fire & blood

She looks at him, catching the glisten of that ring sitting between his fingers. Her hands tremble and she’s quick to hide her hands by her side, straightening the skirt of her dress for the sake of easing her restlessness when she starts walking closer towards him. 

"Viserys," she sighs, tired; exhausted as if she’s ready to give up on this futile argument. She takes a seat beside him by the foot of the bed, mindful of the distance between them. Too close and any sign of over sentimentality could be taken for less genuine sentiments. If she draws her hand forward, he could jerk it back. 

"I’m not like Melisandre or Ros —" She starts. “I don’t think you’re a fool. You’re a Targaryen." She pauses, nibbling at her bottom lip. Her eyes meet his. She hates this — yielding to the sharpness in his voice, the impatience dangling by I’m waiting.

"I'm not a fool," he says slowly, "because I'm a Targaryen?"  His smile lasts only a second.  "My brother is a fool, and a Targaryen too.  I'm not a fool, Myrcella, because I'm not a fool!"

And it seemed that Viserys agreed with that, as the slightly older man already seemed bothered by the fact that Quentyn was late. He hadn’t checked the time himself, but it didn’t really matter, did it? He had no way of excusing himself, as it was his very own fault. As he made his way towards the other man, Quentyn raised his left hand, gesturing a quick wave.

“I apologize for that.” He wanted to specify the difficulties he’s had with finding a proper parking spot, but decided against it. In the end, Viserys was probably uninterested of such things, would would be definitely considered as silly excuses. “Shall we go in then - ” Quentyn asked, the tone of his voice fading away as he took a better look at his friend.

What were those glasses? Yes, London was known for its extravagant fashion, nonetheless, sunglasses, when it looked as if it would rain any time now? He blinked twice, not really understanding the purpose of those sunglasses; surely Viserys didn’t care that much for fashion that he’d be willing to stand out in such an odd manner. Maybe he was hungover? People used to wear sunglasses for that reason too, at times. Quentyn himself had that habit sometimes; however, he’s always been lucky enough for the weather to be clear during such days.

Not wanting to sound judging if Viserys was truly hungover, Quentyn decided solely to mention the glasses casually. “Nice shades.” He mentioned, catching the odd gaze a staff member offered him. Those people, really; it wasn’t good to mess with or annoy people who were hungover. That’d always end bad.

Once inside the doors it's noticeably cooler.  Shoes click across the tile floor and voices echo, sounding to him like a radio set at low volume.  He looks over his shoulder, one eyebrow arched in impatience until Quentyn rejoins him, and then looks back out at the gallery.  He doesn't know where to start.  He'd just wanted to get out, to be within something that wasn't a stifling family home.  Whether it's the grand scale of the museum or the cool clarity of its air, he already feels better.

"So," he mutters, squinting at the signs through his sunglasses, "how have-- how have you been?"  It's a flat question, clearly courtesy rather than interest, but he supposes Quentyn might still have something he wouldn't mind hearing.  Family stories, maybe a hint of politics.  Beyond Daenerys, Quentyn is the only member of family he feels any sort of affection for, even if it's distant, guarded.  Quentyn is native, after all.  Viserys had been, but now it feels he's been transplanted rather than returned.  He worries his friend will think of him as an intruder, or a pretender, and so he keeps him at a cold distance.

“And you — ” he turns to look at Daenerys. It takes him by surprise, but he smiles at the mention of the three headed dragon. It’s the first the whole night that he didn’t have to force himself to smile kindly, as though he was spending dinner with acquaintances and not family. The suggestion is ideal with the three of them working together; but reality hits harder, especially when they’re barely surviving a meal together.

(Besides, it’s not what Aerys wants. Daenerys says she’ll help out wherever and however she can and Rhaegar’s grateful for that. But he hardly trusts Viserys. The three of them working together is too risky. And if they fail, Aerys would put the blame on him. Because, at the end of the day, he should know better.)

“You,” He clears his throat before drinking some wine. Not a secretary, he thinks. You’re a Targaryen. You deserve better. “Of course you’ll join us tomorrow, Daenerys. I’d love to um,” he looks down, cutting the meat into smaller pieces. “I’d love to know what you know about myths. I’m quite fond of Welsh mythology myself.”

