Chapter Text
The roar of the crowd was loud – almost loud enough to drown out Viserys’s thoughts. No need to be nervous, he told himself over the thunder of hooves and the screams of the injured. He would have his son, his heir, his Baelon. He had seen it. He had dreamed it – a prophetic dream, like Daenys. Like the Conqueror. There could be no surer sign.
Yet some measure of doubt still lingered. The scent of blood, men’s blood and horses’ blood, already rising from the sand in the heat of the day, turned his stomach. He could not help but think of Aemma, up there somewhere behind the walls of the Red Keep, alone but for the maesters and midwives attending her. He could not help but wonder if he should be there. But he could not show his fear, his doubt – he was the king.
Instead, he stood and cheered with the rest of the crowd as a Stormlands knight in unremarkable, dented armour unseated Borros Baratheon. He sat and japed with Otto as Lord Boremund Baratheon rode up to the royal box to ask the favour of Rhaenys, calling her the Queen Who Never Was. On another occasion he might have been almost offended by such liberties being taken, but today there was nothing to be upset about. He sat the Iron Throne, and his long-awaited heir was coming.
Of course, it certainly helped that Boremund was quickly unseated by the same Stormlander who had defeated his son. Criston Cole, he heard the Lady Alicent whisper to his daughter. A steward in the service of House Dondarrion, Ser Harrold leaned over to add.
Viserys smiled at the sight of his daughter, her silver tresses piled atop her head in a crown of elaborate braids. The Realm’s Delight, indeed. He watched as she smiled and laughed and gossiped with her companion, his Hand’s daughter. They were bosom friends, having grown up together at court, close enough in age that they were like sisters to each other. The two years between them seemed nothing at all, for the Lady Alicent was a slight, slender thing for her seven-and-ten years, while Rhaenyra, even at five-and-ten, seemed almost a woman grown. He had thought that Otto might have married Alicent off by now, but he was grateful for his friend’s apparent hesitation in doing so. He knew his daughter would miss her terribly if she left.
The clamor of trumpets drew him out of his thoughts as his brother rode into the arena. He certainly looked princely enough, in his dark armour and his great winged helm, fashioned in the shape of a dragon. Ever proud of his House and heritage, his brother was. Some days, Viserys despaired of what to do with him, his reckless, arrogant brother, who had not visited his lady wife in the Vale a single time since he had been forced to wed. Other days, he thanked the gods for bestowing such a staunch and fierce protector upon him, for he knew that, more than anyone else, Daemon was utterly loyal to his brother and king – in his own way.
Today, he felt, might be the earlier sort. He felt Otto stiffen in the seat beside him as Daemon announced his intent to challenge Ser Gwayne, Otto’s own son, and sighed. It was a flagrant, boldfaced attempt at riling him up, no doubt revenge for Otto’s words against him at the Small Council meeting the previous day. And of course, it worked. His Hand was typically a placid, reserved man, slow to anger, but Daemon delighted in riling him up, and Otto had yet to learn not to indulge him.
He could concede that Daemon did not make himself easy to ignore, as he rode towards Ser Gwayne in his second tilt and suddenly lowered his lance over the railing, tripping Ser Gwayne’s horse and sending him tumbling out of the saddle.
“That,” Otto spat, “was not honourably done.”
Viserys forced a chuckle, trying to keep the mood light. “When have you ever known Daemon to be an honourable man? Look, your son is standing. He’s fine.”
He was. Ser Gwayne gathered himself up off the ground, untangling himself from the remains of his saddle, and marched off without looking back, shoulders tense. Boos mixed in with cheers as the crowd looked on. Otto certainly was not the only one in attendance who disapproved of the prince’s methods.
Daemon, meanwhile, rode up to the royal box, lifting the visor of his helmet. Rhaenyra and Alicent stood to greet him. Daemon’s eyes met Rhaenyra’s first as she congratulated him on his victory.
“Thank you, Princess,” he replied. Then his gaze drifted over to the Lady Alicent. Viserys frowned.
