Brothers

The long corridor outside the King's bedchamber was deep and silent, Daemon Targaryen's footsteps echoing with unusual clarity.

He reached the thick oak door carved with dragons encircling the Iron Throne, and stopped.

Ser Ricard Thorne of the Kingsguard, clad in white armor, stood guard beside the door.

Seeing Daemon, he bowed his head slightly but raised his arm politely, blocking Daemon's hand as it moved to push the door open.

"Prince," Ser Ricard said with neither servility nor arrogance, "I must first announce you to His Majesty."

Daemon's brow furrowed, a flicker of impatience in his violet eyes.

But he held his temper, merely crossing his arms and leaning against the cold stone wall.

Ser Ricard pushed the door open and entered, reappearing moments later to step aside: "His Majesty bids you enter, Prince."

Daemon gave a light snort and strode inside.

The King's private chambers were dimmer and more stifling than he remembered.

Thick curtains were half-drawn, letting in only a few strands of afternoon light. The air was thick with the smell of herbs and a strong wine.

His brother, Viserys I, sat in a wide armchair by the fireplace.

Archmaester Meuros, hunched over, carefully draped a robe over the King's shoulders. The King's face was more bloated and pale than when Daemon had last seen him.

"You're here," Viserys said.

The King waved a hand, dismissing the archmaester.

Meuros gathered his medicine chest, cast a worried glance at the King, bowed to Daemon, and hurried out with his head low, gently closing the door behind him.

Only the two brothers remained in the room.

Charcoal crackled in the fireplace, flames dancing across Viserys's swollen face.

Daemon neither bowed nor sat. He simply stood before him, his gaze sweeping over his brother.

"Brother," he said lightly, "Rhaenyra and I are married."

"As her most beloved father, my dear brother, your blessing... and your gift, it seems, are missing?"

Viserys's breath seemed to catch.

He knew Daemon was deliberately needling him. Years ago, he had flatly refused Daemon's request to marry Rhaenyra, not only because Daemon already had a wife.

But more because of Daemon's barely concealed hunger for the Iron Throne.

How could he entrust his chosen heir, Rhaenyra, to this ambitious, reckless brother of his?

He feared Daemon's interest in Rhaenyra was merely a stepping stone to the throne.

This suspicion and worry, like a thorn, had festered between the brothers for years, becoming a resentment Daemon could never let go.

Seeing Viserys's silence, Daemon's smile deepened, growing colder.

He helped himself to a cup of red wine from the table and poured a glass.

"You know, brother," he said, taking a sip as the rich liquid slid down his throat, "if you had agreed back then and given Rhaenyra to me in marriage."

"Then today, many troubles would never have arisen."

Daemon continued:

"There'd be no Vaemond of Tidepool Island, snapping like a mad dog at the bastard issue, dragging it all the way to King's Landing for the Seven Kingdoms to gawk at the Targaryen and Velaryon shame."

He stepped closer, his voice lowering but each word sharp:

"And there'd be no Greens and Blacks today."

"Rhaenyra would be the rightful Crown Prince, and I would be her Prince Consort."

"Everything would be so simple, so clear, so stable."

Viserys finally looked up and said, "I didn't refuse to give her to you because she couldn't marry you."

"Daemon! It's because you're unworthy!"

He pressed on, "Look at what you've done! Your first wife, that poor Rhaella Royce..."

"She was your wife! And you... you let her fall from her horse! Everyone knows it was murder!"

"How could I entrust my beloved daughter to a man like you... a wife-killer?!"

"Wife-killer?" Daemon laughed as if at a fine joke, shaking his head. He drained his cup in one gulp, letting out a satisfied yet endlessly mocking sigh.

"My dear brother, you're always like this... so hypocritical, so sanctimonious."

He walked up to Viserys, looking down at the King seated in his chair:

"That woman from the Vale was foisted on me by you."

"I never loved her, I even loathed her."

"I never even shared her bed."

