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Chapter Text

Daemon did not know what exactly he was summoned for, but the look on the faces of the Kingsguard was far from kind. More than that, he was dragged in a rather unprincely manner by Ser Harrold Westerling, his leisure after a busy night rudely interrupted.

The heavy doors opened with unpleasant screech, and Daemon stepped into the Great Hall. Upon the iron monstrosity sat his brother, clad in rich black robes trimmed with gold, red lining underneath. The king’s usually jovial face looked haggard, plumpness of his cheek melted, leaving only two big tired eyes staring at Daemon. The loss of his wife and child within one day was a blow he found hard to withstand. 

Daemon marched inside and stopped several steps before the throne, taking note of all the seven Kingsguard in their full armour and milky white cloaks.

“Did you say it?” came his brother’s quiet voice, yet it echoed all across the Hall.

Failing to grasp the meaning of the question, Daemon still a bit hungover from the night he spent in a brothel joked good-naturedly: “You cut the image of the Conqueror.” And so he did, with the crown upon his head and Blackfyre, unsheathed and pointing downwards.

Though, the king did not find the joke amusing, his face remained impassive as he uttered, coolly and formally: “You will address me as Your Grace, or my Kingsguard will cut out your tongue.”

The tone of the King’s voice was rather sobering. And intimidating. Daemon shifted on his feet, glancing around, as the Kingsguard put their gloved hands on the hilts of their swords. He could easily defeat most of them, but then again, it would be a waste of loyal knights and the royal family would have to search for new guards on top of all the problems they were currently facing.

“The Heir for a Day? Did you say it?” asked Viserys, his voice quivering with some deep emotion. 

Heir for a Day…

For some unknown reason, the words sounded differently from the way they did the other night. It was true, the words belonged to Daemon, yet what he meant by them was not aimed at hurting his brother.

“We must all mourn in our own way, Your Grace.” said Daemon, his eyes downcast to the stone floor.

“So you did…” said Viserys gravely, his own eyes welling with tears. “My family has just been destroyed, but instead of being by my side, or Rhaenyra’s you chose to celebrate your own rise! Laughing with your whores and lickspittles! Why do you cut me so deep? What perverse pleasure do you gain from that?” the king gasped, searching for air.

“I did not mean to mock you and I was not laughing.” said Daemon defensively. 

He was called the Rouge Prince and was notorious for his escapades, but this… Mocking his deceased cousin and nephew?

“As the prince of the Realm and as your brother, do I have the privilege to ask my king who brought these vile lies to him?” asked Daemon, unwilling to give up and let himself be slapped on his face as he always was.

Viserys was taken aback by the straightforward question, the answer to which they both new. He lifted his chin, as if considering whether to fulfill the request or not, then nodded his consent.

“Fine, I will tell you. Ser Otto Hightower imparted this to me. Does it change anything?”

A bitter smile crawled onto Daemon’s lips. Again and again Viserys trusted his Hand more than his own brother.

“Ser Otto, you say? The Ser Otto who goes daily and nightly to great lengths just to undermine me in all different ways?” 

“Ser Otto only fulfills his duties—”

“If his duty is to sow the seeds of discord, than he is quite successful.” spat Daemon. “Let him come at once and repeat his lies right into my face, if he dares.”

The king’s face gained expression which was hard to decipher. He pondered for a moment, but for Daemon it dragged much longer. Finally, he spoke up.

“Ser Ryam!” barked Viserys, looking to the Lord Commander. “Bring Ser Otto to me at once!”

Ser Ryam Redwyn bowed and left, shortly after reemerging in the company of Ser Otto Hightower, clad in his dark green doublet and wearing a smug smile across his face.

In honeyed but pitiful voice Otto gave “an account” of the nightly events. Yet, the difference was that he emphasised that Daemon mocked the dead prince, declaring to the people that he was the sole king’s heir.

A cunt!

Daemon never mocked his nephew. He was not that mean, and the words he said were that of mourning, sadness, anger at the Gods’ evil will. But never mockery… How easy it was to twist and turn one’s word according to your needs. 

For fuck’s sake, he would not let Otto slander him.

“Do you have your witnesses?” Daemon questioned, stepping forward to Ser Otto, while he took a step back, seemingly afraid of the prince’s ire.

“My source of information can be trusted and does not require to be checked.”  Otto uttered with disdain.

“Oh, is it so?” Daemon smiled even wider. “So, dare I ask you who is this source? Some street urchin or a whore?”

“It matters not.” Otto replied then looked to the King. “This information is reliable. I do hope Your Grace will not allow Prince Daemon to act with such impunity, disregarding you and the late Queen Aemma.”

Upon hearing his wife’s name Viserys whimpered and leaned forward, one hand clutching his chest, the fingers of the other tightening around the hilt of the Blackfyre. It was a pitiful sight, and Daemon straightened his back, ready to tell the truth of it all. He did not mean to mock his nephew, he did not wish to hurt his brother. The choice of words might have been incorrect, but without any deeper insulting meaning.

“Your Grace, as you were told, I spent the evening in the company of my men from the City Watch in a pleasure house. The Lord Hand calls our gathering a celebration. But let me assure you, the words I said were not aimed at hurting you.” he told sincerely. “I mourn your loss as much as you do, or Rhaenyra. There were quite a lot of people there at the moment, mainly officers of the City Watch. Why don’t you ask them, but find the words of some whore sufficient? You do not even need to seek my witnesses out and make them give evidence. They will do it eagerly and willingly. And, surely, as loyal subjects they will not dare to lie to their king, whom they are tasked to protect with their lives. But let Otto present his witnesses as well.” Daemon declared with resolve. 

Just as he expected, there was little to say. Otto narrowed his eyes and bit his lip, searching for some excuses or, mayhap, cooking another lie to feed to the king. Viserys looked thoughtful, a crease appearing between his brows and fingers weakening the grasp on the hilt of the Blackfyre, letting it almost fall. 

As moments passed, Viserys sighed, defeated. “What say you to this, Otto? Shall we question your spy and then Daemon’s witnesses?” 

“Ah, Your Grace, it seems to be such a useless waste of time, while you must rest and be allowed to mourn your losses.” the Hand said in a voice laced with care and sympathy. “Leave it to me, my King, I will sharply question those who were involved.”

“Those who were involved?” chuckled Daemon. “Me included?” he asked, wondering, if that overambitious grasping leech had the gall to question the Prince of the blood.”

“This will not be necessary.” came the king’s soft tired voice. “Can you present this person who allegedly brought this accusation before us now?”

“Now?” croaked Otto. “But, Your Grace… This… this was but a street urchin, looking for him will be tantamount to searching a needle in a haystack.”

“Does it mean that you cannot present your witness, Ser Otto?” asked Daemon, tilting his head.

“I— I can, but—”

“No ifs or buts, Ser. Your accusations were quite straightforward. But I get your point — you cannot.” the prince declared, smiling. Then he turned to his brother, who slumped on the throne and shifted his gaze defeatedly between Daemon and Otto. “As for me, if Your Grace allows, in the shortest of time the regiment of the Gold Cloaks will present themselves before the eyes of Your Grace and will give a detailed account of the yestereve’s events.”

A shadow ran across Viserys’ face and all of a sudden he looked frightened. The image of dozens heavily armed City Watch officers filling all the space of the Great Hall made him shiver.

Seeing his brother’s hesitance, Daemon continued, “Please, worry not, my King, they are as loyal to me as they are loyal to Your Grace. As their Lord Commander I made sure of it. So, shall I call for the witnesses?”

Before Viserys could speak, Otto said, looking intently at the king, his gaze hypnotising, like that of a snake: “Your Grace, for years we have joined our efforts to keep Prince Daemon farther from the throne. We do not want to have Maegor come again, do we?”

“Your witness, Otto.” said the King softly. “Can you present him now?”

“Your Grace, I insist that it is absolutely unnecessary, the prince only tries to divert your attention from the matter at hand—”

“Otto, will you?” Viserys interrupted,  beckoning the Hightower to come closer.

Relieved that he was called by the king, Otto climbed up the stairs and bowed deeply. His lips were twitching, forcing away the smile. By the looks of it, he was full of anticipation, hoping that Daemon would be banished once again, or even worse. Here he was - the object of his ire and envy, the Rogue Prince. He would be punished right in front of Otto’s very eyes.

“The pin, Otto.” came the king’s words, startling everyone in the Hall. 

“Pardon, Your Grace?” Otto leaned forward, as if he could not clearly hear what the king was saying.

This was enough for the king’s hand to reach Otto’s chest and with one sharp movement tear the pin of office right from his doublet. 

Otto gasped and made a step back, barely regaining his balance before he fell and impaled himself on the swords sticking out from the Iron Throne.

“Y-Your Grace?” he whispered, astounded.

“You are dismissed Otto. My brother is right. In the time of grief the House Targaryen must stand strong and you are sowing the seeds of discord.” Viserys ruled and Daemon felt a heavy weight falling from this heart. 

The next words were even sweeter. “What sort of brother would I be, if I trusted the words of noone over the words of my own brother? It is not what my farther taught me. Leave, Otto, leave, before I changed my mind and ordered to arrest you.”

His eyes filled with horror and disbelief, Otto bent in another bow and silently dragged his feet down the stairs and out of the Great Hall. He did not give Daemon a single glance, but the prince could feel the former Hand’s hatred even from the distance. He did not care, though, and neither was he afraid.

Heavily leaning on the Blackfyre, Viserys rose and descended the Iron Throne, the Valyrian steel blade clanking against the stones with each step. 

“Here. Take it.” the king said, stretching out his arm, palm up, the Hand’s golden pin glistening in the light of torchfire.

So, there were more surprises coming that day…

Daemon blinked, failing to grasp the meaning of the words, and even less of the gesture.

“Take it. Your king demands it.” repeated Viserys.

Slowly, hesitantly, nether believing his eyes nor ears, Daemon approached his brother. The pin felt cold, although the hands giving it were warm. 

“Ten years, you say. Ten years you have been longing for this position, but I declined. Perhaps, it is high time I agreed. Unless something else terrible happens.” said Viserys, curling his fist over Daemon’s.

It was… unexpected.

True, the prince wanted it for so long, but these were not the circumstances  he imagined.

Without saying another word, Viserys headed to the entrance doors, unsteady, swaying on his legs.

Oh… Was that it?

“W-wait! Where are you going? What are you going to do?” demanded Daemon, watching as Viserys passed him by.

“To my chambers. Drinking. Sleeping. Mourning. Doing nothing. Your are the Hand now, Daemon. You know what they say, don’t you? The king shits and the Hand wipes. Off you go, do your job.” threw Viserys over his shoulder and left, followed by his Kingsguard.

And so Daemon stood there alone, clutching a cold piece of precious metal in his palm. It was his, finally, after all those years. His. Yet, while one part of him was triumphant, the other was intimidated. What was he going to do now? It would be most embarrassing to fail in the position he had coveted for so long, more than that, fail in the eyes of his older brother.

“Fucking hells...” he muttered gruffly. Now he was Prince Daemon Targaryen, the Hand of King Viserys, First of his Name. 

Chapter Text

“We have certain changes on our council as we can see.” Lord Beesbury was the first to break the silence once the chairs around the Small Council table were occupied.

Daemon, who was sitting at the head of it, cleared his throat and measured the men in front of him with a stern glance. “Ser Otto Hightower proved to be a councillor whose counsel His Grace could not trust anymore. I was given the honour to continue the service in this office.”

The news was met with humming noises and exchanging of glances. Otto Hightower had been so long the Hand and sunk his claws so deep into the King’s mind that his dismissal came as a great surprise to everyone. Even for the better — it would serve them as a reminder that their position was fickle and they should not get too much comfortable, they had to earn it.

“And the King?” asked Lord Beesbury tentatively.

“His Grace is recovering from the stress and tragedy which has befallen on him recently.” clarified Daemon and looked at the Grand maester Mellos for confirmation of his words. 

The elderly maester nodded. “That is correct. His Grace’s health is fine, but not the spirits. We do hope that with the Gods’ help it will improve in time — time heals the soul much better than any potions.”

The council members hummed again and turned their expectant looks at Daemon. More often than not they had been mocking him, dismissing, disregarding. Partially, it was Otto’s fault and constant undermining, but to be honest, there were times when Daemon himself was cutting the branch he was sitting on.

Now he would do his best to show this bunch of old fools that he was not some wayward troublemaking prince. 

“Might I suggest the matter which we must address first and foremost?” Grand maester Mellos asked, and at first Daemon felt a wave of relief that the meeting moved from the starting point. He did not have a plan, actually, the one Otto Hightower usually had — a list of issues outlined on a piece of parchment and kept in a leather folder. “I must admit that this is the last thing we wish to discuss at this dark hour, but the matter is undeniably urgent.”

“What matter?” Daemon tilted his head curiously, ready to deal with it as best as he could. 

“The matter of succession. The recent tragedies left His Grace without an obvious heir.” Grand maester clarified.

“The King has an heir.” Lord Beesbury spoke up. “As the newly appointed Hand, I presume, Prince Daemon will insist on keeping his title of the heir to the King.”

“The King has not changed his mind and it is not within our competence to discuss the matter without His Grace’s presence.” cut off Daemon impatiently. 

Currently he really was at the highest of his power — the Hand of the King and his heir at the same time. Such prospect could cloud the mind of any ambitious man, it was intoxicating and exulting.

Yet, Daemon promised himself to keep his feelings in submission. The Heir for a Day incident taught him a lesson — keep your temper at bay and filter your words before uttering them.

However, scanning the councilmen in front of him, Daemon noticed frowns upon their cautious faces. It was a shame that they still perceived him as a “Maegor come again”. Perhaps, he had spent too much time creating that unflattering image.

“As the Master of Laws, can you comment on this, Lord Lyonel?” asked Corlys Velaryon, even after all those years grasping at the hope and fighting for his wife’s claim. “If— when the King returns to his duties, the question of his succession will be raised. And for the stability of the realm it must be kept firmly in place. I think it will be useful for us to address the issue beforehand.”

“The fact is that we do not have many options.” said Lyonel Strong. “Two obvious heirs, to be more precise. The King’s brother Prince Daemon and his daughter Princess Rhaenyra — a girl. The succession is already set by precedent and by law, and according to it Prince Daemon stands more chances to keep this position.”

The choice between his brother and his daughter would be fiendishly hard for softhearted Viserys, of that Daemon was certain. As he was certain that he would be forced to make it once back on the Council.

Lord Corlys did not seem happy with the verdict. “Let me remind you, my lords, that there are others who have a claim.”

“Such as your wife, Lord Corlys?” snorted Lyonel Strong — a staunch supporter of male claims over female. “The Queen Who Never Was.”

“Rhaenys was the only child of Jaehaerys’ eldest son. She had a strong claim at the Great Council, and she already has a male heir.” declared the Sea Snake proudly, his voice laced with self-righteousness and resolve.

“If we cannot agree on an heir, how can we expect—” began Lord Beesbury.

Somehow this bickering fanned Daemon’s anger. Who were these people to discuss the business of his family over the dead bodies of his cousin and nephew, whose ashes had just been blown by the wind?!

“Enough!” he exploded. “I will not tolerate this! You dare to discuss the matter of succession as if the King was dead! It is his will and his choice! We will revisit this debate once again in the presence of His Grace.” he ruled. “The session is over. Everyone is dismissed.”

Daemon was fuming at the audacity of these men. Their family was mourning, the King and the Princess devastated, whereas they thought of nothing better than stirring the wound and trying to realise long-lasting ambitions.

He badly needed Viserys on the council. The position of the Hand was alluring, but at the same time Daemon felt vulnerable and defenceless. His brother had always been supportive and together they stood more chances to arrive at better decisions, fight back those proud lords.

How was he doing, by the way? Daemon had not seen his brother since that conversation in the Throne Room. With that in mind he headed to the King’s quarters.

Arriving at the Viserys’ chambers, Daemon did not like the troubled look on the Kingsguards’ faces. 

“How is the King?” he asked, while ser Harrold exchanged a worried glance with ser Steffom. “Has he left his quarters?”

“Uhm… No, not in the past few days.”

Few days… Daemon intended to give Viserys some time to recover, but it should not have stretched for so long.

“Did he give any orders?”

“His Grace dismissed the trays of food, but asked to refill the jugs of wine.” reported ser Steffon, somewhat guiltily.

“You have been busy with the matters of state, my prince, and we thought it best not to bother you.” chimed in Ser Harrold.

“The condition of the King is the most important matter of state!” barked Daemon, angry at the passiveness of those men. 

Then, spreading like wildfire, his anger switched to Viserys. No way, he was going to leave Daemon to clean all this mess, without obvious heirs and a council the part of which hates him and the other fears.

“Announce me.” Daemon ordered, and was even more surprised when the Kingsguard silently opened the grand doors, letting him in. They did not expect to hear an answer, it seemed. It had been like that for some time.

Venturing into his brother’s chambers, Daemon armoured himself against whatever sight would welcome him inside. Viserys had always been a reserved and reasonable man, but the recent tragedy was obviously too much for him to bear.

“Brother?” called Daemon, finding himself in an empty antechamber. There was nothing suspicious there, everything cleaned and in perfect order. Going further, he saw a tray food left on a table, cold and still untouched. It was uncommon — Viserys was not the one to skip meals or deny food.

“Viserys!” repeated Daemon, this time louder. 

No answer. 

Tired of this hide-and-seek game, he marched towards the solar, but stopped abruptly when distant muffled noises reached his ears. 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, not this…” he cursed under his breath. These were the weeping sounds and they were coming from inside the solar. 

So, that was what his brother had been doing all this time — crying and weeping. Daemon shook his head in exasperation. “Seven Hells, he is weak. And only for the better I did not let the leeches from the Small Council feast on him and suck out whatever willpower still remained in him.” Daemon muttered, resolving to be even harder with the old farts next time.

Sitting on the edge of his ridiculously big canopied bed was Viserys. His face was buried in his hands, shoulders shaking, while he created the most miserable and vulnerable image. Disheveled and wearing just a loose red robe over a white linen shirt — a far cry from the imposing Targaryen king Daemon was talking to in the Throne Room.

“Viserys…” Daemon called once more, and this time it had the desired effect. The King lifted his face and looked at Daemon. His eyes, red and swollen, were haunted, unseeing… Well, they saw, but it was not Daemon standing in front of him he was seeing. They were veiled with darkness and sadness, the ghost of Aemma Arryn lingering in them.

“Are you alright?” Daemon stepped closer, tilting his head, intent on dragging his brother back from the world of dead to the world of living. “Viserys!”

Finally, it worked, the wall he built to distance himself from the outer world was broken.

“She is gone, Daemon, she is gone…” managed to say Viserys between the sobs and hiccuping. 

The abyss of guilt and regret was engulfing him, while the time he took for recovering did more harm than good. Daemon cursed himself, he should have spent more time with brother — the solace and wine turned out to be poor companions in fighting the pain and grief. Human presence was necessary for Viserys in this fateful time, family presence…

“Your Kingsguard say you rejected food and denied all visits.” said Daemon, frowning. 

“Not hungry.” Viserys shrugged. 

“Have you seen Rhaenyra?” asked Daemon, but was rewarded only with a shake of the head. “And has she come to check on you?”

“I do not know… but I doubt she will after—” he swallowed a sob not letting him finish the sentence.

So selfish. And weak. Daemon was beginning to rage internally, but quickly sent his anger into submission. Accusations would not help. Meanwhile, Viserys continued his self-depreciating torture. 

“What is the point for me to walk among the living when Aemma is not here anymore.” he whined.

Daemon frowned at that. His brother was weak. Thank Gods, he was there to help him in his weakness. 

“You are talking nonsense. Think about Rhaenyra—”

“I failed her!” Viserys shouted, snapping his head. “She is going to hate me! And she will be in her own right to do so! I hate myself too after what I have done to Aemma!”

Daemon gritted his teeth, battling with the desire to shake some sense into his brother. The undeniable guilt was there, but what was the point in ruining their lives further! It was true that no one deserved to experience such sorrow — the lives of beloved wife and long-awaited son stolen simultaneously. And yet, they had to be strong — for what was life but the battle of will against the elements and accidents.

“I cannot believe she’s gone… Aemma… my Aemma.” Viserys almost chanted his late wife’s name like a spell. Neither spell would help bring her back to life, though.

Seeing his brother’s poor state, Daemon desperately searched his mind for some words of comfort, he truly wanted to be that figure — like Viserys was for him when their mother died, and then the father…

As no suitable words came, an idea formed in Daemon’s mind. He had always been more of a man of action than a man of word. Several days ago he would have never ever thought about it — so absurd and at the same time bright and promising.

“There is something which you can do to honour Aemma’s memory. It will not atone for your sin, but might help to make your burden less heavy.” Daemon said.

Viserys ceased his weeping and fell silent for a moment. Lifting his tear-stricked face he locked his eyes on Daemon.

“Sp—speak it.” he commanded, and there was all the hope in the world hidden in his voice.

“Name Rhaenyra your heir. Surely, you must have one. I swear it would make Aemma happy. That despite all the failures she did manage to give you an heir.”

“You are my heir—”

“A placeholder.” chuckled Daemon bitterly. “No more than that. And you have never seen me as such, haven’t you?” instead of answering Viserys shamefully turned away his gaze. “Haven’t you?” insisted Daemon, mercilessly.

“I hoped to have a son one day… I had a dream—” began Viserys.

“Oh, please, enough about dreams, spare me, brother! Dreams did not make us kings. Dragons did. And it should go this way, if we mean to keep Jaehaerys’ legacy.”

Viserys shook his head in denial, finding it difficult to process Daemon’s proposal.

Once the idea settled in, the King squinted his eyes suspiciously and gave Daemon an appraising look. “But what about you? You are not the one lacking for ambitions.” 

True enough. But it was not a problem anymore.

Smirking, Daemon patted his finger on the golden Hand’s pin on his doublet. “This little thing gives me sufficient power to fulfill my ambitions. They are not endless, you know. And they will never prevail over my own family.” he said, closely watching his brother — surprise, incredulity and doubt were painted all across his face.

“Do you— do you think it will help? Naming Rhaenyra my heir?” Viserys’ words came barely as a whisper.

“I think so. We will see.” Daemon replied, his voice unwavering as was his intention. It would not bring Aemma back to life, but it would give Viserys the reason and Rhaenyra purpose to live.

“Fine. Fine. I will do as you say.” the King’s face brightened for a fleeting moment, but soon became contorted with grief and weeping once again. Inching closer, Daemon let him collapse into his arms, enveloping in tight embrace.

“I am sorry…” Daemon murmured with every tiny piece of his body and soul feeling that Viserys needed him at that moment. “I am here. I am here.”

Chapter Text

Another Small Council meeting was taking place and studying the sour faces of the lords in front of him, Daemon could not but think that he would have liked to be anywhere else, but there. “Golden Goose”, a pillow house he had come to enjoying lately would perfectly do. But, as the King’s Hand, he had less and less time for such simple pleasures.

The Lords were droning on about different issues, carefully avoiding the topic of succession. Last time he, as the King’s Hand, made himself quite clear that it should not be touched upon, unless told otherwise.

“Is— is that?” Grand Maester asked hesitantly, shuffling through the papers laying in front of him on the table.

Daemon shifted in his seat, as they approached the most interesting part. “Not quite, my lords. There is one more issue we need to discuss — that of the succession.” he announced, watching the councilmen who exchanged uneasy glances. 

