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CaveLeather Viserys’s smile stiffened for a moment.
In his original design the slow support of the Stepstones campaign had been meant to bleed both Daemon and Corlys as thoroughly as possible, then draw the two of them back into the royal fold together.
The present result left him less than satisfied—yet one returning brother was still better than none.
He stepped forward, Blackfyre in one hand, and accepted the vine crown with the other.
After a brief glance he passed it to Ser Harrold Westerling.
“Welcome home, brother.” He laid a hand on Daemon’s shoulder, smiling.
“I am home, brother.” Daemon leaned into the embrace without hesitation, like a child returned after long wandering.
Under the applause of the assembled lords the blood of Prince Baelon the Brave was publicly reconciled.
The king had given his signal: even a private war against the Triarchy would not be allowed to become a public scandal.
Daemon understood the message perfectly.
Otherwise he would never have dared circle the capital in open arrogance and still walk away unpunished.
“Daemon, let me present your nephew—Baelor.” Viserys drew the boy forward with open pride.
“Congratulations, nephew.
You have finally shed the title of the god-cursed prince.” Whether the words were sincere Baelor could not tell.
From the first moment Daemon’s gaze had lingered on the dark circles beneath his eyes—the marks of the dreamer.
A thin, exhausted boy still haunted by nightmares.
In Daemon’s private judgment such an heir was more burden than blessing, a living weight that only prolonged the house’s suffering.
Baelor met the contempt with quiet amusement.
It seemed he had overestimated the uncle who had once called him “the heir for a day.” Rhaenyra stepped in with an unrestrained hug.
“Uncle, congratulations on your victory and your return to the family!” Daemon returned the embrace, smiling.
“I still remember our promise.
Once the Stepstones were taken we would fly together from King’s Landing to Dragonstone.
You have not forgotten?” His eyes flicked past her to Baelor once more—measuring, dismissing.
… Viserys led his brother by the hand into the victory feast prepared in his honor.
Queen Alicent had arranged every detail with flawless care; neither age nor competence could be faulted.
The king was so moved he publicly declared her “a queen worthy of the Seven Kingdoms.” Alicent smiled and took his arm.
“You are occupied with the realm’s business day and night.
Sharing the lesser burdens is simply my duty.” Viserys covered her slender hand with his own.
“You have worked hard, my queen.” “It is no more than I should do.” Across the hall Rhaenyra watched the tender exchange with a smile that never reached her eyes.
Her expression had grown almost as dark as black steel.
“Sister,” Baelor murmured from the chair beside her, “your fingers are digging into my shoulder.” Rhaenyra started, then softened her grip and rubbed the spot apologetically.
“Forgive me.
I nearly forgot you were here.” “Destroying your own standing at court for her sake is a poor trade,” he said quietly.
He looked away.
At the high table Viserys still had an arm around Daemon, laughing over the disreputable adventures of their youth.
Daemon answered with the proper smiles, yet his gaze kept drifting, quietly cataloguing every face in the room.
The formal toasts began.
Lords and councillors came forward one after another to honor the victor.
Rhaenyra joined them without hesitation; since childhood she had admired her uncle’s wild tales of the realm.
Viserys raised a hand and called Baelor forward.
“My firstborn spent years in Oldtown because of his frail health.
By the grace of the Seven, during the recent royal hunt the white hart itself blessed him and restored his strength.” Daemon’s expression tightened for a single heartbeat, then smoothed.
“Brother, even Aegon the Conqueror never met such fortune.
My nephew is clearly favored.” “I would not have believed the tale myself had the archmaesters not examined him.
Yet he has done it.
Perhaps the gods have chosen him for our house.” A ripple of shock passed through the listening lords.
In a realm that still knelt to the Seven, even the highest septon claimed only to be a servant of the faith.
The king had just named his son a child marked by the gods.
The implication needed no further explanation.
Daemon rested a hand on Baelor’s head.
“May you remain as healthy as you are today, nephew.
And may the gods grant you still greater fortunes, just as my brother hopes.” Rhaenyra, blind to the undercurrents, clapped with open delight and whispered her own blessing beside Baelor’s ear.
A short distance away Alicent’s gentle smile froze.
Her nails dug unconsciously into the soft flesh of her thumb.
She had believed that keeping Baelor sealed in Oldtown—under the combined power of House Hightower and the Starry Sept—would slowly waste the frail firstborn under the pious cloak of atonement.
Once the boy was gone, the lords she had already cultivated would press the king to name one of her sons heir.
Even if Viserys resisted, the succession would finally settle on Aegon.
One blessing from a white hart had shattered years of careful work.
Given the king’s partiality, a single favorable moment would be enough for him to name Baelor Prince of Dragonstone in open court.
Have all the years of Hightower plotting come to nothing?
Blood welled beneath her nails.
To hide the slip she found an excuse and left the feast for a moment of air.
Across the hall Larys Strong, who had been listening to a cluster of ladies recount the Stepstones campaign, noticed the queen’s abrupt departure and the brief flash of panic she had failed to conceal.
His mind sharpened at once.
Something worth watching had just occurred.
He rose, offered polite farewells, and followed at an unhurried pace.
CaveLeather