Chapter Text
“The ‘Heir for a day.’ Did you say it?”
As soon as he heard those words come out of his brother’s mouth, Daemon realised he was in trouble. Maybe bigger trouble than he had ever been in, at least when it came to their relationship.
The last couple of days had been a nightmare for many people, and of course, he wasn’t an exception.
While most of the lords were attending the tournament, the queen had started her labour, and everything went downhill from there.
Since Daemon wasn’t there when everything came to pass, he didn’t know all of the details. He was told later that, as Aemma was giving birth, something went tragically wrong, and Viserys had to choose whether to sacrifice his wife to save their child.
He chose to save the child.
Since Daemon didn’t have any children, he couldn’t fully understand what it must have meant to him. His union with his bronze bitch — lady Rhea Royce of Runestone — didn’t produce any child, mostly because he never bothered to consummate it. But, given how much Viserys loved Aemma, he was sure it was something he would never, ever be able to leave behind. And to make things even worse, her sacrifice ended up being useless.
The babe was a boy, named Baelon after their father. The son Viserys had always wanted. But, due to the complication of his birth, he died just a few hours later.
What happened ultimately benefited Daemon. The boy’s death meant his place as the heir was safe. This didn’t mean, however, that he couldn’t recognise the tragedy for what it was. He wasn’t quite so callous.
Two members of his family were gone in a single day. He had lost a nephew and his sister-in-law. Viserys had lost his son and his beloved wife. Rhaenyra had lost her mother and newborn brother, for whom she had gone through possible names and chosen a dragon egg. The kingdom had lost its future king, along with its queen. And never before their House’s situation had appeared so bleak and fragile.
While he obviously wasn’t quite as crushed as Viserys and Rhaenyra were, Daemon was sad for Aemma and the child. Even more so when, at the funeral, he saw his brother standing in front of the pyre like a dead man, and his niece crying quietly for the loss of her mother.
She was wondering whether her father had finally found happiness in the brief hours of her brother’s life, and she regretted the fact that she wasn’t a boy. She felt that she would never be enough for him.
This is what she told him during the funeral. And as she stepped forward to give Syrax the order to light up the pyre, dignified despite her pain, he thought about how tragic all of this was. How sad that circumstances made her feel that way, despite all the love Viserys had for her.
Did her father realise how she felt? Or how many of the people around him were desperate for his approval, and scared of being replaced? And would he really throw them aside, if the young prince lived?
They would never find out, because the child was dead.
This realisation had made him even more miserable. The fact that a part of him was relieved at the death of his nephew made him feel like the monster Otto Hightower insisted he was, and he hated the mere idea of proving him right.
He didn’t want to think about it anymore. So, as it often happened when he felt that way, he visited his favourite pleasure house, hoping for a distraction of any kind. He surrounded himself with some companions from the City Watch and other friends of his, and tried to act like nothing ever happened. However, the usual revelries didn't work as they should have, and despite the efforts of his whore, Mysaria, to cheer him up, his mood remained somewhat dark. So he stayed at his table, mostly drinking by himself. And it probably would have ended that way, if someone hadn’t asked him to make a toast.
And he did.
“To the king’s son. The Heir for a Day.”
Honestly, he didn’t remember why he decided to go through with it, or what his intent was. Did he mean it as a proper eulogy for his nephew? As a mockery toward the small council that itched to send him away? A bit of both? He wasn’t sure. His head was a mess, and while he wasn’t intoxicated yet, he had already drunk quite a bit by that point. However he meant it, it must have been perceived as mockery. Otherwise, he wouldn’t end up in his current predicament.
“The ‘Heir for a day.’ Did you say it?”
Viserys’ words kept echoing in his brain, as he looked down on him from the Iron Throne, like a judge would look at a criminal.
When his brother summoned him to the throne room, Daemon didn’t expect this. He never thought the news of his deplorable toast would reach him. Hells, when he realised Viserys was downright pissed, he didn’t even understand why until he explicitly told him! And when he realised what this was all about, he couldn’t help but wonder how the news could have reached his ear at all.