“That most certainly we must do.” Lord Beesbury clapped his hands enthusiastically.

“I have discussed the matter with His Grace, King Viserys, who is still grieving the loss of his lady wife Queen Aemma Arryn, and we both agree that Princess Rhaenyra is the best candidate for the throne.”

Having said that, Daemon studied the faces of the councilmen — all of them a mix of shock and disapproval. Lord Beesbury’s eyes widened, his mouth gaping open; Lord Strong’s face hardened, his grip on his chair’s armrest tightening; Grand Maester Mellos winced slightly, this sudden movement accompanied by the clinking of the heavy chains hanging from his neck; the Sea Snake’s lips pressed together in a thin, disapproving line, his hands clenching into fist. His reaction Daemon anticipated the most, yet, Corlys could drown in the sea of his resentment, like his ships did when storm was raging, for all Daemon cared.

“Princess Rhaenyra?! A girl?!” breaking the silence exclaimed Lord Lyonel Strong, “But the precedent established at the Great Council—”

He did not manage to finish, though — the sound of Daemon’s fist slamming against the table echoed through the Small council chamber. All eyes immediately turned to him, surprise written across their faces. 

“Your daughters are girls, Lord Strong.” hissed Daemon, his eyes ablaze with fury, “Rhaenyra is a Targaryen princess, rider of Syrax. With all due respect, but can you see the difference?” he fixed the Master of laws with a steely gaze, challenging to disagree.

It was a peculiar sight, comic even, how Lyonel Strong — a broad imposing man, a wise one, bearing in mind several links of the Maester’s chain he forged in the Citadel — ducked his head in embarrassment, looking down at the table. Recently he had brought his daughters to court, two lovely ladies who per his request were made the Queen’s ladies-in-waiting. Yet, as the Queen had tragically passed away, Lyonel hoped to secure a place for them in the Princess’ household. Privately Daemon thought that it would be rather beneficial for Strong to have his daughters in such close proximity to the future Queen. 

Quite expectantly, the Master of laws ceased his protestations, giving way to another Lord.

“This is an absurdity!” exclaimed the Sea Snake, his face contorted with anger. “Rhaenys was a Targaryen princess and rider of Meleys, however neither of these allowed her to become the Queen.” 

Corners of Daemon’s mouth twitched in an attempt to suppress a mocking smirk. Corlys had ever been the staunchest supporter of his wife’s claim, fiercely protective of her rights, yet, how much of it stemmed from his real desire to see Rhaenys as the Queen, or was he mostly driven by his own ambition to become King-Consort and crown his children as future monarchs on the Iron Throne?

“Was she not, I am asking you?” Corlys demanded, staring down Daemon and the rest of the councillors.

“She was, yes. But please, Lord Corlys, stop mentioning your wife. She was neither chosen by her Grandsire, nor by the lords of Westeros.” Daemon waved him off, earning a glare and an indignant huff from the Sea Snake. “While Rhaenyra was chosen by her father, and others will bend their knees following the will of the King.”

“And how are you going to achieve that?” Corlys narrowed his eyes. “Lord Lyonel, what does the Andal law of succession say?” he addressed the Master of Laws.

“Ah…” coughed Lyonel Strong, shifting in his chair. “Andal tradition holds that the rights of a trueborn son come before those of a daughter.”

“Well, I am not putting forward my claim. Not, if it goes against the King’s will and rights of my niece.” replied Daemon, his hand reaching to the golden pin of office attached to his doublet, as if telling that he already had significant amount of power, almost tantamount to the king’s, and even slightly more, if the king was like Viserys.

“Let me remind you that there is another branch of royal family,” huffed Corlys in annoyance, “with possible male heirs, coming before female.”

“Are you talking about your son, Lord Corlys?” asked Daemon, narrowing his eyes. He had seen Laenor on several occasions, but even though the young man did not lack strength or wit, he was peculiar in many ways, and bore the name Velaryon, the fact Daemon would never accept.

“I suggest you keep Laenor Velaryon as the heir to Driftmark.” said Daemon, his  eyes sweeping over the Council chamber and then fixing on Corlys whose lips pressed into a thin displeased line. He would bend his knee as well, of that Daemon was sure. They would have to find a way to assuage the Sea Snake, but there was something that could win the proud lord’s favour, and keep him busy, too.

No one else dared to voice his concern, though.

“Is it— is it His Grace’s direct order?” asked lord Strong cautiously, his face still painted with disbelief. Daemon nodded in confirmation, bringing even more chaos to already chaotic Small Council meeting.

Frankly speaking, the prince did not expect such a reaction. He was a man himself, raised up in a men’s world, but to oppose a notion of having a Queen as their ruler right from the start was too much even for him.

“And as the Hand of the King you have not advised His Grace against taking such decision?” Lord Strong quizzed.

“As the Hand of the King I insisted on taking it.” sneered Daemon, causing another wave of gasps and awes across the Council chamber.

“This plan can work for the time being, until His Grace decides to remarry.” sighed Grand Maester Melos, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Daemon frowned at that. Such possibility had not even crossed his mind, moreover, it sounded preposterous — Viserys loved Aemma dearly and would never think of finding her a replacement.

“Tell me, Mellos, does taking maester’s vows also deprives you of all the feelings?” questioned Daemon, his voice filled with disgust. “You demand a grieving man who has just lost not only his Queen, but his cousin and the woman he loved, lay with another woman.”

The Hand’s words were met with humming of approval. All the lords seated at the council table had their wives and families, and whether it was fake empathy or their really shared the King’s grief, they sided Daemon in this respect.

“Perhaps, the Prince— uhm— I mean the Hand is right, Grand Maester.” Lord Beesbury nodded his balding head in acquiescence. “It is not the time to speak about such issues… yet.”

Faced with such open disapproval, Grand Mellos deflated. Burying his hands in the vast sleeves of his robes he muttered, “As you wish, my lords.”

At that point patience started leaving Daemon. Being Hand required a great deal of it, while he lacked it severely. Otto must have had nerves of steel to be able to spend hours droning on all the possible matters of state. No wonder Viserys delegated him most of his duties.

“The meeting is adjourned.” finally dismissed Daemon, as the lords began to stand and gather their papers, casting wary glances in his direction. Surely, they would rush to discuss the news and change in the line of succession as soon as they step outside the Coincil chamber. It brought Daemon pleasure to think, that when all of them thought House Targaryen was at its weakest, he and his brother proved otherwise, and even with the untimely loss of Aemma their line continued.

Once everyone left, Daemon took his marble orb of office and placed it next to the rest in the centre of the table. A small smile tugged the corners of his lips when he thought that soon, very soon Rhaenyra would join him on the Council, not as the King’s cupbearer, but as the heir. With that he made a mental note to commission a similar orb to his niece — of golden colour, like Syrax, that she would certainly enjoy. 

As soon as she learned about the news, of course, and he would be the first to tell her, as her uncle and as Hand of the King.

***

Finding his niece was not a particular difficult task. As a true Targaryen she preferred to seek comfort and company among dragons. Daemon’s eyes became drawn to Rhaenyra, as he gazed at her in the distance next to the Dragonpit. The warm, evening sun bathed her in golden light, making her skin glow with soft radiance. He inhaled deeply, fixing the moment in his memory, as the sight of his niece filled him with a mixture of fondness, desire and something deeper.

“I knew I will find you here.” he said, as he came closer to Rhaenyra. For a fleeting moment her face lit, making her look like her usual self, but it was too brief, vanishing as quickly as it appeared.

“Only Syrax brings me pleasure these days.” Rhaenyra said, her head hung low, shoulders slumped and eyes downcast. Her voice was tinged with sadness, yet there was also a hint of resignation there. 

It was true, there had been too little time for the princess recently, and even less for her grief. A feeling of pleasant anticipation bloomed in Daemon’s chest — he was about to tell Rhaenyra that from now on she would be the centre of attention.

“Your father—” he began.

“He just ignores me.” Rhaenyra huffed, not letting him continue, sadness and bitterness hidden in her voice.

“No, no, little dragon. He made you his heir.” Daemon said quietly.

The girl before him stilled for a moment, apparently, not believing her ears.

“He really did that. And soon it will be declared to all of the Seven Kingdoms.” he said, locking his eyes on hers — surprised and frightened at the same time. “You will make a fine queen. Much better than me — a king.”

“That—” she breathed out, “that is unexpected.”

Her confusion was strong, yet, it did not escape Daemon’s attention how her face lit with some deep emotion, the one he could not read at the moment, but certainly it was a pleasant one.

Her slender arms reached to him, wrapping in embrace. Tucking her head in his chest she murmured, “I thought father was angry with me… And because of that I was angry with him, too.”

“Angry? Why?” he gasped breathlessly.

“For letting him down… Not being something he wanted.” she sighed, furrowing her brows. “I mean, mother is gone, I am all what is left… and, sadly, I am not what he has been waiting for all these years.”

Anger started to bubble in Daemon’s throat, desire to hit his brother and hit hard, if he made Rhaenyra think that way. 

“Even if he has wasted years waiting for a son, he understands now how foolish he was. Sadly, it happened at the cost of Aemma’s life.” he said, tucking a strand of silver hair behind her ear and then wrapping tighter in his embrace.

Dark shadow passed across Rhaenyra’s face at the mentioning of her mother’s death, but it did not last long — letting out a shaky breath, as if banishing all the sad thoughts, she consented: “If that is what my father wants, I will do my best and try to meet his expectations.”

“You will not be alone in that.” lifting her chin with his finger he winked and cast a brief glance at the golden pin of office attached to his doublet. “Hand of the King is at your service.”

Another shadow — that of doubt — reflected in Rhaenyra’s eyes, “It means that you are no longer the heir—”

“Shh!” he hushed her, gently pressing his thumb to her lips. “I have never truly been one, especially in your father’s eyes. Please, don’t mention it again — I am the Hand and you are the heir, that is settled, and I am perfectly happy with my new position.” 

Upon hearing this, her arms wrapped around him, pulling closer, allowing him to feel the warmth of her body against his. A sense of comfort and contentment washed over him, and he could not help but return the embrace, his arms encircling Rhaenyra in protective grip. He could feel her hair against his cheek, the scent of her perfume wafting around him, and for a moment, all his worries and concerns seemed to disappear. 

“I am so glad you stayed uncle.” she murmured in his chest. “I was suffocated by loneliness and grief. Father avoided me, and only Alicent was near.”

“Alicent?” Daemon asked cautiously, pulling away. “Didn’t she leave with her father? Ser Otto was banished from the court.”

“He was, yes, but Alicent was allowed to stay. She is my friend, and in this time of grief a warm company is very much welcome.” murmured Rhaenyra sadly.

Daemon tensed at the mentioning of Alicent Hightower. Nothing good could be expected of the Hightowers, and surely, the auburn-haired girl was not an exception. He had a feeling for such people, unlike Viserys he could detect them a mile away. And as an example of this, each time Daemon found himself in the presence of Otto Hightower, his hand reached to the hilt of his sword, itching to cut the man’s throat for his brassiness and cunning.

***

Daemon could not be more right, when he thought that nothing good comes from the Hightowers. Later in the evening, as he was walking through the corridors of Maegor’s Holdfast, he was welcomed with the sight of Alicent Hightower. The closeness of Viserys’ chambers alerted Daemon — was she trying to replace Otto, who was always crawling like a snake near the King?

“Lady Alicent,” Daemon called, his voice making the girl flinch. “Good eve.” hurrying up his steps he stood in front of her. “Might I ask where you are heading at such late hour?”

“Uhm,” her eyes flickered downwards before she answered, then assuming the most innocent face she replied, “obviously, to my friend and companion, the princess Rhaenyra.”

A sneer split Daemon’s face in two halves. “It is obvious that you may want to bid good night to your friend, but it is absolutely not obvious why are you searching her in different direction?”

“Meaning?” Alicent had the gal to arch her brow and raise her chin in question.

“Meaning that Rhaenyra’s chambers are not here. These,” he pointed at the large ornate wooden doors guarded by two armoured Kingsguards, “are King Viserys’ chambers.”

His smile grew even wider as he anticipated her answer and how she would try to wiggle out from any dirty thing she had planned.

“Ah…” she gasped, then lightly tapped her forehead with her fingers and chuckled. “Silly me! I was so absorbed in my thoughts that took the wrong turn and went in the wrong direction.”

As cunning as her father, Daemon thought. He was about to say how fake and lame her excuses were, but that moment the doors to the King’s chambers opened revealing Viserys who stopped in the doorway, blinking owlishly at him and Alicent. There was a hint of recognition in his eyes, when they fell on Alicent, as if he was really expecting her visit, and it was not only Daemon’s imagination, but the girl — according to her father’s will or her own — did try to snake her way to the King.

“Your Grace.” Alicent dipped into curtsy, lowering her gaze in a shy manner.

“Brother.” Daemon greeted, nodding and folding his hands behind his back.

“Daemon, Lady Alicent, I was just—” Viserys gulped, stumbling on his words. He looked at Alicent once again, but Daemon’s presence clearly did not let him finish whatever he was about to say.

Alicent in her turn took the opportunity of not having been dismissed and apparently waited for Daemon to leave — only to sneak in the King’s chamber as soon as he did so. Hells, no way he would allow her that!

“Well,” the prince sighed, turning to Alicent, “It was a pleasure seeing you, my lady, and let me remind you once again that Rhaenyra’s chambers are over there.” he smiled feigning kindness and pointed at the far end of the dim corridor, lit by several torchfires.

Alicent pulled on a strained smile and gave another curtsy to the King. “I give you good night, my lords.” she said before leaving and Daemon only wished for her never to return again.

Meanwhile, Viserys’ face fell and his shoulders slumped as he was watching Alicent go. Was it not the first time she had seen the king privately? What was that special that she offered him and that he enjoyed so much? Surely it was not about some intimacy, since his brother had never been fast in such matters. Yet, whatever it was, he had something of his own to offer.

“Do you have some time for your brother, Your Grace?” he approached Viserys, smiled cheekily and placed his arm around the King’s shoulder. “I do hope you have some more space in that stomach of yours for sweets and fine wine in a good company?”

Taken aback by the sudden offer — and apparently change of plans — Viserys froze for a second, then nodded, letting a smile make its way to his lips. “It is.. unexpected, but I am eager to have a cup or two.”

Daemon smiled in return. The duties of the Hand lay heavily on his shoulders, and he was tired after all, but if the part of them presupposed entertaining the King and by that keeping greedy hands away from him, then so be it.

“Fetch two bottles of Arbour red.” he whispered to a serving boy standing at the doorway as he was entering. “And some berry tarts.” he added.

Chapter Text

When Daemon opened his eyes — slowly, and accurately, squinting from the bright sunlight — the world was swimming before him, while he felt the throbbing of a terrible headache. He lifted himself up sluggishly, his limbs feeling heavy in the aftermath of last night’s indulgence. As he raised his head, he took in the state of the chamber — chairs overturned, tables askew, and the air heavy with the lingering scent of wine. 

He rubbed his forehead, searching the mind for memories of the night — it all started when he shooed Alicent away from Viserys’ chambers and ordered a serving boy to bring two bottles of wine and some desserts. His eyes swept over the chamber — there were much more than the said two bottles. 

“Seven Hells…” Daemon groaned trying to focus, though the splitting headache made it a challenge. Bits and pieces of the night’s events started to come back to him — the clinking of goblets, rekindling memories of their childhood and life at court of King Jaehaerys, laughing, and the dizzying feeling of endless wine. The details, however, were not clear, as if seen through a thick drunken haze. He could not quite recall everything that had happened, beyond the obvious signs of debauchery and the overwhelming feeling of a terrible hangover.

Once the image before his eyes cleared a bit, he searched the chamber for its owner, but could only find the stone model of Valyria — to his horror, the King’s passion project presented a very undignified mess, covered with empty jars and bottles, overturn goblets, remains of cakes and tarts. With a sigh, Daemon rose and staggered towards the recreated Valyrian city, grimacing at its awful state as he came closer. While he may have previously dismissed this hobby as a waste of time and never appreciated Viserys’ efforts, now he found himself cleaning it up, straightening the pieces and tidying the area as best as he could in his hungover state.

Once the job of diligent cleaning was done, Daemon tilted his head, admiring the sight. Despite his initial skepticism about the King’s passion, witnessing Viserys’ fervour, dedication and the fruit of it — a rather beautiful meticulously crafted structure — made Daemon feel a pang of guilt. 

The initial dizziness started to wear off, allowing the prince to venture forward in search of Viserys who was still suspiciously missing from his sight.

“Ah, there you are.” Daemon muttered, finding his King in the adjacent chamber. Squinting through still bleary eyes he studied the man before him and the surroundings.

Atop the chaise lay Viserys, still blissfully unconscious, completely oblivious to the chaos around him. Daemon could not but grin, seeing the king not in a very kingly state: sprawled on his back, one arm hanging lazily over the side of the chaise, and the other flung back above his head, his legs crossed at the ankles and one knee bent awkwardly. His normally pristine silver hair was disheveled and pointing in all directions, shirt unlaced, hanging loose and exposing part of his chest, while his mouth hung slightly open, issuing soft snores.

Daemon’s smirk widened as he looked at his brother lying camatose on the chaise. Deciding that it was time for Viserys to face the consequences of his overindulgence, he picked up what supposed to be a jug of water and stood beside his brother’s head. With a playful gleam in his eyes, he tipped the jug and poured a steady stream of water onto the King’s face: as the cold water hit Viserys, he sputtered and jolted awake, his eyes flying open in bewilderment. He gasped and coughed, trying to make sense of the situation, as he quickly wiped the droplets of water from his face. His eyes darted around the chamber, disoriented and confused, until they finally settled in Daemon, standing there with a mischievous grin on his face. 

“What the…?” Viserys mumbled, his voice raspy and groggy. “What in the seven hells… Have you just thrown water on me?”

For a fleeting moment Daemon thought that he overstepped, and even though his relationships with the King had much improved in contrast with the time when only Otto Hightower had his ear, the Kingsguards would be summoned and ordered to throw him out for his disrespect.

A shadow of indignation passed over Viserys’ face, but it was short-lived — next moment he was laughing heartily, the sound of it so infectious that Daemon also found himself giggling uncontrollably. It had been the first time since Aemma’s demise that the smile graced his brother’s lips, and Daemon was oddly pleased, that he was the one causing it. He knew what happiness looked like on his brother’s face, and he could tell that it was genuine at the moment.

Having calmed down a little, Viserys sat up on the chaise, scrubbing the water from his eyes and trying to gather his thoughts. He looked around at the disarray of the room, the upturned chairs and broken glasses — the aftermath of their night of excessive drinking. As he rubbed his temples, trying to ease the pounding headache, he turned to Daemon, who was watching him with a mixture of amusement and concern. “Gods, my head...” Viserys muttered, his voice hoarse. “How much did we drink last night?”

Daemon could not resist the opportunity to continue his jesting, his smirk widening as he replied with a sarcastic tone. “You were drinking like a fish, brother,” he teased. “I lost count of how many cups you downed. Surprised you even managed to stumble back here in one piece.”

Viserys groaned at Daemon's remark, his head still throbbing from the night's excesses. “You know I was in mourning,” he protested weakly, rubbing the back of his neck. “And you were not exactly sipping on water either.”

“Of course, I was not. But at least I did not sing a rather off-key version of the “Bear and the Maiden Fair”. Daemon teased, leaning against the table. 

Viserys groaned, covering his face at Daemon’s words. “Please tell me I did not sing that wretched song in front of the whole court.” he mumbled, his voice thick with embarrassment. “A king should not make a fool of himself in such a manner,” he grumbled, running a hand through his messy hair. “To think I was drunkenly singing like a bard in a tavern…”

Daemon chuckled again, shaking his head at Viserys’ concern. “Do not worry, brother. We managed to keep our little impromptu concert confined to the walls of this chamber,” he reassured, gesturing around the room. “But knowing your singing... I would not be surprised if some of the guards outside had to cover their ears.” Having said that, he sat next to his brother, smile tugging the corners of his lips. It had been a long time since they shared a joke, mostly their conversations were held in clipped tones, throwing accusations at one another.

“Gods be good,” Viserys huffed, rubbing his chest and making a futile attempt to swallow a hiccup. “Anyway… How— Hic! How did we end up like this?” his eyes swept over the chamber, head shaking in disbelief.

“Well there was an intruder whom I, as the Hand, had to keep away from my brother, the King.” Daemon explained, still furious at Alicent and her clumsy attempt to wriggle away, while it was obvious that she tried to sneak into the King’s chamber.

“An intruder?” startled, Viserys glanced up at Daemon.

“Oh yes, one coming under the guise of a young charming lady. I thought we were done with the Hightowers at your court.” said Daemon, his voice laced with accusation.

“Ah— well, indeed, you are my Hand, and Otto departed to the Oldtown, as far as I was informed. I have not been following how things were going recently.” Viserys said defensively, although he looked clearly uncomfortable with the topic.

“What did Alicent want from you then?” Daemon pressed, intent not to let his brother sweep the delicate matter under the rug.

“Just a polite visit… Uhm, an act of kindness. She is Rhaenyra’s friend, and since relationships with my daughter have staggered, Alicent offered her help.”

“Help in what? Mending them? Alone in a company of a widower?” Daemon quirked his brow sceptically. 

“Come on, you are being too dramatic, Daemon.” Viserys puffed waving dismissively.

“Am I?” snorted Daemon, crossing his hands over his chest. A familiar unpleasant feeling of not having been taken seriously stirred in his belly, but he did not let it bloom, he was ready to argue with the King if needed. “As your Hand, may I advise you to stay away from her?” he asked, fixing his brother with a gaze.

“Gods be good! Stay away from my daughter’s lady-in-waiting? What would you have me do? Close the shutters and bar the door?” Viserys huffed indignantly.

“No.” replied Daemon curtly, not amused by his brother’s attempt at joking. “Send her away, to the Oldtown. If you are too kind for it — find a reason. You can refer to the fact that it is unbecoming for a young lady to stay without her father at court, unchaperoned.” he suggested.

There was reluctance painted all across his brother’s face, but neither did he want to argue about that.

“Thus I will anger Rhaenyra, I am afraid. Moreover, there is nothing particularly evil about the Hightower family.” Viserys offered in a placating tone.

“A belief which must be reinforced time and time again.”

“Pardon?”

“Ah, never mind.” Daemon waved a dismissive hand, his head too heavy to discuss Otto and his constant plotting even when he was outside the walls of the Red Keep. “I only ask you to mind who you admit to your chambers late in the evening. You risk to find yourself in a compromising situation.”

“There was nothing of that sort.” gasped Viserys. Yet, he had the decency to look embarrassed and drop his eyes, while his cheeks acquired a reddish hue.

Well, it seemed, Daemon managed to nip this little affair in the bud — Alicent did make her way inside the King’s chambers, but not inside his breeches. Now when Viserys was alerted, the easier it would be to get rid of her.

Viserys’ next words proved that it would not be particularly difficult. Once again his eyes swept over the chamber — turned into a mess after their sleepless night of drinking, as he uttered:

“Aemma would have slapped me for this”, the weight of his constant sadness was too much to ignore, bringing his thoughts back to his late wife, “she hated when I overindulged, and when I did so, I sent a page to her with a word that I had a headache and would spend night in my own chambers — only to escape Aemma’s wrath.” Viserys chuckled, his eyes wet and smile weepy. “She was a dragon as much as she was a falcon, my Aemma.” 

