My city.
The air from below tasted of copper and burning silk, Viserys breathing it in deep as the sweet smoke coated the back of his throat. A heady flavor on his tongue, it was one thick with the grease of burning rebels.
The alabaster railing of the Magisterial palace balcony was cool beneath his palms — or it would have been, had his blood not boiled constantly. The fire was his own, an everpresent thing beneath his flesh, a permanent simmering fever that kept the chill of the world at bay.
His burning gaze turned down again, eyes sweeping past the tiered gardens to the glowing orange of the harbor. The resistance had no more strength to it after this day; a simple two moons of magisters attempting to maintain their hold over this city.
Two moons of battle, of siege, of watching the fat perfumed lords of Myr struggle to understand what it meant to know power and truly stand above the lessers.
Some had raised their heads, hiring sellswords as they barred their iron gates.
All those who remained to this day had learned to bow.“May I ask your thoughts, my king?” His Priestess stood to his right, the follower of the Red God perfectly still in the choking wind.
Nineteen namedays and beautiful in the warm-skinned way of the Free Cities, she commanded Viserys’s attention far more than the painted whores of Pentos ever could. Deep crimson wrapped her body, silk fitted tight against her warm skin embroidered with a thread of thick gold that caught the ambient firelight of the harbor.“Two moons.”The words were a decree, sharp and heated; each one flush with power as he stared out at the city that knew him as king. First Magister they may have called him, but their titles meant little when he knew the meaning regardless. King Viserys.
“Two moons, Serala. They had me wait two moons for what is mine by right.” As he turned his head to cast a flame-eyed stare her way, the molten gold fused to his brow shifted with him. A drop trailed over his ear and fell, solidifying to a small tear of riches at his feet. “Convince me why I should not feed them all to the flame for testing my patience.”
“They were blind, my king.” Her voice was soft as ever, a balming murmur of High Volantene that smoothed out the harshness of the Common Tongue. “Blinded by greed and age and human weakness against the light of your glory. To fools like these, witnessing your presence was no different than offering scrolls of Old Valyria to the smallfolk that roam your streets even tonight. They had no understanding until you enlightened them.” Fire burst to life atop some magister’s ship attempting to flee his harbor. Yet, it did naught to pull her attention from his eyes as she spoke on. “To punish the blind for being blind would be a waste of your precious time, no doubt.”
“Yet, it was that same time they chose to waste.” A thumb dragged itself across the heavy gold of the clawed ring on his index. “Those fat little men who call me the greatest among them.” The same ones with their ledgers and their painted guards. “They locked their gates when I was so kind enough to simply request they bend the knee.” He had been almost gentle, seeking not to startle the rest after he had blackened the neck of that first one — the jowly one — beneath his grasp.
After leaving that one’s lungs naught but cinders and claiming all that was his — after doing the same to his family, of course — he chose the path of the gentle king and sought allies and proper servants.
Yet, they chose to ask for time.
Those that didn’t stand against him outright, at least.
Time to plot, no doubt.
Time to flee.
Time that could have been spent at his feet with their heads bowed, as was his right.
A bark of laughter left him, lips curling with smoke. “You do these men little credit, Serala. They see far too much.”
“Do the eyes of mortals truly compare to those of yours, my king?” A whisper left his Priestess as she stepped nearer to him. “Simple men are ruled by emotion and greed and worry over death, yet your heart knows only the flame, your own brow drips wealth these lessers fought their entire lives for, and your rule will last until the very sun is no longer.” Her hand raised, thin crimson veils at her wrist falling back as her fingertips caressed the inner of his thigh. “Drink in their fear, my king. Witness them cower. The enemies burn and the servants of the true god remain to learn your will.”
“I taught them.” Viserys nodded, the gold settling with the wane of his temper. “I put the flame to them. Kneel, I said. Bring me your ships. Swear your oaths to the dragon.”“Or burn.” She nodded as well, hand moving back and forth still.
“Yet, they chose to burn rather than know mercy.”
“To be foolish is the nature of man, my king.”Viserys nodded again as a shadow detached itself from the heavy marble behind them.
Furniture approached them both, mouth quiet as their feet as they stepped forward. Eyes placed firmly on the floor, the slave’s hands were as calm as his heart was not as he tipped a crystal flagon forward. Golden liquid splashed into the jeweled goblet of gold resting near Viserys atop the balustrade.