"The laws of Westeros don't allow divorce? Fine."

"But it doesn't say anything about being widowed, does it?"

He spread his hands and said, "I simply made the choice that best suited my heart and was most efficient."

"I showed my true self, unlike you..."

He leaned slightly toward Viserys and whispered:

"My good brother, back when Queen Emma was in difficult labor, lying on the birthing bed at death's door, the maesters were helpless."

"You had to decide whether to save the mother or the child."

"But for the sake of that one-day Crown Prince you yearned for... that boy who ultimately didn't even live out a single day..."

Daemon saw Viserys's pupils suddenly contract, his breathing turning rapid.

But he didn't stop. Instead, he calmly spoke the scene Viserys had spent a lifetime trying to forget, yet which always replayed in his nightmares:

"...It was you, who personally ordered the maester to cut open Emma's belly with a knife."

"You call me a wife-killer? Aren't you the same?"

"Shut up!"

Viserys rose from his chair, his fingers gripping the armrests so tightly that he didn't collapse.

His face went from pale to red. With his other hand, he pointed at Daemon, his lips trembling violently. He tried to speak, but suddenly doubled over.

"Pfft!"

A mouthful of dark red blood sprayed from his mouth, splattering onto the carpet and the front of his robe.

The mockery and malice on Daemon's face froze at the sight of the blood.

For the first time, a clear flash of panic appeared in those violet eyes, always so defiant.

No matter how much resentment, scheming, or disagreement lay between them...

The man spitting blood before him was his brother.

The same brother who had taken him riding as a child, taught him swordsmanship, and shared their youthful dreams.

Almost instinctively, he stepped forward, pulled a clean silk handkerchief from his pocket, and reached out to wipe the blood from the corner of Viserys's mouth.

Viserys brushed his hand away, roughly wiped his own mouth with his sleeve, then sat back in his chair, closed his eyes, his chest heaving.

After a long while, Viserys slowly opened his eyes and said:

"Vaemond, what do you think should be done about this?"

Daemon also put away his defiant demeanor, poured two glasses of wine, and gently placed one by Viserys's hand.

"Done?" he said with a hint of amusement. "The simplest way—find some excuse. Colluding with pirates, plotting rebellion, or even... planning to assassinate the king in King's Landing?"

"Then kill him. Done and dusted."

"Nonsense!" Viserys slammed the armrest, then coughed from weakness. "Kill him now?"

"Everyone in the Seven Kingdoms knows why he came to King's Landing!"

"Killing him for no reason would only chill everyone's hearts, make them think we're guilty and unjust!"

"And..." He rubbed his brow wearily, "He's already sent ravens to the lords of the realm, inviting them to witness..."

"Though those lords are all playing deaf and dumb, none coming in person, their eyes are fixed on King's Landing, on the Red Keep!"

"This is no longer just a matter of Tidepool Island..."

Daemon understood Viserys's concerns perfectly.

Vaemond had become a hot potato—couldn't be killed, couldn't be released, couldn't be tried, couldn't be suppressed.

The brothers fell into silence again.

Suddenly, Daemon's gaze grew deep, and he said softly:

"Brother, have you ever considered... what if the root of the problem isn't that noisy old man Vaemond?"

Viserys lifted his weary eyes: "What do you mean?"

Daemon picked up the bottle and poured himself another glass:

"Suppose... Jacaerys, Lucerys, Joffrey... none of them existed?"

He paused.

"Then what reason would Vaemond have to make a fuss?"

Hearing this, King Viserys looked at Daemon with suspicion.

Daemon downed his drink in one gulp and smiled faintly: "I'm just making a hypothesis. Don't take it seriously, brother."

After hearing the explanation, Viserys fell silent. If only those three grandsons weren't bastards—but they had brown hair and flat noses.

And Daemon knew clearly what he truly wanted.

His unborn child, Aegon, was in his heart the future king of the Seven Kingdoms.

He was now the stepfather of those three boys, but only for Rhaenyra's sake...