It was something he said in a moment of folly, in a pleasure house far below the king’s notice. Normally, he would have never found out. Unless…
Unless he was followed. Unless someone had a spy tail him, for the sole purpose of finding some dirt that would discredit him. And who was the one person who had been trying to push Viserys into chasing him away this whole time?
Otto Hightower, of course. He was behind this, for sure. Oh, he had been wise to stay away from the throne room while he was there! He would have ripped out that filthy, traitorous tongue with his bare hands!
But Otto wasn’t there, and he had to deal with his brother right now. He could deny his accusations, but surely that dickhead of a Hand had witnesses to corroborate them. Also, lying like that wasn’t in his character. All he could do was face them head-on, as he always did.
“We must all mourn in our own way, Your Grace.”
This didn’t placate Viserys at all.
“My family has just been destroyed…”
No, it hasn’t. As painful as the ordeal had been, he still had a family. He had a daughter. He had him. He always had them, and will always have them.
“…but instead of being by my side, or Rhaenyra’s, you chose to celebrate your own rise, laughing with your whores and your lickspittles!”
Viserys voice raised so much that it thundered inside the hall, and stabbed Daemon like a knife.
He had nothing to say in his defence on that point, so he kept quiet, as his brother kept raging, throwing weeks, months, years of disappointment in his face.
He told him he had no allies at court other than him.
He told him he had always defended him.
And how Daemon had thrown all his kindness back in his face.
Each word was a new stab, until his own anger started boiling.
Viserys said that he wanted him by his side. But if that was really what he wished for, he only had to ask.
He never did. Instead, he had listened to the constant rebukes of the opportunists he surrounded himself with.
“You only ever tried to send me away! To the Vale, to the City Watch, anywhere but by your side!” he interrupted him, his own frustration finally exploding. “Ten years you have been king, and not once have you asked me to be your Hand!”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because I’m your brother, and the blood of the dragon runs thick.”
Viserys visibly deflated, his face crumpled in pain, his voice mixed with barely contained tears.
“Then why do you cut me so deep?”
“I’ve only ever spoken the truth,” Daemon retorted. “I see Otto Hightower for what he is.”
“An unwavering and loyal Hand?”
“A cunt! A second son who stands to inherit nothing he doesn’t seize for himself!”
It was too late now to keep what he thought bottled up. He never made a mystery of his hatred toward the current Hand, but it was high time he spoke even more plainly. That he opened his brother’s eyes to what surrounded him.
If Otto Hightower — and his other advisers, for that matter — were not self-interested, why would he have him followed? Regardless of what Daemon said in that pleasure house, the fact that the Hand had him tailed meant that he was manipulating his king to obtain what he wanted. In this case, the objective was to remove Daemon from his brother’s side. But after that, what would he do? What else would he try to accomplish? Even if Viserys didn’t want him by his side, he had to at least open his eyes to what was actually happening.
But once again, he chose to remain blind.
“Otto Hightower is a more honourable man than you could ever be.”
“He doesn’t protect you. I would.”
“From what?”
“Yourself.”
Viserys fell silent, shock and rage alternating on his face. And Daemon saw it as the final chance to try to make him see reason. To make him understand.
“You’re weak, Viserys. And that council of leeches knows it, and will prey on you for their own ends.”
For a long time, his brother didn’t say anything. He just stared down at him, his face unreadable.
Daemon wondered if he finally got through. If something, anything of what he said managed to at least make him think about his position, and about who he could actually trust.
But then, he took a deep breath and, with the plainest, most impassioned tone he ever heard, stabbed him one more time with his words.
“I have decided to name a new heir.”
“I’m your heir.”
“Not anymore.”
Daemon felt as if the ground had suddenly crumbled under his feet. Like someone had kicked him off his dragon’s back, and now he was falling headfirst into a bottomless pit.
He couldn’t be serious. He just couldn’t.
“You are to return to Runestone and your lady wife at once, and you are to do so without quarrel. By order of your king.”
Was he really disinheriting him? And not only that, was he banishing him from court?