As the liquid slowed, a hand rose. “Go.”The command was simple.
Serala blinked, dark eyes rising toward him as she stopped her ministrations; a purely human disappointment in her voice. “My king?”"You are exhausted. You have carried my words and led my servants in worship." Viserys turned his head toward her, eyes unblinking. "Leave me. Go to your chambers, Serala, and know a gentle rest. The priestess of the dragon must not look like a street urchin when I accept her tribute come morn."
A blush passed her face for all of a heartbeat as the word ‘tribute’ left his lips, the Priestess still a maiden despite her maidenhead being her second gift after his rebirth. Her head bowed, gold at her throat clinking softly as she did so. “As the living flame commands.”
She backed away, fingers lingering before crimson silks whispered against alabaster and her steps retreated into the darkness of the Magisterial suite. Soon, heavy cedar doors closed behind her and Viserys found himself alone again.
Long pale fingers reched out, wrapping around the stem of the goblet. The sleeves of his own robe, every strand Pentoshi velvet dyed the color of blood and the black of night, rustled as he brought the cup of sweet Arbor gold to his lips.
The fruity vintage was thick on his tongue, cutting through the grease in the air and washing the ash from his throat. A swallow had him close his eyes to savor the taste, not the warmth.
Nothing else warmed him anymore.
Not as it once did.
Nothing could compare to the warmth of his own blood.
First Magister.
It was a lesser title, nothing compared to his birthright. King of the Andals. The Rhoynar. The First Men.
He had a city and, with it, a fleet.
First Myr, then Tyrosh, then the Stepstones and lastly, before his final prize, he would have Lys.
Once his court was flush with fair hair and bright eyes, he would sail straight to the red doors of the Red Keep and make the entire bloodline of the Usurper scream his name before they finally succumbed to the flame.
And, of course, his sister would be there to witness it all.
The air behind him stilled, the warmth of another heart beating in the night.
Viserys didn’t turn.
Not even as the assassin struck with a silent knife.
It plunged deep into Viserys neck, dark steel shearing past veins and grating hard against open collarbone. The king stumbled back, hands clutching at the railing as the man wrenched the hilt of his blade to the right before immediately stepping back, out of range with his task done.
The flawless work of a Faceless Man, or a Sorrowful Man, or whatever expensive ghost the surviving Magisters had scraped their vaults to afford.
Viserys didn't drop his goblet, not even as a few drops of Arbor gold sloshed over the jeweled rim, staining his knuckles. The steel lodged deep in the meat of his neck…Cold.
It was cold.That was always the most offensive thing about these assassins. Their cold metal, freezing and dirty, dared to touch the furnace he knew as his body. It was an insult staggering enough to muffle even the pain.
Viserys let out a slow hiss of breath through his teeth, crown on his brow weeping gold with renewed strength as his temper threatened the chill of the night. A hand rose; his left the only one unencumbered as he held the goblet still.Fingers wrapped around blood-slick leather and, without a gasp or a grunt, King Viserys pulled the dagger free.
It slid out of his collarbone with a sucking sound as Viserys held it up, blood smeared across steel. The weapon was already suffering, the surface of the metal bubbling and spitting as his blood and grip both disagreed with it.
He tossed the dagger over his shoulder, the thing vanishing into the lower city, and raised his gaze to meet the shocked eyes of his assassin.
Another in a long line of them.
In place of a geyser of dying blood, fire erupted from his open wound; skin hissing violently as the stench of sulfur and boiling copper flooded the balcony. His would-be killer watched, frozen as a dead man, as torn meat fused together as if metal under a skilled forgehand; pale skin returning to simple perfection in as much time as it took him to draw a panicked breath.
By the time it was done, the assassin was pinned against the archway by nothing but fear, back pressed into hard stone as his heart hammered a pathetic rhythm beneath soot-grey leathers.
The king smiled.
“You dare.”
The words were a whisper but they were almost a command as the man finally moved once more, fear breaking under training as his hand dropped toward a second blade at his belt."My father may have been a dragon but I am the fire." Viserys didn't raise his voice as the decree hung in the air. "You cannot kill fire."
Two pale fingers rose as the assassin managed to draw the second knife.
Golden-red fire erupted from Viserys's fingertips.