The first light of dawn spilled across the training yard, washing the packed earth in pale gold.
Baelon was already there, his boots whispering over the damp stone as he moved through the footwork he had practiced for years, his uncle’s words still in his mind.
Left.
Right.
Pivot.
Step back.
Recover.
The movements came easily now.
Months of relentless repetition had carved them into muscle memory, yet he continued to practice until they became instinct.
His fingers shifted around the hilt of the blunted practice sword.
The leather wrapping had loosened again.
Without breaking his rhythm, he tightened it with his thumb before flowing into the next movement.
At the edge of the yard, Ser Steffon Darklyn watched in silence.
These days, Ser Steffon rarely interrupted.
He corrected only when necessary, preferring to let mistakes reveal themselves.
Patience was his lesson; repetition was his method.
Baelon rolled the practice sword in his palm, tightening the loose leather once more.
His uncle was late.
He did not arrive till now.
The main doors of the Red Keep swung open.
Daemon staggered inside, reeking of wine.
Two Kingsguard stepped forward, their faces unreadable beneath their helms.
One of them spoke quietly beside him.
“The King demands an audience, my prince.”
Daemon shrugged off the hand on his shoulder with a snarl that lacked its usual bite.
“Take your fucking hands off me.” They took him anyway—gently, but firmly Held between the two white cloaks, Daemon’s boots scuffed against the stone as though his body had become a weight he no longer cared to carry.
His dark armor was dusted with travel and something darker—ash, perhaps, or soot from a fire left burning too long.
One pauldron hung slightly askew, as though he had dressed in haste, or not at all.
His silver-gold hair hung loose past his shoulders in tangled waves.
His violet eyes were bloodshot, dull with exhaustion.
The great doors of the Throne Room groaned open on silent hinges as Daemon was escorted inside by the Kingsguard, who moved more like men carrying a corpse than accompanying a prince.
They stopped before the Iron Throne, released him—not roughly, but with unmistakable finality—and stepped back.
For a heartbeat, there was only silence.
Then a side door opened.
Viserys entered, his face drawn, deep lines of exhaustion etched beneath his eyes.
“My daughter.” Daemon shifted his weight, a low groan escaping his throat—his body protesting.
“Won’t you even deny it?”
Daemon gave a dry, humorless laugh.
“You defiled her.” Silence stretched between them, taut enough to snap.
“Still,” Viserys said at last, his voice quiet, dangerously calm.
“You say nothing.”
Daemon finally met his brother’s gaze without flinching.
“Oh, what does it matter, brother?
When we were Rhaenyra’s age, we fucked our way through half the brothels on the Street of Silk.
We were young men.”
“She is just a girl,” Viserys replied, his voice tight with anger.
“Your niece!” Viserys’s composure cracked, raw pain breaking through.
“Rhaenyra’s a woman grown.
Better her first experience be with me than with some whore.” The words struck Viserys like a blow.
“You have ruined her.” His voice fell lower, colder than any shout.
“What lord will wed her now?
In this condition?”
“Who gives a fuck what some lord thinks?” Daemon shot back.
“You are the dragon.
Your word is truth.
Your word is law.” A heavy silence settled between them.
“I have spent a lifetime defending you,” Viserys said at last, never taking his eyes off his brother.
“But your heart is even blacker than I imagined.” Daemon answered without hesitation, as though the wine had dulled only his restraint, not his mind.
“When I offered you my crown, you told me I could ask for anything.” He let the words linger.
“I want Rhaenyra.
I’ll take her as she is and wed her in the tradition of our house.”
“You are already wed.”
“That didn’t stop Aegon the Conqueror from taking a second wife.” Viserys regarded him for a long moment, his expression unreadable.
“You are no conqueror.” The words landed with quiet finality.
“You are a plague sent to destroy me.”
“Give me Rhaenyra as my wife,” Daemon said, “and together we will restore the House of the Dragon to its proper glory.” “Of course.” Viserys almost laughed—a short, broken sound utterly devoid of humor.
“It isn’t my daughter you desire.” His eyes hardened.
“It’s a place beside the throne, a say in anything and everything.”
Daemon’s jaw tightened.
“You have no ally at court but me, I have defended you all my life,” Viserys replied, his voice scraped raw by exhaustion and betrayal.
“Everything I have given you, you’ve thrown back in my face.”
“You’ve only ever sent me away.” For the first time, Daemon’s voice lost its swagger.
“To the Vale.
To the City Watch.
Anywhere but beside you.” His eyes met Viserys’s.
“Ten years you’ve sat the Iron Throne.
“Why would I?”
“Because I’m your brother.” For a fleeting moment, something almost desperate flickered across Daemon’s face.
“And the blood of the dragon runs thick.” Silence descended once more.
Heavy and suffocating.
“Then why,” Viserys asked quietly, “do you cut me so deeply?” Daemon offered no answer.
Neither of them spoke.
At last, Viserys turned away.
“Go back to the Vale, Daemon.” His voice was tired now.
“Return to your lawful wife.
Try to salvage whatever scrap of honor remains to you.” He paused, his back still turned.
“Or don’t.
It matters little to me.”
Another silence.
Then, without looking back, he spoke one final time.
“So long as you are gone from my sight…”
“…for good.”
Viserys turned and walked toward the great doors.
The Kingsguard pulled them open.
Without another word, he passed through.
The doors swung shut behind him.
The sound was neither loud nor dramatic.
Just the slow, heavy groan of ancient oak settling back into place.
Silence reclaimed the Throne Room.
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