“Now, I’m fairly certain I can win these games, Lady Alicent,” Daemon declared, cocksure and confident as always. “Having your favour would all but assure it.”
Viserys bit back a sigh. Of course unseating the man’s son wouldn’t be enough for Daemon. Of course he had to flirt with Otto’s daughter as well. Still, this at least seemed a harmless bit of fun compared to the trick he’d played on Ser Gwayne, and the lady did not seem to mind. Her cheeks were flushed and smiling when she turned to fetch her wreath. Sighs and whispers filled the air as the prince waited patiently below, lance aloft. She was flattered, no doubt. He knew what the ladies at court thought about his brother – a dashing, dangerous knight; a handsome, fearless dragonrider.
But when her eyes met her father’s, the smile dropped from her face, and Viserys felt an unexpected pang of pity for the poor girl. It was not right for her to be embroiled in the tiresome rivalry between his Hand and his brother. He thought her father should at least allow her to enjoy this moment as any young maiden should, but it was too late for that. When she dropped the wreath onto his lance and returned to her seat her hands were trembling.
This, for once, was Otto’s fault alone. For all that he knew that Daemon had chosen the lady to rile Otto up even further, he did not seem entirely insincere. His gaze, when she tossed her wreath onto his lance, was not mocking. He bowed his head in thanks, tame and respectful. And Viserys almost thought he might have seen his eyes linger on the lady as she returned to her seat – on that tumble of auburn curls that fell down her back. She was a comely girl, and Daemon certainly had an… appreciation for women. He thought that he would quite like to see his brother win the tourney, and crown the girl his Queen of Love and Beauty. His brother, crowning the daughter of the Hand he hated. Yes, that would be quite entertaining indeed.
But his musings were cut short as a maester slipped into the royal box and bent down to whisper in Otto’s ear. His old friend’s brow was furrowed, his lips pursed, and Viserys felt something within him tighten with worry.
“What is it, my friend?” he asked. “How fares the queen?”
“Not well, I’m afraid, Your Grace,” his Hand muttered. “Come, let us go see to her.”
Viserys stood and followed him, and they rode back to the keep in silence. Worry gnawed at him the whole way, through the drawbridge and up the stairs to the Queen’s rooms in Maegor’s Holdfast.
There was blood on the sheets. It smelled of iron in here too, just like it had at the tourney grounds. Aemma was pale and drawn on the bed, her hair and thighs damp with sweat. Viserys met Maester Mellos’s gaze. The man spoke, and his world crumbled around him.
That night the whole city stank of death, from the tourney grounds to the Red Keep. Viserys wept over the bloodied sheets, long after they had taken away Aemma and little Baelon’s bodies. His wife, dead. His son and heir, dead. It had all been for nothing. The dream, in the end, had meant nothing at all.
He did not remember who had led him back to his chambers, to his bed. He did not remember falling asleep. He remembered almost nothing of the next few days, as the Silent Sisters prepared his wife and son’s bodies, as arrangements were made for the funeral, as all the nobles who had assembled for the tourney and the feasting and the birth of his heir packed up their things and made their way home.
The air, on the day of Aemma’s funeral, was cool and crisp. There was a breeze coming in from the Blackwater Bay, bringing the fresh clean scent of the sea, covering up the stink of King’s Landing. The noise of rushing water drowned out the clamour of the city. All they could hear from the clifftop was the ringing of the bells, mourning their Queen and their heir.
Syrax stood on the highest point of the hill, up above the pyre. She sang, in harmony with the bells, long, mournful cries that traveled across the bay, echoing into the mist. Viserys stood and watched, dazed, as if walking through a dream, as Rhaenyra stepped forward, tears streaming down her pale cheeks. Daemon stood behind her, hands clasped behind his back, face grim.
The clamour of the bells ceased. There was long moment of silence as Rhaenyra attempted to gather herself. The Blackwater roared in the distance where it crashed into the sea. Syrax’s wings twitched as she leaned forward.
