In the great hall, King Viserys I sat motionless upon the throne, lost in a long silence.
How could he not understand what Daemon was doing? Every word, every suggestion—each was meant to clear the path for Aegon the Younger.
Daemon spoke again.
"Rhaenyra…" Viserys finally said, his voice frail.
"She knows you well. Do you truly mean to… betray her?"
"I have never betrayed her," Daemon replied calmly.
"I am loyal—to my family, to House Targaryen, to our blood."
"Rhaenyra is willing to compromise for her children," he continued.
"She makes dangerous choices, concessions that lead her closer to the edge."
"And I," Daemon said softly, "will stop her before she falls into the abyss."
Viserys stared at his brother, trying to discern truth from resolve behind that familiar face.
"Tomorrow," the king said at last, "from the Iron Throne, I will amend my decree."
"Jacaerys's betrothal is to be annulled.
Little Aegon shall instead be betrothed to Ysilla."
He exhaled slowly.
"Let this sin fall upon me alone.
If Rhaenyra must blame someone… let her blame her father."
Daemon inclined his head.
The Hand's Tower
Ser Otto Hightower sat behind his desk, reviewing matters of state by candlelight.
Before him stood Larys Strong, leaning on his cane, silent, patient, watchful—like a spider waiting for its web to tremble.
Without lifting his eyes, Otto asked,
"Do you believe the new Grand Maester, Orwyle, can be trusted?"
Larys smiled faintly.
"He is fifty-two, learned in medicines and anatomy—already a rare distinction among maesters."
"More importantly, he owns three properties in King's Landing, a manse in Oldtown, and has investments tied to Lannisport."
He tapped his cane lightly.
"A man burdened with interests is easily made… obedient."
Otto finally looked up, his white beard gleaming in the candlelight.
"You have done well."
"I merely serve," Larys replied with a shallow bow.
"What we require is not an obstinate old man, but a maester who understands remedies—and cooperation."
"Besides," he added softly, "His Grace is in constant pain. He is no longer capable of clear judgment."
At that moment, the study door opened.
No knock.
No announcement.
Prince Aemond Targaryen entered.
Larys immediately lowered his head.
"Your Highness. If you have matters to discuss with the Hand, I shall withdraw."
"Wait."
Aemond's voice stopped him.
Larys turned back, smiling.
"Does this concern you?" Aemond asked.
The room fell silent.
The smile never left Larys's face.
"Your Highness, why would you ask such a thing?"
"Grand Maester Mellos died peacefully in his sleep a month ago," Aemond said.
"At seventy-four."
Larys met the prince's gaze.
"Some changes," he said evenly, "require a gentle push."
Aemond studied him for a long moment—then nodded.
"He was my teacher," Aemond said quietly.
"But you are right. He was old… and stubborn."
"You understand me, Your Highness."
Aemond stepped aside.
"Go."
Larys bowed and departed on his cane. Only when the door closed did the sound of his footsteps vanish.
Otto leaned back in his chair.
"You frightened him."
"No," Aemond replied.
"He is fearless enough to arrange the deaths of his own father and brother."
He looked directly at Otto.
"Mellos's death—was it your command?"
Otto hesitated, then said,
"He proposed it to me."
"Sit," the Hand said, gesturing to the chair opposite.
"You did not come here merely to threaten Larys."
Aemond sat.
"Grandfather," he asked bluntly,
"Was it truly necessary for Grand Maester Orwyle to give His Grace such quantities of milk of the poppy?"
Otto frowned deeply.
"Orwyle insists it is unavoidable. Without it, the king would not survive a single day."
Aemond's next question came cold and sharp.
"What is your view on a regency?"
Otto hesitated.
"Rhaenyra is the named heir—"
"Then let my mother," Aemond cut in,
"Queen Alicent, act as regent for a king confined to his bed."
"Rhaenyra does not dare remain in King's Landing," he continued.
"And if she does… so much the better."
"Let my mother rule first."
His voice lowered.
"And after the king's death…"
"We revise the will."