Viserys always had a habit of scrutinizing her for her appearance. She knows what to do, and what not to do, so she happily nods, “Of course, Viserys.” Though she brings out a smile, merely because her elder brother agrees that she go along. Either because he wants to make a good impression, or simply so Daenerys thinks she’s being useful, she doesn’t care. 

"Mm," he hums once he's swallowed, forehead rumpling.  "Well, you needed something to feel connected, didn't you?  If I hadn't been there... you might never have known Rhaegar and our father existed."  He smiles thinly at his brother, hoping he feels the wound.  Viserys dislikes speaking badly of their father, but the evening is looking better than it had before, and his courage is bolstered by it.  Of course Rhaegar will introduce him - of course he will include him.  His brother's earlier missteps and his father's absence are minor hitches in an otherwise smooth transition.  He'll be back in the heart of London's politics in no time.

 “How dare you —” she hisses, eyes shooting up to look at him. Viserys is back on the bed fidgeting with a diamond ring. “How dare you accuse me of being a liar?! Of not caring?! I have been nothing but nice to you — but sometimes it’s hard when everyone tells you exactly the same things over and over again. And you start to wonder if there’s any truth to it.” She stops to her catch her breath, as though words were only spilling out of her mouth and she can’t seem to catch up. Myrcella looks away from him, and laughs bitterly. 

“I can’t believe you would say something like that to me,” she mutters. “If I didn’t care I wouldn’t be here. I would have — I would have left you a very long time ago and listened to Rhaenys and Ros. I wouldn’t have bothered at all. All this,” Myrcella gestures around them. “I invited you tonight because I wanted to prove to everyone that you’re not as they think you are. That they’re wrong because I don’t see the worst in you. Not like them. So, yes, I care and you don’t get to fucking tell me otherwise.

Unsure and still too angry to concede to what she's said, Viserys glares down at the ring in his hands.  "How do I know that's all true?  They said the same things, you know.  Melisandre, then Ros...  They thought I was easy to fool.  I'm not."  Not anymore.  He remembers the fury on his father's face, his shouting about the Lannisters taking him for a fool.  He hasn't obtained any more secrets yet for Aerys, and that frightens him.  He doesn't know what his father will do if he keeps returning empty-handed.

"Come here," he says finally, voice sharp.  "Come here and look me in the eye and tell me you don't believe anything they told you.  Then I'll forgive you."

He’s not a liar, Myrcella thinks; but Viserys didn’t exactly tell her the truth either. His version of the truth is painted with delusions that favours him the victim, taken advantaged of by a lying and thieving whore. She’s decided that she can’t trust him.  How can I trust anyone? Perhaps, it’s easy to disregard most (not all) that the papers have said against him; but it’s harder when it comes from people. Too many people; all pointing and urging her to run the other direction, and none with even the smallest hint of a favourable word towards him.  

Ros remains to be just a stranger Myrcella had met wandering Martell Inc. She remembers the phone number sitting on top of her study table back in Lannister Street. Ros matters to her in the way that she’s indebted to her. Grateful that their chance encounter happened at the time that it did. Now, she knows. 

“I mean —” She pauses and shakes her head. You’re sick. Really sick; and you need help that I can’t give you. It’s there but she can’t say it; the words catching in her throat. Stuck. We are what we are. What was it they wrote about Viserys? Like father, like son.  “They told me you - you’re not well,” she finally says, averting her eyes from him. “But that — that’s not true… so it’s probably nothing.”

"If you don't believe them," he says icily, the words hissing through his teeth, "Why are you worried?"  His lip curls in disgust, and he swallows and turns away.  "Liar.  You believe every fucking-- every fucking lie they've told you and still have the nerve to tell me you care.  Do you?  That's what all of this is?" he demands, waving an arm at the room.  She's spat at him, argued with him, accused him of treating the woman who'd betrayed him badly; if she cares at all, it's for her own reputation.  Too damaging to be seen with him any longer.

He finds the ring in his pocket again and curls his fist around it tightly.  "The only sick person I know is your fucking mother.  She told me not to tell you, but she's seeing a therapist.  Had me come along."  Visery smiles meanly.  "If I'm not well, wouldn't she have seen it?  The therapist?  I'm perfectly healthy.  You care," he laughs, turning away from her to sit on the bed and pull out the ring, twist it hard between his fingers, "But you believe the worst about me.  What sort of friend does that?"

