Reborn as Rhaenyra's Twin - (House of the Dragon)

'The exact conversation between King I Viserys and Prince Rhaenar Targaryen of Dragonstone can never be known verbatim. 

Rhaenar's account of closed-door events are often heavily dramatized and lean to the artistic rather than factual. 

To complicate it further is the peculiar nature of Rhaenar's journals, hundreds published, each with subtle difference. No wonder many believe a Riddle is hidden between the margin.

Where, then, do we turn? The first hand accounts of those who witnessed Rhaenar's life? Such as that of Brien Flowers? 

Much of that material was lost in the Burning, or so it's believed. The truth turned to ash in those terrible autumn days, as fire swept across the world ahead of winter's shadow.

That, however, is no fun.!

Therefore, take solace in my reconstruction.

Of which, I swear, is at least partially faithful.'

— A foreword to Chapter 7 of The Summer Chronicles, a popular account of Rhaenar Targaryen's early life, attributed to the mysterious figure known only as The Scribe.

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"Rhaenar?"

"It is I, Father."

"Why are you here? How did you—"

Rhaenar remained silent. Moonlight set upon the mini Valyria set between them—the one they had spent hours crafting, father and son.

Viserys was struck by Rhaenar's straight, rigid posture. 

Stiff, soldier-like—general-like—arms clasped behind his back, as if ready to send thousands to their deaths, fully aware of the weight of such responsibility.

Beyond, a face unfamiliar, of which Viserys had seen before in his dreams. 

Not the son Viserys knew. No.

This was a stranger.

"My mother…" Rhaenar whispered.

Suddenly, the sternness faded. And it was like the son returned. Was it just Viserys' imagination?

Rhaenar moved to the fire, crouched, and grabbed a faggot, igniting the tip in embers.

One by one, he lit the tall candlesticks surrounding the table. Each like a lighthouse cast onto Valyria and marked the edges of a vast, forgotten empire.

The light was a comforting change. Something in the air suggested both men thought of Aemma for that.

When Rhaenar lit the last candle, he blew out the faggot. 

Whoosh.

Smoke curled lazily as Viserys noticed two chairs positioned at the end of the table, perfectly placed to admire the carved marvel before them. 

The metro expanse led out to the open balcony and the unbroken view of the stars.

Without a word, father and son sat down.

"To answer your questions," Rhaenar said, "I came in through the door."

He purposefully left out which door, and continued, "I'm here to talk. Rhaenyra's worried. You haven't spoken to either of us since."

The King took a deep, pained breath. "I am sorry, Rhaenar. My heart aches, and the words… they are slow to return."

Rhaenar placed a hand over chest. "Understood. But our discussion can delay no further."

Viserys raised a tired brow, something wrong in the air.

His suspicion proved true when Rhaenar leaned back in his chair, gaze narrowing, sharp and cold. Not unlike the way one might regard an insect.

"Is it true," Rhaenar said, "in the end, my mother begged for her life?"

"Begged?" Viserys whispered. The chill was terrible now. the stranger creeping close.

"Think, old man. You were there." Then, slowly, Rhaenar spoke again, each word punctuated: "Did. My. Mother. Beg?"

Something was off— bad. The tone, the deliberate choice of words. The disappointment.

No, Viserys thought, Don't…

"Your mother," Viserys said finally, "Was in a lot of pain. I—"

Rhaenar leaned forward. Bloodshot eyes caught the candlelight, and Viserys froze. Gods… that feral look. 

"Tell me straight," Rhaenar said. "Tell me my mother didn't beg for her life. Beg you to stop as they cut her open."

Viserys' broken heart crumbled into dust. Stop, please.

What followed was a moment-by-moment recounting of events as Rhaenar understood them. How Viserys had swanned in from the tournament to find his pregnant wife struggling in labor. How a mere whisper from the maester was all it took for him to decide.

Then it happened. They held Queen Aemma down as she thrashed and lashed out on the bed — skin feverish, face twisted in anguish.

It was so utterly demoralizing that Viserys felt numbed, a mind teetering on the edge of disbelief. Was that really how it happened? No, it couldn't have been. There's no way I would have allowed it. I…

Suddenly, the crown felt unbearably heavy on his head. And the words that escaped his lips came from a place he barely recognized—a strength summoned only by dire circumstances.

"What choice did I have?! The babe wasn't coming out… any delay, and they both would have died. I did what I had to..."

"Choice?!" Rhaenar thundered. "You had many! How is it the only conclusion you reached was one where my mother had no choice of her own? Why didn't you ask what she wanted? What the fuck were you thinking?!"

"I thought of the realm!" Viserys snapped, his voice no longer his own. It was that of a man with answers forged from bearing the weight of thousands, no, millions of lives.

That stunned Rhaenar. "The realm?" he repeated, his voice breaking.

"Everything I do is for the good of the realm," Viserys said. "Our house! Every action, every thought —is of you, for Rhaenyra, for everyone!"

It struck Rhaenar then that he wasn't arguing with a man, but a philosophy. A dogma wrapped in layers of duty and justification.

This was now a conversation between two complete strangers.

"And the good of everyone translates to murdering my mother?" Rhaenar quipped bitterly.

"What would you have me do, Rhaenar? Risk them both dying?"

"I would have you ask how she felt!" Rhaenar roared. "After everything we've been through, I refuse to believe this!"

Something in Rhaenar's voice—raw, scathing—made Viserys snap. He couldn't fathom the contempt, the bitterness aimed at him by his own son.

Not now, not after Aemma's death. Not now when everything was falling apart. Not ever...

"It was the right decision at the time!" Viserys barked. "Who knows what might have happened? Was I to risk the child's life on chance?"

"Life? What of her life?"

"It all happened so fast! We had to act!"

It was all pointless. No words could have changed Rhaenar's mind at the time.

His mind reeled at the pure selfishness of his father's decision, the tragic idea of his mother being treated like a pig as she begged for her life. At how Viserys had the audacity to hold her hand as they held her down at his instruction to be sliced open against her will. 

"Are heirs this important?" Rhaenar said.

Each word struck like a dagger, aimed at the heart of a man, a husband, a father.

For reasons unfathomable then —— Viserys found the words that only a few could muster.

"Can you blame me?"

Rhaenar's eyes widened. "What?"

"The royal line must endure!" Viserys snapped. "People die all the time. For the Seven's sake, they call you Rhaenar the Reckless!

"My only son! And how could I blame them? You rushed off to a war of your own making at the age of ten-and-three.

"You've flirted with death countless times, riding your dragon like a foolhardy boy. If you die, what then?! "

Rhaenar flinched. His father's words cut deep with truth.

How would he have felt, as King, watching his only son risk life so carelessly?

Bullshit. Complete and utter bullshit. Rhaenar felt sick that he took even a moment to ponder such a farce.

'I am no slave. Not to society, ideas, and certainly not to any man, allegiance, oath, or promise. I swear it. The world will burn before I'm made a prisoner.'

Just like that, Rhaenar rose like a calm shadow.

"I'm not your only heir, Father. There's Daemon. Rhaenyra… Even Rhaenys could take the throne if we met some untimely end. No, you made the wrong choice. Only now do I see why."