This had to be a bad joke. He couldn’t do it! He had no other heir. Daemon was the only viable one. The only other possible choice was Rhaenyra, but no one in the Seven Kingdoms would recognise a young girl as their future leader. Moreover, this was exactly what Otto Hightower wanted, a step toward who knows what other scheme.
What would that cunt do once Daemon was away? Manipulate Viserys into wedding Rhaenyra to him, then assassinate him and try to make himself king? End the Targaryen dynasty, and put a Hightower on the throne? He wouldn’t put it past him. He was definitely ambitious enough for it.
No, it was out of the question. His brother couldn’t send him away. He couldn’t put him aside like that.
He stepped forward, trying to get closer to the throne. He didn’t know what he would do once he reached it. He wanted to shake Viserys, force him to see reason. Force him to listen to him, at least this once. But before he could do anything, the Kingsguard got in his way, creating a wall between him and the king. Viserys himself clasped his sword tighter, as if he were preparing to defend himself from him. And Daemon stopped in his tracks.
His brother didn’t trust him. He thought he wanted to hurt him.
How did they reach that point? When did the rift between them grow so wide? Would there ever be a way to mend it?
He stepped back. There was nothing else he could say to make it right.
“Your Grace.”
With a bow of his head, he turned on his heels and left the throne room with long strides, Viserys’ gaze carving holes in the back of his head.
Daemon was sorrowful, angry, regretful and resentful, all at the same time. He was being chased away from what he considered his home, away from his family, and his own brother didn’t want to listen to him. And as furious as he was — as much as he wanted to rage and break something — there was a small voice in his head that stopped him.
Would things have gone differently, if he had done what Viserys said? If he stayed with his family and grieved with them, maybe Otto wouldn’t have found any dirt on him. If he comforted his brother, and offered his niece a shoulder to cry on, maybe, even if Otto tried something, Viserys wouldn’t have believed him.
He dismissed the voice. He didn’t want to consider whether he was at fault or not. It would make him feel worse, without changing anything.
What was done was done. He had to move on.
He had barely left the throne room, when he saw her on the other side of the corridor, and he stopped right there.
Rhaenyra.
She was moving in his general direction, as if she were sleepwalking. Maybe she was looking for her father. Maybe she didn’t have a clear destination and was just strolling around to avoid her own thoughts. And as she got closer, he could see the shadows under her eyes, and how pale she was.
When she spotted him, she halted abruptly, staring at him from a distance.
She didn’t approach him. She didn’t smile and greet him as she usually did. She was cautious, distant. And while he didn’t see any anger, he recognised something even worse in her expression.
Disappointment.
She knew about the “Heir for a Day,” didn’t she?
Of course she did. She was her father’s cupbearer. If that wretched Hand exposed him during a council meeting, she was surely present as well.
Had she decided what to think before she even talked to him, just like her father?
He didn’t want to know. Knowing it would mean putting himself in question again, and after his conversation with Viserys, he wasn’t willing to go through a similar one with her as well.
He couldn’t face another round of accusations. He couldn’t stand the disappointment of the one person who cared for him without asking anything in return.
Without saying anything, he walked away, toward the other end of the hallway, anger and hurt gnawing at his guts.
The king told him he should go away, and he would, just as requested. He would take Caraxes and leave without protest. However, he would not go to the Vale. Viserys had the authority to kick him out of his court, but he couldn’t decide where he would go and what he would do.
As far as he was concerned, that matter wasn’t over. If his brother didn’t want to listen to him, he would make him. One way or the other.
“What are you scheming this time? You have had that smirk on your face since this morning.”
Leaning on the wall of the Great Hall in Dragonstone, Mysaria sounded slightly exasperated. She had been like that for a while, since Daemon took her with him to claim the island and its castle.
By “claiming”, of course, it meant he and his men, a large group of loyal members of the City Watch, forcefully took over the place.
