King's Bedchamber, Red Keep.
The corridor outside the King's bedchamber was deep and silent; Daemon's footsteps rang sharp against the stone.
He stopped before the thick oak door carved with dragons coiled around the Iron Throne.
Kingsguard Ser Rickard Thorne stood guard in white plate, flanking the entrance.
At the sight of Daemon, he dipped his head, yet politely raised an armored arm to block the hand reaching for the latch.
"Your Grace," Ser Rickard said evenly, "permit me to announce you."
Daemon's brows drew together, a flicker of impatience in his violet eyes.
Still, he only folded his arms and leaned against the cold wall, waiting.
The knight stepped inside, re-emerged moments later, and stood aside.
"The King will see you, Prince."
Daemon gave a soft snort and strode in.
The King's solar was darker, drearier than he remembered.
Heavy velvet curtains drank the afternoon light; the air reeked of medicinal herbs, milk of the poppy, and the stale scent of sickness.
His brother, Viserys I, sat in a wide armchair beside the hearth.
Grand Maester Mellos, stooped and cautious, was helping him into a bed-robe.
The King's face looked puffier, paler than when Daemon had last seen it. Patches of rot were visible on his skin.
"You came," Viserys said, his voice raspy.
He waved a hand, dismissing the Maester.
Mellos closed his medicine chest, cast a worried glance at the King, bowed to Daemon, and slipped out, shutting the door softly.
Only the brothers remained.
Charcoal cracked in the grate; flames danced across Viserys's swollen cheeks.
Daemon neither bowed nor sat; he merely stood, his eyes raking over the ruin of his brother.
"Brother," he said lightly.
"I've wed Rhaenyra."
He paused, a smirk playing on his lips.
"As her beloved father and my dear elder brother, your blessing and your gift seem to be missing."
Viserys's breath caught in his chest.
He knew Daemon meant to wound.
He had refused Daemon's suit for Rhaenyra years before, not only because Daemon already had a wife in the Vale, but because Daemon's hunger for the Iron Throne was bare and blazing.
How could he entrust his chosen heir to a brother so reckless, so ambition-soaked?
He feared Daemon's interest in Rhaenyra was merely a rung on his climb to power.
That suspicion had lain between them for years, festering into Daemon's own bitter grudge.
When Viserys offered only silence, Daemon's smile sharpened.
He lifted a flagon from the table and poured himself a cup of wine.
"Do you know, brother," he said, taking a sip, "if you'd simply nodded back then and given me Rhaenyra... none of this present mess would exist."
"There'd be no Vaemond Velaryon snapping like a rabid dog about bastards, dragging the matter to King's Landing so the Seven Kingdoms can laugh at Targaryen and Velaryon alike."
He stepped closer, his voice low, every word clear.
"There'd be no Greens and Blacks. Rhaenyra would be the undisputed Heir Apparent, and I her Prince Consort. Everything would be clean, certain, secure."
Viserys lifted his gaze at last.
"I refused you not because she could not wed you, Daemon. But because you are unworthy!"
"Look at your deeds. Your first wife, poor Rhea Royce, your own lady! You had her thrown from her horse! The whole realm names it murder!"
"How could I give my beloved daughter to a wife-killer?"
"Wife-killer?" Daemon laughed as if at a fine jest. He tossed the wine back and let out a long, mocking sigh.
"Dear brother, ever the hypocrite, ever the saint."
He moved to stand over the seated King.
"That Vale woman was forced on me. I never loved her, never even bedded her. Westeros forbids divorce? Fine. But it doesn't forbid widowhood, does it?"
He spread his hands.
"I chose the swiftest, surest path to my desire. I show my true face, unlike you, "
He bent down, whispering venomously:
"My sweet brother, remember when Queen Aemma lay dying in childbed? When the Maesters said they could save only one?"
"You, to secure your precious one-day heir, that boy who lived but hours... You ordered the Maester to take the blade and cut Aemma open."
Daemon saw Viserys's pupils shrink, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
Yet he went on, calm, describing the nightmare Viserys had spent a lifetime trying to forget.
"You butchered her for a son who died anyway. Call me kinslayer? So are you."
"Silence!"
Viserys rose, clutching the chair arm to keep from falling.
His face flushed crimson; he pointed a trembling finger, lips moving wordlessly, then doubled over.
HACK.
A dark gout of blood burst from his mouth, spattering the carpet and his bed-robe.
Daemon's mockery froze at the sight.
For the first time, a genuine alarm flickered in those proud violet eyes.
However deep their feuds, this bleeding man was his brother, the same man who had once ridden beside him, taught him swordcraft, and shared boyhood dreams.
Instinctively, he stepped forward, drawing a clean silk kerchief to wipe the blood.
Viserys knocked the hand away. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and sank back into the chair, eyes closed, chest heaving.
At last, he opened his eyes, the fire gone.
"Vaemond," the King wheezed.
"What would you do with him?"
Daemon's arrogance cooled. He refilled two cups and set one gently beside the King.
"Deal with him?" he mused.
"Find a charge. Consorting with pirates, plotting rebellion, even a scheme to murder the King... then strike off his head. Neat and done."
"Folly!" Viserys slammed the armrest, then coughed from the effort.
"Kill him now? All the realm knows why he came! Strike him down without cause, and every man will call it fear and injustice."
"Besides," he rubbed his weary brows, "he's sent ravens to every Great House, bidding them bear witness. Though they feign deafness and stay away, their eyes are on King's Landing. On the Red Keep. This is no longer a Driftmark quarrel."
Daemon understood the bind. Vaemond had become a brand no one dared grasp, yet none could safely drop.
Again, the brothers fell silent.
Suddenly, Daemon's gaze grew distant, his voice soft and dangerous.
"Brother, have you considered that the root may not be that noisy old man at all?"
Viserys lifted tired eyes. "What do you mean?"
Daemon poured another cup, swirling the dark red liquid.
"Suppose... Jacaerys, Lucerys, and Joffrey... ceased to be?"
He paused, letting the implication hang in the heavy air.
"Then what cause would Vaemond have to complain? The succession would be clear."
Viserys studied him, suspicion and horror stirring in his gut.
Daemon drank, smiling lightly.
"Only a thought, brother. Take it no further."
Viserys said nothing. If only those grandsons were not so obviously baseborn, yet their brown hair and pug noses told their tale to anyone with eyes.
Daemon turned away, his mind already working. He knew what he wanted.
The unborn child in Rhaenyra's womb... my son, Aegon... he will be the true King.
For now, he played the stepfather to the three Strong boys.
But only for Rhaenyra's sake. And only for now.
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Got to give to George R R Martin, writing grey people is hard.
Was there ever a good person in his stories? Comment below.
Game of Thrones
House of Dragons