Chapter Text
You disgust me, is not a socially acceptable way to greet the clientele of this esteemed soup kitchen, Viserys had quickly been informed.
“Merry Christmas. Spaghetti or lasagna?” he repeats each time a person passes him in the serving line. Some of them grumble in response, as pleased as Viserys to be here. Some of them try to tell him their whole life story. One, a short girl with hair in pigtails, tells him she likes his hat.
Viserys blows at the fluffy white ball at the end of the santa hat that keeps falling in his face. It’s not his fault that he’s so tall he has to lean down in order to plop the pasta slush he’s serving on the banged up tin platters.
“Sure, whatever,” Viserys tells that girl, sniffling haughtily when he casts an eye over the enormous hall. There was a sparsely decorated plastic tree in the corner that came waist high, tinsel spread haphazardly around benches, and the smell of industrial cleaning products in the air. On the speakers, All I Want for Christmas is You blasts at deafening levels.
Last year, Viserys spent Christmas on the same yacht as Mariah Carey, off the coast of Naath. This year, he was doing court-mandated community service before the end of year deadline. How the mighty fall.
It wasn’t his fault, Viserys whined to his mom and Rhaegar. A man wasn’t responsible for the things he did when he was heartbroken and also crossfaded! It was all that bitch Arianne’s fault, and he should’ve been sent to rehab, if anything. It’s not like he hurt anyone.
Rhaegar had shrugged and refused to fire the family lawyer for not getting him a lighter sentence, per Viserys’s wishes. Rhaella had been more sympathetic but then she started droning on about Viserys’s dad and his little episodes (yawn), so Viserys gave up.
Viserys had made the mistake of looking at what Twitter had to say about the incident.
This mans Viserys Targaryen deserves JAIL for spraying painting his PHONE NUMBER underneath graffiti 😅
The most-liked reply was and? he looked sexy doing it, which did make him feel a bit better. The next tweet said something like if this is what real love does to u i don’t want it. It had 35,000 retweets.
Twitter was a terrible place.
“Taking my break!” Viserys yelled at the head of the line.
“Ten minutes!” the grinch yelled back.
He tears off the stupid santa hat as soon as he steps outside, lighting a cigarette one-handed and taking out his phone with the other. There were a bunch of Merry Christmas texts, which was nice, and a few instagram notifications as well. Viserys checks those first, not feeling up to texting anybody back. They were all laughing behind his back, he knew, joking about how he was the family fuck-up. Two-faced motherfuckers.
Not that Viserys hadn’t ever laughed at his “friends” behind their backs. But that was different, of course.
He’s tagged in his sister-in-law Lyanna’s story for some reason, which is odd. Viserys doesn’t mind Lyanna but things have been weird between them lately. Even knowing, he isn’t expecting what he sees.
“What the fuck…” he whispers, cigarette falling from his slack jaw.
Welcome home from prison Viserys! the sign reads, held up by Dany, Jon, and Lyanna, printed in Soviet-style red and black lettering. The enormous Targaryen Christmas tree is behind them, and they’re all smiling happily in cozy outfits.
He’s tagged in it too, the @officialdragondildo that is his instagram account splayed prominently across the photo. Either Rhaegar’s wife is too stupid to know how to sub, or she absolutely hates his guts and wanted him to see this.
Which might be retaliation. But that wasn’t his fault either!
“Your plate’s so full, Lyanna, it’s like you’re eating for two,” he’d winked at her over Rhaella’s birthday dinner, her plate filled with Rhaella’s famous Tyroshi honeycakes. Dany had made it from their mother’s recipe, her and Jon cooking up a storm, their twin laughter and joking tumbling out of the kitchen down the hallways. Viserys had spent the day sulking in his room about his impending court date, and when Rhaella, his sweet mama, came to check on him after returning from the spa with Lyanna, they had one of their bonding sessions. The positive pregnancy test in the trash was a hot piece of gossip.
It could only be Lyanna. Daenerys was seventeen and didn’t have a boyfriend, his mother’s uterus had long ago crumbled to dust, and Lyanna… she and Rhaegar definitely still had an active sex life. Viserys could smell it.
