In the Great Hall of the Red Keep, Viserys Targaryen slumped upon the slumbering beast that was the Iron Throne.
Only a few short months had passed since the Small Council's disastrous quarrel over Dragon's Bay, yet in that time, Viserys had withered alarmingly.
His silver hair had thinned, clinging weakly to his scalp. His skin sagged as though weighed down by some unseen weight, mottled with strange dark spots that had not been there before.
Even his breathing had become laboured, shallow rises and falls that betrayed how close exhaustion always lurked.
He pressed his lips into a thin line as he felt the uneven undulation of his chest.
It seemed that even sitting had become a trial for him.
Alas, all he wished for was rest, but the crown would not permit such indulgence.
Today, however—
…was different.
Viserys' gaze was solemn as it settled upon the silver-haired woman standing before him.
Rhaenyra.
At her side stood two small children, clutching nervously at the hem of her skirt as they peered up at him with wide, uncertain eyes.
And beside them?
A familiar scoundrel.
Daemon Targaryen stood as he always did, shoulders loose, posture careless, that infuriating, knowing smile fixed upon his face as though this were all some private jest.
Viserys swallowed.
"Y-you…" He began, his voice brittle with sickness. "What have you come here for?"
He already knew the answer.
The presence of the children and Daemon together filled him with an ominous foreboding.
'They couldn't have…' It took every fibre of his being to restrain the rage rising in his decrepit form.
"I have wed Daemon as my rightful husband upon Dragonstone," Rhaenyra said firmly. She pursed her lips before continuing. "Your Grace, I present to you my sons: Aegon and Viserys."
Something in Viserys snapped.
"Ridiculous!" He shouted, though it emerged more as a strained groan. "Do you ever listen to me? I have warned you time and time again that Daemon is not suitable for you!"
"Well now, dear brother," Daemon cut in lightly from the side, "don't you think that's a bit harsh?"
"Silence, fool!" Viserys thundered. "Do not forget that you are still considered a criminal by the realm! My own flesh and blood, Aemond, harmed by your follies!"
Daemon did not answer. He merely rolled his eyes, utterly unrepentant.
"Your Grace, if I may?" Otto Hightower stepped forward.
"Prince Daemon…no." He corrected himself pointedly. "Daemon has been charged with harming a royal heir. I formally demand he be seized and tried for his crimes."
"Ser Otto," Viserys said sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I will punish my brother as I see fit. It is not your place to make such demands."
Otto's mouth thinned at once, his expression hardening. Daemon scoffed openly.
Viserys noticed both reactions.
His hand twitched, fingers nearly tightening around the cold blades of the Iron Throne. But then his gaze drifted back to the children, to the tufts of silver hair crowning their small heads.
His grip loosened.
'Perhaps this isn't entirely a disaster…' He tried to tell himself. 'Rhaenyra's claim might be strengthened by them. The realm reassured…'
Only—
Thud!
The great doors of the hall slammed open, the sound echoing like a thunderclap. Every head turned.
Queen Alicent strode inside, emerald green skirts flowing behind her like a war banner. Her beauty, untouched by time, was now twisted by fury.
At her side marched Ser Criston Cole, her sworn shield.
"Your Grace!" Alicent spoke through clenched teeth. "It may not be my father's place to question your brother, but what of mine? Surely it is not beneath my station to demand an explanation?"
She did not wait for Viserys to answer.
Her gaze snapped to Daemon, venomous. "Have you had enough of running and hiding beneath your niece's skirts?"
Daemon clicked his tongue lazily. "You're rather lively, considering one of your children has lost an eye… while the other two have run off."
"Alicent!" Viserys barked, panic and anger flaring together. "Daemon, get out. This instant. Cool your head!"
But the queen was past restraint.
"I demand the Kingsguard arrest and seize this criminal now," Alicent declared, her finger trembling as it pointed directly at Daemon.
Steel rasped against steel.
Several Kingsguard unsheathed their swords, hesitating only a heartbeat before turning their eyes back to Viserys, waiting.
Waiting for his judgment.
Waiting for a king who could barely hold himself upright upon his throne.
Viserys' chest rose and fell sharply, each breath rasping harsher than the last.
"ENOUGH!"
The word tore from him.
And yet, immediately betrayed him.
A violent cough seized his body, doubling him forward.
