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Maegor's Holdfast, The King's Bedchamber.
Afternoon sunlight poured across the high balcony of the King's bedchamber, illuminating dust motes dancing in the heavy air.
Grand Maester Mellos had just finished bandaging the King's wounded hand.
When the old man tied the final strip of linen, he administered a double dose of milk of the poppy and calming herbs.
"Your Grace, you must rest," Mellos said, looking at Viserys I with deep concern.
"Your body cannot endure such strain. If the wound worsens..."
"I said, leave."
Viserys did not open his eyes. He reclined in the tall chair, head tilted back.
His bandaged left hand rested on the velvet armrest, while his right hung limp.
Mellos's lips moved, but in the end, he only bowed deeply and shuffled from the room with heavy steps.
CRASH!
The silence was shattered once more.
A glass wine jar burst against the stone wall. The deep red Arbor summerwine splashed like blood, streaming down the black-and-red three-headed dragon banner of House Targaryen.
Daemon Targaryen stood at the balcony's edge, chest heaving.
He had lost count of how many things he had smashed since returning from the Throne Room.
Viserys opened his eyes and looked at his brother wearily.
"Finished? Got it out of your system?"
Daemon turned slowly. Sunlight lit his face, silver hair falling in disarray, his violet eyes burning with icy fury.
"Out of my system?" He gave a low, dangerous laugh.
"No, brother. I'm celebrating."
"Celebrating that I finally understand the brilliance of today's performance."
He walked to Viserys, smiled, and spoke softly.
"I became the boy's stepping stone, thick, solid, and perfectly timed."
Daemon studied Viserys, a mocking curve to his lips.
"Let me walk you through it, brother. In the Throne Room today, that old dog Vaemond risked everything to splash a bucket of filth on Rhaenyra, filth that can never be washed off. Did he succeed? In a way, yes."
"So I drew steel; I meant to take his head. By the original script, next comes: the Savage Prince slays a man before the King, the King punishes me to calm the realm, Ser Vaemond dies a hero, the rumors die with him, perfect."
Suddenly, he slammed a fist on the table.
"But your precious son rewrote the play."
"Aemond stepped forward. He caught my blade in front of everyone. What did he say? 'His Grace only means to take his tongue, not his life.' See how he reveres the law! How he defends the Crown! How he honors tradition!"
"Then you ordered him to carry out the sentence himself. He obeyed, gave the old dog a knight's death, time enough for final words."
Daemon began to pace, his boots loud on the floor.
"What will the lords think now? Prince Aemond, though young, is calm, restrained, respectful of nobles and tradition; he stood up for a man who spoke the truth."
"And me?"
He stopped before Viserys, leaned in, hands braced on the chair arms, silver hair falling as they met eye to eye.
"I become the savage monster who sought to silence a man with murder in open court. The dark foil to your son's shining virtue."
"Even if I am that man, I'll be damned if some whelp defines me!"
Viserys met his brother's gaze in silence.
"Being outwitted tastes bitter, doesn't it?"
Daemon straightened and burst into laughter.
The sound echoed through the empty bedchamber, sharp with scorn.
"Yes! I finally know what it feels like, outplayed by a boy who has barely seen thirteen name days! He used me as a rung, climbed upon my shoulders, and played the perfect scene before every lord in the Seven Kingdoms!"
Viserys, still seated, sighed heavily.
"You and I both know how this wounds Rhaenyra."
Daemon walked back to the table, poured a cup of wine from a surviving flagon, and drank it off.
"Know?" He set the empty cup down hard.
"Of course I know. Vaemond's dying howls... they're spreading through the Seven Kingdoms like a plague."
"Rhaenyra is no longer the Realm's Delight..."
"Every lord will privately scorn her, coddling bastards, letting them usurp Velaryon and Iron Throne rights."
"If the realm turns against her..." Viserys said slowly, staring at the fire.
"A disputed heir... I may have to... consider other choices."
"Aegon?" Daemon arched a brow, his smile mocking.
"That sot who can't even lace his own breeches?"
Viserys did not deny it.
Daemon's voice turned razor-sharp.
"Then you should never have named her Heir Apparent!"
"Over a decade ago, Queen Aemma died in childbirth. In grief and guilt, you made that choice. You made Rhaenyra the Heir to the Iron Throne. You thought it comforted your dead wife, compensation for your daughter."
"But do you know, brother? You gave her no gift, you gave her a curse."
"You gave her ten years as Heir, convinced her she could be the first Ruling Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. You let her learn governance, sit on councils, and build her own faction. You married her best friend Alicent as Queen, gave House Hightower chance and ambition, roots for the Greens."
"And now you waver?"
Daemon lowered his voice to a hiss.
"You gave her wings, and now you would cage her again? You gave her hope, and now you would strangle it with your own hands?"
"Do you know what that is? It isn't weakness, it's cruelty."
"Shut your mouth!"
Viserys angrily swept a goblet from the table.
Clang.
Daemon did not flinch. He stayed crouched, staring at his brother's pale face, trembling lips, eyes wet with pain and rage.
At last, he said softly, "I struck the mark, didn't I?"
Viserys, I closed his eyes, sagging into the cushions.
"Then what would you have me do?" he rasped.
"Vaemond dragged it all into daylight. Now every lord and commoner in the Seven Kingdoms whispers about my daughter's... private life. Tell me, how does this pass?"
Daemon rose slowly, walked to the balcony with his back to the King, and gave a soft laugh.
"We Targaryens have dragons."
He turned, silver hair flowing like flame in the sun.
"We flew from the ashes of Valyria and conquered this continent with fire. We Targaryens stand above Andal, Rhoynar, and First Men laws by right. Our blood is the last true Dragon-blood. That is no metaphor, it is a fact."
"So this cannot be your mistake, nor Rhaenyra's."
"We must speak to them in the only tongue they understand: Targaryen is legitimacy. Targaryen is the law. Targaryen... is above all."
Viserys opened his eyes. "So? You would have me burn every doubter, like Maegor?"
Daemon shook his head.
"No. We need a... better solution."
He returned to the King's side, leaned over the table, silver hair veiling half his face; the visible violet eye blazed with a dark intent.
"As I said before, brother... if the root of the problem vanishes... does the problem itself remain?"
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