Daemon smiled but quickly averted his gaze, as a wave of memories washed over him. He tried to wear stern facade and mocking smirk as his armour on most occasions, but now he found it totally useless — the feelings were too strong, or it was Viserys who stirred them with his contagious sentimentality.

Unlike his older brother, Daemon was not a sentimental man, a man of action — yes, but not the one prone to tears and prattling about the past. Yet, he found it endearing — and even envied a little — that Viserys was blessed with two exceptional people whose presence was irreplaceable in his life. While he was shackled to a loveless marriage, a woman he hated in a place he despised — all because their Grandmother’s matchmaking skills were highly overestimated. Throughout her reign she rejoiced in the sight of her children and grandchildren getting married, but soon enough the consequences of it proved to be disastrous. 

“Since Aemma’s passing…” Viserys continued, his eyes bearing the same haunted expression as they did the night Daemon found him weeping. “I came to realisation that Rhaenyra is very precious to me… The only part of Aemma that is left. And such a fine one. She took the very best of her mother.”

Daemon’s hands quivered indecisively, wavering between the desire to embrace Viserys and the uncertainty of whether he really deserved that. He felt torn, experiencing conflicting emotions towards his brother: filled with a desire to simultaneously hit him out of frustration and anger for what he did to Aemma and planting doubts in Rhaenyra, while also yearning to provide him comfort and solace. As several moments passed, he finally decided on extending his arm out, hand reaching tentatively towards Viserys’ shoulder, not quite going for a full embrace but still making an attempt to offer a measure of comfort. His fingers ghosted over the fabric of the King’s shirt, as he murmured softly:

“I am glad you realise that. Let Aemma go — she would not like it, if you clung to her at the expense of your daughter. Rhaenyra needs you, much more than you think.” Daemon said, recalling recent conversation with Rhaenyra, and how she thought that Viserys was angry with her, as though it was her fault that she was born a girl, while Aemma died  because of the constant pressure exerted on her by the court and especially by the King himself.

“My daughter…” Viserys sighed, stiffening under Daemon’s touch, while troubled expression crept onto his face, “I am yet to tell her about my decision to make her heir.” 

“No need. She knows. As your Hand I took it upon myself to inform the Small Council and the Princess.” 

“Oh?” the King’s brows shot up, apparently, he was surprised to see Daemon so involved in his family and affairs of state. “And how did she take the news?” he asked cautiously.

“As a Targaryen princess and future Queen should.” replied Daemon, voice filled with pride. “She acknowledged the whole responsibility and is ready to meet whatever expectations are laid on her.”

“My brave precious girl.” Viserys  murmured, his features glimmering with pride and affection. Sadly, it took Aemma’s life to make him see that. “Alas, I will have to let her go — a moment I can postpone, but not forever.” he said with a tinge of sadness. “You cannot imagine how I hate to even think of it.”

Daemon tilted his head, not quite following the King’s words. “Meaning?”

“She is coming of age, Daemon.” Viserys gave him a thoughtful look. “And soon she will have to get married — she needs a husband and the Realm its future King-consort.”

The notion of giving his niece away was painful to Daemon. Not that he did not wish her a happy marriage, quite the opposite, but it was something deeper and more complicated. She was his little Rhaenyra — had always been — and to see her given to some other man filled him with resentment, fear and rage.

“Ser Laenor would be an obvious choice,” Viserys muttered, rubbing his forehead pensively, “at least the one expected of me. Our parents would have liked it: joining the two branches of our House, assuaging Rhaenys and the Velaryons.”

A snort escaped Daemon’s lips, “Laenor? Are you serious? If the whispers about our cousin’s son are true, you will condemn Rhaenyra to a shameful and loveless marriage.”

Viserys shot him a doubtful glare before saying in a dismissive tone, “Perhaps, these are just whispers which should be given to the wind. It is only natural for people to spread them, especially about royal family.”

Daemon scoffed at the naivety of his brother, wondering if it was wilfull blindness or he really could not see the obvious.

“I am telling you, his interests lie somewhere else, not under women’s skirts or between their legs. Laenor will be indifferent to Rhaenyra.” he insisted.

“And neither will he hurt her.” Viserys offered. 

Daemon looked at him, unconvinced. 

But then another thought struck him… What did he actually say?! Hurt? The word sent Daemon’s mind into wild rage — the one who dared to hurt Rhaenyra would not stay long in this world, being fed to Caraxes would be the most merciful death for him.

What had actually prompted Daemon to say his next words, whether it was boldness instilled in him with the position of Hand, or these were close and intimate moments he shared with his brother, but before he could stop himself, the words left his lips:

“Give her to me.”

And as soon as he spoke them, the whole idea of marrying Rhaenyra took shape in his mind, promising the brightest future he could even hope for. A Valyrian beauty he adored from the cradle, and the future Queen he would strive to protect and support.

The King, however, neither shared his sentiment, nor appreciated how wonderful the plan was.

“Huh?” Viserys made unintelligible noise, startled by the sudden proposal. He sat straight on the chaise, a crease appearing between his brows. “This— this is impossible.” 

“What makes it so?” huffed Daemon, already anticipating the possible arguments.

“You are already wed!” the King explained, throwing his hands in the air.

“Come on, Viserys, stop calling this farce a marriage! Only our grandmother Alysanne could have seen it as such.” the prince retorted, his voice rising.

“And yet, you have given your vows and are joined in union in the eyes of the Seven—”

“Fuck the Seven!” Daemon exclaimed in irritation, feeling anger bubble in his throat. “You are the King and it is in your power to dissolve it!”

Having said that he was rewarded with a reproachful look, the one reminding him of his parents’ when he as a child did something wrong or partook in a mischief.

“I am the King, yes, but my power is not infinite.” Viserys said sighing, and this stance made Daemon curious: was it a clumsy attempt at fake humbleness or his brother was really that stupid not to realise how much power and authority he held in his own hands.

“Only you set the limits to it, Viserys. And believe me, annulling a marriage which has not even been properly consummated does not mean that you are corrupted by power.”

Viserys gazed at him with mix of incredulity and exasperation. “It is not that simple.”

“Rhaenyra needs protection and in her new status even more. I am one of the most accomplished swordsman in the Realm, rider of Caraxes, and now the Hand of the King. Only a madman will try to go against me and my lady wife.” Daemon said, his tone earnest, almost pleading. Viserys had to understand that — if he loved Rhaenyra as much as he claimed he did.

Meanwhile, doubts painted the King’s face — clearly he took his proposal into consideration, did not dismiss straightaway as he used to do with Daemon’s plans and ideas when Otto poured poison in his ears daily and nightly.

“Give Rhaenyra to me.” Daemon repeated, locking his eyes on Viserys. “And we will restore the House Targaryen to its proper glory.”

Viserys’ face, much to Daemon’s displeasure, set into a kingly mask, the one he usually wore at Council meetings or when he held Court, thus looking distant, aloof with slightly noticeable benevolence.

“The matter is too delicate and involves presence of the Lady Rhea as well as of my daughter.” he declared, making Daemon sit on the edge of his chair. 

A straightforward man himself, he hated dubious answers. Furrowing his brows he asked:

“Is it a “no”?” 

“I haven’t said that.”

“A “yes”, then?” Daemon could barely hold himself from grabbing his brother by the shoulders and shaking him. As the whole idea of marrying Rhaenyra took shape in his mind, stirring all-encompassing desire to have her, he needed answer — now. 

“I must think.” came the reply, making Daemon almost groan in frustration. “But,” Viserys continued, putting on a reassuring smile and reaching to pat Daemon on the knee, “you are my Hand, and I will take your advice on the matter in the most serious consideration. I know you wish only the best for Rhaenyra and so do I. Together we will come to the right decision.”

Daemon took a deep breath to say that there was nothing to think about, he would treasure and cherish and value Rhaenyra, if only given a chance to do so, but these words and reassurances remained unsaid — a knock on the door resonated across the chamber and ser Harrold’s troubled face peeked in.

“Your Grace? Is everything well?” the knight asked, schooling his face into neutral expression and pretending not to notice the aftermath of the night of excessive drinking: the room in total disarray, upturned chairs and broken glasses. The King and the Prince of the Realm looked none the better — half-dressed, puffy-faced and with clear signs of heavy hangover.

“Yes, yes, I slept in a little.” Viserys smiled sheepishly, casting a short glance to the window, through which filtered the afternoon sun. “And then I decided to have an early meeting with my Hand.” he said assuming serious expression and gesturing towards Daemon, somehow disregarding their disheveled state.

Ever loyal to his King, ser Harrold nodded and retreated, giving way to the servants and grooms who started bustling about, clearing up the mess they created at night.

Watching their deft movements, Daemon felt something in his chest squeeze painfully, and then came a burning sensation, a strong desire to be closer to Rhaenyra, have her as close as only husbands and wives could. It was the King’s voice that brought him back from his musings.

“Daemon?” he called in a soft voice, willing to keep the intimacy of their conversation, just as it was before the intrusion of Ser Harrold and servants. “This whole thing about Rhaenyra’s marriage… I— I,” he stuttered, overwhelmed with emotions, “I wish to see my daughter contended, happy even. You are my Hand,” Viserys said, laying emphasis on the last word, “and I promise to seek out your advice before making any decisions. There is just one thing I wish to ask… about the choice of groom.” he fell silent and swallowed thickly, the words he was about to say bringing him pain and shame. “I let Aemma wither away, thought that she could do her duty, as I tried to do mine. I was wrong. And blind. The man who will be given Rhaenyra’s hand must not be like me.” he said in barely more than a whisper.

As Daemon watched his brother’s face — again haunted by visions of his late wife — a flood of his own emotions and conflicted feelings washed over him: pity for Viserys and at the same time anger at him; sadness for Aemma; the weight of duties and desire to prove that he was a better Hand than Otto Hightower; and on top of it all was deep affection he had for Rhaenyra. Who else but he understood her nature, aspirations and even weaknesses?

With that Daemon set up his mind. They could spend hours or days discussing Rhaenyra’s potential suitors with the Council, but the answer was already known — he would be the last man standing.

Chapter Text

Daemon was filled with anticipation as he was making his way through the corridors of the Red Keep. Nodding absentmindedly to the courtiers who stopped to pay him respect, he was all consumed by the thoughts of upcoming Small council meeting. The novelty of being Hand of the King had not yet worn off, moreover, this time it promised to be more exciting, as they would finally be joined by Viserys who broke his period of mourning and Rhaenyra — not in the status of the cupbearer, but as the King’s chosen heir. 

His mind was relishing every detail of Nyra’s features when he told her the news — surprise, fear and then understanding that she was seen as worthy of this position. 

As the prince turned the corner, he was welcomed with the sight of a person he thought so much of — Rhaenyra was approaching him, her hurried steps betraying her anticipation to attend the Council meeting. Daemon stole glance at her before making himself seen: Rhaenyra was clad in a gown of deep, wine-like red that made her appear like a rose in full bloom. The fabric hugged her slender waist and flowed to her feet like waterfall. There was a small golden tiara shimmering in her silver hair, the one her mother used to don on more formal occasions.

As Rhaenyra caught Daemon’s eye, a small smile appeared on her lips. She seemed to glow with calm confidence, a contrast to the recent air of melancholy which surrounded her. 

It took him a moment to realise that there was levity in his niece for the first time in long days. Since Aemma’s passing her face had born painful expression, dresses she had chosen were either simple black or those were riding leathers. Until that day. It seemed Rhaenyra embraced the idea of being an heir to the Iron Throne and decided to carry her new position with all dignity and seriousness it presupposed. Actually, both of them underwent through life-changing experience with their new roles. If only Viserys had known, that putting more trust in his brother and daughter, granting them more power would change them so much and save from grief. 

They walked towards each other, their steps echoing in the hallway. Daemon took her hand in his, raising it to his lips in a gentle kiss. He inhaled deeply, savouring the scent of citrus and lavender — it stirred even deeper desires, which he had to banish before they bloomed into passion right in the corridor of the Red Keep.

“You look radiant.” he murmured, his gaze roaming over her figure appreciatively. 

Rhaenyra’s faint curve of the lips turned into a wide smile, her violet eyes shining brightly. “Mother always told me that women bear no swords but can command respect and convey their authority by the way they dress, speak and move. We should catch the men’s eye, disarm them with our beauty.” she said softly, a tinge of pink colouring her cheeks.

“Such beauty can disarm any man, of that I can assure.” Daemon complimented, offering her his arm to lead to the Tower of Hand.

***

As they walked into the Council chamber, the King and his councillors were already seated around the grand table, marble orbs of different colour put in their designated places. There was a hint of surprise on Viserys’ face once his gaze fell on his brother and daughter — apparently, he was not expecting to see them enter together, and the sight of them side by side seemed to amuse him. He glanced from one to the other, his eyes lingering for a moment on their entwined hands before shifting back to their faces. The initial surprise, however, was quickly replaced by a small smile, as if he appreciated that unexpected show of unity between his former and current heir.

“Have all the Houses responded to our summons?” inquired the King once everyone settled down, his eyes never leaving Rhaenyra’s face. It was as if he could not get enough of her image — wearing Queen Aemma’s tiara she looked even more like her mother in her prime years, not withered by numerous pregnancies and saddened by the subsequent losses.

“Most of them, Your Grace.” informed Daemon, straightening in his seat — a large armchair with a hand carved on the top of its high back.

“Most of them?” Viserys huffed impatiently, turning to look at him. “How so?”

The King’s previously amiable face darkened with displeasure. It was a matter of concern to Daemon as well, since he expected prompt responses from all the lords and lords paramount. Yet, as if joint by some stubborn force Houses Hightower, Redwyn, Florent, Peake and Fossoway had not sent ravens confirming their presence at Rhaenyra’s initiation ceremony. Though, his worries were dismissed when on the way to the meeting he popped in the rookery and found out that a raven came bearing news from the Oldtown.

“There were some delays in responses, but I hope it will be settled in a moment.” Daemon said knowingly. With that he reached to the inner pocket of his doublet retrieving a tightly rolled parchment sealed with the Hightower sigil.

However, once Daemon’s eyes scanned the contents of the parchment, he crumpled it in a fit of rage, without even bothering to show it to the king. To his great dismay, it said — in a very straightforward manner — that the Hightowers and some other lords of the Reach refused to come to Kings Landing and pledge oath to the Princess. 

“What’s in there?” asked Viserys, his face growing even darker. 

“The Hightowers. They call naming Rhaenyra as heir a half-measure and expect the King either to remarry or choose some alternative way to deal with the succession crisis.” Daemon spat, the words bitter and sticky on his tongue. All his life he had no love for the Hightowers, and even now, when the court was rid of Otto Hightower’s presence, they continued to cast shadow over their existence.

“Somehow this is not surprising.” commented the Sea Snake, his voice tinted with dislike. “Not many lords were eager to embrace the fact that Rhaenys might have been ruling Queen.”

Daemon shot him an angry look and bristled, but before harsh words escaped his lips, Viserys’ booming voice echoed across the chamber, causing many to wince away.

“How dare they!” he shouted. “Defy me — their King! Rebel against my royal will and my chosen heir!”

It was such an unusual behaviour for otherwise amiable and peaceful Viserys Targaryen that the Council ducked their heads and lowered their eyes, afraid of his wrath. Perhaps, the pressure that had come on him lately was too much, and he reacted as a Targaryen should — by unleashing his dragon nature and flame.

“I declare war!” he slammed his fist down on the table with such force that the goblet in front of him wobbled precariously on the edge. For a moment, it looked as though he was about to throw the goblet across the room, but before he could, he took a deep breath and managed to control himself. He sat back in his chair, still seething with anger, but managing to keep it contained for the moment.

As Daemon stifled a surprised gasp, an amusing thought crossed his mind: with the world of difference that lay between them, there was one thing he had in common with his older brother — they both loved Rhaenyra, and this love was more than any force or element in the known world, making them rage and spit fire at anyone posing a slightest threat.

“A war?” gasped the Matser of Coin, Lord Lyman Beesbury. Despite his grey receding hair and respectable age, he had not lived through a single war — the peaceful reign of King Jaehaerys was followed by Viserys’ reign filled with tourneys, balls and overall prosperity. Thus, mentioning of war scared the elderly lord, making his fingers tremble and eyes widen in panic.

“Yes! The crown is not at war, but we will start one if needed!” barked Viserys, casting a worried look at his daughter who upon hearing the news paled a little.

“Perhaps,” again came Lord Beesbury’s hesitant voice, “Lord Hightower has not grasped the whole notion yet, and needs more time to accept such— uhm— peculiar order of things.”

“Peculiar order of things?” roared the King, defending the idea to make Rhaenyra heir with such vehemence that it left Daemon wondering, would Viserys have come to the idea himself, if  he had not proposed it to him first. “There is nothing peculiar in a woman ascending the throne, we are Valyrians, for Gods’ sake, and absolute premogeniture dictates who would be the next king or queen.” he fumed, somehow forgetting that he was chosen over the woman himself.

Daemon cared not about Rhaenys, though. Now they were writing their own history and it happened so that he found himself in the very centre of it. He had been plagued by selfdoubts since the pin of office was pressed in his hand by the King. Wasn’t it the chance to prove his worthiness? Proposing Rhaenyra as the heir was a risky step, yet he took it and since then it had been his aim and responsibility to defend her position.

“Your Grace…” spoke Daemon amidst the sea of curses and threats poured by his brother upon the Hightowers. “My King!” he called louder, this time grabbing Viserys’ attention who, as if awoken from some slumber, looked at him owlishly. “In the view of recent tragedies some of the Houses may see the crown as weak.  Nevertheless, they should obey their liege Lord whatever his condition. Perhaps, the presence of the crown and a dragon will sharpen minds of those who risked to rebel.” he said, and the thinly veiled threat rolled across the Council chamber making the men shiver.

“But we do have consent of other Houses, don’t we?” interjected Lord Lyonel Strong, his bushy brown brows furrowed. As the Master of Laws he was supposed to oversee the legitimacy of the act.

“We do.” nodded Daemon in confirmation. “We will have them pledge their oaths of obesaince to King Viserys and his heir Princess Rhaenyra, and then, if the lords of the Reach still insist on their stupidity, they will face with the consequences, if it please Your Grace.” Daemon ruled, at the same time watching his brother’s reaction. “Although, it is unlikely that few Houses, whether large or small will dare to defy the King and all other Houses of Westeros.”

Never ever had Daemon thought that it would be he whose role would be to placate Viserys — a man who abhorred violence and tired to avoid wars at any cost. But such defiance on the part of the Reach was more than that, for Viserys it was a threat to his daughter — his last and only connection to Aemma, whose loss affected him enormously. It seemed, that having failed to protect his wife, having pushed her to her limits, the King set his mind to protect Rhaenyra, swipe anything from her way, even the slightest threat. Daemon could not but admire that. And he was happy that he was the Hand at that moment. Otto Hightower would surely try to placate the King, speak out if it, dissuade, thus undermining Rhaenyra and Viserys’ own authority. Daemon’s approach would be different. He would play at diplomacy first, plan the strategy and then make a show of force destroying the lords of the Reach and their Hightower lord. It was necessary to make a display of their humiliation and show that House Targaryen was not to be trifled with.

The course of action which Daemon proposed seemed sufficient for the time being and was met with approval of all the councillors including the King himself. They proceeded with the discussion of the initiation ceremony and the following celebrations. 

Meanwhile the King visibly deflated, resembling more of his usual self. There was a tinge of embarrassment painted all over his face as he processed his outburst. Reaching for his daughter’s hand — albeit somewhat shyly — he patted it gently. Feeling his touch Rhaenyra stiffened a little, but soon relaxed, even squeezing his fingers lightly in response to his gesture.

“Don’t worry, dear, it is a huge mistake they are making, and they will be punished accordingly.” Viserys promised, affection ringing in his voice. And as much as he wanted to be caring and protective, Rhaenyra’s lips pursed into a thin line, some vague emotion marring her features. She did not let it take over her, though, instead tilting her head in acknowledgment of his promise.

Before leaving, Daemon whispered to Grand Maester Mellos to administer the king some calming draught. He became so overwhelmed with emotions, that taking into account his current delicate state, it could worsen his health or urge to take prompt actions, while they needed to tread carefully. 

***

As Daemon and Rhaenyra were waking through the halls of the Keep, their steps and minds were devoid of the levity which carried them to the Council chamber. 

“Do they really not want me?” Rhaenyra questioned, her eyes filled with doubt which Daemon wished to assuage that instant. 

“They do. Most of them.” he reassured, grasping at Rhaenyra’s hand and squeezing it in a supportive gesture. “But there are always malcontents. The Hightowers might be disgruntled that the member of their House was dismissed from his office and minor Houses followed suit, hoping to benefit from the situation. Fools!” he muttered gruffly. “But banishing Otto Hightower was the right step — he has no place at your father’s court. If Lord Hobert thinks otherwise, he should be humbled. And that I will do.” Daemon promised with growing anticipation. His service as the Kings’s Hand promised to be not so boring as he expected it to be.

“Will you go to war against him?” Rhaenyra asked, her tone worried, as she took his hands in hers and brought to her chest.

“I would, if I were who I was before. But as the Hand I must be aware of the fact that it is precarious to start a fresh page of Viserys’ reign with you as his heir with violence and bloodshed. I will try to negotiate first.” 

As much as Daemon wished to jump on Caraxes, fly to Oldtown and burn the Hightower to ashes, he could not do that. For princess’ sake in the first place. 

A shadow of doubt and concern fell on Rhaenyra’s face — his little niece was struggling to embrace her new role and act as an heir should, yet the hurdles on her path occurred even before she made the first step.

“What is it?” Daemon tilted his head curiously and gently lifted her chin with his finger.

“I do not wish to be the cause of war.” she said, knowing full well that they would have to start one, if diplomatic means and negotiations failed.

“Not war exactly.” Daemon hummed, “A rebellion, perhaps.”

“If so, I will go to suppress it with you—” she began bravely, but was interrupted by an approaching group of nobles. Seeing them, Daemon pulled away, thus breaking their intimate moment.

Having acknowledged their bows and curtseys accompanied by soft murmures of “Princess” and “Lord Hand”, he turned back to Rhaenyra, mirth playing in his eyes.

“You and Syrax? What a sight! Fearsome enough to make everyone flee from the battlefield.” he chuckled, winning another blush from his niece. 

Yet, next moment a slight crease appeared between her brows in response to his innocent jest, and he rushed to placate her. “Don’t let these thoughts darken your mood. Think about all those lords who will come to pledge you their oath. They need to see their future Queen strong and blooming. So, smile, rest, and let me and your father plan our next move.”

“But I do not wish to be perceived as a mere decoration!” Rhaenyra protested, her voice laced with resentment. “My father’s words at the meeting, and now you… Are you always going to pamper and protect me, like a child, like some helpless little girl who needs to be given everything on a silver platter, even the crown?” she demanded with a lift of her chin, assuming her new status with increasing responsibility.

“To pamper and protect — yes,” Daemon smiled warmly in response, “but not like some helpless little girl, but as the most precious treasure.”

She flushed at first and opened her mouth to protest, but there was something in Daemon’s stare that softened her, calmed her ire — and there she was, head tucked into his shoulder and arms wrapped around his waist.

“This is going to be difficult, I will not lie.” he murmured in her hair. “But we must bear the burden which others cannot even imagine. I promise to carry this weight with you, if you allow me to.” The answer did not come, but by the slight motion of her head he took it as her silent consent.

