[167] The Weight of Eternity

Chapter 167: The Weight of Eternity

—

A few days after that.

The sun hadn't yet kissed the horizon when I found myself on the highest tower of the Red Keep, watching my dragons paint shadows across the sleeping city.

Viserion circled lazily, her golden scales catching the pre-dawn light like scattered coins. Rhaegal cut through morning mist with jade precision, while Drogon perched on a distant spire, surveying his domain with the arrogance only a dragon could possess.

Three hundred years, I thought with a strange feeling, flexing my transformed hands. The claws that could emerge at will remained sheathed beneath human-seeming skin. That's how long Balerion lived. My [Regeneration] tells me subconsciously that I have the lifespan of a dragon now. So is that how long I’d live? Or maybe longer. Since I was never an ordinary dragonlord. I had the System.

The System had changed everything. Level 115 now, with regeneration that could heal mortal wounds in minutes, strength that could shatter stone, and who knew what other transformations awaited at higher levels. Would I live five hundred years? A thousand? Forever?

The thought should have thrilled me. Instead, it settled in my chest like winter frost.

I closed my eyes, and for a moment, I was back on Earth. I'd been nobody special then. Just another Game of Thrones fan arguing about prophecies on Reddit, writing elaborate theories about Jon Snow's parentage that turned out to be obvious all along. With my nerd of a friend who’d read the books, spoiling all the fun.

Surprisingly, I recalled a very personal memory from my previous life.

"You'll never amount to anything," my father had said once, drunk and bitter after another failed business venture. "Dreamers don't survive in this world."

Well, Dad, I'd survived in a much harsher world. I'd thrived. I'd conquered. Dreams may not survive, but dreams do. People’s dreams never die. But sitting here, watching my kingdom wake beneath dragon shadows, I wondered if surviving was enough when you might survive forever.

What was the point of an eternal throne if you sat on it alone?

Well, not totally alone, I reminded myself. I'd given my women regeneration, the closest thing to immortality I could grant. Margaery, Sansa, Arianne, Yara, Kinvara, Brienne, even Lady Clegane now. Unsurprisingly, it turned out she had been a virgin as no man dared approach her. They could walk the centuries with me, theoretically.

But could they really?

Would Margaery's ambition burn as bright after two hundred years? Would Sansa's compassion survive watching generation after generation of orphans grow old and die while she remained young? Would any of them still look at me with desire instead of resentment after five centuries of my dominance?

Despite not having quite won against the world, as the White Walkers still awaited my challenge, I was planning like a victor. Some might call it arrogance, but the timing wasn’t on my side. I do have to consider all this. After all…

The Queen selection loomed before me like a dragon's maw.

Not just a political decision but an existential one. Who could truly share eternity? Who would I want beside me when the last person who remembered the old world turned to dust?

I already know the answer, I admitted to myself, though the knowledge brought no comfort. Some choices were inevitable like gravity.

"Your Grace?"

I turned to find Ser Raddam, a King’s Guard, one of the few guards brave enough to approach me in my contemplative moods. "The Small Council awaits your pleasure."

"Tell them I'll be delayed." My voice carried harmonics that made him step back. "I have business in the city first."

He bowed and retreated, leaving me with my thoughts and the growing light of dawn.

Time to see what my queens are truly made of.

****

Sansa Stark moved through the newest orphanage like a force of nature wrapped in courtesy.

The building had been a brothel two months ago, its previous owner fleeing after word spread of what the Dragon King did to those who exploited children. Now fresh paint covered old sins, and the sounds of children's laughter replaced darker noises.

"Lady Stark!" A girl no older than seven ran up, clutching a wooden doll. "Look! Septa Moelle taught me to sew a dress for her!"

Sansa knelt, her blue gown pooling around her as she examined the crude stitching with the seriousness of a master craftsman appraising fine work. "Beautiful work, Alia. See how straight your stitches are becoming? Soon you'll be teaching others."

The girl beamed and scampered off, leaving Sansa to continue her rounds. She checked food stores, reviewed lesson plans with the septas, and ensured the older children were learning trades alongside their letters.

This was her kingdom, she realized. Not the throne or the crown, but this. These forgotten children who would grow up knowing someone cared whether they lived or died.

"My lady," her steward approached, wringing his hands. "I've received word from the Red Keep. The Queen selection will be announced at tonight's feast."

Ice formed in Sansa's stomach, though she kept her expression neutral. "I see. Thank you, Terrence."

She'd known this day would come. Margaery had been preparing for months, gathering allies and perfecting her political machinery. Even Arianne, despite being from Dorne, had been making moves to position herself as the exotic but acceptable choice.