Daemon had always wanted to be the Prince of Dragonstone, a title usually reserved for the heir to the throne. However, even before being disinherited, Viserys had always refused to grant him the title, his reasoning being that, if he ended up having a son, the title and the island would have to be transferred to him anyway. A reasoning Daemon could get behind to an extent, even if it annoyed him. Mostly because, as years went by and the coveted male heir didn’t manifest, it looked more and more like a matter of time before the title was granted to him.
But now…
Daemon stirred on his chair, his legs lazily resting on the high table.
“I have sent a letter to my brother. I am waiting for a reaction at any moment.”
Mysaria crossed her arms.
“So you are expecting that this time he will act.”
“Absolutely.”
“Why are you so sure of it?”
“Because I have done something he will not be able to ignore.”
Even in front of Daemon’s certainty, Mysaria didn’t look convinced.
“You have left King’s Landing, taking with you half of the City Watch, and he did nothing.”
“Yes.”
“Then you took over this place illegally, and you have been holding it for more than six months. Yet he still did nothing.”
“True enough.”
“So what makes you think that whatever you have planned next will work?”
Daemon let his legs fall from the table, his grin growing wider. He stood from the chair and, as he approached the fireplace at the end of the Hall, he gestured for her to follow. Mysaria obeyed, and he led her to a small cauldron of cast iron that had been recently placed on the flames. He then cautiously removed the lid, showing an oval object boiling slowly in the water. It was slightly bigger than those leather balls children used to play in the streets, it’s surface black and scaly.
“An egg,” Mysaria said, squinting in the steam to examine it better.
“A dragon egg.”
When he saw her eyes widening in astonishment, Daemon couldn’t help but feel proud of himself.
Even for someone such as her, a whore whose dealings with his House were very limited, the significance of this couldn’t be lost.
A dragon was a symbol, but also a weapon. House Targaryen was very careful when marrying outside of their family for many reasons, and one of them was that their children had the potential to bond with a dragon. It was also why, when one of them married into another House, they were rarely granted dragon eggs.
It was the dragons that made them kings. If every other lord had access to them, it would all be meaningless.
This was why his brother would not be able to ignore his act. And to add to that, this specific egg also carried a deeper meaning.
“This is the egg that was meant to be placed in my unfortunate nephew’s cradle, as is the tradition of our House,” he explained. “The heir’s egg, picked personally by the princess herself.”
A flash of fear crossed Mysaria’s features, and she took a step back from the fireplace.
“The king will have our heads for this.”
Daemon shook his head.
“It’s not as if the egg has been taken by bandits and sold to the highest bidder. I am a member of the family, and I shall keep it safe for the time being. Besides, my brother hates conflict. I am sure he will try to deal with this as a family matter.”
As much as the Hand and his petty lickspittles at the council tried to manipulate him, Daemon believed the nature of his brother wouldn’t change. He would want to deal with him personally and, to do so, he would have to come see him. Sure, he had to use some drastic methods, and a rather provoking letter to rile him up and force him to act, but if he didn’t, he wouldn’t be able to drag him out of the Red Keep.
Once he was there, they would talk. Hopefully, everything would be settled.
“What makes you think it will change anything?” Mysaria said, hands on her hips. “If he only disinherited you, it would be one thing. But he went all the way to name a new heir. What if he is serious about this?”
Daemon gritted his teeth, trying to contain a surge of sadness and anger.
The news had come to him soon after he left King’s Landing. In a completely unexpected move that defied tradition, Viserys had named Rhaenyra as his official heir. Not only that, he proceeded to have the lords swear their allegiance to her.
It was as official as it could ever be: unless something changed, Rhaenyra would be the next queen.
Daemon wasn’t going to lie to himself about how he felt about it: he was furious. At his brother for taking that decision, of course, but there was also a small part of him who was annoyed at his niece as well. Not much for something she did specifically: he doubted she had any say in the matter. It was mostly for the fact that, willing or not, she had stolen something from him again.
First his brother’s attention, then the chance to become his heir.
The first few days after he received the news, he was in such a state that nobody dared to approach him, not even Mysaria. But then, as the dust settled and his anger quelled, he managed to reflect upon this with a cold mind and realised who was at the centre of this whole disaster.