Chapter Text

Standing on the lower step of the Iron Throne Daemon was watching the lords like a hawk, his eyes narrowed in silent vigilance and fist clenched tightly around the hilt of the Dark Sister. One by one each of them stepped forward, knelt, recited the oath and then returned to their position according to importance and wealth of the House.

Daemon orchestrated this turn of events and persuaded Viserys to name Rhaenyra his heir, thus making the Council gasp in indignation and the Velaryons choke on their own bitterness. Back in 101 AC Viserys was chosen over Rhaenys mainly because he was a man and now he dug deeper into the wound of their cousin’s pride by naming a woman the future queen. But it is only fair that life is unfair: some gain, whilst others lose, and the Velaryons would have to live with it, Daemon thought. 

And here Rhaenys and Corlys stood… no, knelt in front of the Iron Throne, the king and his daughter, pledging an oath of allegiance. Good for them that they chose not to show disobedience, like foolish lords of the Reach did. They would be answered with fire and blood, if they did not declare for their rightful king and future queen.

There was, however, one missing person, whom Daemon did not wish, but expected to see. Lady Rhea Royce, the Bronze Bitch — the woman he had the misfortune to be tied to with marriage vows — was absent. Instead, there was her cousin, Ser Gerold Royce and it was him who presented their House. What prevented Rhea from coming in person was beyond Daemon’s knowledge, the only thing he felt certain about was that it was not defiance, since the Vale — the late Queen Aemma’s home — embraced eagerly the fact that their next ruling queen would be with Arryn roots.

Yet, as much as Daemon forced his mind to race, analyse and plan, in other words do things his new position as Hand presupposed, his thoughts travelled to the divine vision standing in front of him, her back draped in exquisite embroidered cloak of black, red and golden velvet, and face — solemn and thoughtful — turned to the center of the Great Hall where all the lords stood. Rhaenyra, his gentle and delicate niece, cut the image of a proud Targaryen princess, and the more fascinating it was, taking into account how nervous and hesitant she was before the ceremony. He tried to soothe her worries, to placate her, and she gratefully accepted these gestures. 

She did well, Daemon thought with feeling of deep satisfaction warming his heart. Viserys, judging by the slight curve of his lips and proud gaze in his watery eyes, was pleased too. Was it a part of Aemma he was seeing before him, or was it a sense of relief that the decision had been made and supported by the Realm? It was hard to tell, perhaps, both…

Daemon was the last to pledge his oath to Rhaenyra. He descended the steps of the Iron Throne and stood facing the princess. Inhaling deeply, he declared, thus sealing what was first done as an attempt to soothe his brother’s pain, and now turned into their future:

“I, Prince Daemon of House Targaryen, promise to be faithful to King Viserys and his named heir, the Princess Rhaenyra. I pledge fealty to them and shall defend them against all enemies in good faith and without deceit. I swear this by the old gods and the new.”

***

Things about Rhea Royce became clear soon after, when her cousin Ser Gerold Royce of Runestone requested an audience. He shuffled into the king’s chamber, clad in a dark brown leather vest with iron studs bordered with runes on his chest. Daemon grimaced, seeing his greasy unruly dark curls, much like his wife had.

“Your Grace.” Gerold greeted, bowing deeply to Viserys, yet when his eyes flickered to Daemon they narrowed and stared at him coldly.

“Ser Gerold, we are pleased to see you.” Viserys welcomed warmly as always, but not too much, as he did not invite the man to take a seat. Looking expectantly at Gerold, he waited for him to give the reason for his lady’s absence.

“I bring dire tidings, Your Grace.” Gerold said grimly. 

Upon hearing this, Daemon stiffened, holding his breath. Dire tidings? And brought from Runestone, it could mean only one thing…

“Lady Rhea suffered a tragic accident while hunting.” came the words proving Daemon’s thoughts. “She had a misfortune to fall from her horse during the chase. Measters told that her neck was broken and head shattered hitting against one of the stones on a road. She could barely breath when we finally managed to carry her back to the castle. The Starnger took lady Rhea before the evenfall.” 

“Gods be good…” Viserys murmured, horrified by the story. “Accept our sincere condolences, ser Gerold. Daemon, I am so sorry.” 

The king patted his hand in support, yet Daemon was so thunderstruck by the news, that he could barely move. 

“I thank you, Your Grace. But… My cousin… She was one of a kind. I— I cannot fathom how such a capable rider and hunter like lady Rhea could fall from a horse, sustaining such grave injury.” Gerold spoke, his eyes flicking to Daemon.

“Alas, accidents do happen. Gods have their own ways.” sighed Viserys. 

Daemon wondered, if he would speak about their father Baelon and his accidental and quick death, as he always did…

“Yes, but I can assume that it was not only ill will of the Gods, but a design of men — she had those who hated her.” Gerold’s eyes narrowed, his voice almost ringing with bubbling anger.

“Are you confessing some guilt, ser Gerold?” hissed Daemon, staring the man down.

“I am making an accusation. Everyone knows how bitter and poisonous your marriage was—” began Gerold, but before he could finish, the king’s voice cut him off.

“You are not implying that my brother is somehow involved in it? Are you?” he growled, leaning forward and narrowing his eyes. It had the desired effect, and ser Gerold almost stumbled back, stammering excuses.

“I am not, Your Grace, I only meant that it was a very unusual death for such like lady Rhea…”

Watching the scene in front of him Daemon had to suppress a snort. Although he wished for her death, but it was not him.

“Don’t you dare to say these vile lies and accuse my brother of anything!” Viserys banged his fist against the armrest of his chair, the blabbering of Gerold angering him even more. “Daemon has been by my very person serving as my Hand since—” suddenly his voice broke and it took a moment before he could shakily continue, “since Queen Aemma’s passing. He has not been in Runestone for a long time.”

As if distance cold stop me, thought Daemon savagely. Surely, he would have found ways and men to reach and dispense with his Bronze Bitch even from afar, if he had wanted to. In this instance, however, he did not, he was much more preoccupied with his family, real one — Rhaenyra and Viserys — not that ugly dry cunt. Even upon her death he could not think kinder of her — their marriage had brought too much misery on him, and while he had to forgive his grandmother Alysanne for arranging their union, since she was his blood, he would never find it in himself to forgive Rhea Royce. 

“Your Hand, yes…” mumbled ser Gerold, his eyes downcast and submissive. “Prince Daemon has been by your royal person, and, surely, I did not mean, I—” he stumbled, searching for words, hands rubbing against each other nervously.

Seeing that the king took it upon himself to defend Daemon’s honor, he limited himself to simply glaring at Gerold with indignation.

Feeling rather uncomfortable under the piercing gazes of two pairs of lilac eyes, ser Gerold sank on one knee, proclaiming: “I assure that House Royce stands loyal to House Targaryen, Your Grace and Your Grace’s chosen heir.”

Viserys nodded graciously, accepting the pledge. “We appreciate that.” With a flick of his wrist he bade Gerold to rise, and that he did, approaching to the king and kissing the large ancestral ring on his index finger.

Daemon smirked at the display, he wished his wife had been that obedient and courteous, yet it were usually only rude words and cold gestures he was given during his short and not so short stays in the Runestone.

“You may go.” Viserys dismissed, and ser Gerold, hence the Lord of Runestone, scurried away, relieved that he did not cause more of the king’s displeasure.

Fascinated with the news of Rhea’s death, Daemon stifled a bitter laugh, which came more as a suffocated gasp from his throat. The sound caused Viserys look his way, eyes going wide with surprise.

“Are you crying? Dear gods, you are crying!” Viserys’ exclaimed, mistaking Daemon’s sound for a whimper. He reached to the prince and embraced him, patting his back. “Ah, just look at us! Both widowers at such a young age.” he sniffled, tears rolling down his cheeks. 

But the only thought ringing in Daemon’s mind like tolls on the Great Sept was:

Oh, fuck it.

The Bronze Bitch is dead!

He would not even petition lady Jeyne Arryn for his inheritance, Gerold could have his castle in the Vale surrounded by sheep as long as he stood loyal to the crown, Daemon was getting a better price. Now he was one step closer to Rhaenyra. If only Viserys agreed! And he will, thought Daemon, patting his sentimental brother’s back, as his shoulders were shaking from sobbing. Fine, he would play along. Tucking his head into the king’s shoulder, Daemon sniffled twice in feigned grief, as if mourning his dead wife. Viserys’ embrace tightened in attempt to comfort him, while Daemon could only wonder how blind and naive his brother was, if he really took his performance for sincere feelings. Loving Aemma was easy, and mourning her painful, while Rhea’s life and death had as little importance to the prince as a grain of sand on the beach…

or as a single droplet of water in the ocean…

or as a speckle of dust in a storm…

Whatever it was, it did not matter anything to him, only the fact that he was now freed from the marriage shackles.

“We will find you a new wife, if you please.” Viserys said, pulling away from Daemon and wiping his tear-streaked cheeks with the back of his hand. “The one you will love. Or like at least.” he uttered, squeezing Daemon’s shoulder in a brotherly gesture.

Find? No need for searching, thought Daemon in exasperation. By the Fourteen, she is right under your nose!

He looked up at the king for a long moment, his mind working through his words. After a pause he narrowed his eyes and asked incredulously: “Promise?” 

Viserys blinked, taken aback by such incredulity, but next moment strengthened in his chair and vowed solemnly, hand on his heart: “I swear to you that I will not interfere. You are to seek out this woman and present to the court once your choice is made.”

The weight Daemon had carried on his heart for years dropped that instant, he wanted to cry and shout, filled with sudden rush of energy and pleasant anticipation.

“On to the Council Meeting then, brother.” said Daemon, clapping the king on the shoulder. “We are yet to discuss what to do with the Reach.”

Chapter Text

“The oath is pledged. Now what?” the King inquired as a session of the Council meeting began, the first one after Rhaenyra’s initiation. 

Viserys looked to Daemon, his gaze expectant and full of trust. Was it the kind of gaze Otto received from him whilst his tenure as Hand, Daemon wondered. This total reliance on others, councilors in particular, both amazed and scared him. What if it was the wrong person Viserys trusted? They would have been in shit, for sure.

As all the eyes turned to him, Daemon cleared his throat and clasped his hands on the table. 

“Well, my lords. The news is poor. Hightowers, Redwyns, Florents, Peakes and Fossoways chose to continue their little rebellion, although the rest of the realm supported the choice of His Grace, as we have all witnessed these days.” 

“They merely decided to follow the precedent.” said Corlys blatantly, referring to his wife, the Queen Who Never Was, who failed to get the favour of lords, mainly because of being a woman. And were it not for the Sea Snake’s own acceptance and oath he pledged, his head would have been certainly chopped off for such words.

“One precedent beats another.” the Master of Laws retorted. Although, they say… uhm…”, lord Strong hummed hesitantly, “they say they will not bend their knee before a girl. The heir—”

“A girl?!” exploded the king in frustration, not letting Lyonel finish. “They deem it possible to instruct me on the choice of heir? My ancestors brought down their kings and burnt their castles, so let them remember this: when I choose my daughter for my heir, she is no more a girl, but their future Queen! I made my choice and, by the Seven, I will maintain it! If I say she is the heir and that she will be!” declared Viserys with passion.

That moment Daemon’s heart swelled with pride at his brother’s decisiveness. While the king had ever been an indecisive man, intimidated by the simplest of choices, the one concerning Rhaenyra came easily and he was ready to defend it till his last breath with utmost stubbornness.

“I would incline to mercy, if this madness were to end now, Your Grace.” said lord Beesbury. His head was adorned with grey receding hair and he had not known a single war in all his life. Obviously, facing one was not what he strived for. “You will make yourself a monster in the sight of all, if the rebellion is crushed with too much violence.”

“Do you have any examples when a rebellion was resolved kindly?” scoffed Daemon, his fingers tapping on the table surface impatiently.

“A war would only be a waste of resources,” the old man continued paying little attention to Daemon’s cutting comment. “which we cannot afford to begin with. We must use diplomacy, if possible. I say we negotiate with the lords of the Reach, get them to concede. It is the most efficient plan, reasonable even.” the Master of Coin insisted, much to displeasure of the Matser of Laws, who took his turn in argument.

“I counsel Your Grace against leniency.” lord Lyonel Strong boomed. “If this should spread in other parts of the Reach, or even other parts of the realm, the crown will inevitably have to turn to even harsher measures.”

Viserys shot a look at him, a hint of annoyance in his expression. “If I hear so much as more banners raised in support of these arrogant lords, I am calling it treason and there won’t be even a single chance for traitors to keep their heads.” the king bristled.

“And treason it is, Your Grace, thus negotiating here is not an option. These lords have already decided not to support the king and his chosen heir. If we show strength with war, they will bend the knee.” pressed on lord Strong with force typical to his name.

A clinking of chains sounded in the chamber as the Grand Maester shifted in his seat. Knotting his fingers over his stomach he argued: “It is a risk I am not sure we wish to take. I tend to agree with Lord Beesbury, it would show His Grace as a tyrant—”

“But not showing force will be a sign of weakness, my lords!” objected Lyonel Strong, not letting the Grand Maester finish. “It will only make these lords defy His Grace even more!”

Daemon gave the men time to speak their minds, while listening to their opinions attentively. One part of him delighted in the thought of traitors’ heads put on spikes around the red Keep. The other, however, sought for peaceful solution — beginning of any reign soaked in blood would be seen as a bad omen.

While the councilmen were bickering with each other, he tried to come up with his own solution. He was the fucking Hand, his plan was supposed to be the most effective, reasonable, rational!…

The idea came in form of inspiration. And the source of it was sitting across the table from him — a Valyrian beauty he desired more and more with each passing day. Rhaenyra’s beauty bloomed as she grew older, and so did his love for her.

Daemon looked to Rhaenyra who was silently watching the men on the Council, the important part of which she became. She had not spoken her mind yet, and neither was she addressed to. He shut his eyes for an instant, imagining himself returning victorious to the capital after the march to the Reach and quelling rebellion there. He had a flair for dramatics, he always did. And to do it for his little niece, the very person he adored from her very first day, oh, this felt divine. 

A victory in exchange for the hand of the princess… It sounded enticing… He wished to have it in a grand pompous way, thus he would impress the king who in his turn promised to give Daemon the choice in marriage. Rhea Royce was so conveniently dead, and his little charming niece, his future Queen needed someone to protect her highness and the lives of her children, little dragonlings….

He winced and blinked as the raised voices echoed across the council chamber.

“No, no, no, Your Grace, do not risk your sacred person.” lord Strong and lord Beesbury were shouting in unison, waving their arms and shaking heads in denial.

Daemon stared at his brother curiously: were ears failing him, or did the king expressed his intention to partake in their martial endeavors?

“You wish to join the march, Your Grace?” Daemon asked, a hint of challenge in his voice. The king nodded defiantly. “And in what specific role, dare I ask?” 

Viserys gave the matter some consideration before shrugging — Daemon could say that he really had no idea. He could also say that Viserys I Targaryen was anything, but a warrior, and even the march itself could bring all possible troubles on him and his health, not to mention any actual threat or, Gods save them all, a battle. 

Unless he claimed a dragon. But it was as unlikely for him as bearing a sword. The bond between the rider and the dragon was too strong for Viserys, or he was just being sentimental, all these years still mourning Balerion.

“Ah, damn them all!” exclamined Viserys in exasperation and burried his face in his palms. “What shall we do then?” he moaned, looking desperately at his councillors for guidance.

It was the right moment for Daemon to propose his plan. He cleared his throat, his fingers wrapping over the marble orb of office. The smooth coldness of it gave him pleasant sensation and he spoke: 

“Although the Crown does not lack in men or strength, let us call for banners — all the Houses are to send a detachment of knights, archers and foot soldiers. Not many of them, but everyone should be there, be that men carrying colours of House Lannister, Tyrell, Baratheon, or some less prominent ones. We will show that the decision of the king — albeit different from his predecessor — united the realm, but not split it in parts. This entourage will appear before the very eyes of the traitors, and we will give them a choice: either to put down their swords and pledge oath to the king and his chosen heir or be accused of high treason and be punished accordingly. If they are smart enough to choose the former, they will be granted royal pardon, and only if they dare to defy the king’s decree, then we will bare our own steel.” said Daemon, his eyes flashing with determination. 

His words were met with great surprise, and the most surprised was his brother. Viserys stated at him, mouth agape, eyes calculating. Once the idea settled in, his face lit. Apparently, he expected some more bloody measures from Daemon, and him opting for negotiations first impressed him in a good way.

“I will fly atop Caraxed towards the Reach and lead the army. If it pleases Your Grace.” Daemon concluded.

Some vague emotions glistened in his brother’s eyes. Was it envy? Did he still want to join the march? Even the thought of it seemed scandalous, since Viserys was renown as a peaceful king, much less the one willing to start a war or fight a battle. 

Well, if he wanted to be a dragon, he could be a dragon. And yet, he chose to be the king, not a warrior. Or it was Rhaenyra he was worried about, since his eyes travelled to his daughter every so often, searching her face, looking for acceptance, support and more than anything, showing worry for her. Surely, he was afraid of losing her, whished to be closer to her. Losing Aemma was a hard blow, the one he would not be able to sustain twice.

“It does. Grately.” he replied finally, with only a grain of doubt lacing his voice.

Daemon wondered, if he should make his condition clear from the start — ask for Rhaenyra’s Hand — while Viserys was in accepting mood, but then decided against it. He would take care of it after his return. And anyway, who would refuse to a Targaryen prince, the Hand capable of bringing stability to the realm? 

“Waiting for the lords and their knights to march from the Crownlands to the Reach will take much more time than flying on dragonback.” Lord Strong remarked,  furrowing his brown bushy eyebrows.

“Indeed.” Daemon nodded. “Flying to Oldtown and making the Hightowers and their lickspittles declare for Rhaenyra is not an issue for me and Caraxes. But, like I said, it has to be a show of force, force of all the Seven Kingdoms, not only House Targaryen.” he said decisively. It was an important part of his plan, thus he would please the king and he would be more agreeable when accepting Daemon’s proposal.

“Rhaenyra? What say you to this, my dear?” Viserys asked softly, giving his daughter an encouraging smile. 

The Princess winced, as if not expecting to be addressed to. A flash of resentment flickered in her eyes, but she banished it quickly and replied, her back straight and voice firm.

“I find the Hand’s plan to be effective. Let us not shed blood, until it is completely necessary, but with that show the malcontents all our might.”

The king’s lips curved into a satisfied smile and he nodded in approval. “My thoughts exactly. I am pleased to see that my Hand and heir value peaceful solutions more than harsh measures.”

“We do not want to taint your reign with blood, Your Grace, if it is avoidable.” said Daemon with a slight respectful tilt of his head.

“Then it is settled.” Viserys said falling back in his chair, happy that the decision was taken and accepted by the Council. “Gather the high lords in the throne room. We will make an announcement.”

***

Before long Viserys was seated on the Iron throne, Jaehaerys’ crown atop his head and Blackfyre clutched tightly in his hand. The faces of the lords expressed open curiosity — only days ago they were gathered in the same place and pledged their oaths, what else could have such great importance? Some of them had not even sombered from the feasts which followed the ceremony of Rhaenyra’s initiation — Viserys was very fond of them and used the occasion with all pomp and splendour of the royal court.

Daemon was standing at the foot of the throne, the place which recently had become his, wiping the memory of Otto Hightower who used to occupy it, as well as the position of Hand. Looking up, he exchanged looks with Viserys, who gave him a little nod, allowing to speak in the king’s voice.

“The Crown appreciates the devotion and allegiance you have shown to King Viserys and Princess Rhaenyra. However, we have received reports that there are lords within the Reach who refuse to recognize the king’s will and neglect their vassal duties. This is of great concern to us, as such rebellion could spread to other parts of the realm if left unchecked.” spoke Daemon.

Lord Lorent Tyrell was the first to react. He stepped forward, his cheeks flushed with either indignation or embarrassment, or, perhaps, both. “As the liege lord of the Reach I greatly condemn such behavior and call their actions a treason. It is a shame that this… this thing happened in my lands.” he said, drooping his head.

Upon hearing this words, Daemon looked up to the king. Viserys tried to keep his composure, but he knew how hard it was for his brother. While the decision to name Rhaenyra an heir was a questionable one, it could work fine, if they were given a chance to pave the path for her and, most importantly, if they were given time. People, high or low, needed time to accept the notion. Any sort of dispute at such an early stage might undermine Rhaenyra’s position, and set an example that the king’s will could be questioned, while it could not, his word was law!

“I need bannermen from each house and a group of knights to march out to the Reach. I will lead the men flying on Caraxes.” Daemon declared, watching how faces of the lords changed and their postures stiffened, leaving no traces of sated and relaxed smiles. “I do hope that the Reachmen would be wise enough not to start a fight, go against their liege lord and their king.”

Silence hung in the air, while the lords were giving side-eyes to each other. Viserys shifted impatiently on his throne, fingers curling dangerously around sharp armrests with blades protruding here and there. It looked more like an instrument of torture, than a throne, Daemon thought, and a tiny droplet of blood appearing on Viserys finger only proved that. The King, however, was too much absorbed in the scene to notice that. 

“If I may, Your Grace,” came Jason Lannister’s voice, as he moved away a golden lock from his face in a languid manner. “Although I was knighted by my father in a relatively young age, I have never fought a single battle in my life. I am honored to join the prince and march to Oldtown.”

Of course, you are, thought Daemon, letting a soft smile curling his lips. Apparently, Jason Lannister was a good boy in his youth and learnt history well — if the second Field of Fire were to happen, it was safer to be on the other side than were his ancestors.

Other lords shared the Warden of the West sentiment. They hummed their agreement, referring to their wish to partake in a battle, if the Crown called for banners.

Some people were led by fear, others went in the pursuit of grateness. It did not matter which motivated them most, unless it served the Crown’s purpose. Daemon inhaled deeply, feeling of triumph blooming in his chest, but it was short-lived, as Jason Lannister stepped forward and bowed to the king, giving suggestion which made Daemon furious.

“It I may, Your Grace, let the Hand counsel the King, while me and my men  act as an iron fist. I will be honored to lead the army which will ensure peace, justice and obedience in the Reach and will bring victory to the feet of our King and our future Queen.”

Viserys seemed pleased with such eager readiness on the part of the Western lord, but Daemon was apparently not. He furrowed his brows, chewing on his lower lip. It was his plan to exchange the heads of the malcontents to Rhaenyra’s hand, yet Jason Lannister seemed to have similar thing in mind. Before Lannister could continue or Viserys foolishly agree, Daemon spoke:

“If these Houses dared to rebel, mere swords and lances might not be enough to sober them up and make think straight. Obviously, they have forgotten what is the power of dragon, and intention of His Grace is to remind them what it is.”

These words had desire effect. Satisfied, Viserys gave a nod. “I tend to agree with prince Daemon. We are Targaryens, and Targaryens are dragons. If some lords need a reminder, that we will make.”

Jason’s face fell with disappointment, while Daemon made a mental note to watch him closer. “Fine! Gather your men, steel your swords and mount your steeds. We leave in less than a sennight.” the prince proclaimed.

***

“I do not know, if I should give my condolences or congratulations.” mused Rhaenyra joining Daemon for dinner in his private chambers. He made sure that the cooks brought all of her favorites, including roasted pheasant and cakes topped with candied lemons. He was a free man now, and could openly court the princess. Still, it made him feel uncomfortable that Rhaenyra started their conversation with the mentioning of his late wife.

