Chapter Text
“You’ve only ever tried to send me away. To the Vale. To the City Watch. Anywhere but by your side!”
Viserys blinked, the incongruous nature of Daemon’s words briefly shocking him from his blind rage.
“Ten years you’ve been king, and yet not once have you asked me to be your Hand!” his little brother raved.
“And why would I do that?” Viserys spat.
“Because I’m your brother,” Daemon’s voice is suddenly calm, matter-of-fact. “And the blood of the dragon runs thick.”
Viserys feels his grip on Blackfyre tremble in tune with his conflicted heart. For a moment, his grief dims, although fire still rages in his veins, as if agreeing with the prince’s words.
“Then why do you cut me so deep?” the king demands, a plea underneath his growls.
“I’ve only ever spoken the truth. 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.”
The description jars Viserys again. A second son. Was Daemon not a second son himself?
“Otto Hightower is more honorable a man than you could ever be,” Viserys tries.
“He doesn’t protect you, I would!”
“From what?!”
“Yourself.”
The word echoes in the throne room.
“You’re weak, Viserys,” Daemon tells him, voice softer than he recalls it being for a long time. “And that council of leeches knows it. They all pray on you for their own ends.”
Viserys gazes intensely at the slim, silver-haired figure in front of him. Smooth-jawed but a man grown in the eyes of any bystander. But suddenly, he could only see the little boy who had once followed him wherever he went, lilac eyes wide and mischievous. Who’d climb into his bed when the storms came, insisting he was a warrior that would protect his elder brother, their father’s heir, but would press his small, trembling body against his side. Who’d, almost two decades later, rallied an army, in defiance of his cousin and the powerful navy of the Velaryons, to protect his brother’s claim to the Iron Throne.
Viserys had not thought he could feel more alone than he did when he watched his wife, whose death he had all but ordered, and son, whose little body he had not even the chance to hold, catch flame under Syrax’s breath. After all, what did he have left? A teenage daughter he barely knew. A brother who spent more time fighting and whoring than he did at his rightful place in his council.
But what could he expect, as the Rogue Prince pointed out, when these distances were of his own making?
So focused had he been on producing a son. So obsessed had he been with what he was sure was a prophetic dream. Viserys had lost sight of the family he already had.
And the blood of the dragon, indeed, runs thick.
Viserys let out a long, slow breath. Daemon watched, warily, as the king rose from the Iron Throne and sheathed the seldom-used Valyrian steel blade at his waist.
Step by step, he descended the dais, until brother stood before brother, matching lilac gazes unflinching in the dim light of the throne room. The tension so thick that the air itself seemed viscous and heavy, and none of his Kingsguard dared breathe. Only the crackling of the lit hearths throughout the room could be heard.
Finally, Viserys, the First of His Name, grasped the back of his brother’s neck and touched his forehead to his, eyes closed and shoulders slumped.
“No more, brother. No more,” Viserys rasped. “I…I am tired, and broken, brother.”
Daemon inhales in surprise. “Your Grace…”
“You were wrong, Daemon, but you are also right. How your words last night wounded me. How they crushed what little remained of my heart.” Viserys opens his eyes and sees the shame and regret that flashes over his brother’s expression for the smallest of seconds. Unnoticeable to any other, but enough for him, and Viserys allows forgiveness to heal a small part of his broken heart. “But you are right, brother, nothing is more important than our blood, and the House of the Dragon must stand as one.”
He raises his head and presses his lips over the prince’s brow. “So no more. No more tantrums and callousness. Swear it. And in return, I will promise no more neglect and distance, to both Rhaenyra and you. She needs you, brother. I need you.”
Daemon’s face was unreadable, but in his eyes, Viserys could see his brother’s love, devotion, and other emotions that Daemon himself likely could not identify.
In one, swift, graceful movement, the Rogue Prince knelt, head bowed so low the tips of his silver strands brush against the stone. “I swear, Your Grace.”
Viserys lifts his chin with gentle fingers. “Brother,” he corrects.
Daemon grasps his outreached hand, kissing the three-headed dragon carved into the signet ring that matched the one he wore on his own finger. “Brother.”
The Prince of the City approached his brother’s chambers the following morning, the king having requested his presence, to discuss matters both were too overcome to speak of the night before. Sers Arryk Cargyll and Willis Fell stood at guard at the doors, and Daemon stopped in front of them, posture relaxed but gaze wary. Neither Kingsguard had ever been particularly fond of him, both coming into service after his brother ascended the throne and never approving of his “roguish” ways.
However, they had been present in the throne room last night, and while their own eyes were equally suspicious, the two knights nodded to him and stepped aside, allowing him entry to the king’s chambers.
