coin,” he clarified.
“I do not.” Viserys motioned him over despite having been denied. The man, as cautious as he had been, took the few steps to lessen the distance between them. “Far be it from me to dictate to a prince of the realm, but your presence will be missed.”
“That you’ve no need to tell me.” He waved his hand dismissively to strengthen the previous point. “ You are not on duty this night, ser, as far as I recall. What fair winds bring you here?”
Arthur glanced at the ground. He did not answer as swiftly as Viserys would have liked him to. “They share a nameday. Though I imagine that is not news to Your Grace. Apologies, I am merely feeling restless.”
“As are the rest of us,” Viserys assured, his attention snapping back to the skies. “He taught me that I could bring the moon down from the sky if I so willed it. All I needed was a dragon. One single gold piece and the moon would be mine. It was just that having taken the moon, another would replace it on the following night. That is a lot of golden Dragons.”
“How much would the sun cost, Your Grace?” the Kingsguard ventured.
“More than you and I would have put together, I imagine.” The sun, he’d learned, was, despite all appearances to the contrary, less inclined to share its warmth and radiance. “Is this to be our fate, I wonder? Shackled with gold fetters. Mayhap it would have been better had the whole realm burned down.”
“Sometimes we cannot help the bonds which tie us. At other times we can. And gold fetters, though still fetters, are better than plain iron.” At long last, a man who spoke reason to power. “I shall leave you to your thoughts, Your Grace.”
It was his turn to hesitate. “Nay; not this time. Stay with me for a little while, ser. I wanted to ask you aught.” A lot of things, truth be told. He wanted to know all that he’d never had the courage to ask before. “Would that you grant me this request.”
“If it is within my power to answer, I shall.” Viserys believed him. It was not that he implicitly trusted Arthur Dayne. He had no reason for that. But he was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt, as those had been trying times.
“On that night, when you fought my brother, did you ask him why. Why he’d gone against father’s word?” The whole matter had been one large mess from the very beginning. “Did anyone ask him?”
“I knew why. I understood why from the very beginning. Rhaegar had no need to tell me. But I had the King’s order and he, well, he had his madness, I suppose.” Viserys started. He eyed the other man. But all the knight did was shrug lightly. “Do not misunderstand, my sympathies are second to my duty.”
“Were they second to your duty when you drew Lyanna Stark away?” The Kingsguard met his gaze. He did not flinch this time. “I suppose they must have been. It would be frightening otherwise. But then your sympathies were with my brother, not so much Lady Lyanna, though one should think such crippling suffering would engender at least a little bit of compassion.”
“She knew what she’d agreed to. I was powerless to stop it. Your brother as well. Most of us, Your Grace will learn, are pawns. What I did, I did not do with pride. He was my dear friend, and whatever you may think of me, I grieved for his loss. It was madness to challenge the King and he died for that.”
“He died for those babes and the Lady Lyanna. And she, well, the gods only know what she died form. I suspect grief and blood loss, but what do I know. Pycelle may not look like much but the man knows his poisons.”
“Those are dangerous words, as matters stand.” He sighed. Viserys mirrored the action. “I did ask him why. I wanted to hear for myself. I wanted to might be convince him to let go. He did not want to. I know not what he thought he would accomplish.”
“Mayhap it was not what he hoped to accomplish, but what he wished to regain.” Some things could not be forgotten. And some could not be forgiven. But at least he and this man were on slightly better terms. “It would be a lie to say I do not see you more in kindness. It would also be a lie to say I forgive you. What do we do?”
“What we’ve always done, one would assume,” Arthur offered. “The past is well beyond our powers to change. And if we could, the gods know what disaster we would bring about. I can only offer my word that to this day regret has not left me.”
He mulled over those words. Regret. Aye, he knew a great deal about regrets. “A good thing one’s conscience is never shy with admonishments.
***
The Myrman chuckled, his dark eyes regarding the composition critically. Viserys, who was still not quite sure why he had come after all, watched the same composition with vague interest. “This light is just what is needed,” the man said, his lilting words infused with the stark accent of his homeland. “Perfect, perfect.”
All that Viserys could make out though was the fact that his sister would be surrounded by a soft rosy light. His dubious expression must have somehow been a thing of sound as well, for before it’d had time to settle, the painter turned to him. “I am confident you shall be pleased, Your Grace.”
“It does not matter that I am pleased,” he answered, keeping his voice a bland block of ennui. “If my sister finds joy in your work, then I need nothing else.” What was it with men in trade that they though to assure all clients left and right that they services would satisfy. Should they not instead concentrate on their tasks. But them this was a Myrman. What had Viserys been thinking?