“The latter will suffice.” he said with a shrug and reached to pile his own and Rhaenyra’s plate with mouthwatering slices of meat.

“Poor lady Rhea.” continued Rhaenyra sincerely. Oh, she was too kind sometimes, just like her father.

“Not that poor.” scoffed Daemon. “How goes the vow? Till death do us part, right? So, she is free, and so am I. She got what she wanted, didn’t she?”

To that Rhaenyra gave him a light indignant slap, reproaching softly for his crude words. But there was little sympathy in him, and so he just shrugged again and went on eating. 

Truth be told, he was not inclined to spare even a single second of his time with Rhaenyra discussing the Bronze bitch. His doublet was soaking wet after Viserys’ attempt at consoling him, his late wife did not deserve more than that. 

However, Gods were cruel and sent another disturbing thought into his niece’s pretty head.

“Can I come with you? To the Reach.” she asked suddenly, making him almost choke on his meal. He lifted his eyes to her, recalling the last time they discussed it. Apparently, she had not changed her mind since. His face must have been a picture of exasperation, and Rhaenyra rushed to explain. “You have been talking about the unity in the realm and  the necessity to show our force, use the weapon of intimidation before actual steel. It was quite… impressing. Everyone was impressed, my father most of all. And what better display can it be than two dragon-riding Targaryens surrounded by the lords of the great Houses?” she asked, her eyes burning, lilac fire in the candlelight. 

The prince could not but admire this decisiveness, bravery, yearning for action. A warm feeling washed over him, while imagination created a picture of Aegon and Visenya — a husband and wife conquering the continent, flying wing to wing atop their magnificent dragons. He did not let this sentiment bloom, though. It was no time for reveries, and inhaling deeply he tamed his desires. And what was more important… She was too precious, he wanted to spare her, while he would gladly fight her battles against the world. 

“This might be dangerous, Rhaenyra.” Daemon replied somberly, putting his cutlery aside and moving closer to his niece.

“But— but at the meeting you were telling everyone on the Council about the success of this plan, that it was only a matter of time…” she objected.

“By saying that I took responsibility for my own life and safety, but yours is tenfold more valuable and precious.” He grabbed her hands and brought them to his chest, squeezing gently, his eyes searching for understanding. “Besides,” he added with a sigh, “Your father needs protection. You should take care of him and let him take care of you. I can see the rift between you which must be healed, if we want to move further and be strong.”

“There is no rift,” Rhaenyra retorted, her silver brows furrowing, “His actions led to mother’s death, and—” she could say more and worse, but Daemon hushed her gently by pressing lips against her forehead an pulling her closer to his chest. 

“Your father…” he paused for a moment searching for words, something more delicate than those on the tip of his tongue, yet there was little he could think of. “He is a weak man… A good one and kind-hearted, but unapologetically weak for the role he is supposed to play and weight he carries on his shoulders. I have  told him not once that he needs protection. His men on the Council will make him do things and take decisions he will later regret. I trust none of them, even though their intentions might be pure. Beesbury is a coward obsessed with gold kept in the royal treasury; Strong is a stubborn brute, whose mind is guided more by set of laws, than real situation; the Sea Snake is an envious, petty, arrogant man; and Mellos… I would trust him least of all, your late mother, my dear cousin, was in his hands and he failed to protect her, his knowledge was useless and did nothing to save her life.” 

A shade of sorrow touched Rhaenyra’s face, but next moment she collected herself. Inhaling deeply, she asked: “Is there no one I can trust?”

“Well, do not take me wrong, they are not completely bad or useless. Do you wish to know what all of them have in common?” he did not want to scare or frighten Rhaenyra, not when she was doing her first steps as an heir, but the sooner she learned things about ruling and people surrounding her, the more prepared she would be for any blows that awaited her on her path. She nodded shortly, inviting him to continue, “All of them want power, whatever power they can grab. Their positions on the Council give them that, and they will do whatever it takes to keep it. They want power more than anything. The king — or Queen — can give them that.”

Rhaenyra gave him a puzzled look. “I will not be better than my father, if I give them this power. And you, uncle, call him weak for being that.”

“Give and take to motivate them. Use the “power” you give as a carrot to lead them, make work harder, come up with better solutions. But always show that this “power” is limited and only you set the limits.” he explained, but Rhaenyra’s face seemed even more puzzled. He smiled faintly, brushing his finger against her cheek. “Ah, that is a delicate balance, isn’t? But you will learn. We all need to learn, actually. I am not the most capable Hand, while your father can hardly be called a perfect king, but by complimenting each other we can be better. And there is no place for grudge, do you understand?”

“There is no grudge.” Rhaenyra huffed. She looked down, shame blossoming on her cheeks. She denied it, but deep inside she kept blaming Viserys for her mother’s death. He played his part, yes, but there was no sense in poisoning her heart against him.

“Then show me that you do not keep holding it, nursing it like a petulant child.” he challenged. “I will fly to the Reach and back while you will stay with your father, learn from him, and from his councillors. Act like the king and his heir and allow your father do the same. Agreed?” he lifted her chin with his index finger, searching her eyes. The fire which had been burning in them started to diminish, and she tilted her head in acquiescence.

***

Summons from the king came later in the evening. Viserys got used to Daemon’s company quickly, searching for it, preferring it to that of his courtiers, jesters and Alicent Hightower who for no particular reason still lingered in the Red Keep even after her House’s treason. Daemon contemplated taking a bottle or two of strongwine to help the evening go merrier, but the somber look on Ser Harrold’s face and then direction they took instead of familiar route leading to the king’s chambers only proved that  this time it was unnecessary.

The more bewildered he became when they walked into a Valyrian altar room deep within the torch-lit bowels of the Red Keep. The king was already within, absently thumbing the Dragonbone hilt of the Valyrian steel dagger on his belt. Though Viserys was not a swordsman and could hardly even hold any weapon, this dagger never left his side.

Too deep in his thoughts to notice his entrance, the king continued staring into enormous skull of his former dragon — Balerion the Black Dread. Daemon squinted, lifting his eyes to the skull. It was large enough for a mounted knight to ride into its mouth, teeth as long and as sharp as double-edged swords.

More steps echoed across the altar, as Ser Ryam Redwyn delivered Rhaenyra. The sound dragged Viserys back from his musings and he turned abruptly to face his brother and daughter. With a flinch of his wrist he dismissed the Kingsguard, and once they left, gestured Daemon and Rhaenyra to approach.

Beside him the princess huffed, her frustration unmistakable. What was the point in gathering them in such a place, collected by the Kingsguard, at that?

“Balerion was the last creature to have seen Old Valyria before the Doom… Its greatness and its flaws…” Viserys said in a contemplative tone.

Old Valyria?… The Doom?… Was it the right moment to talk about histories with a rebellion on their doorstep? Thought Daemon in exasperation.

He raised an eyebrow, exchanging a curious look with Rhaenyra, whose expression was not less puzzled. At once he was overcome with skepticism, however, putting himself together he bit his lips, not allowing any mocking words to leave them. 

“There is some knowledge that is passed on from Targaryen king to his heir.” Viserys said, turning away from the shrine with candles to look at them, his hand clutching the hilt of the dagger even tighter, until his knuckles turned white.

Daemon hesitated, a wave of resentment and bitterness washing over him. What was he called for then? He was neither the king, nor the heir and would never be one. Swallowing bile of negative feelings rising in his throat, he stepped back ready to leave the king and his heir, but before he could do this, Viserys’ stern voice echoed across the chamber.

“I am not finished—”

“But you said this knowledge is given to the heir—” Daemon cut his brother off.

“Stay.” the finality of Viserys’ words hung in the air, the sound still ringing in Daemon’s ears.

Stay.

Although an order, it tasted thousand times sweeter than any other, especially the one he used to hear — you are banished.

Well, if his brother wanted him to stay, he would oblige, whatever secret or nonsense he wished to share.

Viserys shifted, seeming almost embarrassed of what he was about to say. “I am going to tell you something now, to both of you… It will not be easy to understand, but you must hear it.” he said, earning an intrigued look from Rhaenyra. She stepped closer, inviting him to speak up — hopefully these were the fruits of their recent conversation, when Daemon tried to plant a seed of understanding and acceptance towards her father in her defiant youthful mind. 

Encouraged by his daughter’s soft smile, Viserys continued:

“The histories tell us that Aegon looked across the Blackwater from Dragonstone and saw a rich land ripe for the capture. But ambition alone is not what drove him to conquest. It was a Dream…”

Chapter Text

In his chambers, lit only by the light of several candles left by the servants on the writing desk, Daemon was sitting hunched over a large map. He took time to discuss the route with lords Footly, Merryweather and Caswell whose lands and castles were scattered on their way. Ravens were send to the castellans ordering them to prepare hay for horses, food for men and beds for lords and knights of higher ranks.

Daemon smiled in satisfaction leaning over his armchair. He had been dreaming of it all his life — commanding an army marching to execute justice on the Hightowers and their lickspittles. Perhaps,  not under such circumstances, not following his cousin’s and nephew’s death, but Gods never let people choose.

The prince rubbed his tired eyes as sleep started to overcome him. It was almost past the hour of the eel, and they were about to depart on the morrow — Daemon atop Caraxes followed by lords Lannister, Stark, Tully and Baratheon astride their horses. A fearsome sight they would present. Hightowers, Fossoways, Florents, Redwyns and Peaks must be complete and utter fools to oppose them. If they did, it would certainly lead to bloodshed, and that Daemon strived to avoid. Viserys did not like blood and Rhaenyra’s ascension should not be tainted with violence.

He was almost asleep when the footsteps came from behind the wall. At first he thought he dreamt them. The candlelight flickered in the background, casting a dancing golden light on the intricate details of the map spread on his desk. Shaking his head to chase away drowsiness he made to rise from his chair. A bed would be a better companion for him, since the following night would be spent on a mattress in a tent.

Daemon’s ears pricked up as he heard another faint sound coming from behind him. The sound was so slight that he was not positive he heard it, but his keen senses had picked up on it already. He tensed, immediately on guard, and slowly turned around to face the direction of the noise. 

His eyes landed on Rhaenyra, standing in the shadows of the chamber.

“Rhaenyra?!” the surprise was evident in his face, and seeing that Rhaenyra smiled mischievously. 

“Were you expecting someone else?” she asked, a soft smile curling her lips.

Daemon quickly regained his composure, raising an eyebrow at her sudden appearance. “I was not expecting to see you here, that is for sure.” he replied a hint of amusement in his voice. “How did you get here without me noticing?”

Rhaenyra smirked, clearly enjoying her ability to take him by surprise. “Oh, I have my ways. I know about Maegor’s secret passageways. It was not difficult to find one that led to your chambers.”

Daemon raised an eyebrow at her words. “Impressive. Who told you about them?”

“It was my grandfather.”

“Prince Baelon?” Daemon asked, stunned at the revelation, as though Rhaenyra had any other grandparents.

Rhaenyra nodded, her eyes glistening with mischief. “Once we played a game with him. He loved playing with me, and so did my father before he became the king and devoted all his time to ruling. The game was called “Secrets”.

“Secrets?” Daemon cocked his brow curiously, not remembering himself playing one as a kid. “What is it about?”

“If you fail to do something, you tell a secret.”

“Oh…” a smile tugged corners of Daemon’s lips. “And what did my father fail to do? I thought him almighty.”

“Ah!” Rhaenyra waved a dismissive hand. “Hiding. I found him three times and he didn’t not find me even once. A little girl was tiny enough to sneak even under a bed or sit in a cupboard, while grandfather was a rather big man — not too many places to hide were at his disposal. So he had to tell me a secret.”

“And he told you about Maegor’s secret passages?” asked Daemon in disbelief. His father was a serious man, even more so once he was made King Jaehaerys’ heir. It was curious that he shared this information — information of strategic importance and concerning security — with a little girl.

“Well, at first he tried to tell me how to pull a coin out of an ear, but I said no, it was too easy, I had seen this trick performed by court jesters hundreds of times. And then…” a clever smile played on Rhaenyra’s lips as she told the whole story. “I challenged him, wanted to have some real secret, and grandfather showed me the passages. He warned me not to tell anyone about them, even my parents.”

Daemon still wondered if Viserys had any knowledge of it. Aemma surely had not known, but honestly she did not need it back then, poor thing. Her life was at risk almost all the time, even without assassins hidden behind the walls.

Meanwhile Rhaenyra continued. “And now the father shared another family secret with us.” her face grew sad and regretful. “I believed in what he told us, Aegon’s dream and Targaryen legacy.” she averted her gaze for a second, but when her eyes met Daemon’s again they were dark and hollow. “It does not justify his actions towards my mother, though. None of it. There were enough Targaryens to sit on the Iron Throne, and wasting my mother’s life on producing more when she clearly could not—” Rhaenyra faltered and her voice broke.

“Yes, Aegon’s Dream...” Daemon nodded thoughtfully. His expression was calm, though he could not help the flicker of anxiety that passed through him. Anxiety and anger at his own brother. Why in the Seven Hells had he been keeping it a secret, why had he molded his life and the lives of his family to fit into this prophecy and the necessity to have a Targaryen seated on the Iron Throne?!

“Dārilaros”… 

Daemon spoke High Valyrian all too well to know that the word “dārilaros” could refer to either gender bearing the meaning “prince” or “princess”, similar to the word “zaldrīzes” - “dragon”.

This overconfidence, this exceptionalism cost Viserys lives of his wife and children. He should have stopped once Rhaenyra — a strong, smart and robust child — was born. He did not…

It seemed he was not the only one following this line of thought, as Rhaenyra, suffocated by tears, made a choking sound. Daemon gathered niece in his arms, pressing close to his chest. Her sadness did not last long, though. He felt shiver running through her body, then she tensed and straightened her back. Inhaling deeply, she said: “I am not here for crying. This is the last time I see you before your campaign, and it should be a happy one, not full of grief.”

Daemon chuckled softly. “Well, we are quite used to living separately, thanks to your father and his favourite way of disciplining me by sending to the Vale.”

“Vale is safe.” Rhaenyra remarked seriously. “But the place you are going to—” 

“For a dragon rider it is not less safe than the Vale.” Daemon shrugged, sharing not even an ounce of her worries. What could befall him really? Caraxes was a formidable experienced dragon and there was a whole army behind his back, army consisting of lords and knights. It was not a power to trifle with, even if the Reach lords would call for all their banners and form an extensive army.

Rhaenyra frowned slightly, her worry returning. “I know. But I cannot help but be concerned. I do not want you to risk your life in the battle.”

Daemon smiled gently at her, his expression softening. “You are sweet to worry. But I can take care of myself and will return to you unharmed, I promise.”

As they stood face to face, Daemon’s feelings of attraction toward Rhaenyra only grew stronger. He reached out and took her gently in his arms, pulling her close to him. His arms encircled her slim waist, holding tightly against his chest. As she leaned into his embrace, he could smell the fragrance of her hair and feel softness of her body against his. 

Leaning in closer, his eyes locked on Rhaenyra’s. His heart raced as he gazed into her eyes, seeing the same hunger for him mirrored in them. Carefully, he lowered his head towards her, his lips just a breath away. His arm tightened around her waist, as he closed the remaining distance between them. Their lips met, it was as if a spark ignited between them. After a few moments spent lost in their kiss, Daemon reluctantly pulled away, his eyes searching Rhaenyra’s face to gauge her reaction: her breathing was heavy, eyes wide with surprise, yet expression betrayed no resistance. 

He waited a moment, still holding her in his arms, to see if she would say anything — instead of pulling away or pushing him back, she moved even closer, her lips parting as if begging for another kiss. 

Pushing herself up on the tiptoes, she captured his lips. And so it happened… She returned the kiss. Softly and hesitantly, like a butterfly touching a flower with its wings.

And then, a new and very nice feeling came over Daemon all of a sudden. It was both tenderness and heated desire, and the feeling that he was flying. Ah, that is how you taste, my sweet little niece, he thought, overcome with feeling of exhilaration. 

Her hands moved from Daemon’s shoulders, up to his face, her fingers tracing the lines of his jaw as she continued to kiss him. Her touch was light and almost reverent, as if she was savouring every moment of their kiss, taking in every sensation. 

A fire crackled in the hearth bringing him back from the Heavens he found himself on. By Gods, what were they doing! It was rather late, and the whole court must have been asleep already, and yet, unsettling feeling bloomed in Daemon’s chest, replacing tenderness and desire reigning there moments ago.

“Your father, Nyra.” he murmured pulling away. “His chambers are down the corridor.”

“I know. Do not worry, he must be fast asleep, I saw Grand Maester administering him some potion. Dreamwine for sure.” a sweet smile played on her sweet lips as she was saying this.

“Oh, is that so?” he cocked his head cheekily. “Then — one more time. To crown my campaign with success.” 

Before he knew it, his lips found hers again in a fierce and passionate kiss, a mix of desperation and need in his movements. His hands roamed her body, pulling her closer still as if he could never get close enough…

It was already the Hour of the Ghosts when Daemon escorted Rhaenyra to her chambers using the dusty, narrow, cobweb-covered secret passages. Closing the door behind Rhaenyra Daemon grinned. He was one step closer to his little princess he vowed to serve and protect. Him returning victorious from the Reach would show Viserys who deserved his daughter’s hand.

***

Silks and velvet of courtly attire were replaced with riding leathers and a set of black gleaming scale armour. There was no way a golden pin of the Hand could be attached to metal, so instead, Viserys presented Daemon with a new chain of office with interlocking hands. It was made of pure gold and worn over his gorget adding a nice detail to his armour — thoughtfulness he did not expect from his brother.

Otto Hightower spent his tenure as Hand sitting on his arse in a stuffy Small Council camber. Daemon would be different. He would be both — a warrior and a politician, a type of Hand his father prince Baelon could have made, if not for his untimely demise.

Heavy steps echoed through the cavern of the Dragon Pit, then a red snout appeared and seconds later a long neck and a sinewy body. A wave of pleasant anticipation washed over Daemon — in about an hour he would fly over the Seven Kingdoms on Caraxes, heading to war he was certain to win. 

Daemon reached out and caressed Caraxes’ snout, his hand moving gently over the scaly hide. The dragon leaned into the touch, closing his eyes and letting out a low, deep rumble of pleasure. 

While he was sharing a moment of a strong and unique bond with Caraxes, he felt a hand land on his shoulder and assumed it belonged to one of the dragonkeepers, who often approached him when he was tending to Caraxes. The prince did not look back, his attention focused on the dragon. Without turning around he said, his voice gruff and abrupt:

“Yes? What do you want?”

“It is not the way to address your king.” came a reproachful voice. 

Caught off guard by the sudden realization, Daemon looked down on his shoulder, spotting a hand bearing precious rings except for a little finger which was bandaged with a thick layer of cloth. 

But before Daemon could ask what actually happened with the king’s finger or greet him properly, Viserys proclaimed, his tone softer than before:

“You have my permission to act as you see it fit.” he allowed. “If those lords insist on their foolishness, I am eager to have their heads as a sign of their consent.”

Daemon’s face brightened immediately, taking in the command he heard in the Council chamber and now once again, privately. He had longed for Viserys’ trust all his life — a fool’s desire, but for unknown reason it was important for him. Now, having acquired that, Daemon felt stronger and more resolute.

Meanwhile Caraxes shifted his weight and Viserys stepped back in awe. Daemon could swear, it had been years since his brother found himself in close proximity to dragons. Perhaps, the last time was when he accompanied his daughter to the Dragon pit while she took her first flights on Syrax.

The Red Wyrm huffed a puff of smoke, zeroing his gaze on the newcomer. A slightest shadow of doubt ran across Viserys’ face, he seemed to be uncomfortable in the presence of the dragon. 

“Come.” Daemon waved his hand beckoning Viserys to approach. “Closer.” he said after the king made a small hesitant step. “Back then, in the Balerion shrine, you spoke so passionately about our heritage, about who we are and where we come from. It is not right that you forget about yourself.”

Daemon tugged Viserys by the hand, placing it on Caraxes’ scales and pressing it firmly with his palm. Viserys looked shy at first, but the longer his hand stayed on Caraxes, the smoother his face became, as if all the lines and wrinkles painted by age and grief gradually disappeared. 

“Ah…” the King gasped, yanking his hand and stumbling back. “Such… such an unusual feeling.”

“But familiar one, right?” Daemon asked, hoping that within years his brother had not lost the connection they had with dragons.

“Indeed. Or have you forgotten that I used to be a dragon rider, as much as you are.” Viserys said, defiance lacing his voice. The reaction looked somewhat childish, not the one you would expect from the king. A smile tugged corners of Daemon’s lips.

“Indeed.” he echoed. “I think it is high time you reminded your people of that.”

There was a tiny spark of curiousity in Viserys’ eyes, hidden desire he tucked deep inside his heart. However, it was short-lived, next moment he made the same sad face he usually put on when talking about Balerion and his strong bond with the dragon.

“Dragonstone.” Daemon said as idea began to form in his mind.

“What?” 

“Dragonstone. We will go there once I return from the campaign. You have not visited the place since you were prince of Dragonstone.” Daemon reminded. Living in that dream of his, Aegon’s Dream, Viserys missed too much of the real life: as his daughter was growing, Aemma withering away and lords squeezing tighter and tighter around his neck like the snakes they were. The realisation hit Daemon hard, while his resolve to restore Viserys’ bond with dragons grew stronger. 

There was little enthusiasm on Viserys’ face, but Daemon would be more stubborn, he did not lack stubbornness.

“Vermithor, Silverwing, Dreamfyre — all these dragons who used to carry our ancestors up in the sky nest in the caverns of Dragonstone. There aim is to serve the House Targaryen, it is such a waste to force them into riderless existence on the island and let Dragonkeepers feed them and take care of, as if they were cows or sheep on a farm.” Daemon pressed on, his voice firm. “Dragons are created for greatness and so are we.”

A tired “Ahh…” and a vague gesture of a hand came from Viserys. 

“I insist on it.” all of a sudden Daemon heard himself saying.

The king’s eyes widened in surprise at his audacity, but he did not let his emotions bloom. “Bring me the obeisance of the lords — or their heads. Then, perhaps, I will oblige to your request.” he said with an air of finality.

Daemon smiled thinly. “Fine. As Your Grace commands. But I take your word for that.”

A commotion outside the cavern was heard, interrupting  their conversation. It was followed by Caraxes’ loud screech, as the dragon raised his long neck, curious to see what was happening. Followed by Viserys Daemon rushed outside squinting in the bright sun after the darkness of the Pit.

It turned out that the king brought the whole entourage to the Dragon Pit. This moment, however, all of them, including pages and men of the Small Council reminded a chaotic crowd, running away to free the space for the dragon to land. And there was a dragon flying in circles above their heads — red and slender and swift in her movements. It was none other than Meleys, the Red Queen. 

Rhaenys gave one last look ensuring that she would not accidentally crush the Master of Coin or the Grand Maester, then pulled the reigns of Meleys ordering her to descend.

Rhaenys’ armor looked magnificent in the morning sun: silverplate and red leather scales adorned with black diamonds.  

Viserys was startled as much as was his retinue, and only Daemon grinned widely, anticipating something interesting to happen.

“Cousin.” the king said striding forward to greet the princess.

For a fleeting moment Rhaenys thought of what best to address Viserys, then opting for a more formal way, made a small but elegant curtsy, murmuring “Your Grace”.