And Sansa? She'd been teaching orphans to read.

Do I even want it? The question that had haunted her for months surfaced again. The crown meant power, certainly. Resources to expand her work throughout the Seven Kingdoms. But it also meant...

"Your method is inefficient."

The voice made her freeze. Viserys stood in the doorway, having appeared with that unnatural silence he'd developed since his transformation. He wore simple black today, though nothing could make him look ordinary anymore. Not with those eyes that held dragon fire, not with that presence that made the air itself grow heavy.

"Your Grace," she managed, dropping into a curtsey.

He walked past her to the main hall where children were eating their morning meal. They fell silent at his entrance, some trembling, others gaping in awe. He was, after all, the Dragon King who flew above their city on golden wings.

"You feed them," he observed. "Clothe them. Teach them. But what then? They grow up and return to the same streets that orphaned them in the first place."

Defensiveness flared in her chest. "...Would you have me do nothing then? Let them starve because I cannot solve every problem?"

He turned to her, and she saw something unexpected in his expression. Approval? "No. But you could do more." He gestured to the older children. "The boys could join my new civilian militia I'm planning. Disciplined, trained, given purpose beyond mere survival. The girls could enter service in noble houses with guaranteed contracts and protection under the new laws Lady Clegane is drafting."

"Oh… You've been thinking about this," she said, surprised.

"I might look like a mountain of muscles, but I think a lot. I think about everything in my kingdom." His gaze softened fractionally. "Including what my potential queens truly value."

Heat crept up her neck. "I... I don't do this for your approval."

"I know." He moved closer, and she caught his scent, smoke and steel and something indefinably dragon. "That's why you have it."

Her breath caught. "Your Grace?"

"You survived Joffrey. Cersei. All of them." His finger traced the line of her jaw, gentle despite the strength that could shatter stone. "Yet you didn't let it make you cruel. That's rarer than you know. Well, you were on the verge of it, but that’s a future we’ve averted."

What does he mean by that last line? Sometimes she didn’t understand his words. She just nodded. "I had to become strong," she heard herself say. "But I refused to become them."

"And if you were queen? Would you maintain that balance? Or would power corrupt even you?"

The question was heavy with implication.

"I… don't know," she admitted, surprising herself with the honesty. "I've seen what power does to people. What it did to my father, trying to navigate the game honorably. What it did to you."

His hand dropped. "Hmm. What did it do to me?"

"You weren't always..." she gestured at him, "this. Robb told me about the boy you were. Weak, frightened, desperate. Now you're something beyond kings. But are you happy?"

For a moment, his mask slipped. She saw something raw in his eyes, a loneliness that made her heart ache despite everything.

"Happy? After conquering seven kingdoms, regaining my ancestral throne, and also defeating my most dangerous enemies? My wife, just because I am a little busy in my mind lately doesn’t mean I’m not happy, if that’s what you thought of me. In this world, among all Kings and Emperors, perhaps happiness is a luxury that only I can afford," he said finally.

"I’m glad to hear that. You don’t often show it, but you are happy. I’m glad to know. Then perhaps," she said carefully, "you need a queen who remembers what happiness looks like."

He studied her for a long moment, then turned to leave. At the door, he paused. "The feast tonight. Wear the blue dress with the winter roses. It suits you."

Then he was gone, leaving her standing among the orphans, wondering if she'd just passed or failed some incomprehensible test.

****

Margaery Tyrell stood before her mirror, but her mind was elsewhere.

The Queen selection. Tonight. Everything House Tyrell had worked for, schemed for, bled for, came down to this moment. Around her, seamstresses made final adjustments to a gown that cost more than most houses saw in a year. Gold thread formed roses that seemed to bloom across emerald silk, while pearls from the Summer Islands traced delicate vines.

"You'll be radiant," her grandmother would have said. But Olenna was dead, killed by an assassin who… might have been Viserys himself.

Stop, she commanded herself. That's past. Focus on the future. Plus I don’t know if it's him. There’s no confirmation. So I’d rather believe it's someone else. Tywin’s people.

"My lady," her cousin Elinor entered, carrying correspondence. "Lord Tarly sends his assurance of support. Lords Redwyne and Hightower as well."

"Good." Margaery dismissed the seamstresses with a gesture. "And the other bitches?"

That was a word she’d never use outside the confines of her room, but her cousin was used to it. "Lady Sansa spent the morning at her orphanages. Princess Arianne has been spending time with her mother and Lady Myrcella. The slave, Cersei, was seen spending time with them as well." Elinor's tone made clear that she wasn’t pleased with that part. As the previous queen, Cersei was a snake smart enough to perhaps influence this game. "The others seem to have accepted their positions as consorts rather than contenders."