“No.” She can’t. Myrcella’s mind draws to a blank.  A void, left only with just what Viserys doesn’t want to talk about, to be reminded of.  Why should she care about what Viserys had done to Ros? She’s a whore, after all. Just a whore and deserved the threat, the broken door, the blood - because it’s only logical. Because other men had ordered her to do worse things…

And no one’s ever frightened her as much as you.

“What if I was just a whore?” Myrcella asks suddenly, looking and playing with her jewelry. Rose gold bracelets, diamonds. A gift. “Hmmm…” The difference, she thought then and now when she stood in the elevator with Ros, had been that Myrcella had the name Lannister to protect her. And not just any Lannister —- Tywin, and Cersei. But if she didn’t have that, she would have nothing. She’d be nothing.

He can't understand why Myrcella is angry.  What did Ros matter to her?  What was it Rhaenys had said that got her so frightened, so agitated?  She'd read the charges against him in the paper.  Read the rumours too, and dismissed them all.  Why had hearing it all repeated from the mouth of a woman that every source named a liar and a thief changed Myrcella's opinion of him?

"You're not a whore," he snaps, but he can't look at her when he says it.  "You're a Lannister.  If you weren't, you wouldn't be you.  So perhaps I wouldn't respect you... but you'd never have spoken to me if I wasn't a Targaryen either.  We are what we are.  What we were raised to be."  He remembers the day at the Paddocks they'd gone walking, Myrcella in step beside him, blazing blonde in the sunlight, squinting from eyes made dark by the shadows of her lashes.  They'd spoken of their families then.  Even though they'd been in disagreement, he'd thought she'd understood what being them meant.  They are better than everyone else.  They have to be.

He rises from the bed and approaches her cautiously, wary of provoking a flinch he knows he won't be able to stomach seeing.  "What was it they said?  You trusted me before.  I'm not lying.  I was good.  Before she betrayed me I was good.  

And one that his brother completely misses and his sister - His sister complies with a simple reply. He’d expected a witty quip, an attempt at a humorous remark, anything to lighten and ease the tension from within the room. No. His expectations are hardly met. Not even close and he withdraws a smile as his grip on the knife tightens, cutting the meat into smaller pieces.

Viserys hisses and Rhaegar fights back the urge to bite back. He feels an argument brewing just in the undercurrent. Should he provoke it even more, the night will only turn from bad to worst and possibly, disastrous. Was this how he imagined his siblings homecoming to be? Truthfully, he hadn’t imagined it at all. Neither did he hope for them to stay abroad forever. He’s met with indifference and he can only wish at that moment to be better than it already was.

Nowhere is the reply that comes to mind when his brother asks about his position in the campaign. My campaign, Rhaegar thinks selfishly and perhaps a moment ago he had been willing to encourage his brother’s participation only to regret it soon after. Besides, Aerys would never approve of it.

He can’t tell his brother that though.

All she can do, is listen to her brothers. Rhaegar giving Viserys seemingly a place of honour is his campaign, while Daenerys is left to do…whatever she can. As if it will hardly be anything at all. Though maybe there’s something she can do, with her carefully shown innocence. She could be of some use, if her brother would allow it. Or maybe, like Viserys, he too is worried about her tarnishing him, or embarrassing him, and the family. She puts down her fork, and dabs her lips with the napkin that she had placed on her lap.

Rhaegar's offer is reassuring, at least; despite his brother's earlier misstep - children in a schoolyard? - Viserys' shoulders are starting to ease.  This is closer to what he'd expected.  A real position, a place of honor, given to him because he deserves it.  He imagines himself as a trophy they're now dusting off the shelf, admiring with a new eye, and placing in the open for all the world to see.

"Of course," he repeats, his smile and tone stiff enough to ensure Rhaegar knows he's not easily placated.  His brother is much ruder than he'd remembered.  "I'd expected as much."  Viserys takes another sip of wine and sets the glass down, turning the stem in his fingers as he frowns.  "I'd like to see the office tomorrow.  You can introduce me to your... friends, associates..."  He waves his hand vaguely.  "Naturally they'll remember who I am once we're introduced."

It should have been obvious, to his sons, to take those steps without him having to point in that direction. Instead they went and stumbled into the lion’s den, and it was up to him to grab them by the hair and tear them from the Lannisters’ claws.

It is a pity, he concludes, that neither of his sons ever became half the man he is nowadays. There is more Martell blood in his grandchildren than Targaryen, and the Targaryen blood in his sons seems to have gone rotten, spoiled by terrible decisions.