Viserys was awake, though not yet dressed, and fiddling with one of the figurines of his stupidly large model of Old Valyria. Daemon never understood his brother’s fascination with such ancient histories. As far as he was concerned, the past was the past. What use was there in dwelling in it.
The king gave him a small but tired smile, and gestured to the chair across from him. “Daemon,” he greeted.
“Brother,” Daemon replied as he took the offered seat and poured himself a generous cup of wine from the side table. Viserys poured himself the same.
They sat in silence for a while, sipping at their drinks, serious, but not uncomfortable, both adjusting to the newfound understanding between them and the slow mending of their frayed relationship.
Finally, Viserys spoke. “Do you truly wish to be Hand, brother?”
Daemon blinked. “Of course.”
“Why?” the king asked, no accusation or suspicion in his voice, only genuine curiosity.
“I told you, I would protect you from those fuckers on your Small Council.”
Viserys sighed. “Those ‘fuckers’, as you put it, are responsible for running the kingdom, Daemon.”
“Then they should run the kingdom, not you.”
“I am not so weak as you say,” Viserys frowned, a flicker of annoyance crossing over his face, “You would have people believing I was some young, useless house pup, eager to roll over and show my belly to whichever master offered a treat.”
“No,” Daemon conceded. “You are the dragon, after all. But you are overly concerned with pleasing everyone you can.”
“And why shouldn’t I be? Before he aged, our grandfather Jaehaerys was known as the Conciliator, and he has already been written into history as the greatest King this continent has known. Is it so wrong that I wish to continue his legacy of peace?”
“Our grandfather came to the throne on the heel of Maegor the Cruel’s reign. Peace and mercy was what this realm needed, at the time,” Daemon mused, taking a large pull from his cup, “But you forget, brother, that before and even during his time as the Conciliator, our grandfather did not tolerate any opposition to his rule, and never let anyone doubt his strength. The great dragon Vermithor was a common sight at the court of Jaehaerys the First. He always made sure his lords remembered who exactly was king.”
“And you’re saying I don’t?”
“You allow some members of the council to forget themselves.”
Viserys leaned back into his chair. “You mean Lord Hightower.”
Daemon only took another gulp of his wine in response.
“Why do you two despise each other so?”
“I told you, he is a cunt,” Daemon shrugged. At Viserys’ pointed look, the prince elaborated, “He enjoyed too much power as our grandfather’s last Hand, when the Old King was so old he could scarcely rise from bed. He had a taste of power and now overreaches himself, despite only being a second son.”
“You’re a second son, Daemon,” Viserys reminded him. “As was our father. You might be more empathetic.”
“We are dragons,” Daemon dismissed. “Such a trivial thing does not matter to us. Father never desired power or the throne, and was perfectly happy to serve and protect our uncle Aemon.”
“And you?” Viserys arched a brow. “Can you say the same?”
“I would protect you to the death, brother,” Daemon asserted.
“Of course you would. But can you truly say you have absolutely no desire to sit the Iron Throne?” his brother asked shrewdly.
Daemon admittedly could not.
Viserys correctly interpreted his silence. “But why? You do not have the patience for governing, Daemon. You know this.” There was truth to Viserys’s words, he knew. Daemon grew bored quickly, easily, and would rather spend a dozen hours flying through the skies or in the practice yards for every hour in the Small Council room. His desires were not motivated by a true wish to rule.
Rather, he wanted his brother’s to want him to rule. Or at least support the idea of it. A gesture from the sibling he had called up arms for, to not get shuffled to the sideline for grasping outsiders. A place in the family that had not hesitated to barter him off to a loveless marriage to a land he could not stand.
But he couldn’t tell Viserys that. At least, not just yet.
“So you say,” Daemon retorted, filling his cup again. “But you’ve never really given me the chance, have you?”
“I made you Master of Coin,” protested Viserys, “and Master of Law after that. Both positions bored you within months.”
“I wasn’t given any true authority in either role,” the prince insisted, “That fucker Otto Hightower questioned and undermined me at every turn, so why bother?”
“He objected to your lackadaisical manner,” the king explained.
“He hated that I have better breeding, skill, and wits than him,” Daemon scoffed, “And he couldn’t stand to lose his influence over you. What is an old fart compared to brothers, after all? He sought to distance us, and you let him.”
Viserys sighed. “And I have already said I would correct that, brother.”
“How?” Daemon challenged. “Will you finally kick that cunt out and make me your Hand?”
“No.”
Daemon scowled and stood, angrily gulping down the last of his wine before making to storm out of the king’s solar.
“Sit down, Daemon,” Viserys commanded in a way that made it clear it was an order.
Reluctantly, the prince obeyed, his body tense and eyes fiery.