Otto Hightower, of course.
Daemon didn’t believe that he truly supported Rhaenyra as a queen: he was as traditionalist as they come. He made it clear, however, that he didn’t want Daemon on the throne no matter what. He probably suggested that Rhaenyra be named heir just for that reason, and was planning to remove her as well, eventually.
What he would do next was hard to say. Of course, Otto could try to wed Rhaenyra and put himself on the throne, as Daemon considered back when Viserys exiled him. This would be the most direct move, especially now that she was the heir. However, there were probably other schemes he could try. Of one thing he was sure, though: none of them would be good for their House.
For this reason, no matter how furious he was with Viserys, he needed him to open his eyes. They needed to protect their legacy together and get rid of the self-interested crows that tried to feast on their open wounds.
As for how he would regain his position as heir, well… he was sure he could think about something, once that Hightower cunt was finally removed.
“I will worry about this when the time comes,” he said, dismissing Mysaria’s worries. “Right now, what I care for is—”
“Lord Commander! There is urgent news!”
Their conversation was interrupted when a flustered former member of the City Watch stormed into the Great Hall.
Daemon had given clear instructions not to be disturbed unless something serious had happened, and he was certain they would always obey his command. Therefore, his presence there must have meant that something important had, in fact, come to pass.
“What is it?”
“A ship has just arrived from King’s Landing, and a delegation from the crown is seeking an audience with you.”
Ah! He was sure his “invitation” would work! And it was about damn time, too!
“Is the king among them?”
The soldier shook his head.
“Apparently not, Lord Commander. The group is led by the king’s Hand.”
Daemon’s grin was quickly replaced by a deep frown.
Why didn’t Viserys come? And why, of all people, did he send that man?!
The soldier, noticing his increasing rage, took a cautious step back, in case the prince decided to take his anger out on him. Daemon, however, was already moving on from his disappointment.
He wouldn’t let the presence of that snake get to him. He wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of losing his temper.
“I will see to this myself. Leave,” he commanded.
The soldier was more than happy to oblige, and quickly disappeared outside the Great Hall.
Daemon waited for him to be gone, before he went back to the cauldron.
“It seems like your plan has failed,” Mysaria said. “What are you going to do now?”
He carefully pulled the egg out of the boiling water, the shell so hot that he could feel its warmth even through the leather of his gloves.
“I am going to give them exactly what they are looking for.”
As promised, Daemon, with the egg at hand, went to personally welcome the delegation. A small group of Gold Cloaks accompanied him, and Mysaria had chosen to tag along. Which, considering what he wrote in his letter to his brother, fitted his plans just right.
His unwanted guests were waiting for him on the bridge leading up to the fortress. Otto was at the lead, of course. Then there were a couple of members of the Kingsguard. One was Ser Harrold Westerling, the Lord Commander. A good man, very loyal to his duty and his king. The other was the young knight he jousted against before the Queen’s death. What was his name again? Ser… Crispen? Crespin?
They were escorted by a handful of soldiers and some Dragonkeepers, probably there to take care of the egg during the journey back.
As the two groups met in the middle of the bridge, Daemon, who was determined to behave like an intimidatingly gracious host, greeted them in the most polite way he could muster.
“Welcome to Dragonstone, Otto.”
The filthy serpent looked up at him, throwing away the stuffy, measured mask he wore in front of Viserys to show the smugness he reserved for anyone he considered below himself.
Without even answering to his greeting like any honourable man would, he started to bark his orders.
“Your occupation of this island is at an end.”
Considering the smugness in his tone, Otto was definitely enjoying himself. He sure liked flaunting someone else’s authority to feel powerful.
“You are to relinquish the dragon’s egg, disband your army, banish your whore…”
Also, he really enjoyed the sound of his own voice. But unfortunately for him, far from invoking respect, all of his bluster only made him appear more boring. It was funny how, as much as he despised the guy, Daemon couldn’t listen to him for ten seconds without feeling the urge to yawn in his face. Or taunting him, depending on the mood. But since he was such a gracious host, he would let him talk until he was over. He should be thankful he was so generous!