“Dracarys,” said Rhaenyra, and then Aemma was gone.
Viserys stared off into the distance as his Small Council bickered around him. Daemon. Rhaenyra. Rhaenys, Laenor. None of them would do. Baelon should have been his heir. Baelon, who was only ashes now, just like Aemma, floating over the Blackwater Bay. His son had not even been dead a week, and yet here his councillors stood, bickering about who was going to replace him. And all of them thinking about how best they could use his loss to their benefit, grasping at power at influence, greedyfor it.
He knew most thought him a weak king. He did not mind it. In truth, he had never been all that interested in reigning. It had been Daemon, mostly, who had fought to put him on the Iron Throne. He regretted it now more than ever.
Suddenly he stood, slamming his hands against the table. “Enough!” he shouted. “My wife and son are dead! And here you all stand, squabbling like crows over carrion.”
Then all the fight drained out of him, and he fell back into his chair, trembling, lifting a hand to his face. “Leave me,” he croaked. “Leave, now. We will discuss this later. For now I would be alone.”
One by one his councillors shuffled out of the room. Alone, Viserys began to weep.
Gods, but the worst part was that, behind the heavy shadow of his grief, he knew that they were right. The succession was… unclear, now that he had neither son nor wife to give him one. Andal law said that Rhaenyra should be his heir, for daughters came before brothers, but the lords would not suffer a woman on the Iron Throne, and Jaehaerys had set a precedent for that. The whole realm had set a precedent for that, when they had chosen him, the son of a second son, over Rhaenys, the child of Jaehaerys’s first heir.
And yet they would be unlikely to accept Daemon, either. He was a man, a warrior, a leader, but he was volatile, bloodthirsty, and, given the state of his marriage with Rhea Royce, he did not seem likely to have heirs anytime soon. Rhaenys had been passed over once already, and given that she was older than him, she seemed a poor choice as well, for all that he knew his cousin would make a fine queen.
And Laenor… choosing him would certainly make Corlys happy, but Viserys knew that choosing him would give the Velaryons far too much power. And there were… rumours, about his proclivities. As unseemly as those rumours might be, if they were true, then Laenor seemed just as unlikely to produce heirs as Daemon did.
He would have to remarry, he could see that. But the grief was still too near. He needed to mourn Aemma properly, first. A year from now, perhaps, he would choose a new wife, and surely she would give him a son, a son to sit the Iron Throne after him. For now, Daemon would have to remain as his heir, for all that Otto would curse him for it. Rhaenya was too young. He would not steal her youth from her, not when she had only just lost her mother. Besides, it was only a temporary solution.
Curse Daemon, he thought. Curse him to the seven hells, the arrogant fool.
And after he had decided to stand by him, too. He’d gone and proved Otto right. The Heir for a Day. It was a slight that could not be borne. He knew his brother was cold, unfeeling, and unfailingly ambitious, ever desperate to prove himself, to make something of himself, as a second son who had been given nothing, but he had never thought him so cruel as to go this far.
His son was dead, and Daemon dared to celebrate it. While Viserys had wept, while he had confided in Lady Alicent, given himself over to her kindness, her compassion, while he had mourned his wife and son, Daemon had drunk and feasted with his men and his whores. His own brother had mocked him, had mocked the death of his son, the one he had waited and prayed all these years for, the one his wife had died for. His own brother, who cared more for his own status as heir than he did for Viserys’s grief.
He had hoped, when Otto had come to him with these reports, that it was only a misunderstanding. That, somehow, Daemon had not meant it that way. But when he had summoned him to the throne room to answer for his transgression he had had no excuse, no justification. No words of comfort, so that Viserys might see that he did care, in his own way. Only poison had dripped from his tongue, as it so often did. Words reeking of his own ambition, his hatred for Otto, his resentment towards Viserys.