“I have decided to temporarily step down from the throne.”
Daemon blinked, eyes wide and uncomprehending, muscles releasing from the shock. “What?”
The king scrubbed his face tiredly. “I need time, time to mourn my dear Aemma and my dead son properly. I do not wish to haggle with burdens of governing at this time.”
“So you need a reprieve, then take it,” Daemon told him, pouring another serving of wine, still not understanding what his brother was intending, “You wouldn’t be the first king to do so. Why must you step down from the throne for that? Can you even do that? Are you abdicating?”
“No, I am not abdicating. It would temporary, as I said.”
“Then what difference would it be from taking leave?”
“Because if I intended to simply take leave, as you say, it would be expected that the Hand and Small Council would govern in my stead, in my name.”
Daemon nodded, taking a sip from his cup.
Viserys caught his gaze and held it. “Instead, I want you to govern, as if you were king.”
Daemon choked, spluttering and wasting the fine Arbor Gold all over the floor. “What?!”
“You say you wish to be my Hand, and later succeed me on the Iron Throne. Let us test that shall we? Discover whether you truly wish to govern.”
Daemon gaped at his brother. “You…I don’t understand.”
“You would be Regent, act and rule in my stead, in my name, instead of the Council. You will not truly be king, mind you,” Viserys cautioned, eyes and voice hard, “I am still the King of the Seven Kingdoms, and will remain so until the gods see fit to take me. However, this would give you the authority over Otto and the other lords of the Council as you have so been desiring.”
Daemon gazed wide eyed at his brother, still in shock. “…Have you gone mad? What the fuck was in this wine?”
Viserys rolled his eyes. “Wine. I am not mad, Daemon. I thought on this all night, in fact. I…I am drained, brother. Never have I had my hopes soar so high only to drop so low. Grief has ravaged through my body and left it feeling a mere husk. I have not the patience nor the fortitude to deal with the politics of the Red Keep. The same night as the funeral, where I burned my wife and son, the council called an ‘emergency session’ and tried to press me on the issue of my succession.” Viserys’ face grew dark at the memory. “My Aemma and Baelon had not even been placed in their final resting place yet!”
“I told you, leeches, the lot of them,” the prince said.
Viserys ignored the comment, gazing at the cup in his hands. “I need quiet. I need to let alone, with the memory of my Aemma and my Baelon. I need time to properly mourn.” His eyes flicked up, purple meeting lilac and holding. “And I was serious, brother, in my promise to you last night. To bridge the distance that’s grown between us, and show you the trust I should have always shown you. This is the perfect opportunity to do so, while also giving you the chance to find your path, your calling. You’ve always been ambitious, Daemon, but is it really for the throne?”
The prince considered this silently, half of him still in disbelief, heart pounding beneath his breast at his brother’s gamble.
“Some on my Council fear you would be Maegor the Cruel come again. Let us test that, shall we?”
“They will not like this,” he said.
“I am King. They do not have to like it, and they cannot stop it. This is unprecedented, yes, but no king before me has had to deal with the death of both their beloved wife and son at the same time.”
“For how long?”
“I’m not sure,” Viserys admitted, “A few weeks, maybe more, no longer than two or three moon turns, though, I imagine.”
“You…you are certain?”
Viserys leaned in, holding his brother’s gaze and firmly grasping his shoulder. “I am.”
As the heavy doors creaked open, she noticed that the grand, stone room appeared hollow and gray, despite the sunlight streaming through the glass. Everything was gray, to Rhaenyra, since her mother’s death. She took slow, tired steps inside, her black dress trailing behind her, and gazed at the shadowed figure seated on the most powerful place in the realm.
“I thought we went over this, uncle,” Rhaenyra sighed, “The Iron Throne will never be yours if you are executed for treason first.” When Ser Erryk had hunted her down, breathless and sputtering, she wished she could say she had been surprised. Still, although she was upset and disappointed that her uncle would behave like this at such a time, it was a relief to talk to him at all. To let the High Valyrian roll off her tongue in a melody she only really ever sang to him, the elegant notes a warm contrast to the stinging redness in her eyes and the unceasing roiling in her stomach.
The prince leaned forward in his seat on the throne Aegon the Conqueror had forged over a century ago, in an attitude so familiar that the memory threatened to swamp her, of a time when she still had a mother’s love. Was it really only a days ago? “Ah, little dragon, but you see, this time, I have your father’s permission.”
Rhaenyra’s brow furrowed, her grief temporarily subsiding in her confusion. “To sit the Iron Throne? Why would he do such a thing?” She approached closer than she did last time, walking up the steps to stand just in front of his knees.