“…and leave Dragonstone by order of His Grace King Viserys—”
…Alright, he was already tired of this. Fuck being a good host! If he kept listening, he would fall asleep right where he stood. Or cut his head off.
He liked the second one better.
“Where is the king? I don’t see him.”
A crease of annoyance appeared on Otto’s forehead. He didn’t like being interrupted. Still, he soon replaced it with a wicked, self-satisfied smirk.
“His Grace would never lower himself to entertain such a mummer’s farce.”
Which meant that he persuaded him not to come, as Daemon had already guessed. And judging by the way Ser Harrold lowered his head, he had not missed his mark.
This was grim news. It meant Viserys was caught deeper in his spiderweb than he’d have thought.
Well, since his plan didn’t work as he predicted, he might as well have a little fun at the Hightower cunt’s expenses.
As if he barely heard what Otto was saying, he addressed the new White Cloak at his side.
“Ser Crispin, wasn’t it?”
“Ser Criston Cole, my prince,” the young knight answered politely.
“Ah, yes, apologies. I couldn’t recall.”
“Perhaps my prince remembers when I knocked him down his horse.”
He didn’t drop his composure for a second, and Daemon couldn’t help but laugh.
“Very good!”
He had to give it to him: the young man had bite. He wondered how much he could take, before he dropped that prissy, sanctimonious act. He was curious to see what would make him snap.
At the very least, Daemon got what he wanted. Otto was definitely annoyed at receiving no answer and, trying to get the prince’s attention back, he raised his voice.
“This is a truly pathetic show, Daemon. Are you so desperate for the king’s attention that you resorted to skulking about like a common cut purse?”
“I’m simply keeping with the traditions of my House, the same as my brother did for his heir.”
Daemon gave a light pat to the black egg. Otto followed his gesture with his eyes and sneered.
“Those traditions are for the trueborn children of royalty, not for bastards fathered on a common whore.”
Even without turning around, Daemon could feel Mysaria’s stare burning behind his neck.
Right. He forgot to tell her, didn’t he? In his letter to his brother, he might have accidentally let it slip that his mistress was pregnant (which was not true, as far as he was aware), and that he was planning to wed her (which also wasn’t true). And he might also have — by pure chance, of course — told him the egg was for his nonexistent child and invited him to his wedding.
...Well, he needed something that would royally piss off his brother, so he didn’t regret it, but he could concede that maybe he should have told her. To prepare her for the confrontation, at least. But Mysaria wasn’t clueless, so she wisely remained silent.
“Lady Mysaria is going to be my wife,” he persevered in playing the part of the lovestruck buffoon, enjoying every second as Otto’s face became even more twisted with indignation.
“This is an abomination. With every breath, you soil your name, your House and your brother’s reign.”
He then tried to address his men.
“And you, men of the City Watch, aiding the prince in his treason…”
Daemon cut him short.
“The king made me their Commander. They are loyal to me.”
Alright. He was starting to get tired of this. He had played around long enough.
“You’ve come for the egg. Here it is.”
He took a step forward and showed him the egg, making sure to keep it away from his grasp. At the same time, his free hand touched the hilt of Dark Sister, challenging the snake to come forward and take it his "prize."
Unfortunately, Otto wasn’t brave or stupid enough to indulge him. And he was also smart enough to realise that, whatever hope he had to take the egg back to King’s Landing without bloodshed, it was misdirected.
His face fell, his smirk disappeared.
“Are you mad? You would never survive this.”
“Well, luckily, neither would you,” Daemon quipped back.
“To choose violence here is to declare war against your king.”
Better war than bowing his head to this spider. He’d rather die than let him go back to take credit for a job well done. If Viserys wanted to avoid this conflict, he should have come to see him himself.
“Wonderful.”
“Even if it ends in the death of your unborn child and its mother?”
It all happened in an instant. Deamon unsheathed his sword. The following second, Ser Harrold and Ser Crustin did the same, followed by the soldiers and the Gold Cloaks.