Hand of the King, he scoffed. Daemon had never had the right temperament for that. He had thought him happy with his appointment as Commander of the Gold Cloaks, where he could spill all the blood he desired, but of course Daemon could never be satisfied with such a post. Deep down he knew that, for all that Daemon loved him, he had always coveted the throne – had never thought Viserys worthy of it.
You’re weak, Viserys. His brother’s words echoed through his mind. Well, he would tolerate this behaviour no more. He had made it quite clear to Daemon. Not anymore. You are no longer my heir. He had stripped him of his title and banished him to Runestone, and for all that it felt like the right course of action, he had felt a momentary pang of regret when he saw the look in Daemon’s eyes – naked hurt.
He loved his brother. He did. But he could not help that Daemon made himself so hard to love. That was part of why he had sent him away to his wife. He knew that Daemon resented his marriage, but he hoped against hope that a little time together might soften him to his lady wife. A child, that was what he needed. Something for Daemon to truly care about, something to protect. Something to soften all those sharp edges of his. Daemon was not a man built for solitude. Perhaps the love of a woman might still rein him in.
Deep down, he knew that it would not be. Even if a woman could tame Daemon, it would not be Rhea Royce. She was too similar to him – too harsh. Too many sharp edges. But what else could he do? What Daemon had done could not be forgiven – not so quickly, at least. And he could not give the status of heir to a man who would celebrate the death of his own kin in service of it.
So now he sat and watched from his seat atop that damned chair as the lords of the realm knelt and swore fealty to his daughter. This, he could not bring himself to regret. She was young, yes, but she stood tall in her royal robes, calm and poised and everything a crown princess should be. And she looked so much like Aemma. She was all he had left of her, now. And in that moment he knew that he would give her anything – anything she desired. Even the realm itself.
6 months later
Gods, but how quickly everything had fallen apart. To think that he had hoped for a year to mourn Aemma in peace – a year! His councillors had not even given him half that.
It had begun with Corlys’s incessant pestering about the Stepstones. A war that, as far as Viserys could see, the Seven Kingdoms stood nothing to gain from. It was Dorne’s problem, and no doubt Corlys’s too, since the Triarchy stood in the way of his endless quest for wealth. But Viserys really couldn’t see how that was the crown’s problem, and he was glad that Otto had agreed with him.
But Otto… Otto was another problem. It had not, in fact, begun with Corlys. It had begun with Alicent Hightower.
The girl herself, he knew, was probably quite innocent in all this. She was nervous, and it was quite clear that her father had put her up to it, but her regular visits truly had been a balm to his soul, soothing away the still sharp pain of his grief. She was kind, and she did not mind letting an old man natter away about the histories for hours on end. In truth, he would not have minded marrying her.
But he was loath to reward Otto for such a naked display of ambition. He had always known that his friend and Hand was an ambitious man – a second son from a vassal House did not rise to the position of Hand of the King without a hunger for power and a willingness to do a great many things to obtain it. But to shamelessly shove his young maiden daughter at a very recently widowed king… that, he thought, was a step too far.
Still, he was not quite sure what to do about it. For all his transgressions, Otto had been a good Hand to him, all these years. He had counselled him well, had kept his coffers full and his realm at peace. No, he would not take Alicent to wife, but he would have to find her a good match. He knew there was talk, at court, about her frequent visits to his chambers, and he could see that it shamed her, but she obeyed her father nonetheless. She was a good, obedient girl, and she would make a good wife for someone – just not him. Still, all the rumours had somewhat damaged her prospects, and if he was going to set her aside, he would have to arrange a suitable betrothal – he was the king, and if he ordered some little lordling to marry her, they would damn well do it, whether they liked it or not. And a good enough match might calm Otto’s inevitable ire somewhat.
As for himself, he would have to remarry. It could not be Alicent Hightower, but he would have to choose someone, and soon. His health had been rapidly declining. He flexed his hands, feeling the empty space in his glove where his fingers had been before the damned throne had taken them from him. Laena Velaryon would be the smartest choice. It would be a good idea to appease the Velaryons with a betrothal, given that he had no intentions of giving Corlys what he wanted when it came to the Stepstones. And it would not be a bad idea to bring Rhaenys’s line back into the fold through a wedding.
