Chapter Text
Daemon did not know what exactly he was summoned for, but the look on the faces of the Kingsguard was far from kind. More than that, he was dragged in a rather unprincely manner by Ser Harrold Westerling, his leisure after a busy night rudely interrupted.
The heavy doors opened with unpleasant screech, and Daemon stepped into the Great Hall. Upon the iron monstrosity sat his brother, clad in rich black robes trimmed with gold, red lining underneath. The king’s usually jovial face looked haggard, plumpness of his cheek melted, leaving only two big tired eyes staring at Daemon. The loss of his wife and child within one day was a blow he found hard to withstand.
Daemon marched inside and stopped several steps before the throne, taking note of all the seven Kingsguard in their full armour and milky white cloaks.
“Did you say it?” came his brother’s quiet voice, yet it echoed all across the Hall.
Failing to grasp the meaning of the question, Daemon still a bit hungover from the night he spent in a brothel joked good-naturedly: “You cut the image of the Conqueror.” And so he did, with the crown upon his head and Blackfyre, unsheathed and pointing downwards.
Though, the king did not find the joke amusing, his face remained impassive as he uttered, coolly and formally: “You will address me as Your Grace, or my Kingsguard will cut out your tongue.”
The tone of the King’s voice was rather sobering. And intimidating. Daemon shifted on his feet, glancing around, as the Kingsguard put their gloved hands on the hilts of their swords. He could easily defeat most of them, but then again, it would be a waste of loyal knights and the royal family would have to search for new guards on top of all the problems they were currently facing.
“The Heir for a Day? Did you say it?” asked Viserys, his voice quivering with some deep emotion.
Heir for a Day…
For some unknown reason, the words sounded differently from the way they did the other night. It was true, the words belonged to Daemon, yet what he meant by them was not aimed at hurting his brother.
“We must all mourn in our own way, Your Grace.” said Daemon, his eyes downcast to the stone floor.
“So you did…” said Viserys gravely, his own eyes welling with tears. “My family has just been destroyed, but instead of being by my side, or Rhaenyra’s you chose to celebrate your own rise! Laughing with your whores and lickspittles! Why do you cut me so deep? What perverse pleasure do you gain from that?” the king gasped, searching for air.
“I did not mean to mock you and I was not laughing.” said Daemon defensively.
He was called the Rouge Prince and was notorious for his escapades, but this… Mocking his deceased cousin and nephew?
“As the prince of the Realm and as your brother, do I have the privilege to ask my king who brought these vile lies to him?” asked Daemon, unwilling to give up and let himself be slapped on his face as he always was.
Viserys was taken aback by the straightforward question, the answer to which they both new. He lifted his chin, as if considering whether to fulfill the request or not, then nodded his consent.
“Fine, I will tell you. Ser Otto Hightower imparted this to me. Does it change anything?”
A bitter smile crawled onto Daemon’s lips. Again and again Viserys trusted his Hand more than his own brother.
“Ser Otto, you say? The Ser Otto who goes daily and nightly to great lengths just to undermine me in all different ways?”
“Ser Otto only fulfills his duties—”
“If his duty is to sow the seeds of discord, than he is quite successful.” spat Daemon. “Let him come at once and repeat his lies right into my face, if he dares.”
The king’s face gained expression which was hard to decipher. He pondered for a moment, but for Daemon it dragged much longer. Finally, he spoke up.
“Ser Ryam!” barked Viserys, looking to the Lord Commander. “Bring Ser Otto to me at once!”
Ser Ryam Redwyn bowed and left, shortly after reemerging in the company of Ser Otto Hightower, clad in his dark green doublet and wearing a smug smile across his face.
In honeyed but pitiful voice Otto gave “an account” of the nightly events. Yet, the difference was that he emphasised that Daemon mocked the dead prince, declaring to the people that he was the sole king’s heir.
A cunt!
Daemon never mocked his nephew. He was not that mean, and the words he said were that of mourning, sadness, anger at the Gods’ evil will. But never mockery… How easy it was to twist and turn one’s word according to your needs.
For fuck’s sake, he would not let Otto slander him.
“Do you have your witnesses?” Daemon questioned, stepping forward to Ser Otto, while he took a step back, seemingly afraid of the prince’s ire.
“My source of information can be trusted and does not require to be checked.” Otto uttered with disdain.
“Oh, is it so?” Daemon smiled even wider. “So, dare I ask you who is this source? Some street urchin or a whore?”
“It matters not.” Otto replied then looked to the King. “This information is reliable. I do hope Your Grace will not allow Prince Daemon to act with such impunity, disregarding you and the late Queen Aemma.”
Upon hearing his wife’s name Viserys whimpered and leaned forward, one hand clutching his chest, the fingers of the other tightening around the hilt of the Blackfyre. It was a pitiful sight, and Daemon straightened his back, ready to tell the truth of it all. He did not mean to mock his nephew, he did not wish to hurt his brother. The choice of words might have been incorrect, but without any deeper insulting meaning.
“Your Grace, as you were told, I spent the evening in the company of my men from the City Watch in a pleasure house. The Lord Hand calls our gathering a celebration. But let me assure you, the words I said were not aimed at hurting you.” he told sincerely. “I mourn your loss as much as you do, or Rhaenyra. There were quite a lot of people there at the moment, mainly officers of the City Watch. Why don’t you ask them, but find the words of some whore sufficient? You do not even need to seek my witnesses out and make them give evidence. They will do it eagerly and willingly. And, surely, as loyal subjects they will not dare to lie to their king, whom they are tasked to protect with their lives. But let Otto present his witnesses as well.” Daemon declared with resolve.