It was only a joke, but Jon got all offended, and Lyanna cooed at her "fierce wolf pup" like the weirdo she is. Viserys thinks Jon is unhealthily attached to Lyanna, but whatever. Like father, like son.
He doesn’t know how to respond to Lyanna’s opening shots without getting everyone on his case about being rude, so he just blocks her.
***
Back in the shelter, Viserys is assigned a new spot at the drinks table. Promptly, a dirty hobo in ten layers of wool spills eggnog on his cashmere sweater, and Viserys shrieks. This is a Loro Piana, you cretin! he spits, do you have any idea how expensive —
“This isn’t a fashion show, you know,” the grinch who is his community service supervisor buses him into the steaming kitchens, guiding him to the sinks.
“That’s obvious!” Viserys trills, scrubbing at the gentle fabric with cold water and nearly vomiting at the state of the sink. He loved this sweater. “Oh, Jesus, this is going to stain. ”
“Take ten minutes,” she tells him, exasperated. He stands guard while his sweater soaks. He lights another cigarette too, figuring a little more smoke won’t hurt. There’s so much clamor with a thousand smells about, oil sizzling and pies rising. Viserys’s hands are shaking as he inhales blessed nicotine. Stupid idiot vagrants, he thinks scornfully.
A blonde girl sidles up to him, big blue eyes friendly. She’s pretty. Her smile is mischievous. “Spare a light?”
“Whatever,” Viserys mumbles, holding out the pack.
“Doreah,” she introduces through pursed lips, trying and failing to get his lighter to spark. He holds up a hand to block the breeze from the nearby door propped open.
“Didn’t ask.”
“You’re Viserys Targaryen,” she goes on anyway, sighing as she lets out a line of smoke upwards. Viserys thinks she has a pretty neck. Nice for holding onto. He watches her swallow to wet her mouth.
“Thanks, I hadn’t realized,” he rolls his eyes.
Doreah chuckles, meeting his eyes while she’s taking a drag. She’s flirting with him, he realizes. Women constantly flirt with him, naturally. Men too. “Heard about your spray painting thing. Must’ve been on the good stuff, hm?”
Viserys grimaces tersely. If he scares her off, though, he ruins the small chance that she’ll accept his offer of a ride later, and possibly blow him in his car. What was Christmas without a few ho ho hoes? “Yes. Well. Don’t do drugs, kids.”
“I know your sister, actually, she comes to my kickboxing gym. That girl can really kick ass! Do you two spend the holidays together?”
Doreah is referring to the self-defense classes Daenerys started taking a few years ago when some creepy hulking biker guy messed with her. She’s definitely gained both confidence and muscle from those classes. Rhaegar and his mistress Arthur Dayne had taken care of the guy in question, of course, but Daenerys still wanted to learn how to defend herself in case anything similar ever happened.
“I’m all about family,” Viserys says drily. This is taking too much effort—he doesn’t think he’ll try to hook up with her after all.
Someone calls her name, and she squeaks, putting out her cigarette in the bucket of cold water where Viserys is soaking his sweater. She grins and says she’ll see him around.
“Sure, whatever,” he waves her off, dumping his sweater in the garbage.
***
On his second break, he unblocks Lyanna. He watches her story again and clicks on his nephew Jon’s profile just because he’s tagged as well.
On his story, there’s a picture of Rhaegar and Lyanna dressed up as Ded Moroz and Snegurochka. They’re cuddled up together on the green velvet couch in the sunroom, mugs of something warm in their hands, with Jon’s freakish dog Ghost crowned with the snowflake kokoshnik that rightfully should reside on Lyanna’s head. They look disgustingly in love, and Jon’s written a sickeningly fond yet sarcastic caption as well.
Every year since Rhaegar knocked her up, Rhaegar and Lyanna have done this dress up thing. It was actually for Viserys at first, because Dany and Jon weren’t born yet, and in a deep dark part of him, Viserys cherishes that memory.
Why didn’t you bitches wait for me? he replies to Jon’s story. Jon sees it immediately, and the typing icon comes on just as fast.
don’t I have you blocked here lol
“Bitch!” Viserys gasps. He blocks him too and dials Daenerys. She picks up on the third ring.
“Viserys?” she greets, still giggling.
