Viserys Ii Novels & Stories

“His daughter is in love with the grandson of the leader of the Elder Council. How do you think they got access to your fields so easily every year?” “I would advise you to watch your tongue, Miss Everton and not sully my sister’s name.” A man entered my house, looking like he was gliding on water. A few years from now, his name will ring across the realm as the master of the white wyverns. “Jonathan Voss,” I said. His brow quirked. “You are very informed.” I stepped out of the way so he could see the birds. Jonathan’s gaze fixed on them for a second, narrowed and turned away as if it did not concern him.

Angular features, a faint scar carving lines into his temple, silver threading through black hair, bronze eyes glinting with draconic fire. He knelt. Lyra’s breath caught. He felt my command two nights ago, Vaelrion rumbled. Tharok Virex—my second. My blade. In the vision, Tharok bowed his head. “My prince,” he said, voice ragged with distance, “it is true, then. You have found her.” The fire blazed higher. Vaelrion’s hand settled at Lyra’s back, anchoring her. Yes. Tharok’s gaze lifted, fixing on Lyra. Recognition—and something that felt like reverence—flowed across his face. He bowed deeper.

Or perhaps the thing that was waking beneath the palace had made the decision for whoever was controlling the wards. And there he was. My father. Malachai Veyr. King of the Ironclaw. Ruler of the Seven Kingdoms. His silver hair was pulled back from his face in a severe line that emphasized the sharp angles of his features. His eyes were cold the kind of cold that came from never allowing yourself to feel anything but contempt for the world around you. He sat on what should have been my throne, his fingers steepled together in an attitude of perfect repose, like a predator resting between meals.