Nobody attacked, but the tension was as thick as boiling pitch. One wrong move, and a battle would break out, right then and there.
On one thing, Otto was right. As it stood, the consequences of a strife would be dire. But Daemon had something his opponent hadn’t. And before long, it announced its presence with a high-pitched snarl.
Every bit of confidence immediately evaporated from the Hand and his group, as Caraxes made his way on the rocks right behind the bridge, his scales blood red in the setting sun, his teeth glistening threateningly as he inched protectively in the direction of his rider.
His dragon always had the best timing.
In shock and fear, the wretched Hand immediately commanded his goons to lower their weapons. All of them knew that, if a dragon entered the frame, there was very little to be done. It was a battle they couldn’t win.
It appeared that the confrontation was over before it even started. Otto would not be able to take the egg with him. If Viserys really wanted it back, he would have to—
Daemon’s thoughts were interrupted by something he didn’t expect. At first, the strong, powerful sound of wings slapping the air. Then, almost like an answer to Caraxes' snarl, a growl thundered over them.
Everyone turned to follow its direction, just as a massive form emerged from the fog. The flap of its wings barely missed them as the dragon flew above their heads, then glided to approach the bridge.
Daemon followed it with his gaze, taking its figure in, and recognising its scales of burnished gold.
It was Syrax. Rhaenyra’s dragon.
Caraxes roared almost in delight at seeing another dragon, while his rider watched his niece land her steed on the bridge, right behind Otto’s delegation.
Daemon had fallen silent, as if he were made of stone.
What was she doing there? Why did she come? Had she accompanied the others? Did Viserys know about this?
No, that couldn’t be the case. His brother would never have allowed her to go, and Otto and his group appeared just as surprised as he was. She must have come of her own accord.
There were many things he would have wanted an answer to. But then Rhaenyra’s gaze met his, and all of his questions simply died. She stared at him from the top of her dragon, windswept hair due to the long ride, and his only thought was that she looked like one of the warrior maidens he remembered from fragments of Valyrian fairytales. He felt a tingle under his skin, as if a bolt of thunder had just passed between them, and he found himself unable to avert his eyes.
It was hard to explain what his feeling were, but he was certain he wouldn’t have ever forgotten that scene.
Rhaenyra broke eye contact first, as she climbed down from her dragon and marched toward them in long, confident strides. As she passed in the middle of her father’s men, they crowded around her in concern, while Otto tried to dismiss her and order Ser Crossroad to take her back to safety. However, she heard none of it, and Daemon watched with a mixture of pride and amusement as she ignored them all.
“Take care not to startle Syrax, my lords. She’s rather protective of me.”
This was all she said, as she left the bumbling idiots behind to make her way toward him.
She didn’t look worried about the situation she was in, or what she was getting into. However, as she approached, he could easily tell by her clenched jaw and the fire in her eyes that she was downright furious. And Daemon instantly knew that it was time for a battle.
One he would gladly engage in.
“My father named me Princess of Dragonstone. This is my castle you are living in, uncle.”
She had addressed in High Valyrian. To keep their conversation as private as possible, maybe.
“Not until you come of age,” he replied in the same fashion.
Despite her attempts to appear unbothered, he noticed the way she clenched her hands in irritation. His dismissive tone must have gotten to her.
“You have angered your king.”
“I don’t see why. This is a day of celebration. I am to be wed.”
“You already have a wife.”
Yes, unfortunately he knew it. And the fact that everyone kept reminding him was starting to get on his nerves.
“Not one of my choosing,” he snapped.
If he had a say in the matter back then, he would have rather wed one of the pigs the dragonkeepers fed Caraxes.
Rhaenyra clicked her tongue sarcastically, dismissing his annoyance the same way she would dismiss the temper tantrum of a child.
“And this required you to steal my brother’s egg?”
“You shared your cradle with a dragon when you were born. I want the same for my child.”
It was merely the truth. This situation was a farce, a joke to taunt his brother. But it was something he cared about. If he really had a child, he would make sure to provide an egg for their cradle. Whether it was willingly given or stolen, it didn’t matter.