“But I insist you will be nonetheless.” Dark beady eyes narrowed. “I can prove it, Your Grace.” Viserys doubted that as well. “If you would take the time to see just one work, it would be clear. I pray you listen.” And believe. Listen and believe. He allowed a small sharp grin on his face.
At least the man knew how to spin the yarn. “Very well. I shall look at your work. But keep in mind you have said just one in enough to convince me.” The artist nodded, turning slightly to Daenerys. Before he could speak, Viserys did it for him. “You do not mind, sister, do you?”
“Not at all. As long as you may be convinced.” She winked at him daringly. “There is little else I could wish for.”
The man, sufficiently emboldened by their prattle, send forth one of his helpers, a solemn look on his face, with these words. “Bring it to me. Hurry now.” The boy, a pale ghost half the size of his already small master, set off to do just that. “You will understand, Your Grace, once you have seen it, that art lives and breathes; like you and I.”
How very odd. He seemed to recall like words having been spoken to him; a lifetime ago, or might be longer back still. “It is good to be confident in one’s skills.” It was better when that confidence was back up by substantial proof. Viserys eased himself back in his chair, the one provided for him as soon as he;d entered. And he waited.
Patience was superfluous where such matters were concerned. Thus, as he retained his seat, one of his feet began to beat a steady rhythm against the floorboards. “I think that is hardly an appropriate song for broad daylight,” Daenerys said.
He stopped and checked himself. Viserys allowed the melody he’d been tapping to take form in his mind all the clearer. Laughter cut through his concentration. It was his own. “My gods, it truly is inappropriate.”
The moment of levity was cut short by the door opening and a heavy object preceding the painter’s helper. Master and apprentice worked to settle the frame against the wall. The canvas had been covered with a thick gauze, mayhap to protect the paints from the sun’s caress or the dust. Or whatever else stood to ruin such important works. Viserys stood once more and walked to the broad object. Without waiting for a by your leave, he tugged on the cloth, releasing a myriad of colours flying out at him.
Drawing back until he was a safe distance away, he perused the painting.
The first thing which struck him was the eyes. He’d seen his fair share of moving gazed, usually wide and wet, calf-like almost. He’d seen inspiring shades as well, ranging from the deepest pitch black to the lightest of blues. With the painting, it was neither the shape, nor the colour. Rather it was the way that gaze seemed to sear into one’s very soul.
It belonged to a young girl, somewhere around his sister’s years at a guess, or might be a little younger. She was unremarkable in the whole. There was nothing particularly pretty about her face; her eyes were a washed-out blue, her hair a dull brown, her lower lip a bit too plump, and her chin ordinary. In fact, taken altogether, he did not believe he would have ever noticed her in a crowd.
The artist had captured her with a small lyre in one arm, set upon her knees. As unremarkable as her face had been, her clothes had been carefully chosen. He could tell at a glance that she wore costly silks. The reds and golds rippling about her. In contrast to the meek little lamb at her feet. Her unoccupied hand was upon it, threading fingers through its fleece. The creature slept. Had it been soothed by her songs?
Viserys caught himself. He focused upon the girl once more and found that, somehow, her gaze was even more potent. “She looks as though she wills to leave her place upon the canvas at any moment.” And she looked beautiful. Alive. Real.
“I must say even the most stone-hearted man would find this attack difficult to defend against.” That had been Daenerys. Art did have a life of its own. “And this girl, was she not saddened to have her portrait taken away?”
“To tell you the truth, Your Grace,” the Myrman spoke, “it is on loan to me. The girl, you see, shall have her portrait back soon.”
“Does she have a name?” Viserys could have sworn he’d not opened his mouth. Only that the words rang in his ears and he could do nothing to take them back. What a foolish thing to do.
“One that I am not at liberty to give,” the creator answered shortly.
“You know her then.” Interesting. What did it matter whether he knew her name of not. “Very well, keep your secrets. And do your very best with my sister’s portrait.” Daenerys had more than enough beauty to carry through even the most mediocre of skills. With this man, he suspected she could well carry out a war.
“I intend to do so.” And that was all assurance he needed by that point.
Murmuring his assent, Viserys brought his hands up, interlacing his fingers in a thoughtful motion. “Is that a boy behind her?”
Further up the hill, with a cluster of sheep flocked around him, a young man poured water out of his skin. Gracious, and he’d not even noticed him for all that mop of bright blue hair was a lighthouse in the proverbial storm.
