The council chamber stank faintly of ink, oil, and old tempers. Morning light poured through the high windows in pale shafts that caught the drifting motes of dust, turning them to gold. Viserys Targaryen sat the high chair at the long table's head, the one his grandsire had favored, and wondered how many times his brother had warmed the others.
Master of Laws, briefly. Then Master of Coin. Then Commander of the City Watch — that last post Daemon had kept longer than the rest, as if the gold cloaks suited his vanity. Viserys could still remember the day Daemon had remade them, draping his watchmen in shining mail and gilded cloaks to mark their new loyalty. They love him for it still, Viserys thought, watching the sunlight strike the chamber's marble floor. Half the city would follow him into a fire.
Otto Hightower droned on, parchment in hand. "— trade tariffs with Pentos have fallen again, Your Grace, and the Master of Ships suggests—"
"The Master of Ships," Daemon cut in, lounging in his chair like a cat at ease, "is a dull-witted barnacle clinging to Corlys Velaryon's arse."
Otto stiffened. "Prince Daemon, if you cannot speak with decorum—"
"Decorum?" Daemon smiled, that wolfish half-smile of his. "You mean lies dressed in lace. Say what you mean, Hightower. You think Corlys too proud, too rich, too independent. Say it, and be done."
Viserys raised a hand. "Enough, both of you."
Daemon reclined further, clearly pleased to have provoked him. Otto pursed his lips and turned back to his papers, his voice clipped and cold. The rest of the council shifted uneasily — Mellos avoiding all eyes, Beesbury muttering figures under his breath.
By the time the meeting adjourned, Viserys felt the dull ache of weariness pressing behind his eyes.
When the others filed out, Daemon lingered. "I like what you've done with the council, brother. So peaceful. So quiet. Half of them look ready to die of boredom."
Viserys sighed. "You might stay long enough in one office to improve it, rather than sneer at those who do the work."
"I did improve the City Watch," Daemon said, pouring himself wine without asking leave. "You've seen their armor. You've seen the order in the streets. Before me they were rats — now they're dragons."
"Now they're yours," Viserys thought but did not say.
Out loud he managed, "The people remember the gold cloaks more than they remember their king."
Daemon laughed, a low, pleasant sound. "Then perhaps the king should take to the streets. A few nights among his subjects might do him good."
"Enough." Viserys rubbed at his temple. "This talk helps no one."
Daemon only grinned, raising his cup. "Helps me."
They drank in silence for a time. Through the open window, the sound of the court drifted in: footsteps on stone, the flutter of banners, the distant cry of a dragon above the keep. The smell of smoke and salt mingled with the faint sweetness of roasted apples from the kitchens below.
"You miss Dragonstone," Viserys said quietly.
Daemon's smile faded. "I miss flying when I choose. Here I choke on counsel." He turned toward the window, where the city stretched beyond the walls, restless and gray. "Your smallfolk call you the Dragon King, yet you keep your beasts in chains. That's not rule, brother. That's fear."
Viserys's voice hardened. "It's peace."
"Peace is the dream of fat men."
Before Viserys could reply, a knock came at the door.
"Enter."
The oak swung open to reveal a small figure framed in sunlight. Maekar stepped forward, pale hair shining like woven silver, a thin book clutched against his chest. He bowed awkwardly. "Father. Uncle."
Viserys softened. "You should be in your lessons."
"I finished early." The boy's lilac eyes flicked to the wine on the table, then to Daemon. "The septa says honesty is a virtue, but she lies about how dull she is."
Daemon barked a laugh. "Seven hells, the boy's right. I might steal him for my next council."
Viserys frowned, though amusement tugged at the corner of his mouth. "He's six."
"Six and already smarter than Otto."
"Uncle Otto is the Hand of the King," Maekar said evenly. "So either you're wrong, or Father made a very foolish choice."
Daemon's laughter roared through the chamber then, rich and genuine. He slapped the table hard enough to rattle the goblets. "By the gods, he is a Targaryen."
Viserys's tone cooled. "That will do, Maekar. Go find your sister. She'll be with her dragon by now."
Maekar obeyed, bowing low before slipping from the room.
Daemon watched the door close behind him, eyes still gleaming. "He's got fire in his blood, that one. Not like the rest of these courtiers you keep about you. You'd best watch him, brother — boys like that grow into men like me."
Viserys set down his cup. "That's what I fear."
Daemon only smiled and rose, fastening the clasp of his dark cloak — black leather embossed with the three-headed dragon in red. "Fear's a fine thing, so long as it keeps you sharp. But if it keeps you still, it'll kill you."
He moved to the door, pausing a moment as sunlight broke across his face. For all his swagger, there was weariness there too, and something like longing.
"Come to Dragonstone soon," Daemon said, not turning back. "The air here stinks of council breath."
Then he was gone.
Viserys sat long after, listening to the echo of his brother's boots fade down the hall. The wine had turned sour on his tongue. He looked toward the window where faint smoke curled above the city, where somewhere a dragon's shadow passed across the roofs.
He thought of the boy's clever eyes, of Daemon's restless fire, of Otto's cold precision — three kinds of danger, all circling his throne.
And for the first time that day, he wished he were still only a prince.