“Came to bid farewell to our Daemon?” the king said, casting a quick but proud glance at the prince.

“That will not be necessary.” she replied. “I was told that you called for banners and it is duty of every high lord to be part of the army. My husband commands the sea, and his ships will be of little help in the march. I will act on behalf of the House Velaryon.”

A crease appeared between the king’s brows as he was pondering over proposal. “That is very generous of you, yet isn’t it too much of a risk for a princess of royal blood?” he finally replied. His eyes jumped to Rhaenyra, who was watching silently among the lords as the scene unfold. Although, she had not spoken openly with her father about her intention to join the march, Viserys was not a complete fool not to even guess about it.

The Queen Who Never Was, however, was not accustomed to hearing “no” or putting her plans under doubt. Lifting her chin Rhaenys sweeped her gaze over the king’s retinue, as if challenging them. Corlys pursed his lips into a thin line but did not say a word. He found himself in the shadow of his wife and could do little about that.

“Have you given substantial thought to your decision?” Daemon first broke the pregnant silence. “It takes much longer for the men to march towards the Reach than it takes a dragon to fly. We will have to wait. There will be castles and keeps on our way, but part of the route lies through fields and forests, so sleeping in a tent will be part of it. Unwelcome part for a princess.”

Rhaenys huffed, waving a dismissive hand.

“With that I can cope. Driftmark does not offer such kind and friendly conditions as King Landing does. Winds blow strong there and on a sunny day you can fry an egg on the stone wall of the castle. Moreover, I can always fly faster and wait for the rest of you to catch up with me enjoying the hospitality of this or that lord.”

The words seemed sufficient to gullible Viserys, who was looking with gratitude and admiration at his cousin. So tired of infinite squabbles and opposition on his Council, it was a nice change to have someone except from Daemon to fulfill his will and command easily and enthusiastically. Not to mention, how relieved he was to see that Rhaenys left her bitter grudge behind, seeing Rhaenyra as their future Queen.

Daemon was not that easy to persuade though.

“Rhaenys?” while the king was busy talking with the knights and nobles, he approached his cousin. “What is it really? Have you quarreled with Corlys or what?”

A cold calculating stare of lilac eyes locked on him. It seemed at first the Rhaenys was reluctant to repeat herself, but eventually deigned to explain:

“Take it as an act of solidarity. I was spurned once by a bunch of conceited arrogant men thinking that existence of a little sausage between their legs makes them superior to women, who are capable of doing the same things and even more — bearing children. I want to support my niece. Truly. And I am not going to miss such a splendid chance to show men their places.” 

While Daemon was standing with his mouth slightly agape, Rhaenys turned on her heels, gave one last curtsy directed to the king and princess, with well-practiced swift movement caught the reins of Meleys and climbed up, ready to take to the skies.

Chapter Text

The campaign Daemon had dreamed of proved far less spectacular than he had imagined while sitting in the Small Council chamber and giving details of it to his kingly brother. No sooner had he flown beyond the Dragonpit, and the knights ridden out through the gates of the Red Keep and other castles at their lords' command, than the rains began — ceaseless, dreary as a minstrel’s sad song, agonising as a toothache. 

From the very beginning, it was clear that he and Rhaenys would have to wait for the foot soldiers and mounted knights to catch up with them on the Kingsroad — for horses were no match for dragons, and the fat Lord Stokeworth no equal to a Targaryen prince. Yet Daemon’s plan demanded they all arrive together at the gates of Oldtown. This was his message to the Hightowers and all the other Houses: behind King Viserys the First of His Name and his named heir, Princess Rhaenyra, stood all Seven Kingdoms united. Even the proud, reserved Starks had sent a detachment of light cavalry, troops swift enough to merge seamlessly into the growing “iron fist” that swelled with every castle the army passed in support of Rhaenyra and the Crown’s decree.

But these were nothing more than dry facts and pure intentions — cold comfort to Daemon, while weeks dragged and dragged forming into moons…

And so he found himself sitting in a rain-soaked tent, in yet another camp set up by the Arryn knights. They had proven the most nimble and swift, clad in light armor that allowed them to move unhindered through the Mountains of the Moon. Prince Daemon shared his supper — as decent as campaign conditions allowed — with his cousin Rhaenys. She had proudly refused to fly ahead and spend the night at Longtable, the castle of Lord Merryweather.

“Won’t concede to men in anything,” Daemon mused bitterly. “Ready to forgo even her own comfort and safety. Then why had she been so pliant at the Great Council? Gulped down the humiliation and flew away to pout by her lord husband’s side.” He pushed the barely warm beans around his plate with dull irritation, side glancing at Rhaenys who was presently in his tent, thus providing him company.

As if sensing his gaze, Rhaenys — lounging in her chair with a wine goblet in hand — let out a pointed sigh of disapproval. 

“Daemon,” she said in that infuriatingly patient voice, “Horses are not dragons—you can’t make them fly, no matter how hard you try. You must wait, whether you want it or not.”

Daemon scowled in reply. Stating the obvious she pressed right on his raw nerve. The hooves of the massive warhorses — clad in armor and burdened with supplies — sank helplessly into the sodden earth, dragging out what was already an agonizingly long journey. Patience had never been Daemon’s virtue, even less when it concerned traitors. He burned with impatience to bring the Hightowers to heel, and if they refused, to knock their heads from their shoulders.

Impatience flooded him, wave after wave like a storm — he couldn’t and wouldn’t wait for those four-legged creatures to finally slog their way through the mud-choked road. He wanted to move. The campaign was meant to be quick and triumphant. Not… this mess.

“My kingly cousin’s decision was... controversial,” Rhaenys remarked, lingering pointedly on the word, “but he is the King, and we must obey him, humoring his wishes and whims.”

Daemon snorted, debating whether to mention that naming Rhaenyra heir had been his own idea in the first place, not Viserys’. For Viserys it was more like an atonement. But Rhaenys forestalled him, adding: “Personally, I don't object. Pity some will need... convincing.”

Perhaps, he should have kept his mouth shut, but the words, sharp with pent-up frustration, slipped out before he could think:

“You support Rhaenyra as heir because she is a woman — so why didn’t you oppose the Great Council’s decision when, by your own logic, your claim was just as strong as Viserys’? Were you simply too meek to fight for your own crown?” Daemon spat, making Rhaenys’ knuckles whiten on her goblet.

Her lips curved, as if the question amused her. “Do you truly not see why?”

Daemon blinked, displeased with how the conversation had turned. “By all means,” he said, all false courtesy, “illuminate my ignorance.”

Rhaenys shook her head and poured more wine, her golden bracelets clinking. “You men believe you rule the world, yet refuse to see what’s plain before you.”

After a measured sip, she voiced what Daemon had always dismissed as cowardice and weakness. Yet now, the thought rang differently in his mind. It had gained both meaning and weight. What had wrought this change — age, or the position of Hand bestowed by his brother, with all its sobering responsibilities required to rule effectively? Daemon found no answer, only listening intently to his cousin’s words.

“My motivation — or rather, its absence — stemmed from an unwillingness to tear my House apart from within, and to do so with my own hands. For that is precisely what would have occurred had the two branches of our family clashed, each armed with dragons. You wouldn’t want that either,” Rhaenys said darkly. “Would you?”

Daemon’s hand twitched — not toward his sword, but where his missing Hand’s pin should be. Seizing on his hesitation, a dragon’s laugh rumbled in her throat. “Or do you actually crave that fire?”

Daemon recoiled as if struck. “Fuck no.” House Targaryen’s destruction by his hand? The vilest treason. His was Dark Sister after all, the blade Aegon the Conqueror once wielded to unite, not divide.

“There, you see?” Rhaenys leaned back in her chair with a satisfied nod.  “So spare me your whispers of bitterness, weakness, cowardice — all those pretty titles your brother’s court bestows behind my back. In the year 101, I chose the realm’s peace over my own pride. House Targaryen must stand strong and united. That lesson came from my father’s lips.”

The fact that Rhaenys chose survival over ambition was a rebuke to Daemon’s recklessness. The distant rumble of thunder, like wings colliding in stormclouds served as a perfect illustration to her words. 

Daemon said nothing — not deigning to reply, nor to confirm that his own father had taught him the same. In his heart, he knew the truth — he had have chosen war. He fought for Viserys’ rights, yes, but for his own? He would have bathed the realm in dragonfire. Rhaenys was cut from a different cloth — all reason and restraint, while he was fire and fury. And that fire he’d fought to bank since the day the golden Hand’s pin had been pressed into his palm, an unexpected gift from the King.

He must have sunk into an even blacker melancholy than before, for Rhaenys — observing his brooding face flickering with candlelight, his hunched shoulders — took pity. She rose from her high-backed chair (unlike those of the Red Keep or High Tide, unadorned with plush fabrics or cushions), approached the prince, and laid a hand upon his shoulder, her golden ring in a form of a Velaryon seahorse gleaming against his black doublet. 

“Do not think I want this punitive campaign to drag on any more than you do. I have children at home who need guiding, and a husband who needs satisfying—” bitter laugh escaped her. “—lest he seek his pleasures in Driftmark’s port.”

At her words, a furious exhale burst from Daemon’s chest. How dare Corlys Velaryon dishonour his cousin, a Targaryen princess? He nearly vowed then and there to skewer the Sea Snake’s manhood on a spit if the wretch preferred dockside whores while his wife labored to keep the realm intact. Yet, Rhaenys, as if reading his thoughts, swiftly changed the subject. 

“Let us be done with it. My support for Rhaenyra shall be my petty revenge. A reckoning for all who dismissed my birthright, believing that by choosing a man over me, this order would never change.” She tilted her head, the candlelight catching the silver in her hair. “And besides… Rhaenyra will have children, as will Laena and Laenor. Would it not be better for our branches to unite rather than war?”

Daemon’s brow furrowed — how did cousin always manage to disarm him? Yet he valued her counsel. She carried Alysanne’s wisdom, the kind that should have ruled the Seven Kingdoms.

Rhaenys, a dragon toying with its meal, drank in his discomposure before continuing with perfect calm:

“Sleep. Dream of Rhaenyra. Gods know you do little else. And we both understand… your interest isn’t exactly avuncular.” 

A sly, all-knowing smile curled across her finely sculpted lips. The nature of his... interest in Rhaenyra had never been purely familial. Gods, had he been so transparent?

Yet Rhaenys had been right — as always — for sleep brought with it visions of Rhaenyra. Sweet as honey and tempting as sin. Clad in a gown of delicate gold, she spun in dance among her ladies-in-waiting in the Red Keep’s royal gardens. Her bright laughter mingled with birdsong, while the warm rays of the midday sun bathed everything in light, glinting off the golden crown upon her brow — inlaid with seven precious stones, one for each kingdom.

Daemon glanced around and exhaled in relief — gone was the damp, candle-smoked tent, the muddy road turned to sludge by endless rains, the stench of horses and knights festering in their armor for weeks on end. Gone, too, was that clawing impatience, the frustration of a world that refused to move as swiftly as he willed it.

Not daring to approach lest he shatter this carefree revelry, the prince remained apart, drinking in the vision of the young heir. And all the while, the music grew faster and faster, the dance more intricate, until before Daemon stood not Rhaenyra, but a slender golden dragon taking wing into the sky. There in the heavens awaited another dragon — larger, fiercer. Its long neck shimmered with crimson scales, while a thunderous roar erupted from its maw, echoing for leagues. Level in the sky, the golden and crimson dragons merged into a new dance — spiraling about one another, necks entwined.

Squinting against the bright sunlight, Daemon remained rooted in place, watching the creatures who so resembled Syrax and Caraxes. Though, when a heavy hand came to rest on his shoulder, he nearly shook it off without turning. The fool, however, did not know when to stop — his grip tightened, jostling Daemon like some green squire.

Suddenly, Daemon’s eyes flew open — only to meet the same dreary gray ceiling of his tent, and slightly to the side, the face of one of his captains. The prince nearly snarled a curse, better yet, he ached to smash his fist into the insolent bastard’s face. Seeing his murderous glare, the man took a hasty step back, hands raised in surrender. A falcon was embroidered on his surcoat, marking him as one of House Arryn’s men.

“My Lord Hand! My Lord Hand!” the man called out brightly. “The rains have ceased, the skies are clear, we can march onward!” he cheerfully announced.

“About damn time,” Daemon thought with grim relief. The wretched weather had finally decided to favour him.

Stepping out of the tent, Daemon found the sky an untouched blue, the clouds swept away as if they had never been. The air smelled sharp and clean, and by midday, the mud would harden enough for marching.

Then he noticed Rhaenys — leaned against her tent’s post, that infuriating half-smile playing across her lips, the one that always said “I told you so” without words.

“You see, cousin, thrones are won by waiting, not wanting. Even dragons must sometimes still their wings.” she remarked knowingly.

She had a point, and for once, Daemon could not disagree.

Chapter Text

The dawn bled crimson over Oldtown as two shadows darkened the walls — great and terrible, their wings stirring the stench of fear from the cobbles below. Caraxes came first, the Blood Wyrm coiling through the morning mist like a serpent poised to strike, his shrieks splitting the air asunder. Behind him, Meleys glided, the Red Queen’s scales aflame in the rising sun, her rider straight-backed and stern upon her crest.  

Beneath them, the castle loomed — its gates barred, its defenders clutching spears gone slick with sweat. Lord Hightower supporters had fled here, thinking stout walls of Oldtown might shield them from fire and blood. Fools. Daemon bared his teeth in a grin as Caraxes banked, the wind whipping his silver-gold hair wild about his face. Let them cower. Let them pray. Their defiance would be ash before noon.  

The traitor lords — Redwyne, Florent, Peake, and both branches of Fossoway — had abandoned their castles like rats fleeing a sinking ship. When the royal army advanced, they scattered like leaves before a storm, their courage crumbling as fast as their defenses. The Redwynes had left their vineyards undefended, their famed fleet rotting in harbour. The Florents slunk from Brightwater Keep like foxes with their tails between their legs. The Peakes abandoned Starpike’s formidable walls, while the Fossoways — green apple and red alike — forsook their orchards to die together. All now pressed against Hightower’s walls, as if they could shield them from dragonfire.  

It would not.

Above them, Caraxes circled with a shriek that sent archers scrambling for cover. Daemon smirked, his eyes tracing the castle walls and the men who dared defend them. They chose their grave well. The Hightower will make a splendid pyre.

The knights gathered outside the castle walls made for an even sorrier sight. These were mostly men without the status or coin to secure a place within the Hightower’s castle. Their armor was ill-fitted, their shields bearing the faded sigils of lesser houses sworn to Redwyne, Florent, or Peake. Some wore no colours at all, just rusted mail and the desperate look of men who knew they were already dead. When Caraxes’ shadow passed over them, some dropped to their knees. Others pissed themselves where they stood. Only a handful raised their weapons — not in defiance, but in hopeless, wordless plea for a clean death.  

And they looked all the more pitiful when faced with the might of the royalist army. What had begun as a host marching from King’s Landing had swelled into an unstoppable tide — lords great and small eager to prove their loyalty, each pouring more men into the ranks. The fields outside Oldtown now teemed with men-at-arms, their banners a sea of colours beneath the sun: Baratheon stag, Swann’s twin swans, Tarly huntsmen, the purple lightning of Dondarrion, to name but a few — all waiting to do their duty. 

After another circle over the castle, Daemon’s gaze sharpened scanning the towers for any sign of Lord Ormund Hightower, he was behind the rebellion and was first to answer for it. Yet it seemed the traitor was a coward as well — content to hide within his walls. Ha! There was a precedent for that. Harren the Black had sat down to sup with his sons while Aegon the Conqueror circled Harrenhal. And how had that ended? The melted towers still stood as silent witnesses.

After one final circling pass, Daemon gave a derisive snort and banked Caraxes toward the city’s main gates — where Rhaenys atop Meleys and their assembled lords awaited. Now he would declare to them that the instigators of the rebellion had scurried into their holes like rats — and before their very eyes, in the King's name, he would deliver the King's Justice…

Yet no sooner had he landed by the city walls than the gates swung open, unleashing a host of armoured riders — all clad in steel, their surcoats embroidered with sigils: mostly towers, but also clusters of grapes, three stacked castles, apples, and fox heads.

At the head of the company rode a tall knight in a green surcoat, his tower-shaped helm marking him clearly. None other than Ormund Hightower himself  —  the instigator of the rebellion, the man Daemon had so fiercely sought. The ranks of knights and men-at-arms behind Daemon stirred uneasily, while Meleys — positioned slightly apart — let out a threatening hiss, barely restrained by Rhaenys. At last, the company halted — mere yards from Daemon.

“Prince Daemon. To what do we owe this... unexpected visit? Surely His Grace did not send you all this way just to admire our famed Starry Sept.” spoke the Lord Hightower.

Daemon gave a dry smile. Even now, with death looming, Ormund kept his sense of humor. Very well, he would make it clear to him.

“Every man behind me has sworn fealty to Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen as the named heir to the Iron Throne. Every man — save you, Lord Hightower, and that group of lickspittles cowering at your back.” With a sweeping gesture, he indicated the camp sprawled before the city walls and the lords and knights standing behind him.

“I am afraid I do not follow your meaning, my prince. Or should I address you as my lord Hand now? By the decree of the Great Council of 101, the Iron Throne passes through the male line. Your nephew is no heir — and neither are you, my prince.” Ormund continued his little game, deliberately trying to irritate Daemon.

It was time to finish this.

“Lord Ormund Hightower, in the name of His Grace King Viserys, I charge you with treason. You have forsaken your duty as a vassal and failed to present yourself in the capital to swear fealty to the heir named by King Viserys — your future queen.” Daemon’s voice boomed from Caraxes as the dragon loomed over the knights and lords who had come to meet him, his gaze burning down upon them like fire. 

“Yet the King is merciful.” Daemon continued. “His Grace grants pardon to all who lay down their arms and bend the knee. Join the other Great and Minor Houses in swearing fealty to King Viserys and Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen.”

He allowed a pause, letting the information settle in the minds of those present.

“But let it be known: any lord who forsakes his sworn duties and defies the will of His Grace the King shall suffer the full measure of justice. Their titles shall be revoked, their lands seized by the Crown, and their persons banished from King’s Landing and every city of note in the Seven Kingdoms. They shall live out their days as outcasts, branded by their treason for all eternity.” Daemon declared with a threat in his voice.

The reaction to his words differed — some lords furrowed their brows in resignation, others shook their heads in dismay. In that moment, it was clear they regretted their choice. Their leader, however, remained ice-cold.

With a faint smirk, Ormund Hightower raised his gauntleted hand. “This is all unnecessary, my prince. Your accusations, your threats. We are but one step away from a righteous, godly, and peaceful resolution to this conflict.”

“Oh?” Daemon arched his brow in question. Things were getting even more amusing. “And what is it, may I ask?”

“The King will set aside this farce of succession. Let His Grace follow the wisdom of the Great Council and take a bride who strengthens the realm — not one who mocks the Seven’s laws. House Hightower could offer a devout, beautiful and pious Queen consort.

“Such as the lady Alicent Hightower?” Daemon bared his teeth, anger bubbling in his chest.

“Lady Alicent is a woman of virtue, certainly. And House Hightower has no shortage of such treasures — my own line especially.” Ormund’s smile was all knives as he played his daughters like chess pieces, a gambit to outflank Otto. “In fact, I might offer you one, my prince. Rumors whisper your marital bed has grown... chill. Though they are silent on whether the fault lies with you or your lady wife.”

The prince exhaled sharply in fury, sensing Caraxes stir beneath him. It seemed Hightower preferred insolence to submission. And truth be told, he was growing thoroughly tired of this conversation. Meeting Ormund’s gaze, he retorted with the same contemptuous tone directed at him earlier:

“And what will you say if this very instant I say to Caraxes bring fire upon you and turn you and your treacherous arrogance to ashes?”

Hightower narrowed his eyes, casting a sideways glance at Caraxes’ red snout as the dragon flared its nostrils. Drawing himself up, he proclaimed loudly:

“Then I will say this: Prince Daemon Targaryen is a COWARD — too weak to meet steel, too craven to face honorable battle. He enables his brother’s folly, spitting on the laws of succession, defending himself with that abomination spawned from the Sventh Hell itself!” Lord Hightower’s voice thundered across the assembled lords.  

The insult struck deeper than any blade, festering in Daemon’s pride like a wound. To make it worse, the lords mounted behind Hightower bared their teeth in vile grins, jeering at him openly. Was it foolish of them? Undoubtedly. Only one roared Dracarys stood between them and a fiery death — yet they had achieved their goal all the same. Daemon’s cheeks burned as if struck.

“Say and do as you wish, my prince. Yet precedent and the Seven remain on our side.” Then, turning to the other lords, those who came with Daemon, Ormund added: “But you — you should fear the monster your prince commands. Though the man himself? I find him... lacking.”

With that, he wheeled his horse about and rode back through the city gates. Without missing a beat — whether from fear or fealty — the lick-spittle lords spurred after him in his wake.

***

“Damn it! Damn it all!” Daemon snarled, striking the table so hard the cups leaped. The word Dracarys burned on his tongue, yet went unspoken. The King’s Justice remained undone. Ormund’s taunt had pierced deeper than any blade, transforming insult into duel — and suddenly, his entire campaign to Oldtown seemed a distant thought.

“Daemon...” Rhaenys sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Must you always rise to such pathetic bait? As the Hand deliver the King’s justice and let us be done with it.”

“To name me COWARD? Before all the men-at-arms and lords?!” he roared, not listening to his cousin.

“By the Seven, he will choke on that word, Daemon. And he will not call you that again — ash has no tongue to speak.” Rhaenys shrugged, her voice as dry as the Dornish desert. 

“You do not understand, Rhaenys. I am a knight — and a knight's honour would never permit...”

“When King Jaehaerys saw you knighted at six-and-ten, he granted you not just gilded spurs but the judgment befitting the station.” she argued pointedly. “And now you wear the Hand’s pin, or have you forgotten? A Hand who draws steel at first insult is no Hand at all. Subtler weapons exist for men who rule.”

Daemon nearly roared in frustration. That damned golden pin weighed heavy on him again — no, not on his chest, but around his neck, for the Hand’s chain now encircled his gorget, gleaming links of intertwined hands. The office of the Hand granted him boundless power, unlocked countless doors... yet barred just as many others.

Rhaenys mistook his silence for acquiescence. With a sympathetic smile, she reached out and clasped his shoulder. But he would have none of it. Daemon Targaryen, swallow an insult? Withdraw from battle and order his men to seize the offender like some craven who could not settle his own quarrels? Never.

The decision took him but a moment. 

Baring his teeth like Caraxes before the kill, Daemon stormed from the tent — erected in the camp before Oldtown — in a whirl of fury. His pavilion was the largest, and as usual, lords, bannermen, and their squires crowded around the entrance.

“What is on your mind, Daemon? What is it?” Rhaenys hurried after Daemon, closing distance between them. 

“I need six good men.” he barked. “Lords or hedge knights — I care not, so long as they are skilled with weapons and ready to fight without retreat.”

By now, Lord Jason Lannister, Lord Tully, the Baratheon bannermen, squires — in short, everyone who had heard his recent argument with Ormund Hightower — had assembled before them.

The moment Daemon specified both the six knights needed and their willingness to die for the cause, his cousin’s eyes flashed with understanding — she knew exactly what game he was playing.

