The corridor outside the king's bedchamber was deep and silent, and Daemon's footsteps sounded unusually clear there.
He came to a stop before the thick oak door carved with the image of a great dragon coiled around the Iron Throne.
Ser Rickard Thorne of the Kingsguard stood to one side of the door, clad in white armor.
Seeing Daemon, he dipped his head slightly, yet politely raised an arm, stopping the prince's hand as it moved to push the door open.
"Prince," Ser Rickard said evenly, neither humble nor overbearing, "please allow me to announce you to His Grace first."
Daemon's brow creased, a flash of impatience passing through his violet eyes.
In the end, however, he did not flare up. He merely folded his arms and leaned against the cold stone wall.
Ser Rickard pushed the door open and went inside. A moment later he returned, stepping aside to clear the way.
"His Grace bids you enter, Prince."
Daemon gave a soft snort and strode in.
The king's private chambers were darker and more oppressive than Daemon remembered.
Heavy curtains were half-drawn, letting in only a few threads of afternoon light. The air was thick with the scent of herbs, mingled with the sharp smell of strong drink.
His elder brother, Viserys I, sat beside the hearth in a broad, high-backed chair.
Grand Maester Mellos was bent with age, carefully settling a robe over the king's shoulders. Viserys's face was more swollen and pallid than the last time Daemon had seen him.
"You have come," Viserys said.
The king waved a hand, signaling that the maester could withdraw.
Mellos packed away his medicine chest, cast a worried glance at the king, then bowed to Daemon. Only then did he lower his head and hurry from the room, gently closing the door behind him.
Only the two brothers remained.
The coals in the hearth crackled, firelight dancing across Viserys's swollen face.
Daemon did not bow, nor did he take a seat. He simply stood before him, his gaze raking over his brother from head to toe.
"Brother," he said lightly, "Rhaenyra and I are married."
"As her most devoted father, my dear brother, your blessing… and your gift, seem to be missing?"
Viserys's breathing seemed to catch for a moment.
He knew Daemon was deliberately pricking at him. In those years past, he had resolutely refused Daemon's request to wed Rhaenyra, not only because Daemon already had a wife at the time.
More than that, it was because of the naked, undisguised desire Daemon held for the Iron Throne.
How could he entrust the Rhaenyra he had chosen to this brother—ambitious and reckless, unrestrained in his actions?
He feared that Daemon's interest in Rhaenyra was nothing more than a stepping stone on the path to the Iron Throne.
This suspicion and unease, like a thorn, had stood between the brothers for many years, and had become a resentment Daemon could never quite let go.
Seeing Viserys answer him only with silence, the smile on Daemon's face deepened—colder still.
He reached for a decanter on the table, poured himself a cup of red wine, and took a sip, the rich liquid sliding down his throat.
"Do you know, brother," he said, "if back then you had nodded in agreement and given Rhaenyra to me—"
"…Then today, many troubles would never have arisen at all,"
Daemon said.
"There would have been no Vaemond of Driftmark, snapping like a rabid dog and refusing to let go of the matter of bastards—making such a spectacle of it all the way to King's Landing, so that the Seven Kingdoms could laugh at the Targaryens and the Velaryons."
He stepped closer, his voice lowered, yet every word sharp and clear.
"And there would be no Greens and Blacks as there are now."
"Rhaenyra would be the rightful heir, and I would be her prince consort."
"Everything would be just so—simple, clear, and secure."
Viserys finally lifted his eyes. "Not marrying her to you was not because she could not marry you."
"Daemon! It was because you are unworthy!"
He went on, "Look at what you have done. Your first wife—that poor Rhea Royce…"
"She was your wife! And yet you… you let her fall from her horse!"
"Everyone knows it was murder!"
"How could I ever entrust my beloved daughter to someone like you… a man who murders his own wife?!"
"Murder my wife?" Daemon seemed to hear something amusing. He shook his head, drained the wine in his cup in one swallow, and let out a sigh that was equal parts satisfaction and boundless mockery.
"My dear brother, you have always been like this… so hypocritical, so sanctimonious."
He walked up to Viserys and looked down at the king seated in the chair.