“Go somewhere you can talk,” he commands tersely. “Everyone is fucking with me today, I swear. What was the deal with that sign, huh? Twitter is going to eat that shit up! I don’t know what the hell Lyanna’s problem is, but her son is just as bad as her. Like, are we even sure he’s Rhaegar’s kid? Cause I am not convinced.”
The noise on Dany’s end has died down, which tells him she’s in a safe area now.
“What?” she asks, confused. “What are you saying? Jon’s not—”
“He made that sign, didn’t he? Dick. Kicking a man when he’s down, honestly, it’s so immature!”
“Oh, it wasn’t like that,” she assures him, “don’t be upset, Viserys, it’s Christmas.”
“And I’m spending it at a fucking halfway house for the dregs of society,” Viserys snorts. “Seriously, Dany, it’s so sick here. I’ve literally caught ten diseases just breathing the air. Oh, and where does Lyanna get off tagging me, hm? Who does that? She’s so goddamn old, I pity the baby, really. You and me are probably going to have to raise it when we put those geriatric fucks in a home.”
“What?” Daenerys squeals. “What baby?”
Viserys wants to smoke, but realizes Doreah still has his lighter. Bitch. “Oh, right, you don’t know. Between us, Mom found a pregnancy test in the bathroom with those two little lines. Gross, right? She’s a hundred years old, it shouldn’t be possible anymore.” Lyanna is 37, could pass for less, and is a fitness instructor on the side, but still. “You know, for her body. It’s grotesque. Pregnancy fucks you up, right? Makes your tits all saggy and your skin stretches out and your vagina gets all—”
Daenerys interrupts him, screaming like a banshee. “You are such an asshole, Viserys! Pregnancy and birth are beautiful and blessed parts of life and should be honored! How can you even talk like that?”
She says more, on one of her righteous crusades, and then hangs up on him. He calls her back but it goes straight to voicemail. Viserys doesn’t know why she’s been so damn sensitive lately, but he gives up and miserably stands there in the freezing cold in only his undershirt and santa hat, wishing he had his lighter.
He could ask one of the homeless people smoking nearby, but they’re giving him dirty looks so he doesn’t even try.
Why me, Gods? he laments his situation, feeling very firmly that he does not deserve this. Okay, yes, he’d taken the breakup hard, and sure, the spray painting incident was unfortunate, and he hasn’t been super present in the lives of his friends and family lately—
He wipes away a sniffle that is absolutely not a tear.
This is all Arianne’s fault.
She had broken up with him so suddenly! Sure, she asked him for therapy before, but she’d never said specifically what it was he was doing wrong. I thought we understood each other, he had whined embarrassingly to her voicemail the fateful night someone handed him a can of spray paint. How was he supposed to know that the empty wall was a grade school!? Viserys was on day seven of a drug-fueled bender. It could have been the presidential palace for all he knew.
Against his own better judgment, he opens a private browser and types in Arianne’s instagram. Was she miserable, like him? Was she drowning her sorrows on a beach, downing tequila sunrises and wishing he was by her side? Did she go to bed a mix of sad and horny and reach for her beloved cough syrup just to make the bad thoughts go away?
Instead, there’s a picture of her and some guy at a ski resort. There are other people too but Viserys focuses on the guy. Dashing Daemon Sand, who Arianne always promised him he “didn’t need to worry about.” That liar! That whore!
He scrolls down and while Arianne dating already pisses him off, the first comment he sees blindsides him.
“Targaryen!” his own personal Lucifer yells from a window, “break’s over, sweetheart, we need you back at the tables.”
Viserys wants to yell at or possibly kill her, but figures if community service is this bad, then jail is definitely too much for him. Besides, he can’t give Lyanna that satisfaction.
***
The Christmas from hell is never-ending. It’s fated to drag on forever. It’s some sort of time loop from a second rate sci-fi novel where only Viserys is aware that the day is unending and he’s powerless to stop it until he discovers the true meaning of Christmas.
“File this with your official before January 11th,” the grinch tells him, handing over a packet of papers. “I hope you learned something from this experience, young man. I truly do.”
“I’m—I’m free to go?” Viserys gapes.
“This isn’t jail, you know,” she laughs, but Viserys doesn’t stick around to hear it, just grabs his Burberry wool coat covered in lesser coat’s dander, brushing it off and bustling into his car before any one can say otherwise.
