Rhaenyra walked beside Daemon through the inner wards of the Red Keep, their footsteps echoing faintly along the stone corridors that led toward Maegor's Holdfast.
The king was resting.
That knowledge hung between them, unspoken but heavy. The corridors here were narrower, the torchlight dimmer, the air close with the scent of smoke and old stone. Servants moved quietly along the walls, heads bowed, careful not to draw notice from prince or princess.
As they passed beneath a high archway, a rat catcher crossed their path, a burlap sack slung over one shoulder, the tail of some unfortunate creature dangling from its mouth. He did not linger. He bowed quickly and moved on.
Daemon stopped.
Rhaenyra took two more steps before she realized he was no longer beside her. She turned back, brows knitting together in irritation.
Daemon stood very still, his gaze fixed on the retreating figure of the rat catcher. His mouth had drawn into a hard line, his violet eyes dark with a sharp, assessing intensity.
"What is it now?" Rhaenyra asked, her lips pursed.
"That man is not right," Daemon said quietly. "He is too strong."
Rhaenyra blinked. For a heartbeat she thought he must be jesting. "Too strong?" Her mouth twitched. "If he were thin and weak, he would hardly be fit to catch rats in the Red Keep."
"It is different," Daemon replied, his eyes never leaving the corridor where the rat catcher had vanished. "A rat catcher should not have shoulders like that. Nor arms shaped by years of proper training."
Rhaenyra frowned. "Strong men come in all stations."
"Strength of that sort does not come from work alone," Daemon said, his voice low, edged with something darker. "It comes from sustained nourishment. Good meat. Regular meals. Coin enough to afford them."
His tone grew colder as the thought settled.
How much silver could a rat catcher earn?
Daemon's jaw tightened. To build such a body required more than scraps from a castle kitchen. The realization curdled in his gut, and his gaze shifted, no longer focused on a single man but roaming outward.
He began to look at everything.
The servants moving through Maegor's Holdfast. The men stationed at doors. The guards who stood at ease along the walls.
The longer he watched, the darker his expression became.
It was not one man.
Too many of the male servants bore the same signs. Broad shoulders beneath plain tunics. Straight-backed posture. Eyes that measured rather than drifted. Even among the patrolling guards, he saw the white tower sigil worked discreetly into armor and cloak.
The Hightower.
Daemon felt a sudden, bone-deep weariness settle over him.
So this was how it was.
He wondered, not for the first time, whether Viserys knew. Whether his brother understood that the Red Keep had been hollowed out from within, its halls quietly claimed, its walls made porous by Green influence.
A sieve.
This was only the Red Keep. If such infiltration had taken root here, what of the rest of King's Landing? How many eyes and ears answered to Oldtown instead of the Iron Throne?
It was bad enough that dragons no longer inspired unquestioned fear. Worse still that power at court had tilted away from Rhaenyra. But now even the city itself was compromised.
Daemon's thoughts turned grim.
How did Viserys intend to protect her?
When he was gone, when the crown passed and the banners were called, how exactly was Rhaenyra meant to claim the throne in a city already steeped in Green loyalty?
He reached for her without warning, his hand closing around her arm.
"Come," he said. "We are speaking to your father. Now."
Rhaenyra startled, caught off guard by the sudden force. "Daemon?"
"There is no more time for silence," he said, already pulling her along. "If this is not addressed, the throne you are meant to inherit will never be stable."
She allowed herself to be drawn forward, confusion flickering across her face as they made their way swiftly toward the king's chambers.
Inside, Viserys sat at a table near the window, a cup of warm water cradled in his hands. Before him lay the intricate model of Old Valyria he favored, tiny towers and roads arranged with careful attention. His hands trembled slightly as he adjusted a piece.
When he looked up and saw them, surprise crossed his face.
"Rhaenyra? Daemon?" he asked. "Should you not be in the Stepstones by now?"
"Father," Rhaenyra said quickly, seizing upon the first distraction she could find, "you have not been drinking again, have you?"
Viserys snorted softly. "Archmaester Mellos has devised a most unforgiving regimen. He claims it may grant me a few more years. For your sake."
He shot her a sharp look. "Do not attempt to change the subject. Tell me. Why did you not go?"
Rhaenyra lowered her gaze. Her fingers curled into the fabric of her sleeve, but she did not answer.
Viserys's expression softened despite himself. His shoulders sagged a little.
"I do this for you," he said gently. "I know you fear that Aegon might one day contest your claim. But I have told you before. He will not. He will be your support. A king must have a king's…"
"Enough," Daemon cut in.
Viserys flinched, irritation flashing across his face. "Daemon."
"You speak of assurances while the castle around you rots," Daemon said, his patience spent. "You claim Aegon will never usurp the throne, yet you do not even see that the Red Keep itself has been overtaken."
Viserys stared at him.
"I guarantee you do not know," Daemon continued. "You do not know that Maegor's Holdfast is crawling with Green men. That even your own servants answer elsewhere."
His voice sharpened. "The cook who prepares your meals serves the Greens."
Viserys froze.
For a long moment, he said nothing. He had never concerned himself with such matters. Never questioned who stood behind him or who prepared his food.
A flicker of unease crossed his face as memory stirred. The strange taste of recent meals. The sense of watchful eyes.
Still, pride stiffened his spine.
"So what?" he said stubbornly. "Aegon would never harm me."
Daemon's eyelid twitched.
"And Rhaenyra?" he demanded. "When she walks these halls, surrounded by informants? When she eats food prepared by those who would see her fall? Can she sleep soundly? Can she eat without fear?"
Viserys frowned. "I have already sent Aegon away. I granted him the Stepstones. He is no longer a threat to you."
"As long as Aegon lives, the Greens will endure," Daemon said coldly. "Even if he never desires the throne, others will desire it for him. The Hightowers will. The Lannisters will. You named Rhaenyra heir knowing your second wife might bear sons, yet now you refuse to face the danger that followed."
His voice rose, passion breaking through restraint.
"What do you expect her to do? Stand alone? Face Aegon, Helaena, Aemond, and Daeron by herself? Set Syrax against Sunfyre as he grows, against Vhagar at her peak, against Dreamfyre's temper, against Tessarion who strengthens with every year?"
He stepped closer.
"Either you yield and name Aegon your heir, letting the realm settle into false peace. Or you stand fully with Rhaenyra. Clear the path. Remove every thorn. Hesitation will destroy you all."
Silence fell.
Viserys looked suddenly older, the weight of the crown pressing visibly upon him. He understood. He always had.
At last, he sighed and reached out, brushing his fingers against Rhaenyra's cheek.
"If only you were a boy," he murmured.
"I am sorry to disappoint you, Father," Rhaenyra said softly, her face lowered.
"Do not go to the Stepstones," Viserys said at last. "I will have the Citadel send a white raven."
The words carried weight.
White ravens were rare creatures, their feathers pale as snow, their eyes sharp and bright. Only the Citadel possessed them, and they were reserved for matters of great import.
Black ravens could not fly to the Stepstones.
White ravens could.
Viserys thought of Oldtown. Of Otto. Of Alicent's letters to her son. Of the replies that never mentioned a father.
The rift was already beyond mending.
At length, he waved them away. "Leave me. I must think."
As they turned to go, his voice stopped them.
"Rhaenyra... I love you more than anyone. I am your father," Viserys's voice suddenly sounded like he was so deafeated.
She stepped back to him and kissed his cheek, her smile trembling despite her composure.
"I love you too, Father... I will always be your daughter." Rhaenyra said quietly. "Rest well. I will always trust in you."
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A/N:
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