It sounded wet, as though something thick and foul were lodged deep within his throat.
He hacked again, and again, each cough gurgling, his breath bubbling unpleasantly before he finally managed to draw in air.
His hand trembled as it gripped the arm of the throne, knuckles whitening.
Silence fell like a shroud upon the gathered.
When Viserys straightened once more, his gaze lifted…he saw them.
Dozens of eyes stared back at him.
Courtiers. Lords. Kingsguard. Family.
All were watching his corpse of a body lingering on the Iron Throne.
"I have made my judgment," Viserys said hoarsely, raising a trembling hand to still the hall. "For the next three years, Prince Daemon, you are to remain upon Dragonstone. Without royal leave, you are barred from departing its shores."
"Viserys!" Alicent cried, disbelief sharp in her voice.
"I am not finished," he snapped, exhaustion bleeding through his words. He turned his gaze fully upon his brother. "Prince Daemon, your marriage to Rhaenyra is duly recognised."
A ripple of murmurs passed through the hall.
"But," Viserys continued, each word dragging itself from his chest, "you are stripped of all titles. Henceforth, you shall no longer be considered a Prince of the Realm, nor shall you ever hope to become Lord of Runestone."
The murmurs disappeared, replaced by thick silence.
Everyone knew what this meant. No matter what happened in the future, Daemon Targaryen has forever lost the ability to become King.
The only and highest rank he will hold for the rest of his life is being a mere Prince Consort.
"Truly?" Daemon stepped forward, the Kingsguard immediately tightening their grip upon their blades. His eyes burned as he looked at Viserys. "For the sake of… her."
He cast a scornful glance toward Alicent.
"And her spawn," Daemon added coldly. "You would forsake your own brother."
"Daemon," Viserys replied, voice hardening despite his frailty, "you forsook me first. You cast aside our brotherhood, your oaths and your dignity."
The last word was spat like poison.
For a long moment, the two brothers simply stared at one another.
Daemon's eyes were sharp, defiant even as he searched for weakness in Viserys' gaze.
Viserys' gaze met his unflinchingly.
Though his body sagged and his skin clung loosely to bone, there was something unyielding in his eyes, something that reminded all present that this was still the man who wore the crown.
As long as he drew breath, his words were law.
At last, Daemon exhaled through his nose and shook his head once.
"So be it," he said quietly. "I only hope you do not come to regret this, brother."
Then he turned and walked away.
The crowd parted instinctively before him, silence swallowing the hall as Daemon strode toward the doors and disappeared beyond them.
Rhaenyra watched him go.
Only when he was gone did she turn back to Viserys. Her expression was tightly controlled, hurt and resolve warring beneath the surface.
"Father," she said softly.
She dipped into a formal curtsy. Measured, polite, and yet painfully distant.
Rhaenyra acted not like his daughter, but as a subject.
When had things come to this point?
He did not know.
"I must take my leave. I wish you good health in the days to come." She spoke, and with that, she turned, following Daemon out of the Great Hall.
One by one, the courtiers began to disperse. Murmurs faded. Footsteps echoed and vanished. Even the Kingsguard resumed their posts, their presence now distant and impersonal.
Soon, the hall was empty.
Viserys sat alone upon the Iron Throne.
Alone.
So very alone.
No matter how carefully he tried to mask it, he had never felt so isolated.
The fractures within his family had spilt openly into court, deepening into something ugly and irrevocable.
Where once he might have spoken freely, now there was no one left to listen.
Rhaenyra still loved him; he knew that, but she remained filled with spite towards Alicent and Otto.
When she stood near him, despite her being in arm's reach…it felt as if they were separated by an unseen ocean.
On the other hand, Daemon had defied him at every turn, each act of rebellion like a blade twisting deeper into his heart.
And his wife…
Alicent seemed far more invested in courtly victories than in the slow, painful unravelling of the man she had married.
Those he had once confided in were gone.
One had died.
Two had fled.
Leaving him.
Alone.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
The sound pulled his attention downward.
Only then did Viserys realise his hands were bleeding once more. Fresh cuts lined his palms where the Iron Throne had bitten him again.
Just like it had done all these years.
Strangely, there was little pain this time. Perhaps his body was too worn to protest properly anymore.
He stared at the blood in silence.
What would this union do to the realm?
What of Sir Laenor?