“Daemon!” Rhaenys hissed anxiously, closing her hand around his vambrace. “Think twice before you speak. If it is Trial of Seven you wish to have — stop this nonsense that instant.” 

He did not turn to look at her, neither did he waver.

“Viserys will not be pleased,” Rhaenys warned, her voice laced with caution. As though the pleasure or displeasure of his brother had ever been a deciding factor in Daemon’s actions. Least of all now, when his honour had been slighted…

Chapter Text

After his conversation with Ormund Hightower Daemon’s pride burned within him — but then again, wasn’t this, Trial of Seven, a brilliant way to demonstrate Rhaenyra’s legitimacy to the lords of the Reach? Indeed, it was! They cared so deeply about the Seven, and what better proof than the Gods themselves showing no objection to Rhaenyra as heir? A smile of anticipation curled Daemon’s lips. What had begun as an impulsive act now seemed a shrewd political move. Rhaenys had scolded him for lacking subtlety? In this, she was mistaken. The deeper meaning of Ormund Hightower — Defender of the Citadel — lying defeated was clear: the Seven did not favor his cause. Instead, their blessing was upon Daemon.

Now, all that remained was to win, and for that Daemon considered his choices of champions carefully. The Hightowers’ arrogance was well-known, and there were always those who bore grievances against them — men with personal scores to settle, or those simply eager to challenge the powerful. Daemon also knew better than to judge a man by his title alone. High birth did not always mean a steady sword arm, nor did a lord’s sigil guarantee courage. In his days as the Commander of the City Watch he had seen many proud names falter in the heat of battle — while lesser men, forged in hardship, stood firm.

The realm had no shortage of fools eager to die for a cause. Moreover, fighting side by side with a prince of the blood was an honor many sought. And though this was no tourney melee with blunted steel and cheering crowds, but a true battle to the death, that only seemed to sharpen their fervour.

The fact that he had not reduced the Hightower brute to ashes on the spot — that he had chosen a fair fight instead — lit a fire in the hearts of the people. No longer was he just the cold prince who wielded his superiority without thought. Now, they saw a man who chose to level the field… and that, more than any dragonflame, earned their awe.

The tent flaps stirred as the men entered one by one presenting themselves. Daemon Targaryen sat at a scarred oak table, a cup of sour Dornish red in hand, his eyes sharp as he measured each man in turn.

Surprisingly enough, Lord Jason Lannister strode in first, wearing his usual crimson cloak lined with gold. “You will have need of my steel,” he declared, hand resting on the pommel of his gilded sword. “And my name.” Hearing that Daemon hardly resister an urge to laugh. Within the years Viserys’ reign hardly any lord or knight could make himself a name on a battlefield, since there were no battles, only feasts. But as a lord he should have gotten good training at Casterly Rock.

Daemon took a slow sip of wine. “You will stand on the right flank,” he said. “Where the press will be thickest.”

Jason smirked, as if he had expected nothing less.

When the next entrant stepped in, Daemon nearly choked on his own wine.

It was a scrawny boy, no older than fourteen and barely shoulder-high, clad in ill-fitting armor that looked more like a child’s costume. Over his ridiculous little cuirass the Tully fish danced proudly on his surcoat.

“Kermit Tully, my prince.” he introduced himself with a bow. “My father commands the Riverlands’ swords. Let me prove our loyalty does not end at feasts.” although he was green as summer grass, his voice did not waver and Daemon liked the defiant gleam in his eyes.

The prince considered him, but only for a moment. “A boy, yet one with an army behind him. “Stay close to me,” he ordered. “And do exactly as I say.”

Kermit’s jaw tightened, but he nodded.

The third man who caught Daemon’s eye was a hulking brute with a face like a half-melted candle, his armor a patchwork of dents. He did not speak — just slammed a fist against his chest in salute.

Daemon, accustomed to low bows, curtsies and honeyed words of lords and ladies at his brother’s court almost laughed. “What is your name, ser?”

“They call me Breakspines.”

Daemon’s gaze flicked over him once more, head to heel. Impressive. “Then break some for me tomorrow.”

The next knight bore a painfully familiar sigil upon his surcoat.

“The Eyrie remembers Queen Aemma. You support her daughter, Princess Rhaenyra — yet the Hightower dared cast doubt upon her claim!” The words came out like a whip-crack, sharp enough to draw blood. “I also wish to fight for her cause.”

“And you are…?” Daemon asked, his gaze critically sweeping the man from boots to brow.

“Ser Denys Arren.” came the answer. The man moved like a cat, light on his feet, his blade thin and sharp. Daemon’s fingers tapped the table. Fast. Precise. “You will take the vanguard.”

The next to enter was a bull of a man with antlered helmet in his hands and a warhammer slung across his back.

“At one of the King’s feasts Ormund called my uncle a craven.” he said, his voice low and husky. “I will crack his skull open and let the crows feast on his corpse.”

Daemon’s lips curled. Good. Anger makes men ruthless.

“Save that fury for the field.” he replied.

The last was a lean, sun-scorched spearman with dark cunning eyes. He said nothing — just met Daemon’s gaze and waited. Daemon had loathed the Dornish since his grandfather’s reign. Vicious, unpredictable, vengeful snakes who refused to kneel. Yet they made decent warriors, different in skills than knights of other kingdoms.

No boasts. No demands. “You’ll do,” Daemon decided.

Finally, when the knights had been chosen, Daemon leaned back in his chair with a satisfied smirk. The heat of his anger cooled, hardening into cold calculation…

Hightower had sought divine confirmation of the king’s decision to name Rhaenyra heir — very well, he would have it. The Trial of Seven would be their judgment. And as for Ormund’s sneering belief that Daemon could only fight from dragonback, he would soon learn the truth firsthand.

Daemon flexed his fingers around Dark Sister’s hilt. The blade felt like an extension of his arm — light and lethal. Hightower thought himself a warrior? A true warrior?

I will show him how a dragon fights on the ground, the prince thought viciously.

And when the time came, he would make sure Ormund’s last sight was of a Targaryen blade flashing downward — separating that pompous head from its shoulders. No fire. No wings. Just steel, and the righteousness of his cause.

Daemon’s thoughts were interrupted as his squire burst into the tent.

The boy was flushed and breathless, his tunic damp with sweat from running, yet he straightened sharply before extending a sealed letter.

“From Lord Hightower, my prince.”

Daemon took the parchment, his thumb brushing the wax seal — a tower crowned with flame.

The message inside — answer to his own previously sent letter — would tell him all he needed to know: whether the Hightower had the stomach for a Trial of Seven, or if he would hide behind excuses.

“Dismissed,” Daemon said to the boy, already breaking the seal.

The parchment crackled as Daemon unfolded it. There were no flowery courtesies, no wasted words. Daemon could only marvel at the source of Ormund’s unshakable pride.

Prince Daemon,

If it is the judgment of the Seven you seek, then let them bear witness. At dawn, seven of mine will meet seven of yours upon the field. No dragons. No tricks. Let steel decide which of us the Gods favour.

Lord Ormund Hightower

The arrogance of it prickled like a thorn. No concession. No fear. Only that damned, unshakable certainty. Daemon’s lips curled. Good. By nightfall the crows would feed on Hightower’s confidence and his Seven would be of little help to him.

***

Instead of supper, Daemon chose to train with his champions. To his great relief, they fought skillfully — but was it enough to best whomever Hightower would choose? The Lannister wielded his blade with practiced elegance; the Tully boy was light and swift as a morning breeze; the Arryn’s footwork was the envy of any swordsman. The hedge knight — Ser Jon Colbert, as he styled himself — paired with the Baratheon made an unbreakable wall of force. And the Dornishman, with his long spear, fought with such unpredictable tactics that he caught them off guard every time.

The lesser-born knights were resolved to see this through to the bitter end. As for the Lannister and the Baratheon, they were certain they would emerge unharmed, while the green boy remained blissfully ignorant of it all.

When darkness fell over the camp, Daemon was drenched in sweat, his strength spent — barely enough to let his squire peel off the heavy armor before collapsing into a chair, clad only in a sweat-soaked doublet over his shirt. But if he thought he could relax now — with a goblet of Dornish red, eyes shut, dreaming of Rhaenyra (what was she doing at this very moment? Sitting in the Council with her father? Or swatting away suitors sniffing after a prize bride?) — he was sorely mistaken. The tent flap flew open, and in stormed Rhaenys, her face a dissatisfied grimace.

“A pretty lord with a feather in his helm, grander than a peacock’s tail; a boy green as grass, thin as a reed; some brute of no renown with the strength of an ox in battered armor; one of the Arryn knights; a Baratheon nephew, no doubt as thick and illiterate as Borros himself; and a sly-eyed Dornishman with a born defiance of authority. And this rabble is to guard a prince of the blood, the Hand of the King?!” Rhaenys threw up her hands in outrage. All day, Rhaenys had watched with a simmering glare — first the selection of knights, then their joint training — stoking her fury like coals in a brazier. Now, it was time to let it burn.

“You forgot to name me, dear cousin,” Daemon remarked, running a finger along Dark Sister where it rested across his knees.

Rhaenys let out a derisive huff, sweeping aside that defiant silver lock — always trespassing on her Baratheon black — like she was swatting away yet another nuisance.

“And what has your kingly brother — my dear little cousin — commanded us to do?” she asked, acidly stressing the word little. “To secure the loyalty of the Realm’s lords — through peaceful negotiations or, if need be, fire and blood. And what have you chosen instead? A pissing contest? A damned tourney?” Rhaenys’ outrage knew no bounds.

At last sensing even a sliver of advantage over Rhaenys — he, after all, knew the full depth of his plans — Daemon allowed himself a triumphant smirk. “Worry not. His Grace shall be well pleased. We will deliver him not only the lords’ fealty... but the Faith’s blessing as well.”

Rhaenys rolled her eyes in disbelief. “Pray the Gods we bring His Grace victory and fealty — and not your hacked-up corpse.” The princess’s face darkened at her own words.

“Seven will judge,” Daemon replied, tasting victory already and chasing away all thought of defeat.

Chapter Text

Word that Lord Ormund Hightower himself and Prince Daemon Targaryen would face each other in a Trial of Seven spread through Oldtown and its surroundings like wildfire. The tournament grounds outside the city walls had been hastily prepared: the barriers reinforced, benches for the nobility erected, and the arena cleared for combat. 

The people of Oldtown had trembled in fearful anticipation of the Targaryen prince’s arrival on dragonback. Yet now they began to creep into the streets, peering with uneasy curiosity at the army gathered beneath the city walls — and at the two dragons perched some distance away. Even His Holiness the High Septon himself had emerged from the Starry Sept and, though surrounded by guards, stood watching those who had come with blood and fire… yet had chosen steel instead.

The streets were filled with merchants selling their goods, and rumors spread through the crowd: What about King Viserys’ heir? Should they swear loyalty to Princess Rhaenyra? Or would His Grace remarry? “The Seven will decide,” many whispered. Living in the shadow of the Starry Sept, these folk truly placed their faith in the Seven above all else. Daemon himself kept his prayers for the Fourteen Flames of Valyria, considering the Seven strictly an Andal superstition.

***

“Whom has Lord Hightower named as his champions?” asked Rhaenys, watching as the squire meticulously fastened Daemon’s armor.

The prince shrugged. “How would I know? He did not report to me.”

Rhaenys gave a skeptical huff. “You mean to tell me you ride to trial without even knowing your opponents?”

“No one sends you the guest list when battle comes,” Daemon replied, flexing his arm to test the fit of his vambrace.  

“Daemon Targaryen — jesting and japing even in death’s shadow,” Rhaenys sighed wearily. “Why did I ever agree to accompany you on this campaign?”

“You sought to repay the lords who slighted you at the Great Council. That lesson, at least, I learned well.” Daemon gave a disarmingly charming smile — and just like that, Rhaenys’ defenses crumbled.

Her gaze swept him head to toe, lingering on the high crimson plume of his helmet and the intricately engraved dragon on his chest — the king’s own smith’s handiwork. He might as well have known he would be fighting before crowds of smallfolk and nobility — why else would he have ordered his squire to pack that particular armor for the campaign?

“You look impressive,” Rhaenys remarked, this time softly. “A pity Viserys and Rhaenyra cannot see you now. Our king loves his tourneys, and the Crown Princess... has always had an eye for dashing knights. Especially those of dragonblood.”

Daemon gave a satisfied huff. Good that Rhaenys saw what lay between him and Rhaenyra. If Viserys chose to remain blind, perhaps his cousin would finally spell it out for him.

***

Truth be told, beneath all that practiced nonchalance, Daemon burned with curiosity about whom Ormund Hightower would name as his champions. The Lord of Oldtown’s selection of highborn knights could not rival his own, then again, bloodlines did not always guarantee a strong sword arm or steady courage. And then there was treachery — that, the prince fully expected from the Hightowers. 

Whatever it was, within his short tenure as the Hand he spent too much time hunched over papers and documents. Good swordfight seemed a welcome reprieve.

The morning mist clung to the field like a shroud as the fourteen knights took their positions. At one end stood Daemon, rolling his shoulders to settle the weight of his armor. His fingers flexed around Dark Sister’s hilt. Across the trampled grass, Ormund Hightower mirrored the motion, his own Valyrian steel Vigilance gleaming dully in the pale light.  

The sight of that sword in Hightower hands rankled. Valyrian steel belongs to dragons, Daemon mused, or to those who kneel to them. When this was over, he would pry it from Ormund’s fingers and one day gift it to his son. A trophy. A reminder. 

He would have a son, wouldn’t he?… The thought — faint as a ghost — made Daemon shiver. For a moment, the ghost wore Aemma Arryn’s face, and he quickly banished it away before it took root.

Once the vision dissolved, Daemon’s eyes wandered to his opponents. He surveyed them, his lips curling into a smirk that bordered on disdain.  

Only a few faces were familiar. There stood Ser Gwayne Hightower, Otto’s eldest son — a tall, handsome young man with the auburn hair of his mother. He carried himself with confidence, though his fingers twitched nervously toward the dagger at his wrist, betraying his unease.  

Then there was Ser Criston Cole, the very knight who had unhorsed Daemon in a past tourney. The man had desperately coveted a White cloak, yet the Kingsguard had eluded him. Fool, Daemon mused. One lucky strike does not make a legend.

Anwyn Peake stood nearby, the Hightowers’ ever-eager lickspittle, so devoted to his masters that he would gladly crawl through mud for their favour.  

As for the rest…

Daemon snapped his fingers, summoning his squire. “Who is this rabble?” he demanded.  

The boy hurriedly scanned the list in his hands before pointing at each man in turn:  

“Ser Edwyn Florent, my prince — cousin to the late Lady Alyrie.” His finger indicated a thin, fox-faced man preening in blue-and-orange enameled plate. “Ser Lyonel Fossoway.” Daemon’s gaze flicked to a knight whose cuirass bore a gilded apple, polished to a ludicrous shine. “And Ser Jonothor the Devout, captain of the High Septon’s guard.” The squire gestured toward a thick-necked brute armed with a seven-spiked flail.  

Lord Ormund Hightower himself loomed among them, clad in his signature tower-crested helm, the Valyrian steel blade Vigilance at his hip.  

Daemon exhaled, gathering strength. Let his champions occupy the others — he had only one target. Ormund Hightower would bleed before the sun reached its peak.

As expected, the stands were packed to the brim. The entire city’s nobility along with the lords who had arrived under Daemon’s lead had gathered to witness the fight between Lord Hightower and Targaryen prince. The common folk jostled and clamored, climbing onto each other’s shoulders and necks, desperate to catch even a glimpse of the fight.

By the sacred rules of the Trial, combat would begin with a joust — lances shattering, horses screaming — before descending into the bloody chaos of melee. For Daemon to prove his innocence, he and his champions would need to either slaughter every last Hightower loyalist to a man, or drag a confession of defeat from Ormund himself, the word yield ripped from his throat. And that was what he planned to do — force the damned word out!

The trumpets sounded, and the knights spurred their mounts forward. Judging by their armour and how they carried themselves in the saddle, the forces appeared evenly matched.

Lord Jason Lannister, clad in his gilded armour, struck first. His lance took Ser Anwyn Peake in the chest, sending the knight crashing to the dirt in a clatter of broken plate. Nearby, the Dornish spearman twisted like a desert viper to drive his lance through Lyonel Fossoway’s thigh. The apple knight screamed as he toppled, his pretty armor fouled with mud and blood.  

But the most brutal strike came from Criston Cole. His lance shattered against the breastplate of young Kermit Tully’s horse, the force of the impact sending the beast crashing down. The boy barely rolled clear, his face pale but determined as he scrambled to his feet.  

Daemon himself aimed for Ormund, but the Hightower lord swerved at the last moment, letting the prince’s lance glance harmlessly off his shield. A coward’s move, but a smart one. Wheeling his horse sharply, Daemon charged back the way he had come, determined to inflict maximum damage on Ormund before they were forced to dismount.

Through his periphery, he glimpsed Denys Arryn already locked in fierce swordplay with Gwayne Hightower, while Baratheon hefted his warhammer, advancing toward Anwyn Peake. Ser Jon  “the Breakspines” Colbert positioned himself between Kermit Tully and Ser Jonothor, the High Septon’s guard, creating a living barrier. For this, Daemon was grateful to the hedge knight — he would have felt a twinge of guilt had young Tully been reduced to bloody mess by a flail.

Ormund was already charging at full tilt, his long lance leveled straight ahead. Daemon dug his spurs in, lowering his own lance to aim for the tower on the Hightower lord’s helm. 

The lances struck true. The world upended — sky and earth trading places as Daemon hit the dirt. His armor had saved his ribs from shattering, but every gasp was fire. When his eyes refocused, his fingers were already clawing for Dark Sister. But if he thought he could simply rise, sword in hand, and march straight to Ormund to show that bastard what he could do without a dragon — he was sorely mistaken.

Someone fell upon him from both sides like hounds upon a stag during a royal hunt. He tried to defend himself, but another bolt of pain tore through his chest, as if his ribs had been crushed. After overpowering Colbert, Ser Jonothor the Devout abandoned young Tully and advanced on Daemon, giving his lord time to rise and recover. Where are the others?! screamed through Daemon’s mind. Why weren’t they fighting? With a sweeping arc of Dark Sister, he flung aside the men trying to pin him down, then lunged forward, driving the blade through Ser Jonothor’s forearm. 

“Burn in the Seven Hells, you damned zealot!” Daemon snarled, the words dripping with venom.

The brute clearly had not expected Valyrian steel — he clutched his wound in shock. Whirling around, Daemon saw Denys Arryn already pinning Gwayne Hightower to the ground, but Otto’s whelp managed to draw his dagger and slash at Denys’ leg, finding the vulnerable gap in his armor. Seizing up a fallen shield, Denys smashed it full-force into Gwayne’s face, knocking the Hightower unconscious.

Daemon’s Dornishman nimbly dodged Cole’s morningstar, countering with probing thrusts of his spear. Nearby, Anwyn Peake lay unconscious in the dirt while Baratheon knelt clutching his helmet, clearly dazed. 

Ormund was mere meters away now. After effortlessly shoving aside the already wounded Fossoway, Daemon advanced toward his target. Denys joined him — Gwayne’s strike was not deep, but he dragged his leg behind him, his bare face slick with sweat. Before he could reach Daemon, Denys collapsed, his body wracked with violent tremors.

No, no, this could not be — the wound was superficial, the prince had seen it. A scratch. Nothing more.

Then it struck him — poison. That Hightower viper had coated his dagger’s edge to tip the scales. And who was the true target? Daemon would wager his last dragon it was meant for him, with Otto Hightower’s own hand guiding the blade. 

Well, Daemon was right, when he chose Arryn as his champion. The man loathed the Hightowers so fiercely — blaming them for Aemma Arryn’s death — that he had never let Gwayne slip past him.

And they call it a fair battle, fought in the name of the Seven, the prince thought with disgust.

Meanwhile Lord Jason Lannister stepped into the Dornishman’s place, desperately parrying Criston Cole’s relentless attacks.

Then, all of a sudden a blade flashed near Daemon’s face — he barely dodged in time. Ormund Hightower loomed before him, Vigilance whirling through the air. Even Daemon had to admit: clad in gilded armor and wielding Valyrian steel, the Lord of Oldtown cut a terrifying figure.

Daemon swung and struck, testing Hightower’s strength. Ormund countered with a heavy swing, forcing Daemon back a step. The prince adjusted his grip, eyes alight with the thrill of a true fight. Ormund pressed forward, his sword cutting through the air. Daemon yielded ground — not in fear, but in strategy, letting the Hightower’s momentum betray him. When Ormund overextended, Dark Sister struck like a viper, scoring a shallow gash across his forearm. Blood welled, but Ormund barely flinched. He retaliated with a brutal pommel-strike that sent Daemon reeling. The Rogue Prince tasted iron, grinned, and lunged again.  

Blades blurred — Daemon’s speed against Ormund’s power. Then Daemon feinted left, twisted right, and Dark Sister again found the gap in Ormund’s armor. The tip pierced just above the hip, drawing a grunt of pain. Ormund staggered but swung wildly, forcing Daemon back. Both men breathed heavily, circling anew.  

However, overconfidence undid Hightower in swordfIght, just as it had undone so many others.  

During one of Ormund’s bold, overextended strikes — a sweeping slash meant to cleave Daemon in two — the Rogue Prince sidestepped with practiced ease. Momentum betrayed the Hightower lord. His blade met only air, and his balance faltered. Before he could recover, Daemon hooked a boot behind his ankle and shoved.  

Ormund crashed to the mud with a grunt of pain and shock. A sharp kick to his wrist sent Vigilance spinning through the air, landing point-first in the earth several paces away, now useless for its Lord.  

Daemon loomed over the Hightower, Dark Sister already at his throat before Ormund could even think of rolling aside.   

“A shame,” Daemon mused, voice dripping with mocking pity. “All that Hightower pride, undone by a single misstep.”

Ormund’s jaw clenched, but the fight was over. The weight of his own arrogance pressed down on him as surely as Daemon’s blade. For a heartbeat, Daemon considered raising his and finishing the strike. But the thought passed. There would be more value in delivering Ormund alive to King's Landing — a present to Viserys to reward His Grace’s patience. Let him decide the fate of this traitor. It would be a fitting demonstration of the king’s justice.  

“Do you yield?” the prince hissed with venom. No answer came. But he knew how to get one.

Standing over Ormund’s fallen body, Daemon abruptly raised his sword, then brought the flat of the blade crashing down onto his opponent’s helmet. A dull metallic clang rang out across the field. Then he raised his sword again —

“I yield! I yield!” Ormund Hightower’s voice rang out across the arena, clear and undisguised. Daemon checked his swing at the last moment, Dark Sister stopping just short of the Hightower lord’s exposed throat.

“Louder.” Daemon commanded.

“I yield!” Ormund roared, his voice raw with fury and shame, louder than before, loud enough for every Lord and the High Septon to hear.

“You yield,” Daemon confirmed, lowering his blade but keeping it ready. Glancing towards the viewing stands, he decalred: “The Gods, as you can see, do not favor your Lord! They have turned their backs on him, just as he turned his back on King Viserys and his heir! And so it shall be with any who dare rise against their rightful sovereign! The Seven shine upon House Targaryen!”

As if to affirm his words, a piercing dragon cry split the sky. And no — it was not Caraxes or Meleys, left beyond the city walls. Golden scales flashed in the sunlight as Syrax descended upon the arena, her wings beating thunderously.