Just as he expected, there was little to say. Otto narrowed his eyes and bit his lip, searching for some excuses or, mayhap, cooking another lie to feed to the king. Viserys looked thoughtful, a crease appearing between his brows and fingers weakening the grasp on the hilt of the Blackfyre, letting it almost fall.
As moments passed, Viserys sighed, defeated. “What say you to this, Otto? Shall we question your spy and then Daemon’s witnesses?”
“Ah, Your Grace, it seems to be such a useless waste of time, while you must rest and be allowed to mourn your losses.” the Hand said in a voice laced with care and sympathy. “Leave it to me, my King, I will sharply question those who were involved.”
“Those who were involved?” chuckled Daemon. “Me included?” he asked, wondering, if that overambitious grasping leech had the gall to question the Prince of the blood.”
“This will not be necessary.” came the king’s soft tired voice. “Can you present this person who allegedly brought this accusation before us now?”
“Now?” croaked Otto. “But, Your Grace… This… this was but a street urchin, looking for him will be tantamount to searching a needle in a haystack.”
“Does it mean that you cannot present your witness, Ser Otto?” asked Daemon, tilting his head.
“I— I can, but—”
“No ifs or buts, Ser. Your accusations were quite straightforward. But I get your point — you cannot.” the prince declared, smiling. Then he turned to his brother, who slumped on the throne and shifted his gaze defeatedly between Daemon and Otto. “As for me, if Your Grace allows, in the shortest of time the regiment of the Gold Cloaks will present themselves before the eyes of Your Grace and will give a detailed account of the yestereve’s events.”
A shadow ran across Viserys’ face and all of a sudden he looked frightened. The image of dozens heavily armed City Watch officers filling all the space of the Great Hall made him shiver.
Seeing his brother’s hesitance, Daemon continued, “Please, worry not, my King, they are as loyal to me as they are loyal to Your Grace. As their Lord Commander I made sure of it. So, shall I call for the witnesses?”
Before Viserys could speak, Otto said, looking intently at the king, his gaze hypnotising, like that of a snake: “Your Grace, for years we have joined our efforts to keep Prince Daemon farther from the throne. We do not want to have Maegor come again, do we?”
“Your witness, Otto.” said the King softly. “Can you present him now?”
“Your Grace, I insist that it is absolutely unnecessary, the prince only tries to divert your attention from the matter at hand—”
“Otto, will you?” Viserys interrupted, beckoning the Hightower to come closer.
Relieved that he was called by the king, Otto climbed up the stairs and bowed deeply. His lips were twitching, forcing away the smile. By the looks of it, he was full of anticipation, hoping that Daemon would be banished once again, or even worse. Here he was - the object of his ire and envy, the Rogue Prince. He would be punished right in front of Otto’s very eyes.
“The pin, Otto.” came the king’s words, startling everyone in the Hall.
“Pardon, Your Grace?” Otto leaned forward, as if he could not clearly hear what the king was saying.
This was enough for the king’s hand to reach Otto’s chest and with one sharp movement tear the pin of office right from his doublet.
Otto gasped and made a step back, barely regaining his balance before he fell and impaled himself on the swords sticking out from the Iron Throne.
“Y-Your Grace?” he whispered, astounded.
“You are dismissed Otto. My brother is right. In the time of grief the House Targaryen must stand strong and you are sowing the seeds of discord.” Viserys ruled and Daemon felt a heavy weight falling from this heart.
The next words were even sweeter. “What sort of brother would I be, if I trusted the words of noone over the words of my own brother? It is not what my farther taught me. Leave, Otto, leave, before I changed my mind and ordered to arrest you.”
His eyes filled with horror and disbelief, Otto bent in another bow and silently dragged his feet down the stairs and out of the Great Hall. He did not give Daemon a single glance, but the prince could feel the former Hand’s hatred even from the distance. He did not care, though, and neither was he afraid.
Heavily leaning on the Blackfyre, Viserys rose and descended the Iron Throne, the Valyrian steel blade clanking against the stones with each step.
“Here. Take it.” the king said, stretching out his arm, palm up, the Hand’s golden pin glistening in the light of torchfire.
So, there were more surprises coming that day…
Daemon blinked, failing to grasp the meaning of the words, and even less of the gesture.
“Take it. Your king demands it.” repeated Viserys.
Slowly, hesitantly, nether believing his eyes nor ears, Daemon approached his brother. The pin felt cold, although the hands giving it were warm.
“Ten years, you say. Ten years you have been longing for this position, but I declined. Perhaps, it is high time I agreed. Unless something else terrible happens.” said Viserys, curling his fist over Daemon’s.
It was… unexpected.
True, the prince wanted it for so long, but these were not the circumstances he imagined.
Without saying another word, Viserys headed to the entrance doors, unsteady, swaying on his legs.
Oh… Was that it?
“W-wait! Where are you going? What are you going to do?” demanded Daemon, watching as Viserys passed him by.
“To my chambers. Drinking. Sleeping. Mourning. Doing nothing. Your are the Hand now, Daemon. You know what they say, don’t you? The king shits and the Hand wipes. Off you go, do your job.” threw Viserys over his shoulder and left, followed by his Kingsguard.
And so Daemon stood there alone, clutching a cold piece of precious metal in his palm. It was his, finally, after all those years. His. Yet, while one part of him was triumphant, the other was intimidated. What was he going to do now? It would be most embarrassing to fail in the position he had coveted for so long, more than that, fail in the eyes of his older brother.
“Fucking hells...” he muttered gruffly. Now he was Prince Daemon Targaryen, the Hand of King Viserys, First of his Name.