As they should, Margaery thought, though immediately felt guilty. When had she become so cold? Sansa was the same girl who came running to save her right after assassins had tried to kill her too. She ought to be kinder. Was this what grandmother had wanted? To forge her into a perfect political weapon?

"Leave me," she commanded. When alone, she moved to her window, looking out at the city where Viserys's dragons circled eternally.

She'd been so certain once. Marry the king, become the queen, secure House Tyrell's position for generations. Simple. Clean. Everything she'd been raised for.

But then Viserys was different from Renly. Not just the physical transformation, though that was remarkable enough. The boy who'd conquered through dragon fire had become something else. Something that made her careful plans seem like children's games.

And worse, far worse, she'd begun to feel things she hadn't planned for.

The way he'd saved her from the Faceless Men, pouring his own blood into her wounds. The fierce protectiveness in his eyes when he'd declared her under his protection. The moments when his mask slipped and she glimpsed the man beneath the monster.

You're being foolish, she told herself. He's collected women like tokens. You're just another pretty thing in his hoard.

But was she? He could have had any woman in the Seven Kingdoms or beyond. Yet he'd chosen specific ones. Each serving a purpose, yes, but also...

"Sometimes. You think too loudly."

She spun to find him standing in her chambers, having entered through methods she didn't want to contemplate. He looked magnificent and terrible, black leather and dragon scales, every inch the conqueror.

"Your Grace," she said, dropping into a perfect curtsey. "I wasn't expecting–"

"Spare me the performance, Margaery." He moved to her wine cabinet, pouring two glasses with casual familiarity. "We're past that, aren't we?"

She accepted the wine, noting how his fingers lingered on hers. "Are we? I never know with you."

"No? That’s pretty cold." He settled into a chair like a cat, all controlled power and languid grace. "Then let me be clear. Tonight, one of you becomes queen. The true queen, not just in name but in authority."

Her heart raced. "And you want to know if I'm ready."

"I know you're ready. You've been ready since you were six years old and your grandmother first explained the game." He sipped his wine. "What I want to know is why."

"Why?" She echoed, confused.

"Why do you want it? And don't give me the rehearsed answer about House Tyrell's glory. Even if you don’t become Queen, you’ll live for hundreds of years. Till your current family becomes ash. So don’t think about them. Think about yourself."

“...”

His eyes pinned her. "What does Margaery want? Not the Rose of Highgarden, not the perfect lady. You. The frightened woman who was bloody on death’s door."

It was a simple question. But it shattered her composure.

No one had ever asked her that. Not grandmother, not father, not even her brothers. She was House Tyrell's future, and that was supposed to be enough.

"I..." she started, then stopped. Started again. "I want to matter."

A simple answer.

"You already matter,” he argued.

"No." The word came out sharper than intended. "I'm beautiful, yes. Clever, certainly. But what have I built? What have I created? Sansa has her orphanages. Arianne has Dorne. Even Yara has her fleet. What do I have except ambition and fat middle-aged lords who’d lick my feet in exchange for favors?"

He rose, approaching her with that predator's grace. "And if I told you ambition was enough?"

"Then you'd be lying." The words tumbled out, surprising them both. "You didn't conquer the Seven Kingdoms through ambition alone. You had power, yes, but also purpose. A vision of what the world should be."

"And what should it be, Margaery?"

She met his gaze, abandoning all pretense. "Magnificent. Not just strong but glorious. Art and culture flourishing alongside military might. A kingdom that makes even the old Valyrian Empire look primitive." Her voice gained strength. "I want to build something that lasts not just through fear but through wonder. I want bards to sing of our reign not as conquerors but as creators."

"Our reign?" He was very close now.

"I may be ambitious, Viserys, but I'm not delusional. No one rules alone, not even dragons." She reached up, touching his transformed face with surprising tenderness. "You need someone who sees beyond the next battle. Someone who can make your empire not just feared but loved."

"And you love me?" The question held an edge.

She considered lying. It would be safer. But something in his eyes demanded truth.

"I… think I could," she admitted. "If you let me. If you stopped seeing me as just another acquisition and started seeing me as–"

He kissed her then, not with the possessive hunger she expected but with something almost gentle. When they parted, his expression was unreadable.

"Tonight," he said, already moving toward the door. "Wear something that makes you feel powerful, not just beautiful."

"Viserys?" She called after him. "Did I give the right answer?"

He paused at the door, glancing back with those impossible eyes. "You gave your answer. That's what matters."

Then he was gone, leaving her standing in golden afternoon light, wondering if she'd just won or lost the most important game of her life.

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