With legitimate Targaryen heirs, perhaps this crisis was all but over?
His thoughts churned.
Still, the throne drank patiently.
As it always did.
***
In the vast hall of the Prince's Estate, Silvo slowly tilted his head from side to side, his gaze drifting over the small gathering seated around the round table.
The chamber itself felt more like a fortress than a place of counsel. The ceiling arched high overhead, lost in shadow, giving the impression that the room stretched far beyond what the eye could see.
At the centre stood the table: a massive ring of dark, heavy wood, scarred with age and use. Four men sat around it, each occupying a wide stretch of empty space.
Rhevos.
Grey Fist.
Sahrys.
And himself.
In Silvo's opinion, four people sharing such an absurdly large table was almost comical. Under different circumstances, he might have smirked.
Alas, he was in no mood to laugh.
"What you say is true, then?" Rhevos finally spoke. The old man's sharp eyes locked onto Silvo, piercing enough to make lesser men squirm. "New Ghis is truly attempting such a thing? Are they fools?"
Silvo shrugged.
How was he supposed to understand the behaviour of those harpy-worshipping freaks?
Still, considering the actions of New Ghis before Their Highnesses conquered Tolos, perhaps this was all too inevitable.
"Ser Rhevos," Silvo said, spreading his hands in a helpless gesture, "all I can say is that fear has a way of overwhelming rationality." He leaned back slightly in his chair. "The moment the Ghiscari learned of Dragonlords appearing near the Valyrian peninsula, they began panicking like a flock of sheep quivering before a wolf…"
He paused, then clicked his tongue.
"…or rather, a dragon in this situation."
The silence that followed was deafening.
No laughter. No amused snorts. Not even a breath of relief.
'Damn,' Silvo thought, suppressing a sigh. 'Tough crowd we have here.'
"If I may add?" Sahrys raised a tentative hand, his fingers trembling slightly as he did. The rounded merchant shifted in his seat, beads of sweat glistening at his temples. "This is not New Ghis alone we are about to face."
All eyes turned toward him.
Even Silvo raised a brow.
Sahrys visibly gulped under the weight of their attention.
"The Rogare Bank of Lys, among many others, have been quietly feeding New Ghis with loans," Sahrys continued, his voice tight. "Tyrosh and Myr are flooding the markets with scorpions and ballistae…" He swallowed hard. "Each one aimed to fell a dragon."
The words hung in the air like a drawn blade.
"So," Grey Fist finally rumbled, his thick arms crossed over his chest, "are we against all of them?"
He turned his gaze to Sahrys.
"N-no, of course not," Sahrys said quickly, shaking his head. "These cities are filled with malice toward one another. They likely hate each other more than they hate us."
"Then why—?" Grey Fist began, his brow furrowing.
"Because they fear us," Silvo cut in smoothly.
He leaned forward now, forearms resting against the table's edge.
"Rather," he corrected, "they fear Their Highnesses and their dragons. Every person of Essos understands the horror of the Valyrian Freehold. They cannot risk even the slightest chance that Valyria might see a resurgence."
"Silvo is right," Rhevos said, nodding slowly. "They are ruled by fear…uncontrollable fear. So much so that they will never attack us directly. The most they will do is fund the Ghiscari."
The others nodded in grim agreement.
All except Silvo.
He caught the subtle implication in the Myrish sailor's words.
"You didn't say New Ghis," Silvo said with a dry chuckle. "You said Ghiscari." His eyes gleamed faintly. "Are you implying the slavers wish to join in as well? We control a significant portion of their grain. Do they wish to starve?"
Rhevos pursed his lips. "Perhaps. But you forget that they, too, consider themselves Ghiscari. And they will see us, branded as we are with Valyria's heritage, as enemies regardless."
"Even if we cut off their food," Rhevos continued coldly, "the only ones who will starve are the slaves." He paused. "And those they will throw at us anyway, come the battlefield."
Disgust rippled across the table.
Grey Fist's jaw tightened.
Silvo's fingers curled against the wood.
Only Sahrys failed to share the sentiment.
Silvo's gaze drifted to his own palm.
On it lay an ugly scar.
For a fleeting moment, something complicated passed through his eyes.
He could almost understand why the continent was so on edge at the mere rumour of Valyria's offshoot rising from the ashes.
The practices of Old Valyria were indeed…cruel.