The afternoon sun poured over the tall balcony of the king's bedchamber.
Archmaester Meuros had just finished bandaging the king's hand. As he tied off the final strip of linen, he had used a double dose of Milk of the Poppy and calming herbs.
"Your Majesty, you must rest." Meuros looked at Viserys I with deep concern. "Your body can't withstand this strain. If the wound worsens..."
"I said, leave."
Viserys didn't open his eyes. He leaned back in the high-backed chair, his head tilted backward. His bandaged left hand rested on the armrest, while his right hung limply at his side.
Meuros's lips moved, but in the end he only bowed deeply and left the room with heavy steps.
"Crash!"
The silence shattered once more.
A glass wine bottle burst against the wall. Summer Red from the Riverlands splashed like blood, streaming down over the black banner bearing the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen.
Daemon Targaryen stood by the balcony, his chest heaving.
He'd lost count of how many things he'd smashed.
Viserys opened his eyes and looked at his brother.
"Done smashing things? Finished venting?"
Daemon slowly turned around. Sunlight lit his face, his silver hair falling messily across his brow, cold fury burning in his eyes.
"Venting?" He gave a low laugh.
"No, brother. I'm celebrating."
"Celebrating the moment I finally understood the brilliance of today's performance."
He walked over to Viserys and spoke with a slow smile.
"I became that little brat's stepping stone. A thick, solid stepping stone, perfect in every way."
Daemon stared at Viserys, his lips curling in mockery.
"Let me walk you through it, brother."
"Today in the Throne Room, that old fool Vaemond risked his life to drench Rhaenyra in a stain she could never wash away."
"Did he succeed? To some extent, yes."
"So I drew my sword. I was going to cut him down."
"According to the original script, next the tyrannical prince would murder a man before the king, the king would punish me to appease the outraged crowd, and Ser Vaemond would die a hero. The rumors would be buried with him. Perfect."
Suddenly, he slammed his fist onto the table.
"But your fine son changed the script."
"Aemond stepped forward. He stopped my sword in front of everyone."
"What did he say? His Majesty only meant to cut out Vaemond's tongue, not take his life."
"Look at him, respecting the law! Defending the crown! Upholding tradition!"
"And then? You ordered him to execute Vaemond himself, and he obeyed. He gave the old fool a knight's death and time to deliver his last words."
Daemon began pacing.
"What will the nobles think now?"
"Prince Aemond may be young, but he's composed and restrained, respects the nobility, upholds tradition, and stands up for those who speak the truth."
"And what about me?"
He stopped in front of Viserys and leaned over, bracing both hands on the arms of the chair. His silver hair fell forward as he met his brother's gaze.
"I became the tyrannical prince who tried to silence a man by murdering him before the king."
"I became a foil for your son's shining image."
"Even if I really am like that, it's not that little brat's place to define me!"
Viserys met his brother's gaze in silence.
"Being manipulated doesn't feel good, does it?"
Daemon straightened and burst into laughter.
His laughter echoed through the vast bedchamber, laced with bone-deep mockery.
"Right! Now I finally know what it feels like to be manipulated by a thirteen-year-old brat!"
"He used me as a stepping stone, climbed up on my shoulders, and put on a fine show in front of all the nobles!"
Viserys sighed from his chair.
"What this has done to Rhaenyra... we both know."
Daemon returned to the table, poured himself a drink, and downed it.
"Know?" He set down the empty cup. "Of course I know. The things Vaemond shouted before he died..."
"They're spreading through the Seven Kingdoms like a plague right now."
"'Rhaenyra is no longer the Realm's Delight...'"
"Every noble will privately scorn her for indulging her bastards and letting them usurp the Velaryon inheritance—and the Iron Throne."
"If the Seven Kingdoms won't accept her..." Viserys began slowly.
"An heir whose claim is disputed..."
"I may have to... consider another choice."
"Aegon?" Daemon raised an eyebrow, his smile mocking. "That drunk who can't even keep his trousers fastened?"
Viserys didn't deny it.
Daemon's voice suddenly sharpened.
"Then you shouldn't have named her Crown Prince 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 heir to the Iron Throne. You thought it would honor your dead wife and make it up to your daughter."
"But do you know what you gave her, brother? It wasn't a gift. It was a curse."
"You gave her more than ten years as heir and made her believe she really could become the first queen of the Seven Kingdoms."
"You had her study statecraft, take part in the affairs of the realm, and build her own faction."
"Then you married her friend Alicent as Queen, giving House Hightower an opening—and ambition. That's how the Greens took root."
"And now you're starting to waver?"
Daemon lowered his voice and continued:
"You gave her wings, and now you want to lock her back in a cage?"
"You gave her hope, and now you want to crush it with your own hands."
"Do you know what that's called? It's not weakness. It's cruelty."
"Be quiet!"
Viserys angrily knocked the wine cup off the table.
Daemon didn't move. He remained crouched there, staring at his brother's pale face, trembling lips, and eyes glistening with pain and anger.
After a long moment, he said softly:
"I hit a nerve, didn't I?"
Viserys I closed his eyes.
"Then what do you want me to do?" he rasped. "Vaemond laid it all bare in broad daylight. Now every noble and commoner in the Seven Kingdoms is talking about my daughter's... private life."
"Tell me, how am I supposed to put this behind us?"
Daemon slowly rose and walked to the balcony, turning his back on the king. He gave a derisive laugh.
"We Targaryens have dragons."
He turned to look at his brother, his silver hair streaming like flames in the sunlight.
"We flew here 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."
"That isn't a metaphor. It's a fact."
"So this can't be your fault, and it can't be Rhaenyra's fault."
"You have to tell them in a language they understand: Targaryens are the law of succession, Targaryens are the law, and Targaryens... are above everything."
Viserys opened his eyes and looked at him. "So? You want me to burn everyone who questions us? Like Maegor?"
Daemon shook his head.
"No. We need a... better solution."
He returned to the king's side and leaned over the table, bracing both hands on it. His silver hair fell across half his face, and the one violet eye left uncovered shone with a terrifying intensity.
"Like I said last time... if the root of the problem disappears, does the problem itself still exist?"
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