Rhaenyra rolled her eyes in disbelief.
“You are to have a child?”
He took a glance back at Mysaria.
“One day.”
During the whole conversation, most of the people around them were staring at them in confusion, trying to understand what they were saying. Mysaria, however, must have got a gist of it, because he could physically feel her exasperation even from there. He perceived a movement and, when he turned, he saw her walking away toward the castle.
She was angry, wasn’t she? He really should have told her about his plan.
Well, there was little he could do about it right now. He’d deal with her later.
When he turned back toward his niece, she was staring at him again. Evaluating. Deciding something, even though Daemon didn’t know what. And somehow, this irked him.
The anger he felt when he heard she was named heir in his place started burning again. Maybe it never really stopped: it simply remained concealed under the ashes.
Rhaenyra was dear to him. As young as she was, she had been a better company than most of the other people in his life. He had never wished any harm to fall upon her and, for what it was worth, he wanted her to be happy. But why did everything have to be about her?
His brother’s love and trust. His position as heir. Everything he had ever wanted had been handed to her, without her even having to ask. And now, she acted as if she had a right to judge him?
Maybe she felt the way his emotions were boiling up, because a veil of sadness descended upon her. One that reminded him of the way he felt when he realised his brother didn't trust him.
A mirror image.
“I’m right here, uncle,” she said, switching back to the Common Tongue so everyone could hear her. “The object of your ire. The reason why you were disinherited.”
She paused, taking a small, shallow breath.
“If you wish to be restored as heir, you’ll need to kill me. So do it, and be done with all this bother.”
She stared right into his eyes, waiting impassively for his reaction. And he felt like the world around them had ceased to exist, their battle of will the only thing that mattered.
If he wanted to, he could have easily killed her. His men wouldn’t have stopped him, and the Kingsguard would not be fast enough to reach him. Syrax would have tried to attack him, but, despite being large for her age, she was a young dragon with no battle experience. She had no chance against Caraxes. Nor did Otto and his goons.
If he didn’t want to give up the egg, she couldn’t force him. At the same time, however, he couldn’t force her to leave without hurting her; and if he did, not only would he lose her, he would most certainly also lose Viserys for good, and cause a war.
She had forced a stalemate, and he was the only one who could put an end to it, one way or the other. Giving up his pride and letting the whole matter be brushed off as a “family quarrel,” or clinging to it, and facing the consequences.
Seeing his lack of reaction, Rhaenyra swallowed, and her fingers dug into her palms. She wasn’t nearly as unaffected as she pretended to be.
She knew what she was walking into. She flew to Dragonstone knowing it was dangerous. And since he was sure she didn’t have a death wish, there was only one reason why she risked it.
She trusted that he cared for her and wouldn’t kill her.
She trusted him.
Something softened inside of him, and he felt a pull, as if he was being dragged toward her.
He didn’t want her to leave. Or better, he didn’t want her to leave without him. He wanted to take Caraxes and fly back to King’s Landing with her at his side.
But he couldn’t. His brother didn’t want him there. So there was only one thing he could do for her.
With one last sneer toward Otto Hightower — the lucky bastard — and his group, he threw the egg in Rhaenyra’s arms, and walked away without saying a word. His Gold Cloaks followed him, relieved that the situation hadn’t escalated, and he could hear the whispers of the delegation as they prepared to leave, but he forced himself not to look back.
He broke the stalemate by conceding defeat. He hated having to do this. But if the choice was between his pride and Rhaenyra, he knew what he would pick.
Every single time.
As he reached the castle's entrance, he finally turned back, just in time to see the delegation hurry toward their ship, and Syrax soaring into the sky, ready for the flight back home, with Rhaenyra safely on her back.
She was leaving. Who knew when he’d have a chance to see her again?
He told himself it wasn’t anything new. As pleasant as their time together was, he had always spent more time away from her than with her. She would be fine without him, and he’d soon find something that would keep him occupied.
But, as Syrax flew away, Caraxes let out a heartwrenching roar. As if begging her to stay.