His phone connects to the wireless bluetooth automatically, and he calls Rhaegar while he warms up the car that’s been in -10 degree weather all these hours.
“Viserys,” Rhaegar answers in his normal deep voice, “are you returning now? We’re just beginning the mulling of the cider.”
“Great, whatever. Have you seen Arianne’s instagram lately?”
“Your… former partner Arianne? No, I cannot say I have, nor should you feed into a negative thou—”
You morally righteous dinosaur, Viserys scowls. “Very true, brother, and you should say it. But I’ve already done it, and what do you know, our dear mother commented on her last post! Do you think she has dementia? Be honest, because I did tell you she leaves the kitchen light on all the time.”
“That’s a trauma response she’s had for many years. As for the comment, well… I suppose it is a bit inappropriate, but Arianne was always very kind to Mama, and Mama was always quite fond of her in turn. What did she say?”
“Ugh, let me look it up,” Viserys pulls up instagram, breathing out a white cloud puff while the heater takes it’s sweet fucking time. “She said, ‘Happy Christmas darling Arianne, pleased to see you looking so well. Stay warm and safe, Rhaella xxx.’ Like she wrote out her own name in an instagram comment. Does she think this is an email?! Also, Arianne responded, and said, I quote, ‘thank you Miss Rhaella! Happy to hear from you, I miss our little chats.’ Rhaegar, are you listening to this? ”
Viserys thinks Rhaella needs to be institutionalized for this. Yes it’s very sad to do that over the holidays, but it’s for her own good.
“Oh, Viserys,” Rhaegar sighs, “why don’t you start driving so you can sulk over some hot cider, hm? You do love that.”
“You know what else I love? The stupid costumes, but you did that without me too!”
Rhaegar doesn’t even pretend to be sorry. “That? You’re a bit old for that now, aren’t you? If you truly wish, we can do it over again tomorrow, although between us Lyanna ripped some of the stitching on the side of hers. Irreparably so. This may be the last year of this.”
She ripped the stitches because your baby is making her fat, dumbass, and weren’t you always on my case about using condoms? He doesn’t know if Rhaegar knows yet, though. Viserys gags a bit imagining Rhaegar opening a gift and it being some pee-stained stick.
“Speaking of Lyanna! What the hell was that sign about? Can you put her on a leash or something?”
“You know better than to speak about my wife that way,” Rhaegar reprimands, voice going all iron. “And the sign was my idea, in truth. I thought you would find it humorous, although Daenerys informed me otherwise. She said you would perceive it as in poor taste.”
Oh, fuck him with a barbie doll. Viserys sucks his teeth.
Rhaegar (derogatory) hears that. “Something the matter?”
“I… I might have made our baby sister a bit upset earlier, and also possibly body conscious. I didn’t mean to, it just… ah shit, does she look mad to you?”
“ Viserys, ” Rhaegar sighs in that infuriating paternal tone. You’re not my fucking dad, teenage Viserys had screamed once when Rhaegar pulled that shit. A rare fire erupted behind Rhaegar’s normally calm eyes. You are very lucky I am not him, he’d said, and left it at that. “No, she’s sitting with Jon, but we have spoken about your temper before.”
“Yes, understood, bye now,” Viserys huffs, hanging up. He plays a folk music playlist to distract himself from his sorrows and then he just sits there, head slumped against the steering wheel. Could nothing go right for him today?
A knock on the window raises his eyebrows, Doreah’s blonde head smiling like an asylum patient outside. The cold did that. He rolls it down a crack, cursing at the precious heat escaping from the cabin. “What?”
“Just giving back your lighter,” she smiles brightly, “are you okay, honey? You look sad.”
“My family sucks and I hate them,” Viserys says drily.
She frowns. “Don’t be like that! It’s the holidays!”
“Sure is. Happy fucking Christmas,” he grits, grabbing the lighter and rolling his window back up. He drives off so fast he clips her with his mirror, but he doesn’t care. When Viserys gets home, he resolves, he’s going to drink his weight in cider, until he’s as stupid and senseless as whatever God saw fit to put him on this earth.
And if he throws up—well, he’s going to do it all over Ghost. Just to teach Jon a lesson.