The Prince as Adolescent

Viserys' had been in a wonderful mood ever since he'd broken his fast that morning with Valcour. His mother had found his high spirits particularly strange, considering the business with the phantom Aerion at the banquet. Usually, Viserys would still be twitching from such a trauma. But he felt secure, this time, and he wouldn't tell anyone why. And why would he tell anyone? His only confidante was the source of the euphoria. And he didn't really comprehend the scope of it.

Part of it was about feeling safe, but that wasn't the sum of it. There was another kind of excitement buried there. An excitement that made his leg bounce when he was sitting, and his mind wander ever toward Valcour for as long as they were apart. And it was that excitement that drove him to pacing back and forth in his room, awaiting Valcour's promised return.

He knew it couldn't have been more than ten minutes since he'd poked his head out to inquire after the hour, and he didn't want to keep bothering the guard stationed there, but it couldn't hurt. He opened the door...

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"Your Grace." As if conjured by the creak of hinges, Valcour Tyrell stood just outside the door and was, at present, lifting himself from a deep bow. Dirty gold eyes met the hyacinth of Visery's regard, something of friendly humor in their shaded depths.

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T y r e l l

A gasp caught in Viserys' throat, and a thrilled grin spread across his face.

"Valcour!" He wanted to bound right up and hug him, but he didn't. Not with the guard there. He couldn't usher his savior inside quickly enough. He shut the door behind him and then pressed himself against him in an embrace. "You'd be so proud of me, Valcour, I wasn't scared all day. Not of Cilarys or Aerion or anyone. I'd no cares. I felt like a child! Not the same child I was. I'll never feel that way again, but a happy, carefree boy nonetheless." He squeezed once more, and stepped away.

"Sit, sit! Have you eaten? Are you thirsty? There is wine and water. If you'd like something hot I can send for it..."

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Valcour chuckled, returning the prince's embrace before offering a nod. "Wine would serve me well, and I'm glad your day went so well." Proud, as well, said the crook of his mouth as he stepped further into the room. "So tell me, Viserys, what did you do all day?"

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T y r e l l

Thought about you! Viserys replied internally, but mercifully, the thought remained behind his eyes. He made for the flagon and poured two glasses of scorpion wine.

"I spent the rest of the morning with Ser Alistair. He is taking advantage of the empty jousting field before the Tourney begins in earnest. So I sat agee until my bottom was sore, and completely missed lunch. I took tea with my mother, though, and had some cake and fruit. I tried to see my grandfather but he was napping when I went. Then I took dinner by myself in here and awaited your return." He offered a glass.

"There is still some food left if you'd like it." He gestured to the tray on the same table they'd broken bread over that morning. "The wine is Dornish, I hope you don't mind. I've acquired a taste for it. And how did you spend your day, Valcour?" He took his usual seat, and tucked his legs under him.

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"Training for the joust is not nearly as fun as the joust itself," Valcour admitted while collapsing into what was becoming, in short order, his usual seat with his usual irreverent grace. "My thanks," he murmured while accepted the scorpion wine, "I don't mind at all. I'd better find a taste for the Dornish grapes, considering."

That stated, he sighed. A squint was given Viserys. "I spent the majority of my day in discussion with my lord father, you see. He arrived early this afternoon and had," an amused pause, "quite a lot to say to me on several matters, including that of my betrothal to Ceren Martell."

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T y r e l l

Viserys' mood collapsed visibly.

"But... you can't marry her, or you'll have to live in Dorne instead of coming to keep me safe like you promised." It was a dreadful idea, all around, as far as Viserys was concerned. He couldn't stay seated. His driving energy had just shifted to the negative end of the spectrum. He took to pacing.

"Ceren Martell." It took him a few moments, but he directed his distress toward the easiest target. "No, she is not fit for you, at all. What do you possibly have in common with her?" At least Viserys and his affianced had things in common... like parents.

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Valcour sunk low in his chair. Viserys had, of course, over simplified the issue; and the gods knew that Valcour would have loved for it to be halfway as easy as the prince had made it sound.

Quietly, he said, "It is not a matter my honor allows me a choice in, Viserys. I am to wed Ceren Martell and that, I'm afraid, is the end of that." Ceren Martell, in her way, needed him and, more pointedly, him as husband as much as Viserys needed him. Dirty gold eyes sought out the much lighter, prettier shade of the heir of Westeros. There was ever so much more to it, to all of it, but they were words it was wise not yet to utter. "I have requested a long betrothal so that you and I might have time to figure out a working way of this, Viserys. I think, first, we need to come up with a reason for me spending so much time in Kings Landing and, in extension, to you as well. It isn't like my father sits on the High Council and I've an excuse."

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T y r e l l

He seemed relieved.

"Then you still resolve to be mine?" As he'd said he was the other night. The phrase that made Viserys' heart leap into his throat, and his pulse race. "Even with a wife?" He rather felt that way again. Touched. Warmed. Drunk on Valcour. He liked when Valcour made sacrifices for him. It made everything he was feeling seem more valid.