She was young, though – too young to bed, too young to carry children. If was going to get sons off her, he would need her to survive childbirth. Still, he had the best maesters in the realm to attend him. No doubt he could wait a few years to bed her. And Rhaenyra was doing such a fine job as his heir… There was no need to replace her at all. But he needed more children – there were so few Targaryens left, and even fewer dragonriders, since Balerion had died and he had lost his mount.
Yes, yes, that was a fine plan. He would wed Laena Velaryon. And he would sort something out for poor little Alicent.
Curse Daemon. Curse him to the seven hells.
He had thought that banishing him might have taught him a lesson. That the mountain air might cool his blood. That he might care about his brother just enough to gift him a few months of peace after all his grief. But no, of course not. Daemon had never been inclined to peace.
And now he had piled one insult on top of another. Taking Dragonstone, Rhaenyra’s seat, for himself, commandeering the Gold Cloaks as his own personal army, announcing his intention to wed his whore, scorning the lady wife that Aemma had chosen for him. And as if all that had not been enough, he had stolen Baelon’s egg. The egg that Rhaenyra herself had chosen for her baby brother.
What did his brother think he was doing? The damned fool – if he wanted Viserys’s attention, he certainly had it. Gods, but he shouldn’t have let Otto talk him into staying behind. He should be sailing with them, to speak to Daemon as his king, not as his brother.
You’re weak, Viserys, he had said. It was time for a show of strength. Something that even Daemon could not run away from. Something that would show all his councillors that they could not walk all over him with impunity. That he was more than just a stepping stone in their quest for power.
And he had just the right idea for that.
“Ser Errik,” he spoke, standing from his chair. “Bring me my daughter. At once.”
The Kingsguard bowed and stepped out of the Small Council chamber. Ser Harrold remained, standing as still as a statue by the door. Viserys paced, looking out of the windows at the city, and his plan began to take shape.
He did not have to wait long.
“Father?” Rhaenyra spoke. “Why have you summoned me?”
Viserys turned to face her. “Daemon must be brought to heel. I sent Otto to collect the egg, but I see now that that will not be enough. I have no dragon of my own, so I must entrust this to you. You will fly to Dragonstone, and you will tell Daemon that he is to return to King’s Landing at once. Tell him his King commands it. And tell him that, as a peace offering, I will call upon the High Septon to annul his marriage to Lady Rhea Royce.”
Rhaenyra’s eyes were wide with shock. “You… you’re trusting me with this?”
“You are the only one I can trust. You are my heir. And Daemon will not hurt you. Especially when you will be bringing him such good news. Something he’s been begging for for years. Now go, my daughter. Be swift. Be safe.”
Rhaenyra’s shock was not so quick to fade, but he saw her determination as she bowed and marched out of the door. Soon enough Syrax’s screeches were echoing through the sky above the Red Keep. Viserys stood by the window and watched as his daughter flew away, towards Dragonstone. He smiled.
First, the carrot. Then the stick.
As expected, when Syrax returned, it was with Caraxes on her heels.
He did not have to wait long before Daemon burst into his solar, stinking of dragon. His hair was a windswept mess and his chest was heaving. He had to have ridden through the city at a full-on gallop from the Dragonpit and practically sprinted through the keep, to get there so fast.
But now he was still as marble, frozen in place as Viserys stood to greet him.
“Brother,” he ground out.
Viserys nodded. “Daemon.”
“You’ve finally decided to annul my marriage?”
“I have. I sent word to the High Septon as soon as Rhaenyra left to fetch you, and once I told him the marriage was unconsummated he was agreeable enough. He’ll have the papers drawn up soon.”
Daemon laughed; a thin, reedy thing that seemed to tear itself from his throat.
“All these years – all these years I’ve spent begging you to set me free from that bitch, and all it takes is a little misbehaving to finally get what I want?”