"That woman of the Vale was forced on me by all of you."
"I never loved her. I despised her."
"I never even shared a bed with her."
"The laws of Westeros do not allow divorce? Very well."
"But they do not forbid widowhood, do they?"
He spread his hands. "I merely made the choice that best suited my own will—and the most efficient one."
"What I showed was my true self, unlike you…"
He leaned down slightly, whispering into Viserys's ear.
"My good brother, when Queen Aemma lay dying in childbed, the maesters stood helpless."
"They told you to decide—save the mother or save the child."
"But for that son you longed for, that one-day heir…"
"The boy who did not even live a full day…"
Daemon saw Viserys's pupils contract sharply, his breathing turning ragged.
Yet he did not stop. Calmly, he spoke the scene Viserys had tried to forget for an entire lifetime, only to see it return again and again in his nightmares.
"…It was you who gave the order, with your own mouth, for the maesters to take a knife and cut open Aemma's belly."
"You call me a wife-killer? And what of you?"
"Shut up!"
Viserys lurched to his feet, gripping the arm of the chair with all his strength to keep from collapsing.
His face flushed from white to red. With one hand he pointed at Daemon, his lips trembling violently as he tried to speak—then his body suddenly doubled over.
Pff!
A mouthful of dark red blood burst from his lips, splattering across the carpet and soaking the front of his robe.
The mockery and malice on Daemon's face froze the instant he saw the blood.
In those violet eyes, always so defiant, a clear flicker of panic appeared—for the first time.
No matter how much resentment lay between them, how many schemes, how many divisions…
The man before him, spitting blood, was his brother.
And also the brother who, when they were children, had taken him riding, taught him the sword, and shared the dreams of their youth.
Almost by instinct, he stepped forward, drew a clean silk handkerchief from his robes, and reached to wipe the blood from Viserys's lips.
Viserys slapped his hand away, wiped his mouth roughly with his sleeve, then sank back into the chair, closing his eyes, his chest rising and falling unevenly.
After a long while, Viserys slowly opened his eyes and said, "Vaemond—how do you think this matter should be handled?"
Daemon had also set aside his defiant air. He poured two cups of wine again and gently set one beside Viserys's hand.
"Handled?" he said with a note of amusement. "The simplest way—find some charge at random. Colluding with pirates, plotting rebellion, or even… preparing to assassinate the king in King's Landing."
"Then kill him. End it once and for all."
"Nonsense!" Viserys slammed a hand against the armrest, then immediately began coughing from weakness. "Kill him now?"
"The entire Seven Kingdoms know why he came to King's Landing!"
"Kill him without cause, and everyone will grow cold-hearted, believing we act out of guilt and injustice!"
"And besides…" He rubbed his brow wearily. "He has already sent ravens to the lords of every region, inviting them to come and bear witness…"
"Though those lords all feign deafness and blindness and have not come in person, their eyes are fixed on King's Landing now—on the Red Keep!"
"This matter is no longer just about Driftmark alone…"
Daemon, of course, understood Viserys's concerns.
Vaemond had become a hot coal—he could not be killed, could not be released, could not be judged, nor could he be suppressed.
Once more, the brothers fell into silence.
Suddenly, Daemon's gaze grew deep, and he spoke softly: "Brother, have you ever considered… that the root of the problem might not lie with Vaemond, that noisy old man?"
Viserys lifted his weary eyes. "What do you mean?"
Daemon picked up the wine bottle and poured himself another cup.
"Suppose…" he said slowly, "…that Jacaerys, Lucerys, and Joffrey no longer existed?"
He paused.
"Then what reason would Vaemond have left to make a fuss?"
At those words, Viserys looked at Daemon with suspicion in his eyes.
Daemon drained his cup and smiled faintly. "I'm only making a supposition. You need not take it seriously, brother."
Hearing this explanation, Viserys fell silent as well. If only those three grandsons were not bastards—yet they had brown hair and flattened noses.
And Daemon knew clearly what he truly wanted.
His unborn child, Aegon, was the future king of the Seven Kingdoms in his heart.
Though he was now the stepfather of those three children, it was only for Rhaenyra's sake…
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