Morning light crept up the collar of Viserys's robe, making the old scars left by the Iron Throne look all the more hideous.
The smile remained on Viserys's face, but the tension in the air had not eased.
He leaned against the back of his chair and tapped the armrest twice with his fingers. Just then, sunlight broke through the clouds again and slanted in from the balcony, falling squarely across his knees. This time, it illuminated not only his old scars but even every fold of his deep black robe.
Yet Lyonel's straight back relaxed only for an instant before stiffening again.
He knew that if he simply said, "Have the princess marry the prince," his dear friend Viserys would see him as another Otto, another ambitious schemer plotting for his family's benefit and presuming to meddle in the Royal Family's affairs.
He knew his dear friend all too well.
Gentle, indecisive, yet stubborn as stone when it came to certain matters.
Especially the question of his heir. He would rather deceive himself than face any proposal that might upset the balance.
Then I'll take another approach.
Something more radical, something that will strike at his deepest fears.
Lyonel raised a hand, signaling the attendant behind him to fetch some wine for his cup, then come forward and pour it.
The silver jug tilted, and amber wine flowed into the white porcelain cup, raising a fine layer of bubbles.
He lifted the cup. His fingertips were cold, and the warmth of the wine failed to reach the center of his palm.
"Your Grace, we all know you have been worrying over the choice of a husband for the princess." He set down the wine jug, his voice as calm as a deep pool. "But now there is something even