Daylight poured across the high balcony of the royal bedchamber.
Grand Maester Mellos had just finished binding the king's wounded hand. When the old man tightened the final bandage, he administered a double dose of poppy milk mixed with calming herbs.
"Your Grace, you must rest," Mellos said anxiously, looking at Viserys I. "Your body cannot endure such strain, and if the wound worsens—"
"I said leave."
Mellos's lips twitched as if he wished to argue, but in the end he bowed deeply and withdrew, his steps heavy as he left the chamber.
"Smash!"
The silence shattered.
A glass wine bottle burst against the wall. Dark summerwine from the Reach splashed like blood, running down over the black-backed banner bearing the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen.
Daemon Targaryen stood by the balcony, his chest heaving violently.
It was impossible to say how many things he had already broken.
"Have you finished smashing things?" Viserys asked hoarsely.
"Is that enough to vent your anger?"
Daemon turned slowly. Sunlight caught his face; silver hair lay disordered across his brow, his eyes burning with cold fury.
"Venting?" he sneered.
"No, brother. I'm celebrating."
He walked toward Viserys, a slow, deliberate smile forming.
"I became a stepping stone for that little whelp—solid, dependable, perfectly placed."
Daemon fixed his gaze on Viserys, the corners of his mouth curling with bitter mockery.
"So I drew my sword, ready to cut him down."
"But your good son rewrote the script."
"Aemond stepped forward. He blocked my blade in front of everyone."
"And then?" Daemon laughed softly. "You ordered him to execute Vaemond with his own hands—and he did. Gave the old man a knight's death, and time to finish his final speech."
Daemon began pacing back and forth.
"What do you think the nobles will say now?"
"They'll say Prince Aemond is young yet composed, restrained, respectful of tradition, protective of those who speak the truth."
"And me?"
He stopped before Viserys, bent forward, and braced both hands on the arms of the chair. His silver hair fell loose as he met his brother's gaze.
"I'm the tyrannical prince who tried to murder a man in front of the king."
His laughter echoed through the empty chamber, sharp with scorn.
"Yes. I finally understand—I was outplayed by a thirteen-year-old boy."
"He used me as a step, climbed over my shoulders, and put on a fine little show for every lord in the realm."
"This affair struck at Rhaenyra," Daemon continued coldly. "You and I both know it."
He returned to the table, poured himself a cup of wine, and drained it in one tilt.
"The nobles will whisper. They'll scorn her for indulging her bastards, for letting baseborn sons usurp the inheritance of House Velaryon—and the Iron Throne itself."
"Perhaps I should…" He paused. "Consider other options."
"Aegon?" Daemon raised a brow, smiling with open disdain.
"That drunk who can't even keep his breeches fastened?"
His voice sharpened suddenly.
"Then you never should have named her heir in the first place."
"More than ten years ago, the queen died in childbirth. You made that decision in grief and wine."
"But do you know what you truly gave her, brother?" Daemon leaned closer.
"Not a gift—a curse."
"You named her heir for over a decade. You let her believe she could truly become the first queen of the Seven Kingdoms."
"You allowed her to learn rule, to sit the councils, to build her own faction."
"And then you married her dearest friend, Alicent, made her queen—giving House Hightower power, ambition, and roots. Thus the Greens were born."
Daemon lowered his voice.
"You gave her wings. And now you want to lock her back in a cage."
"Do you know what that is?"
"It isn't weakness. It's cruelty."
Daemon remained where he was, staring straight at his brother—at Viserys's pallid face, trembling lips, and eyes filled with pain and fury.
After a long silence, he spoke softly:
"I told you it would hurt, didn't I?"
Viserys closed his eyes.
"Then what would you have me do?" he asked hoarsely.
"Vaemond spoke in broad daylight. Now every lord and every smallfolk in the Seven Kingdoms whispers about my daughter's… private life."
"Tell me. How does this end?"
Daemon straightened slowly and walked to the balcony, his back to the king, a low chuckle escaping him.
"We are Targaryens," he said.
"We have dragons."
He turned back, silver hair catching the sun like living flame.
"That isn't metaphor. It's fact."
"So this is not your fault. Nor is it Rhaenyra's."
Viserys opened his eyes and looked at him.
"And what then?" he asked quietly. "You would have me burn all who doubt? Like Maegor?"
"No," Daemon replied. "We need a better solution."
He smiled faintly.
"As I said before—if the root of the problem disappears…"
"…does the problem still exist?"