The afternoon sun poured down onto the tall balcony of the King's bedchamber.
Grand Maester Mellos had just finished dressing the King's wounded hand. As the old man tied off the last length of bandage, he used a double dose of milk of the poppy and calming herbs.
"Your Grace, you must rest." Mellos looked at Viserys with deep concern. "Your body cannot endure this kind of strain. If the wound worsens again…"
"I said, leave."
Viserys did not open his eyes. He reclined in a high-backed chair, head tipped back, his left hand—wrapped in layers of bandage—resting on the armrest, while his right hung limply at his side.
Mellos's lips moved, but in the end he only bowed deeply, then dragged his heavy steps as he withdrew from the room.
Crash!
The silence was shattered once more.
A glass wine bottle burst against the wall. The dark red Summerwine from the Reach splashed like blood, then ran down over the Targaryen three-headed dragon sigil on black that hung there, streaming along the wall.
Daemon stood at the edge of the balcony, his chest heaving.
He did not know how many things he had already smashed.
Viserys opened his eyes and looked at his brother.
"Have you smashed enough? Got it out of your system?"
Daemon turned slowly. Sunlight lit his face. His silver hair was slightly disheveled, falling over his brow, and cold fury burned in his eyes.
"Got it out of my system?" He gave a low chuckle.
"No, brother. I am celebrating."
"Celebrating that at last I understand the brilliance of today's little play."
He walked up to Viserys, smiling as he spoke.
"I became that little bastard's stepping-stone—thick and solid, a stepping-stone so perfect it was placed at exactly the right height."
Daemon watched Viserys, the corners of his mouth curling with mockery.
"Let me walk you through it, brother."
"Today in the Throne Room, that old thing Vaemond risked his life to splash a bucket of filthy blood on Rhaenyra—blood that will never wash clean."
"Did he manage it? In a sense, yes."
"So I drew my sword. I meant to take his head."
"By the original script, what should come next is this: the cruel prince kills a man before the court; the King punishes me to quell the anger of the crowd; and Ser Vaemond dies a brave martyr. With his death, the rumors are buried with him. Perfect."
Suddenly, he slammed a fist down onto the table.
"But your good son changed the script."
"Aemond stepped forward. He stopped my sword—before everyone."
"What did he say? Your Grace only meant to cut out his tongue, not take his life."
"Look at him—how he respects the law! How he upholds royal authority! How he honors tradition!"
"And then what? You ordered him to execute Vaemond with his own hands, and he obeyed. He gave that old thing a knight's death. He gave him time to finish his last words."
Daemon began to pace.
"What will the nobles think now?"
"Prince Aemond may be young, but he is steady and restrained—respectful of the nobility, a defender of tradition, stepping forward for the man who spoke the truth."
"And what about me?"
He stopped in front of Viserys, leaned down with both hands braced on the arms of the chair. Silver hair fell forward as he met his brother's eyes.
"I became the cruel prince who wanted to kill a man and silence him before the court."
"I became the foil to set off your son's shining image."
"Even if I was that to begin with, it is not for that little bastard to define me!"
Viserys looked at his brother in silence.
"The taste of being played, it does not sit well, does it."
Daemon straightened and burst into loud laughter.
The laughter echoed through the empty bedchamber, carrying a biting, bone-deep mockery.
"Yes! At last I know what it feels like—to be played by a thirteen-year-old little bastard!"
"He used me as a step, climbed up on my shoulders, and put on a fine show before all the nobles!"
Seated in the chair, Viserys let out a sigh.
"What this has done to Rhaenyra… you and I both know."
Daemon walked back to the table, poured himself a cup of wine, and tipped his head back, draining it.
"Know?" He set down the empty cup. "Of course I know. The words Vaemond shouted before he died…"
"At this very moment, they are spreading through the Seven Kingdoms like a plague."
"'Rhaenyra is no longer the Realm's Delight…'"
"All the nobles will despise her in private—doting on bastards, indulging bastards, letting bastards usurp the Velaryon inheritance, and the succession to the Iron Throne."
"If the Seven Kingdoms will not accept her…" Viserys spoke slowly.
"An heir mired in dispute…"
"I may have to… consider other choices."
"Aegon?" Daemon raised an eyebrow, his smile sharp with scorn. "That drunk who cannot even keep his own breeches tied?"
Viserys did not deny it.
Daemon's voice turned suddenly shrill: "Then you never should have named her heir in the first place!"
"More than ten years ago, the Queen died in childbirth, and in your grief and guilt you made that decision."
"You made Rhaenyra the heir to the Iron Throne. You thought it would comfort your dead wife, and make amends to your daughter."
"But do you know, brother? What you gave her was not a gift. It was a curse."
"You gave her more than ten years as heir, made her believe she truly could become the first queen of the Seven Kingdoms."
"You let her learn to rule, take part in governance, build her own faction."
"You even married her closest companion, Alicent, as Queen, giving House Hightower its chance—its ambition. The greens took root from that."
"All of it was caused by you."
"And now, you begin to waver?"
Daemon lowered his voice and went on: "You gave her wings, and now you would lock her back in a cage?"
"You gave her hope, and now you would snuff it out with your own hand."
"Do you know what that is called? It is not weakness. It is cruelty."
"Be silent!"
In his anger, Viserys knocked over the wine cup on the table.
Daemon did not move. He remained crouched there, staring at his brother's pale face, trembling lips, and eyes damp with pain and fury.
After a long while, he said softly: "I struck the sore spot, did I not?"
Viserys closed his eyes.
"Then what would you have me do?" he asked hoarsely. "Vaemond dragged this matter into the open daylight. Now every noble and every commoner in the Seven Kingdoms speaks of my daughter's… private life."
"You tell me—how is this to pass?"
Daemon rose slowly and walked to the balcony, turning his back to the King. He gave a low, scornful laugh.
"We Targaryens have dragons."
He turned to face his brother, silver hair flowing like flame beneath the sun.
"We came from the ashes of Valyria and conquered this continent with fire."
"We Targaryens are born above the laws of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men."
"Our blood is the last true dragon's blood."
"This is no metaphor. It is fact."
"So this cannot be that you were wrong, nor that Rhaenyra was wrong."
"We must speak to them in the language they understand. We must tell them that Targaryen is legitimacy, Targaryen is law, Targaryen… stands above all."
Viserys opened his eyes and looked at him. "So? You would have me burn every man who questions us? As Maegor did?"
Daemon shook his head.
"No. We need a better… solution."
He walked back to the King, leaned forward with both hands braced on the table. Silver hair fell to cover half his face; the violet eye that showed shone with a frightening brightness.
"As I said before… if the root of the problem disappears, does the problem itself still remain?"
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