Rhaenyra and Daemon walked in silence toward Maegor's Holdfast. The air in the Red Keep felt heavy, thick with the scent of old stone and unspoken threats.
As they rounded a corner, passing a man dressed in the rough, stained tunics of a rat catcher, Daemon suddenly hauled Rhaenyra to a stop. He turned his head, his eyes narrowed as he watched the man's retreating figure.
"What is it now?" Rhaenyra asked, her voice tight with annoyance.
"That rat catcher," Daemon muttered, his hand going instinctively toward the hilt of Dark Sister. "He moves wrong. He's too well-fed, too sturdy."
Rhaenyra's lip curled. "If he were thin and sickly, he wouldn't be much of a match for the rats of the Red Keep, would he?"
"It's not just strength, Rhaenyra. It's training. A strong back is one thing, but that man has the posture of a man who eats meat every night and spends his mornings at the pell. A common rat catcher doesn't have the coin for that kind of 'nutrition'."
Daemon's gaze turned predatory as he scanned the corridor. He began to look at everyone—the servants carrying linens, the pages scurrying between doors, the guards stationed at the intersections. The more he looked, the darker his expression became. The patrolling guards didn't just wear the royal livery; many bore the subtle, white tower of House Hightower pinned beneath their cloaks or etched into their bucklers.
He felt a sudden, crushing weariness. The Red Keep wasn't a palace anymore; it was a sieve.
If the Greens had turned the Keep into their own plaything while the King still drew breath, what hope did Rhaenyra have of claiming it once he stopped? The dragons were already outnumbered. Now, it seemed, the very walls were hostile.
"Let's go," Daemon growled, grabbing Rhaenyra's arm and pulling her toward the royal chambers. "We need to talk to your father now. If we don't, this throne will be ash before you can even sit on it."
They found King Viserys hunched over his great stone model of Old Valyria, carefully placing a miniature tower with trembling fingers. He looked up, a flask of warm water nearby.
"Rhaenyra? Daemon?" Viserys looked surprised. "Should you not be halfway to the Stepstones by now?"
"Father, you aren't drinking wine?" Rhaenyra asked, trying to find a soft opening.
"Archmaester Mellos has me on a strict regimen," Viserys sighed, sounding annoyed. "He says if I wish to live to see your children, I must treat my body like a temple, not a tavern. It is all for you, Rhaenyra. Now, answer me—why aren't you on your way to see your brother?"
Rhaenyra lowered her head, the silence stretching uncomfortably. Viserys's heart softened. He reached out a hand.
"I know you fear Aegon's shadow, my dear. But I have told you—he is your blood. He will be your greatest champion when the time comes. A Queen must have—"
"A Queen must have a palace that isn't crawling with her enemies!" Daemon interrupted, his voice echoing off the stone walls. "Brother, you sit here playing with stone toys while the Greens turn your home into a garrison. Do you have any idea that the man catching your rats is likely a Hightower man-at-arms? Do you know that the very cooks preparing your 'strict diet' answer to the Queen and her father?"
Viserys froze, his hand hovering over a dragon-carved spire. He had never bothered with the minutiae of the household. It was beneath a King. "So what if they do?" he said stubbornly. "Aegon is my son. He would not harm me."
Daemon's eye twitched. "Aegon might not harm you, but what about her? Rhaenyra cannot eat, cannot sleep, and cannot rule in a city where every shadow has ears and every blade belongs to Oldtown!"
"I have sent Aegon to the Stepstones," Viserys said, his voice rising in irritation. "He is half a world away. He is no threat."
"As long as Aegon breathes, he is a threat," Daemon countered, pressing closer. "The Greens won't vanish just because you moved their figure on the board. The Hightowers and the Lannisters will shove that throne under Aegon's backside whether he wants it or not! You chose Rhaenyra. You chose Aemma's daughter. But you've spent years turning a blind eye to the fire you started. Now look at the math, brother. Syrax is a pony compared to Sunfyre, and Aemond rides the Queen of All Dragons. Either name Aegon your heir and end this, or clear the path for Rhaenyra. This hesitation is a slow poison."
The silence that followed was deafening. Viserys looked at his model, then at his daughter. He understood Daemon's cold logic. Aegon was no longer a boy; he was a power.
"Alas," Viserys whispered. He reached out, his shaking hand caressing Rhaenyra's cheek. "If only you had been a boy."
Rhaenyra flinched, her voice barely a whisper. "I am sorry, Father. I know I am a disappointment."
"No... no," Viserys said, his voice breaking. He slumped back into his chair. "Stay. Do not go to the Stepstones. I will send a White Raven to the Citadel. Let them deliver the word to Aegon."
White Ravens were rare, more intelligent and larger than their black kin. They were usually reserved for the turning of seasons, but Otto had brought two from Oldtown specifically to keep the Queen in contact with her son. Viserys knew the boy never wrote to him. The rift was a canyon now.
He felt the weight of every choice he had made. He loved Rhaenyra because she was Aemma's last spark, but he feared Aegon because the boy was everything a King should be. It was too late to change the succession without destroying his own soul.
"Go," Viserys waved them away, looking suddenly very old. "I need to rest. I need to think."
Daemon and Rhaenyra turned to leave, but Rhaenyra paused at the door.
"Rhaenyra," Viserys called out, his voice fragile. "I love you more than anyone. I am your father."
Rhaenyra walked back to his side and kissed his weathered cheek. "I love you too, Father. I will always be your daughter."
As she left the room, her heart was cold. She loved him, but she knew his love wouldn't be enough to protect her from the storm Aegon was building in the south.
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