Brothers (Part 1)

The afternoon sunlight poured across the tall balcony of the King's bedchamber.

Archmaester Meuros had just finished bandaging the King's wounded hand. As the old man tied off the last strip of linen, he had used a double dose of Milk of the Poppy and calming herbs.

"Your Grace, you must rest." Meuros looked at Viserys I with deep concern. "Your body cannot withstand such strain. If the wound worsens again..."

"I said, leave."

Viserys did not open his eyes. He sat slumped in his high-backed chair, head tilted back, his bandaged left hand resting on the armrest, his right hand hanging limp at his side.

Meuros's lips twitched, but in the end he only bowed deeply and dragged his heavy steps out of the room.

Crash!

Silence shattered once more.

A glass wine bottle exploded against the wall. Deep red Summer Red from the Riverlands splattered like fresh blood, trickling down the Targaryen sigil—a three-headed red dragon on a black field—that hung on the wall.

Daemon Targaryen stood by the balcony, his chest heaving violently.

This was not the first thing he had smashed, and he had lost count.

Viserys opened his eyes and looked at his brother.

"Had your fill of smashing? Done venting?"

Daemon turned slowly. Sunlight lit his face, his silver hair falling in disheveled strands across his brow, cold fury burning in his eyes.

"Venting?" He let out a low laugh.

"No, brother. I'm celebrating."

"Celebrating that I finally understand the exquisite brilliance of today's little play."

He walked up to Viserys and spoke with a faint smile.

"I've become that little whelp's stepping stone. A thick, solid, perfectly placed stepping stone."

Daemon stared at Viserys, a sardonic curl at the corner of his mouth.

"Let me walk you through it, brother."

"Today in the throne room, that old bastard Vaemond threw his life away to splash Rhaenyra with a bucket of filth she'll never wash clean."

"Did he succeed? In a way, yes."

"So I drew my sword. I was going to cut him down."

"According to the original script, what comes next is: the savage prince commits murder before the throne, the King punishes me to calm the storm, Ser Vaemond dies a martyr, and the rumors are buried with him. Perfect."

Suddenly, he slammed his fist onto the table.

"But your good son rewrote the script."

"Aemond stepped forward. He blocked my sword, in front of everyone."

"What did he say? 'His Majesty only meant to cut out his tongue, not take his life.'"

"Look at him! How he respects the law! How he upholds the crown! How he honors tradition!"

"And then? You ordered him to execute Vaemond himself, and he obeyed. He gave the old bastard a knight's death, let him finish his dying words."

Daemon began to pace.

"What will the nobles think now?"

"'Prince Aemond, though young, is calm and restrained. He respects the nobility, upholds tradition, and stands up for those who speak the truth.'"

"And me?"

He stopped in front of Viserys, bent down, and braced both hands on the chair's armrests. His silver hair fell forward as he met his brother's eyes.

"I've become the savage prince who wanted to silence a man by killing him before the throne."

"I've become the foil that makes your son shine."

"Even if that's what I've always been, it's not for that little whelp to define me!"

Viserys gazed back at his brother in silence.

"Doesn't feel good, does it? Being played."

Daemon straightened and burst into laughter.

The laughter echoed through the empty bedchamber, laced with biting mockery.

"Yes! Now I finally know what it's like—being played by a thirteen-year-old whelp!"

"He used me as a ladder. He climbed up on my shoulders and put on a fine show in front of all the nobles!"

Seated in his chair, Viserys let out a sigh.

"What this does to Rhaenyra... you and I both know."

Daemon walked back to the table, poured himself a cup of wine, and downed it in one gulp.

"Know?" He set down the empty cup. "Of course I know. The things Vaemond screamed before he died..."

"Right now it's spreading through the Seven Kingdoms like a plague."

"Rhaenyra is no longer the Realm's Delight..."

"Every noble will scorn her in private, coddling bastards, letting bastards usurp the Velaryon and Iron Throne succession."

"If the Seven Kingdoms won't accept her..." Viserys said slowly.

"A contested heir..."

"I may have to... consider other options."

"Aegon?" Daemon raised an eyebrow, his smile mocking. "That drunk who can't even fasten his own breeches?"

Viserys did not deny it.

Daemon's voice turned sharp:

"Then you shouldn't have named her Crown Prince in the first place!"

"Over a decade ago, the Queen died in childbirth. You made that decision in grief and guilt."

"You made Rhaenyra the heir to the Iron Throne. You thought it was solace for your late wife, compensation for your daughter."

"But do you know, brother? What you gave her wasn't a gift. It was a curse."

"You gave her over a decade as Crown Prince, let her believe she could truly become the Seven Kingdoms' first queen."

"You had her learn governance, join court, build her own faction."

"Then you married her best friend Alicent as Queen, gave House Hightower opportunity and ambition, and 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 snuff it out with your own hands."

"Do you know what that's called? It's not weakness. It's cruelty."

"Shut up!"

Viserys angrily knocked over the wine cup on the table.

Daemon didn't move. He still crouched there, staring at his brother's pale face, trembling lips, eyes wet with pain and fury.

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 dragged it into the light. Now every noble in the Seven Kingdoms, every commoner, is gossiping about my daughter's... private life."

"Tell me, how does this get past?"

Daemon rose slowly, walked to the balcony with his back to the King, and let out a scoff.

"We Targaryens have dragons."

He turned to look at his brother, silver hair flowing like flame in the sunlight:

"We flew from the ashes of Valyria, conquered this continent with fire."

"We Targaryens are born above the laws of Andals, Rhoynar, and First Men."

"Our blood is the last true dragon's blood."

"That's not a metaphor. It's fact."

"So this cannot be that you were wrong, nor that Rhaenyra was wrong."

"We must tell them in a language they understand: Targaryen is legitimacy. Targaryen is law. Targaryen... is above all."

Viserys opened his eyes to look at him: "So? You want me to burn all the dissenters? Like Maegor?"

Daemon shook his head.

"No. We need a... better solution."

He walked back to the King, leaned over with both hands on the table, silver hair falling to cover half his face, the one purple eye exposed blazing with terror:

"Like I said last time... if the root of the problem disappears, does the problem still exist?"