Maegor's Holdfast, The King's Bedchamber.
At that moment, the air in the room turned to stone.
Viserys's breath caught. He stared at his brother, at eyes so like his own and yet utterly foreign.
"You..." the King whispered, barely audible.
"You would have them killed? Jacaerys, Lucerys, Joffrey?"
"No, no, no." Daemon straightened, flicking a hand dismissively.
"I mean... if those three boys chose to give up their rights, take the Black, and spend their lives manning the Wall for the realm?"
He spread his arms and smiled at Viserys.
"Consider it, brother. If they did it of their own will, swore their vows publicly, surrendered the Velaryon name and all claim to Driftmark, and rode North to become those noble sentinels, then every problem we face dissolves."
Daemon's smile held, sharp and cold.
"First, the succession crisis on Driftmark ends. When Corlys awakes, he can name some other Velaryon cousin as heir."
"And Rhaenyra's children by me will be pure-blooded Targaryens, silver-haired, violet-eyed, so no man in the Seven Kingdoms will dare question their blood."
"Second, the lords gain a way to save face. 'See how the disputed princes renounced all they had, giving their lives to keep the realm at peace.'"
"Third, you gain a way to save face. You keep your daughter as Heir Apparent while still honoring ancient law and custom."
He smiled, flawlessly, and Viserys felt frost crawl along his spine.
"Perfect, is it not?" Daemon murmured.
Viserys gazed at his brother, stunned. The scheme was so cold, so elegant... so utterly Targaryen.
It would satisfy everyone, except the three boys and their mother.
"But Rhaenyra will never agree," the King rasped at last.
Daemon's grin faltered. Then he said, "She will see the necessity. She will understand that sometimes a greater purpose demands a sacrifice. She is the Heir Apparent; she must know that."
Viserys shook his head.
"Do you truly know her, Daemon? Do you know, truly know, what it is to be a mother?"
The King lifted his eyes to his brother.
"Rhaenyra loves those boys. With the love a mother bears her own flesh. She would burn the Seven Kingdoms to ash before she sent them to the Wall, and you know it. This plan cannot succeed."
Daemon fell silent.
At last, he said quietly, "Then only one choice remains."
"Aemond," Viserys finished for him.
Daemon turned away, an idle, careless smile returning, though his eyes stayed cold.
"Clever brother. Yes, Aemond. Your good son, my splendid nephew, star of today's little drama. What will you do with him?"
Viserys hesitated.
"I will confine him for a few months... then send him back to his own seat. He is not to return to King's Landing unless summoned. Let him cool his heels on his lands for a few years."
Daemon laughed.
"Too light, so light it sounds like a reward."
Viserys flushed. "Daemon!"
"Am I wrong?" Daemon stepped close, looking down at the King.
"That seat of his at Summerhall, did you not grant it yourself? There, he trains private troops and raises new fortifications. And, oh yes, he now has two dragons."
"Vhagar, the largest alive! And the black hatchling that crept from the dead egg?"
His voice dropped like a falling blade.
"Send him back to Summerhall, and you lose the tiger upon the mountain. You give him years to grow, to gather strength."
Viserys raised his eyes. "What would you have me do?"
Daemon paused.
"As Aenys once exiled Maegor. Pack him off to the eastern continent, Pentos, Volantis, Lys, wherever. Give him a purse of gold, a single ship, and tell him: return only under royal pardon, never otherwise."
"He is my son!" Viserys burst out.
"My own blood! You would have me exile him, forever?"
Daemon answered calmly.
"If you do not, the cost may be far higher. Brother, look at the boy's showing today. Thirteen years old, facing the chaos of a royal trial, staring down my drawn blade, and cool as winter ice."
"He weighed every move, used every piece: Vaemond, me, you, even the lords looking on. No child should have such a mind."
Viserys closed his eyes.
He knew Daemon might be right. How could he not?
Today, when Aemond lifted his blood-slick face after killing Vaemond and met the King's gaze with those calm violet eyes, Viserys had felt a chill race along the Iron Throne itself.
"I will not let you touch him."
Suddenly, the King stood, seizing Daemon by the collar.
"Daemon Targaryen, keep your hands off my son."
He twisted the cloth tight, word by word:
"I do not permit you to touch him!"
Their faces were inches apart, breath mingling.
"Do you understand?"
Daemon studied the hand that held him, then said slowly.
"If you do nothing, when you die, and it will be soon, Queen Alicent and Otto Hightower will never accept Rhaenyra's succession. Nor will Rhaenyra and I yield the Iron Throne."
"Your children will mount their dragons and tear one another from the skies."
He gripped Viserys's wrist.
"Aegon upon Sunfyre, Aemond upon Vhagar, Rhaenyra upon Syrax, I upon Caraxes… Helaena, Jacaerys, Lucerys, every dragonrider among them will be drawn in."
"Dragonfire will sweep the Seven Kingdoms; cities will burn to ash, tens of thousands will die. Your own blood will be slain aloft or fall burning from the clouds."
"Is that the legacy you wish, brother? A realm destroyed by Targaryen civil war?"
Viserys trembled. He tried to pull free, but Daemon held fast.
"Leave me," the King said at last, defeated. "Let me... think."
Daemon watched him for a long while.
He saw pain, struggle, terror in Viserys's eyes, and, deepest of all, love: love for Rhaenyra, love for Aemond, love for every child who would soon slaughter the others.
So vast, so heavy a love, nearly enough to break the feeble old man.
At last, Daemon released him and rose.
He reached the door, hand on the latch, and paused without turning.
"Have you forgotten? Father Baelon told us: to be King is to walk the blade. Every step may cut you, or those you love. But you cannot stop, for if you do, all fall."
The door opened… and closed.
Daemon's footsteps faded along the corridor.
Viserys sat alone. Twilight had fled; night filled the room, and still, the King did not move.
The pain in his left hand flared like fire, yet he scarcely felt it; his heart hurt worse.
From somewhere within the wall came the faintest scrape of stone.