“Report to me, and only to me,” he says at last, standing up and walking to the window once more, in the same exact position he was when Viserys knocked. The lawn is still burned out, still empty, dead. There is a certain beauty in dead nature, he tells himself.

A gust of wind seeps through the cracks around the window and flutters the torn paper eye up against his shoe, curling and trembling, until he stoops down to pick it up and stuff it hastily into his pocket.  His father is watching their estate, not him, but Viserys still swallows and waits to be found out before silence assures him he wasn't.

Leave.  He does.  The door he closes carefully behind him, and his strides over the other scraps of paper skittering across the floor are fast and purposeful.  "Ice," he snaps to the first maid he sees.  "Find me a pack of ice, and--"  Viserys looks over his shoulder at the paper like dead leaves scattered down the hall.  The sight of them feels accusatory now.

“You seemed to have forgotten the part where you called her a whore and made her feel less than a person.” The words come out terse. Blunt. Harsh. Cold. “You made her lick your blood, Viserys. Is that —” She blinks, trying to search for the right word. Normal? Myrcella shakes her head and tries to ignore the sickening feeling at the pit of her stomach. “Is that your idea of treating her well?”

For a moment, she’s quiet. 

How misled is she to still feel a bit of sympathy towards him? And how delusional is he to manage to justify that everything he’s done was not wrong? To think that his niece is there to reap every sow until Viserys has nothing? Has no one? Is that true, she wonders but immediately pushes the thought away and replaces it with something she can understand — the growing anxiety and fear of being deserted; alone.

“You were angry, I understand that.” 

But she can’t help but think about how Viserys had placed his trust on the wrong person. On a prostitute, of all people. Foolish, Myrcella thinks he should have known better; and for that, a part of her places the fault on him too. 

He doesn't like this.  Not long ago he'd been enjoying himself.  He'd felt relaxed, secure for a handful of time that's gone now, spilling rapidly through his fingers.  Why should Myrcella care what he'd done with a whore?  Make her feel less than, she'd said, as if Ros wasn't.

The ring starts to dig painfully into his palm and he lifts it, bites at the setting, before he realizes what he's doing and stuffs it back in his pocket.  His thoughts are whirling again.  "No," he says suddenly.  "No, go back.  Stop-- stop this.  We've already-- we've said this.  Stop."  Viserys looks up and stares at Myrcella, unsteady and trying to find his balance through his words.  "And let's-- let's go back downstairs.  Let's enjoy ourselves.  I don't want to hear about her."

What will he do if she's there?  Nausea pulls at his stomach and Viserys turns away from the window, wincing at the shivering touch of the cold night air.  He doesn't want to see Ros, or Rhaenys.  What will they do when they see him?

“I’m not.” Myrcella takes a step forward. Her mind is a void, ears ringing with Viserys’ voice and drowning the even more distant buzz of voices. The denial feels like a lie because fear settles in, tightening her chest. Joffrey had always raised his voice; too loudly, too hostile most times. And he had always been unapologetic about it. Red and drunk with fury, her older brother became the shadow of Robert Baratheon.

“She told me about what you did to her, how you treated her,” she hisses back, the words seething though her teeth. “What you called her.” Her lips twitch in a small quiver. Those charges against you, they’re real. “You kicked down her door and threatened to kill her, Viserys.” A tremble; but she won’t falter. It’s submission to fear that she can’t allow for herself. 

“I’m not afraid of you,” she says again, calmly. “Nor have I been acting oddly. I was just - I’m just —” Confuse? No. It’s all too clear. Viserys is no different. He’s just like them. And possibly, worst. He could hurt her.  (He could but he won’t. Her mother has given her that assurance) 

“It’s not just Ros. Rhaenys too. Your niece — they all told me to stay away from you.” She pauses, teeth biting at her lip. “Are they lying to me?” Myrcella looks at Viserys and waits for an answer. “I want to know the truth, Viserys.”

"How I treated her?" he repeats in a low hiss.  "What I called her?"  He lets his doubt drift enough to search for some time where he'd mistreated Ros, but finds nothing.  He'd been good to her until she'd betrayed him - and who could blame him for changing afterward?  "I treated her well," Viserys snaps, looking over his shoulder at Myrcella with a hard glare.  His lips are pinched between words so tightly they start to ache.  "Anything she wanted, I told her I'd buy for her.  Anything.  If she'd wanted more money, needed it, all she'd had to do was ask.  Instead she chose to sell my secrets.  But I'm the villain, for growing angry?"

