The Corridor Before the Royal Chambers, King's Landing
The corridor before the royal chambers was deep and silent, and here every footfall of Daemon Targaryen echoed sharply.
He approached the thick oak door, carved with a dragon coiling around the Iron Throne, and paused.
The Imperial Guard, Sir Ricard Thorn, clad in gleaming white armor, stood sentinel at the threshold.
Seeing Daemon, he bowed his head slightly, then raised a hand politely to stop Daemon from pushing the door open.
"Prince," Sir Ricard said without deference, "allow me first to convey the matter to Your Grace."
Daemon's brows furrowed, impatience flickering in his violet eyes.
His brother, Viserys I, sat in a broad armchair by the hearth.
The great scholar Meros hobbled forward, adjusting the king's robe carefully. The king's face was more swollen and pale than the last time Daemon had seen him.
"You are here," Viserys said.
Meros gathered his implements, glanced at the king with anxious eyes, bowed to Daemon, and withdrew swiftly, lowering his head and closing the door gently.
Only the two brothers remained.
The fire cracked in the hearth, sending flickers across Viserys' swollen features.
"As her most beloved father, my dear brother," Daemon began smoothly, "your blessings… and yet, it seems, no gifts?"
Viserys' breath caught for a moment. Suspicion and unease, a thorn long embedded between them, had festered over the years—an old grievance in Daemon's heart.
Seeing the silent Viserys, Daemon's smile deepened, cold and calculating.
He took a goblet from the table and poured himself a cup of red wine.
"You know, brother," he said, taking a slow sip as the rich liquid slid down his throat, "if back then you had nodded and consented to Rhaenyra's marriage to me…"
"Then today, many of these troubles would not have arisen at all."
"There would be no Vaemond on Tidalhead, gnawing at the problem of bastards like a rabid dog, stirring up strife in King's Landing, and exposing the Seven Kingdoms to our Targaryen and Velaryon affairs."
"Today there will be neither Greens nor Blacks."
"Rhaenyra will be the rightful heir, and I—her husband."
Viserys finally lifted his gaze. "I do not give her to you, not because she cannot wed you—"
"Daemon! Because you do not deserve it!"
He continued, voice trembling with righteous fury:
"Look at what you have done. Your first wife, poor Rhea Royce…"
"She was your wife! And yet… you allowed her to fall from her horse by accident! Everyone knows it was murder!"
"The woman in that valley had no choice but to come to me by your doing."
"I never loved her, I despised her. I did not even share a bed with her."
"But it does not say anywhere that widows may not be widowed, does it?"
He spread his hands. "I simply chose what my heart deemed best and most effective."
"My good brother, Queen Emma then suffered a difficult birth, lying on the birthing bed, nearing death, and the scholars were helpless."
"You had to choose whether to save the mother or the child."
"But as for the one-day-old heir you waited for so long… the boy who did not live a day—"
Daemon saw Viserys' pupils shrink, his breath quicken.
"…It was you who personally ordered the midwives to cut Emma's womb."
Viserys rose from the chair, gripping the railing to keep from collapsing.
His face flushed from pale to deep red. He pointed at Daemon, lips trembling with the force of unsaid words, then suddenly arched his back.
Dark crimson blood flowed from his mouth, splattering the carpet and the front of his robe.
Mockery and malice froze on Daemon's face the moment he saw the blood.
For the first time, the violet eyes—always so rebellious—flickered with clear panic.
No matter the grievances, the reckonings, or the disagreements between them… the man before him, bleeding, was his brother.
The same brother who had taught him to ride, to fence, to dream as a child.
Daemon almost unconsciously stepped forward, producing a clean silk handkerchief, intending to wipe the blood from Viserys' lips.
After a long moment, Viserys slowly opened his eyes.
"Vaemond… how do you think this matter should be resolved?"
Daemon set aside his usual insolence, poured two more goblets of wine, and placed one gently into Viserys' hand.
"All Seven Kingdoms know why he came to King's Landing."
"To slay him without cause would only chill all hearts, making them think us unjust!"
He rubbed his brows wearily.
"He has already sent ravens to the dukes of the realms, inviting them to witness…"
"Though all those dukes feigned deafness and absence, their eyes now turn to King's Landing and the Red Keep."
Vaemond had become a hot potato—impossible to kill, to free, to condemn, or suppress.
The brothers fell silent again.
Then Daemon's gaze deepened, voice low:
"Brother, have you ever considered… what if the root of the problem is not that noisy old Vaemond?"
Viserys raised his weary eyes. "What do you mean?"
Daemon poured another cup of wine, taking a long, contemplative sip.
"Suppose… Jacaerys, Lucerys, Joffrey… she no longer existed?"
He fell silent.
Viserys eyed him suspiciously.
Daemon finished his wine, a faint smile playing on his lips.
"I am merely speculating. Take it lightly, brother."
Hearing this, Viserys remained silent. If these three grandchildren were not bastards—but bore brown hair and flat noses…
Yet his unborn child, Aegon, was in his heart, the future king of the Seven Kingdoms.
Though now stepfather to these three children, he remained bound to Rhaenyra alone.