“Rhaenyra?!” Daemon breathed, torn between shock and admiration.

He was not the only one stunned by the sight. The squires who had rushed to help Lord Hightower — now trampled into the mud — stopped mid-step. The nobility rose from their seats and bowed their heads, while among the smallfolk, people began kneeling one after another. So did those knights who remained standing in the arena.

While fear and confusion hung over the tournament grounds like a storm cloud, and Daemon himself wavered between admiration and fury — struggling to untangle his own emotions — Rhaenys stepped forward, once again proving why Good Queen Alysanne had seen in her the promise of greatness.

“Bend your knees before your future Queen, for she has come herself to see those who dare question her claim,”  Rhaenys declared solemnly. Her face betrayed no surprise — as though all had unfolded according to plan. “As you can see, Your Grace”, she addressed Rhaenyra, “your people remain loyal. And as for all of you,” she called to the crowd, “you may witness your princess in good health — and, should the need arise, in full readiness for battle.”

Clad in a long leather jerkin, her hair braided in Visenya style, Rhaenyra unfastened the chains and nimbly dismounted. Delicate beside her great beast, yet poised, she cut a striking figure before the crowd. Striding across the field, she came to a halt beside the sprawled form of Lord Hightower. Rhaenys, who by now had left the viewing box, was now whispering something in her ear, while the princess furrowed her silver brows.

Nodding slowly, Rhaenyra’s gaze shifted from Ormund to Daemon, then to the high box where the High Septon sat alongside the remaining Hightowers — among them Ormund’s younger brother Hobert, and his cousin Otto.

“Did you doubt me, my lord?” the Princess finally asked, looking down at the defeated Lord of Oldtown. “How… unwise of you. The Gods themselves declare their favor plainly — unless you presume to stand above both divine will and your King’s decree?”

Rhaenyra arched a brow, awaiting his reply. For Ormund, however, the effort proved too great. His lips parted, but only a ragged gasp escaped. His eyelids fluttered weakly, apparently in a silent surrender to her words. However, the way Ormund’s fists clenched and unclenched — how his grimace of pain twisted into naked hatred — made it clear: Daemon’s spectacle had not secured their full victory over the Reach, not yet.

***

“Why did you come here?” Daemon demanded through gritted teeth, his self-control hanging by a thread. The storm inside him raged — adrenaline from the fight, the savage thrill of victory, then the crushing dread when Rhaenyra had pursued him into Oldtown’s viper’s nest, gambling her life like a fool. It threatened to pull him under, wave after wave. “We agreed that you would not risk yourself, that you would stay by Father’s side — to take care of him and learn from him!”

Rhaenyra’s arms snapped across her chest as she scoffed, her eyes flashing with challenge. “And you — we agreed you would sway the lords to our side through diplomacy, or, failing that, with dragonfire. But what did you do?! Charged into close combat like a common foot soldier, not a Prince-Hand!” Rhaenyra shouted back furiously.  

Surely, he would never admit how he had exploded like a petulant boy at Hightower’s insult — for later, the whole affair took on a far deeper meaning in his eyes, and in the eyes of all others. The Trial of Seven was his chance to prove the Gods’ favour rested upon him… and through him, upon Viserys and Rhaenyra.

“You do not understand! It was a matter of honour.” he attempted to explain himself in response to her accusation.

“Of course! You men always have an excuse. Honor, duty to the realm! That is exactly what Father used to say, forcing Mother to birth “heirs” one after another! There is always some grand principle with you — some noble duty!” Rhaenyra’s voice trembled with barely contained hurt, and had it not been for the defiant tilt of her chin, Daemon might have thought she was on the verge of tears.

“Your honour, for fuck’s sake!” Daemon exclaimed, still unable to take himself under control. Rhaenys gave him a disapproving glance. She had seen how it started and knew exactly whose honor had first been offended.

Perhaps, he should have apologized and stepped back — after all, Rhaenyra’s sudden arrival on Syrax had struck the men with awe. But whether it was the exhaustion of the long campaign, or Ormund Hightower’s blow still rattling his wits, his tongue refused to obey. And his ribs ached where the High Septon Guard’s flail had landed…

“Now you explain yourself. Why did you break our agreement and defy Father’s will?” he asked, trying to make the words sound stern.

“Because you weren’t there! Because I needed to see you — to know…” she faltered, as if startled by her own words, then continued in different voice, “Or do you suggest the Realm’s heir rely on secondhand reports? I refuse to stand aside while others fight for my crown — only to be treated like… some broodmare sold to the highest bidder!” Rhaenyra cut herself off, brow furrowing. The subject clearly pained her; she had not meant to voice it aloud. 

That was when Daemon realized — Rhaenyra had her own reasons for coming, beyond mere impatience, desire to know the situation or even to see him. And something told him one of those reasons was Viserys. Father and daughter loved each other with the same fierce intensity with which they pushed each other away.

Whatever the truth of it, at this particular moment the prince and his niece were like two enraged dragons, they glared at each other — and would have said more and worse, had Rhaenys not intervened, as always.

“Does the King know you are here?” she addressed Rhaenyra, gently nudging Daemon aside with her shoulder.

Rhaenyra jerked her chin up defiantly, only to halt mid-breath, her lips pressed into a thin line. “He does!… if he is clever enough to piece it together…” after a brief pause, she answered.

“Ah. Apparently he does not.” Rhaenys shook her head, a sigh laced with reproach. “Gods spare Viserys. A defiant brother and a willful daughter? He will need more than wine to survive this.” Older princess brushed her hand down the younger’s cheek. “That was recklessness itself, my dear... though not beyond my comprehension.”

The measured tone of his cousin sobered Daemon a little. Here he stood, in a damned tent pitched outside the damned walls of Oldtown. For weeks on end, he had dreamed of victory — and of Rhaenyra, to whom he could present it. And now they were together. Rhaenyra had come to him herself, worried for him, and even if there had been a hint of defiance in it — a challenge to her father — it no longer mattered. Her nearness, immediate and undeniable, meant everything. 

As these tangled thoughts and emotions swirled in his head — no longer master of his own body — he closed the distance between them, seizing the princess’s hands. She did not resist. Instead, her fingers tightened around his in answer. Perhaps he had reacted to her unexpected arrival too sharply, just as he had to Hightower’s provocation the day before, but the dragonblood in him never cooled, not for a single breath. He would have to learn to temper himself, both as Hand, and as... prince-consort...

There had been a kiss between them — that one kiss before his departure for the Reach. How he longed to repeat it now... This tender moment, this reconciliation, however, was soon disturbed.

The captain, the same one in the Arryn surcoat who had roused him from sleep when their army was bogged down in the muddy roads, pushed aside the tent flap and entered with a bow.

“A messenger from Lord Hightower—ehm—the new Lord Hightower requests an audience, my prince.”

Daemon frowned. The new lord? Had the old one already given his soul to the Stranger? Pity. He had so wanted to deliver the traitor to the king himself. With a nod of his head, he permitted the messenger to enter.

A youth in dark green livery entered the tent. His face flickered with something between terror and awe as he found himself standing before two Targaryen princesses and a prince. He dropped to one knee, bowing his head before speaking.

“My Prince... and Princesses...” The messenger swallowed hard. “The Lord Hightower, alongside His Holiness the High Septon, humbly invites Your Graces to a feast within the Hightower. To... ah... partake in negotiations.”

“Negotiations?!” Rhaenyra indignantly exclaimed. “What terms could possibly exist between us and traitors?”

Though the sight of his warrior-princess thrilled him, Daemon raised a calming hand. Negotiations? Why not? he thought, the seeds of a splendid scheme already taking root. 

And so he answered squaring his shoulders, “Inform your lord that the Hand of King Viserys and the Heir to the Iron Throne accept his invitation.”

With a relieved bow, the page thrust the parchment into the prince’s hands and all but fled from the tent packed with dragonriders.

The moment the youth departed, Daemon felt Rhaenyra’s questioning gaze heavy upon him. “And why would we want this, uncle?”

“Why? I have reasons enough, dear niece,” Daemon smirked. He closed the distance between them, reaching again for her hands — only for her to pull away this time.

“You always have reasons for everything, even when you don’t! Three dragons wait beyond these walls. One word from us, and the Hightower’s beacon will melt like Harrenhal’s towers. And you have already proven you are more than just a skilled commander and warrior, was it not enough to feed your pride?” she retorted passionately.

In Rhaenyra — this young dragon-blooded princess — he saw his own reflection, that of the Rogue Prince. But now he wore another mantle: Hand of the King. And so, more often than not, words became his weapons instead of actions. Despite the fact that he really wished to burn the fucking Hightower to the ground.

“We will attend these negotiations,” Daemon said, layering his voice with conviction, “and wring from the Hightowers, the Faith, and the entire Reach far more than fleeting obedience. We will gain more than just a pile of molten towers and a people trembling with fear and hatred.”

Rhaenyra scoffed, tossing her tightly woven braid back over her shoulder. Then, her fingers strayed to the rings, twisting them nervously as she argued with Daemon, stating they should demand oaths of fealty and return to King’s Landing at once.

Daemon’s restraint snapped like a bowstring. “You are missing the point—” he began, only for Rhaenys to step between them, her palm raised.

“If you insist on playing this game, Daemon, cease your squabbling. You too, Rhaenyra. The Heir and the Hand must present a united front before these vultures. Though...” Rhaenys mused, “I tend to agree with the Princess. Caraxes, Meleys, and Syrax might settle matters more... efficiently.”

Chapter Text

The agony of a husband who had lost his beloved wife, and then his precious daughter, could only be understood by those who had suffered such grief themselves.

The disappearance of Rhaenyra struck His Grace, King Viserys, like a dagger to the heart. He had only just begun to mend the rift between them after that cursed day which had stolen the life of his dear Aemma. At first, Rhaenyra had refused even to look upon him, but when he named her his heir, she relented. She began attending Small Council meetings, sharing the royal table, allowing him the fragile hope of reconciliation. Now, even that had been torn away.

And now this — vanishing from the Red Keep itself, slipping away under the very noses of the King her father and his entire Kingsguard!

In his despair, the King lashed out at all around him — the servants and ladies-in-waiting who had failed to keep watch over the princess, his own Small Council for their neglect of the realm’s heir.

“You, Lord Beesbury!” the King roared, uncharacteristic fury twisting his voice, unbefitting a monarch, “You were to instruct the Princess in the proper dispensation of the treasury, what gold should flow and what should be withheld!” Then he turned upon the stout and silent Lord Strong: “And you, Lyonel! Yours was the task of schooling her in the laws, old and new, the loopholes that might be twisted to advantage!”

The noble lords could but blink like startled owls, their heads bowed in feigned contrition. As if one could cage a dragon! Did they truly expect Rhaenyra to wither over musty scrolls in some dim, airless chamber with a greybeard for company, while out in the Reach, men fought and bled for her birthright?

Nor did Viserys find much solace in his brother’s absence. These past weeks, he had grown accustomed to Daemon’s presence — to that sharp, mercurial mind, which, beneath its usual defiance, now showed glimmers of restraint, cunning, and, dare he think it, respect for his elder brother and king. Perhaps he should have taken Jason Lannister’s counsel and sent the Lord of Casterly Rock to lead the campaign in the Reach. A large army would have sufficed, and Daemon might have remained at court. Was that not where the Hand belonged — at his king’s side? And where the Hand stayed, might Rhaenyra have lingered as well?

But the campaign dragged on… And before his departure, Daemon had even dared suggest he claim another dragon! As if the king’s cup were not already overflowing with woes — must he now contend with a restless mount and the whispers of his own frailty?

The days of ignorance stretched on, each longer than the last, until the King found himself near ready to sprint between the Tower of the Hand and the rookery a dozen times a day, if only to pry loose some word — any word — from the ravens. But when news finally came, it was the sort that turns a father’s heart to stone.

“Your Grace.” Ser Harrold, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, cautiously slipped into Viserys’ chambers. The King looked up from his half-finished model of the city — a distraction that brought no joy, just as the wine in his cup brought no warmth, just as the berry tarts on his plate stirred no hunger. His weary eyes met the knight’s. Let it be news of Rhaenyra, he prayed. Let it be anything but silence.  

“I bring tidings of Her Highness, the Princess Rhaenyra.” A pause, weighted like an executioner’s axe. “She was seen flying over Tumbleton, then Cider Hall, then Highgarden — all reports agree she was making for Oldtown.” A pause, then the final blow, delivered with the caution of a man prodding a sleeping dragon: “If I may, my King... it is thought she means to join her uncle, Prince Daemon.”  

And well he should fear. For what comes next? A father’s grief? A king’s wrath? None of this was what the Lord Commander had wished to endure.

In that moment, Viserys was utterly lost. A storm of impulses raged within him — to drown himself in wine until oblivion took him, to hang every damned dragonkeeper who had allowed Rhaenyra to slip away, to flog her servants for their silence, to drag his wayward daughter over his knee and thrash some sense into her! Instead, goblets and pitchers shattered against the wall, the foulest curses raining down upon Ser Harrold’s head — and upon the entire Kingsguard, the ladies-in-waiting, the chambermaids, all who had failed him.

In the end, the King’s wrath spared no one: the Kingsguard were condemned to double watches; the servants were whipped raw and stripped of their wages; and the dragonkeepers on duty that day were sentenced to a month shoveling dragon shit from the pits.

Yet no matter how fiercely the storm raged, no punishment could soothe the tempest in Viserys’ heart.

Only one soul at court truly understood the suffering of the wretched King and father — Lady Alicent Hightower.  

Despite the chaos in the Reach and the rift with her family, she remained at court — first, because she was truly innocent, having no influence over her father, brother, or uncles, and second, because as Rhaenyra’s lady-in-waiting and close friend, Viserys did not want to further hurt his daughter by sending her away.

Furthermore, young Alicent turned out to be pleasant company. Unlike the fawning courtiers surrounding Viserys, she possessed the natural vivacity of youth along with genuine warmth. With Daemon long gone and now Rhaenyra missing, the king found himself desperately in need of companionship - a role Lady Alicent filled.

“Rhaenyra flew into a rage after I suggested she start looking for a husband,” Viserys said to lady Alicent, spreading his hands in confusion. “But what is so wrong about that? The crown princess needs a prince consort, and the sooner she finds one, the stronger her family will be when the time comes to ascend the Iron Throne.” The king simply could not understand what about this reasonable paternal concern could have upset his daughter.

His eyes wandered restlessly around the chambers, as if searching for answers, but neither the Valyrian-themed tapestries on the walls, nor the comfortably crackling fireplace, nor his beloved model city that had always brought him joy and inspiration provided any solutions. He might have continued staring at a crack in the stone wall or a peculiarly melted candle when his gaze fell upon the edge of a deep blue dress. It was trimmed with white lace, beneath which lay pale pink skin no less smooth and delicate than the silk itself. Viserys even tilted his head slightly to admire the sight, but quickly caught himself, pressing a hand to his eyes as if deep in thought.

He did not get a chance to think about anything — a hand came to rest gently on his shoulder, the touch light and soothing.

“You must not torment yourself so, Your Grace,” Lady Alicent murmured. “Look at you — you have gone quite pale. Your chamberlain told me you refused midday meal. How could you?” she fretted. “You will waste away to nothing. Do you think Princess Rhaenyra and Prince Daemon would wish to see you in such a state?”

Viserys realized with some shame that he had indeed neglected his appearance. His cheeks bore an unseemly stubble, his doublet was crumpled, and gods forbid — it might have acquired an unpleasant odor.

“Let’s remedy this at once, Your Grace,” Alicent declared firmly. “We will begin by getting proper food into you.”

With a glance asking permission, she took the golden bell and summoned a servant, who appeared instantly at the chamber door.

“Bring His Grace’s supper — venison, a dozen quails, mushrooms in cheese sauce, artichokes, truffles, stuffed duck, thick broth, warm bread, and plenty of wine. For dessert, strawberries in cream and apple tart.

As the servant bowed and hurried away, Viserys looked at Alicent in surprise:

“Isn’t that rather much for just the two of us?”

“For one,” Alicent smiled in reply. “You shall dine, Your Grace, while I ensure the meal restores your strength and lifts your spirits.”

The King laughed, marveling once more at Alicent’s kindness and thoughtfulness.

“Then you must also ensure this feast does not give me indigestion — or worse, stomach pains,” the king jested, drawing a laugh from Alicent.

As the royal cooks hurried to prepare dishes fit for a king’s appetite, the conversation between Viserys and Alicent took an uncomfortable turn.  

“I am truly ashamed of my father and uncles’ actions,” Alicent confessed, her voice heavy with regret. “Forgive me, my king. I beg your forgiveness!”  

She looked so pitiful — like a cornered fawn — that Viserys, moved by sympathy, quickly reassured her:  

“Come now, dear Lady Alicent. The defiance of the Reach lords is not your doing. You were among the first to swear fealty to my daughter, and you have remained loyally at court all this time. How could you possibly influence your family’s decisions? Even if you had written to them, they would not have heeded your words.”

Alicent sniffled and tucked an auburn curl behind her ear.  

She really does have the eyes of a deer, the king thought. Though not an avid hunter himself, he had seen enough of the creatures — first accompanying his grandsire and father, then presiding over royal hunts of his own. Rhaenyra was right to choose her as a lady-in-waiting. What a pity her father had turned traitor.  

Once again, Viserys checked himself — it was unjust to transfer blame from father to daughter. Especially when that daughter clearly regretted her family’s betrayal.  

“Let us speak no more of it,” Viserys said in a conciliatory tone, patting her hand. “Daemon will bring your House back to its allegiance, and all will be as it was — the Seven Kingdoms united under Targaryen rule.”

Whether Viserys truly believed his own words, he did not yet know. But his natural optimism and easy temperament inclined him to hope for the best.  

At last, a small procession of servants arrived, laying the table with silver cutlery before bringing forth steaming dishes that filled the air with mouthwatering aromas.  

With a graceful gesture, Alicent dismissed the attendants, choosing to serve the king herself.  

“Eat, Your Grace — it will restore your strength,” she urged, filling his plate. “Allow me to give you more venison, and artichokes — plenty of artichokes. The maesters say they fortify the heart. Do you prefer Dornish red or the sweet vintages from the Reach… ah, forgive me. Mention of the Reach is ill-timed. The Dornish red, then. It is quite strong, but surely no match for a man of your vigor, Your Grace.”  

Viserys could barely keep up, swallowing rich mouthfuls between gulps of wine. True enough, his spirits lightened — he realized now how fiercely hunger had gnawed at him, and good food had ever been his solace.  

When most dishes had been tasted or devoured, Viserys leaned back with a contented sigh, rubbing his rounded belly. “Perhaps this was indeed what I needed,” he admitted, stifling a hiccup. The wine had softened his thoughts, and problems once daunting now seemed manageable.  

“I will find Rhaenyra the finest suitors — the most handsome, the most worthy,” he declared, words slightly slurred. “And she will never again accuse me of lacking love, or ill intent, or—HIC!—selling her to the highest bidder”.

Alicent kept smiling, stroking his hand in gentle agreement.  

“You—you know my daughter, Lady Alicent.” The king leaned closer, breath warm with wine. “Who... who pleases her? What manner of man stirs her heart?” His gaze fixed on her, hungry for revelation.  

Alicent giggled with playful charm, as if imagining these very knightly suitors. “Well, of course they must be handsome, strapping, and brave. Everyone knows our Rhaenyra became a dragonrider at eight years old, so her husband cannot be some timid mouse. And given your Valyrian beauty—” She emphasized the word your with a quick glance at the king’s own golden curls.” — her groom must be exceptional in appearance as well.”  

Viserys snorted, waving a vague hand. “Brave, noble, and handsome? You set a hard task for an old father!”  

“By the gods, what nonsense is this about being old, Your Grace!” Alicent protested with playful indignation. “If an artist needed to paint the very image of a handsome man in his prime, he would choose none other than you!”

Hearing this, Viserys straightened as much as his plush chair and current state allowed. Such compliments were undeniably sweet — especially since he heard them so seldom. Having spent his life beside his tall, lithe, and warrior-skilled brother, Viserys — with his middling height, softening frame, and lack of martial prowess — rarely received such praise. And when he did, it usually reeked of crude courtly flattery.  

Meanwhile Lady Alicent continued with a serious expression. “So we need a handsome, powerful, wealthy lord who can strengthen Rhaenyra’s position — one who can grant her castles and armies.”

“Rhaenyra has a dragon,” Viserys remarked, already hearing how his daughter would retort.

“A dragon goes without saying, but it is better when that dragon has thousands of swords, bows, spears, and mounted knights behind it,” Alicent countered knowingly. “Our Prince-Hand did not fly to the Reach on Caraxes alone — he led an entire host, bristling with the banners of a dozen houses.”

“A fair point…” Viserys murmured thoughtfully. “Well, whom would you suggest for our dear girl?” The king raised a brow, clumsily tugging at his doublet’s collar. The fire roared hotter, and the rich food and drink had warmed his blood.

Lady Alicent’s gaze drifted upward, her small white fingers drumming the armrest.

“Kermit Tully is too young and green… Baratheon is as thick and dull as a castle wall … The Starks are cold and silent as a winter’s night. And the Hightowers, alas, have fallen from grace.” She listed the names one by one, as if exhausting every option — then her eyes lit up. “Lord Jason Lannister! Handsome, young, wealthy, of the noblest blood, and head of a Great House.”

Viserys’ face twisted in displeasure: “But… Casterly Rock is so far from King’s Landing. As Lord of the Rock, Jason would be bound there half the year — and Rhaenyra with him.” He scratched his stubbled cheek. “I would prefer her to remain at court, or at the very least on Dragonstone. More than that… Jason Lannister is known for his pride and arrogance. Would he truly respect Rhaenyra? She is to be his sovereign, not his ornament.”

Alicent nodded in agreement. “As always, Your Grace sees to the heart of men. But does my king not think that with a dragon at her command, Rhaenyra would need no more than a word to curb any overreaching suitor — or husband?”  

“True enough!” The king chuckled. Everything Lady Alicent said made perfect sense, and he was glad to agree — especially now, when the wine had warmed his veins and his body and mind finally relaxed after weeks of tension.  

“Lord Lannister accompanies the Hand’s campaign in the Reach, which means he will meet Rhaenyra there.”  

These words displeased the king. He set down his goblet and rubbed his face. “Do not remind me, Lady Alicent. The thought of Rhaenyra flying into danger — so young, so untested — grieves me. Enemy arrows have felled Targaryens before, even those mounted on dragons.”  

The crossbow bolt that killed his uncle — the perfect heir to the Iron Throne — still echoed as a fresh wound in the king’s heart. How much more terrible, then, that his daughter now faced the same risks.  

An involuntary groan escaped his lips — just as the rustle of skirts sounded, and a sudden, pleasant weight settled on his knees. Opening his eyes, he found himself face-to-face with Alicent, who cradled his cheeks in her soft palms, her gaze brimming with compassion.  

“If only you knew how deeply I share your sorrow, Your Grace. Our dear Rhaenyra means everything — she is our future. Should any ill befall her during this campaign, I would never forgive my father, uncles or brother. I would take holy vows, join the silent sisters myself!” she declared fervently. “But for now... I shall pray for our princess. And...” Her hand slipped downward, beneath the velvet of the king’s doublet, “...help ease the pain of Your Grace’s loneliness and worry..."