He pulls the ring into his palm and clenches his fist around it.  "If you told me things - things you'd never told anyone else, things that could ruin you if they were published - and I went to the press with them, how would you treat me?  What would you call me?  Yes, I kicked down her door and threatened her.  And she held a gun to my head, the gun I'd bought her, the gun she'd asked for, because I'd promised her I wouldn't let anyone else hurt her ever again."  Viserys wets his lips and looks down at his feet, smiling bitterly.  "You don't understand.  You or Rhaenys.  I'd never hurt anyone if they didn't hurt me first."

His niece's name in Myrcella's plea adds further proof to his suspicions; Rhaenys is planning something, using the Martells and Ros to get there.  Not satisfied with simply having him thrown out, she's now methodically unpicking every stitch still holding his life together.  Daenerys has fallen away; by the coldness in Myrcella's eyes, she'll leave too.

The door clicks and shuts behind her and with it the dull sounds of conversations from beneath them.

A kiss? She furrows her brows as she looks down on the floor. Not a kiss and the way he’s said that made it seem as though last time, she had given him more than a kiss on the cheeks (she hadn’t) and he had won (he didn’t). He’s holding on to her wrist, and they’re standing too close to one another. It’s a scene that suggests and waits for one thing to happen after the other. It’s not what she had intended. So, she withdraws her hand from him and paces the room steadily. 

“A bit of privacy,” she starts, restlessly toying with the gold chains of her bracelets around her wrist again. “For… for talking.” Myrcella smiles and shakes her head. “No games.”

Myrcella steadies herself by leaning on the chair in front of the small vanity inside the hotel room. “It’s been on my - on my mind for a while.” How long was a while? Since August? At the Paddocks? Her encounter with Rhaenys? With Ros?

"M-- Martell Inc?  What is she doing--"  Viserys stiffens, and he looks to the side, towards where the party continues beyond and below them.  They're at a Martell function, invited by Martell hosts.  Were they working with Ros?  Had they hired her in the first place?  Was it Arianne who'd pocketed his secrets and paid Nicki in cash?  They'd only just spoken, he and Arianne, and she'd been both polite and courteous.  Who among the Martells hated him enough to ally with Ros?

Rhaenys.  "Told you about me," he repeats, and the words start to curl and stiffen on his tongue.  "Told you what?  What I told her?"  His mouth twists.  He's a madman in Ros' voice, he can hear it in his ears, he told me himself, that hospital--

“That’s -” Myrcella stops, searching for the right words to tell Viserys. Odd is what comes to mind but she settles with, “Thoughtful.” She tries not to dwell on the question of why Viserys would want her to wear his sister’s perfume. Maybe he just liked the scent (His sister’s scent, specifically? Or perhaps, just the scent in general?). And yet, his sister chosen others over him. Why keep her scent?

“But no thank you,” she adds with a smile. I don’t want your sister’s perfume. I already have her keys. Keys that should have been hers.

She looks over her shoulders, back inside.

Seeing her mother and her brother was just the tip of the iceberg. Sometime between now and the moment they’ve both stepped into the Water Gardens, Myrcella had seen people she recognized. Rhaenys talking to Oberyn. Lancel with his arm around that Frey’s girl waist; his hand on the small of her mother’s back as they danced. Somewhere in the crowd too, she was certain she had caught a glimpse of Ros. 

It's not champagne, which he's had none of.  Not the rush from his cigarette, not the clotted air, but the people - the noise.  There's a dissonance in it that sets his head ringing.  It's too loud, off-key.  Viserys winces and leads them both towards the staircase, only realizing when they reach the landing what their escape might look like.  Perhaps, he thinks with slow surprise, that's what Myrcella is after.  She'd told him she wanted him to kiss her, she'd invited him here as her date, and now 'hoping' for a room alone?

Whatever it is she wants, he's happy when he shuts the door behind them.  The Martells were clever for arranging hotel service; there's no need to fight for a cab when curfew nears, and he's certain it's only an hour away.  With the door, a floor, and a staircase between them and the party, the sound is finally muffled.  Viserys' shoulders droop noticeably, and his smile, when he keeps his hold on Myrcella's wrist playfully, is weary.