“Make no mistake, Daemon,” Viserys said. “There will be consequences for what you’ve done. I will annul your marriage, and I will allow you to remain in King’s Landing. But you will be stripped of your title as Lord Commander of the Gold Cloaks. And I do in fact expect you to stay in King’s Landing. We will find something else for you to do here. Though I’m sure you can occupy yourself well enough.”
Daemon bared his teeth at him in a cruel mockery of a grin. “That’s it? This is my punishment?”
“You will give a public apology to Rhaenyra for daring to take her seat. And you will swear fealty to her and reaffirm her as my heir. In front of the whole court.”
His brother only snorted. “And if I don’t?”
Viserys drew himself to his full height. For all that he was growing older, for all that his body was ailing, he was still tall enough to stand eye to eye with his brother. He was no great warrior. He was no dragonrider, even. But he was Daemon’s elder brother, and he was the king.
“Do not test me, brother,” he spoke, in his most commanding voice. “If you do not obey your king, I will strip you of all your titles. I will disinherit you. I will exile you from my kingdom. You will spend the rest of your life alone on the other side of the Narrow Sea.”
Daemon was silent, sullen, and Viserys saw him as a child once more – the brooding, violent child he’d become after their mother’s death.
“I am your king.”
“Fine,” Daemon spat. “I accept your terms.” He spun on his heel and made to storm out, but Viserys stopped him.
“Wait!”
“What, there’s more?” Daemon laughed in disbelief.
“Yes. But not here. I want the Small Council assembled first. This last part is about more than just you.”
He saw the confusion in Daemon’s eyes, the apprehension below the anger. But he could not falter from his path. Deep down, he knew he was making the right choice. Once he got over the shock of it, the anger, the humiliation… Daemon might not be so unhappy with his lot, in the end.
“We must wait for Otto to return first.”
Daemon’s eyes flared with rage and he growled, more animal than man. Viserys held up a hand to calm him.
“Peace, brother. I am not so blind as you believe me to be. I have something in mind for him, as well.”
Daemon raised an eyebrow, as if he could not quite believe it. “You do?”
“I do,” Viserys nodded. “Wait, and you will see. In the meantime, you are not to leave the keep. I trust this will be incentive enough.”
He watched as Daemon swallowed his pride and nodded, curt and stiff. It was not what he was due, as king, but he knew how to take his victories where could get them, with Daemon. When he turned to leave this time, Viserys did not move to stop him.
The ship made good time from Dragonstone. By the next evening, Otto’s party had returned.
It was dark in the Red Keep when Viserys summoned his Small Council, and he knew none of them would be happy with him, but he needed to get this over with before Daemon grew bored of waiting and ran off again. He thought that his brother would at least wait until the High Septon produced the annulment papers, but Daemon had always been unpredictable.
Ser Harrold looked at him with surprise when he asked that the Lady Alicent be brought to the chamber as well, but said nothing as he relayed the orders. He wondered what the old knight was thinking – whether he assumed, as many others did, that he would be taking her to wife. But it mattered little what rumours said. By the next morning, the court would have much more interesting gossip to entertain them.
When he arrived he found Daemon waiting in the chair reserved for the king. Everything about him oozed arrogance – from his unbound hair to the confident spread of his legs to the hand resting casually on the hilt of Dark Sister. But when Viserys entered, he rose and gave up his seat without a word, moving to stand behind it.
He did not have to wait much longer for the rest of his Small Council to arrive. Corlys strode in first, raising an eyebrow at Daemon but taking his seat without comment. Then came Lord Lyonel Strong, with Lyman Beesbury shuffling along behind him. Maester Mellos had evidently come straight from the ship, his maester’s robes still damp from the spray, stiff with salt. Rhaenyra came next, gaze straying to her uncle before she moved to serve their wine.
Otto entered last, with Alicent behind him, and Viserys saw the confusion that swept his councillors at the presence of the Hand’s daughter.
“What is the meaning of this, Your Grace? We have only just returned from Dragonstone. Might we have the night to rest before we next meet?”