"Of course. Then we will make strides to facilitate your time with me. What position would you like your father to hold on the council?"

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"I am your friend and your confident. Your defender, protector, tutor, advisor, and loyal vassal, Viserys." But not yours. Not yours alone and altogether. "And I will be married."

This was said in a firm sort of quiet. Valcour was trying, and trying so bloody hard. This was not an easy dance.

The Small Council. Matchstick lashes lowered briefly in a spin of shadows. His father on the Small Council. Grand Maester, of course not. Master of Ships? A Tyrell of Highgarden? Of course not. Lord Commander of the Kingsguard? Coriander was bloody well married. Master of Laws? King's Spider? Master of Coin? Hand of King? Possibilities, all of them, but Valcour knew best which his lord father would fit into. It was a matter, of course, of finding which was best to be fit.

"It is not a matter of what I would like, Viserys," he said eventually, "but at matter of what he would be best suited for and what would be easily suited to him." He met Visery's eyes and asked his counsel. "What do you think?"

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T y r e l l

He thought on that question for a moment and, to his surprise, realized that the annoying questions Ser Alistair always asked during training, actually helped him form a well-founded opinion.

"Well, I would think Master of Laws." Viserys replied, easily. "Or perhaps Master of Coins. He shall never be the Hand of the King, if you are betrothed to the Dornish Princess. Has your father truly considered the consequences in Westeros? King's Landing will be eying the Reach with more caution than we bear in gazing toward the Rock. Does my grandfather know, yet?" Or, more to the point, his grandmother? His family had always considered the Tyrell's to be among the most loyal of their subjects. After all, oughtn't they be? House Targaryen made them kings in all but name, when they had been only stewards before.

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"My father would make a poor Hand of the King," Valcour smiled. It was an odd smile, but it was based on the fact of pride and appreciation for Visery's swift deducements. They were, almost surprisingly, right on target. This meant that, perhaps, his job here would not be nearly so difficult as he had begun to fear.

Why did Valcour believe is his father would make a poor Hand? It was quite simple, really. Coriander Tyrell was too much alike the reigning king. They would not foil eachother, nor would one be strong where the other was weak. They would think too much the same rather than offer the angles of the arguments standing opposite.

"Master of Laws or Master of Coins would wear on him well. He is nimble with bread and gold; but Master of Law suits his character most aptly." Just, Valcour thought, his father was ever just and, even more so, ever honorable. He was a man who saw the sun's rays and let the shadows fall until they shaded. Then he struck like high noon. Valcour realized he was mentally rambling, his mind too caught up and entangled within too many responsibilites.

He shook his head slightly to clear it, and downed more of his wine. "I shall trust in your decision on the matter of which, Viserys, as surely you would know better than I." Oddly, perhaps, he wasn't humoring. He was being perfectly serious. He was also hoping that, perhaps, Viserys would be capable of doing this in a well thought-out and grown up fashion. It was a test, of sorts, for Valcour to learn even more of the prince; and it was a gamble as well. Val had already accepted that. For inserting Coriander Tyrell into the Small Council the wrong way, well, could be potentially disasterous for his house.

An eyebrow quirked, and he barely stifled a grimace. "Your grandparents ought not look narrowingly upon the Reach," he said at length. "For they are right in considering Tyrell to be of their most loyal vassals. Tyrell is Warden of the South, Viserys, and Dorne is south of us. Westeros is at peacetime, and one all of us hope shall continue and prevail. What better way to ensure this than to align the second and least important son of the Defender of the Marches to a princess of Dorne? His father and older brother will always be on guard, and his wife and mayhaps one day his children will hold softer feelings for their northern neighbors. It is peace that is being secured, and if that fails.." Valcour did not complete the statement, the insuation quite clear with the smallest shrug of his shoulders. If peace failed, then the man who was friend to the heir of Westeros and son of the house that defended it's border was already present as envoy and spy.

Would he? Valcour? Maybe nobody knew him well enough yet to know.

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T y r e l l

"You are not so naive as to believe that all of us truly hope for sustained peace. Both of us in this room, perhaps. And even that is conditional... indefinite." When it came to politics and the politics of his family, Viserys seemed to have a voice all his own. It was bereft of the lace and caution that tempered most of his interactions with Valcour.

"You sell your father's intentions well enough for my ears, but I am not yet the king and my grandfather is old and difficult to dissuade from opinions already formed. It will not be easy, but I will endeavor to influence him to include your father on his council. But, I tell you as your friend, that I cannot promise my words will hold sway, nor that my family will look with favoring eyes upon the House of Tyrell if this marriage comes to pass. It is ill-advised." There really were a lot of valid reasons for him to be opposed to the idea. It just so happened he wasn't arguing for any of those reasons.

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