Viserys stood. “My apologies, Lord Hand, but this is a matter of some urgency. I believe it is best if we resolve this tonight, as my mind is already made up, and I have no need for counsel. I only wish to inform you all of the decisions I have made. Please, sit.”
Otto was clearly confused, but he took his seat to Viserys’s right nonetheless. Alicent came to stand behind him, putting herself, quite inadvertently, face to face with Daemon. Viserys watched as she met his eyes, then averted her gaze, staring down at her bloodied fingers.
“Well,” Viserys coughed. “Now that we are all present, let us begin.”
He began by detailing the specifics of Daemon’s punishment – those that he had already revealed to his brother. Rhaenyra looked shocked at the idea of a public apology, but she stayed silent, and the lords murmured their approval. Such public humiliation, no doubt, seemed appropriate after the way Daemon had disgraced the crown and flaunted his lack of respect for Viserys’s royal authority and Rhaenyra’s inheritance.
“In return for these concessions, and in order to keep the peace between us, the High Septon and I have agreed to grant Daemon the dissolution of his marriage with Rhea Royce, which remained unconsummated, and is thus invalid in the eyes of the gods.”
Otto pursed his lips in displeasure, but otherwise kept his mouth shut, having no doubt overheard the terms Rhaenyra had offered Daemon to secure his return from Dragonstone. Corlys seemed surprised, but not particularly displeased. Lyonel, however, made his disapproval clear.
“Your Grace… I must question the wisdom of this decision. I fear this annulment may displease the lords of the Vale.”
Viserys sighed. Lyonel was right, but it could not be helped. Concessions would have to be made, perhaps. But in the meantime…
“It may, Lord Strong, but I fear they will simply have to be displeased. Besides, my own late wife was an Arryn, and Arryn blood will sit the Iron Throne when Rhaenyra inherits. The Vale is more closely tied to the crown than any of the other kingdoms.”
Lyonel inclined his head. “As you say, Your Grace.”
“My lords, this is not the only reason I have gathered you here tonight. It has been over six moons since the Queen passed, and though I grieve her still, I must do my duty to the realm. I intend to remarry.”
Corlys shifted in his seat, suddenly much more interested in the conversation. To his right, he saw Otto perk up out of the corner of his eye. No doubt even now he thought he had won this game. Why else, after all, would Viserys have invited Alicent to this meeting?
“Have you chosen a bride, then, Your Grace?” Corlys asked.
“Indeed I have, my lord. I mean to accept your proposal of a betrothal to your daughter, the Lady Laena Velaryon. Of course, the wedding would have to wait a while – perhaps two years? But the Lady Laena may take this time to settle in at court, and invite some ladies of yours and Rhaenys’s choosing to keep her company in the meantime.”
Corlys smiled, struggling to contain his delight. “A long betrothal, then. I have no opposition to that, Your Grace.”
Otto’s face, by contrast, was stormy. Alicent was picking at her fingers, fresh blood running down her cuticles. No doubt she was thinking of how poor her prospects were, now that the king had chosen another. He spared a moment of pity for the poor girl. She would certainly not be happy with this – although he was quite certain she would not be truly harmed. He was not so cruel as that.
“But fear not, my lords,” Viserys said, leaning back. “We will not have to wait two years for the next royal wedding.”
The lords glanced at each other, failing to conceal their surprise and confusion. Behind Viserys, Daemon stiffened almost imperceptibly. Across the room, Rhaenyra set down her pitcher of wine with too much force, the thunk of it loud in the sudden silence of the room.
Viserys looked to Otto, then, and saw the dawning realisation on his face. Here was a man who was accustomed to winning, suffering the stinging embarrassment of a loss, for once in his life – and to a man he was entirely too used to winning over.
It was Lord Beesbury who broke the silence.
“Your Grace…? Do you mean the princess, or…”
“No, my lord, no. I have decided that my brother, Prince Daemon, shall wed the Lady Alicent Hightower.”