Her uncle reached up to gently stroke her cheek with the back of his hand, tracing the tear tracks she knew to be there. She closed her eyes, relishing the soft, affectionate touch. “Because, my niece, he is grieving, and he says he needs time and solitude to mourn your mother and brother properly.” Rhaenyra tried not to be too hurt that her father’s wish for solitude extended to her as well. At least it was proof that he did grieve her mother. He had lost children before, after all, but never had gone into isolation like this. Because he had had his queen, who had needed him.
But still, was she not his daughter? Did he not think she needed him as well? Could they not share in each other’s grief?
“That still does not explain why he would grant you permission to sit the King’s seat, uncle,” she murmured.
With his other hand, he gripped hers and gently tugged her onto his lap, draping her legs over his thighs and pressing her face into the curve of his neck. She breathed in his scent, a male musk mixed with clean soap and ash, and held back the urge to sob at how comforted she felt. Dragons do not cry, after all, he himself had told her long ago. Instead, she only buried herself closer into him, his body hard but warm, relishing in its protection.
“He gave me permission, my little dragon,” he whispered into her hair, lips at her hairline, “because he made me Regent in his stead.”
Rhaenyra immediately drew back, eyes wide with shock. “What?”
“It is as I said,” her uncle replied, switching to the Common Tongue. “Your father says he needs time to grieve, so he’s stepping away from the throne and has named me Regent.”
“…You are jesting.”
“I am not, zaldrītsos. It will be announced later today to the Small Council, and then tomorrow to the Seven Kingdoms.”
Rhaenyra gazed at her uncle, jaw practically hanging in the air in a most unprincess-like fashion. “What in the gods’ names did you say to my father to convince him to do this?”
“Actually, it was his idea,” Daemon mused, the oblique light of the late morning painting his chiseled cheekbones into sharp relief. “No one will be more surprised than I was, I assure you. I thought someone had drugged his wine.”
Somehow, she thought there would be plenty of people more surprised. “That’s…that’s incredible.”
“Aye,” he told her, falling back into their mother tongue, “it seems your father has finally remembered his brother.”
And yet, he ignores his own daughter, she thought bitterly.
Her uncle pressed at the furrow that developed over her brow with a gentle finger, and her features relaxed automatically. “Are you displeased, little dragon? Would you deny your favorite uncle your support?”
“Of course not,” she told him, “We are blood.” It was something both he and her father had impressed upon her since she was old enough to understand words. House Targaryen was only vulnerable when they fought each other. As long as it stood united, no one could beat a dragon. With time, and as his obsession for a son grew, Rhaenyra thought her father had begun to forget those early lessons. But she did not.
“Good,” Daemon said, dropping his hand to wrap around her waist again. “Never forget, Rhaenyra. We are the blood of the dragon. We are different than the rest of men. There is no one like else like us, since the Doom, and we must always stand as one.”
She nodded quietly.
“And?” she in time asks, still lounged comfortably in her uncle’s lap, “What exactly will you do, uncle, with the power of a King?”
A sharp grin suddenly stretched across his lips. “Remind everyone what it means to be ruled by the House of the Dragon.”
A symphony of clacks echo throughout the Small Council room as its members placed their Orbs of Counsel into their respective marble discs. Otto gently rested his own on the table, that small curl of satisfaction in his belly never failing to appear with the gesture. Here he was, a second son, of a noble and ancient house, but a second son nonetheless - now the second most powerful man in the Realm. In some ways, Otto thought when he was feeling his most arrogant, the most powerful. He did most of the true governing, after all, in the kingdom. He had outlasted the Old King. He had molded Viserys into the king he is today.
And today, he will prove his power once again, asserting his influence over the kings of the future.
Daemon, the damnable upstart, the plague of Otto’s existence since he came into office, would be disinherited and exiled. Rhaenyra, a girl, would be named heir. But it would not signify. Alicent had already reported to him that her visit to the King had gone well, that she had been well received and believed she would be so again. His daughter would be the next Queen, and she would birth a son, the true heir. The next King of the Seven Kingdoms would be of Hightower blood. His blood.
If only his dead father could see him now. The second son, inconsequential and barely worthy of any notice at all, soon to be grandfather for the next King of the Seven Kingdoms.
The Hand of the King glanced about the room as they waited for their king’s arrival. Lord Strong appeared as serious and quiet as ever, but Otto knew that behind the Master of Law’s stoic façade was an intelligent mind and sound reasoning. The Grand Maester was hunched in his seat in his usual manner, eyes dully looking out the window, seemingly no worse for wear after failing to keep both the Queen and the baby prince alive. Lord Beesbury was nervously playing with the gold chain draped across his shoulders, his purse-pinching ways as Master of Coin never extending to the man himself.
And finally, across from the King’s own seat was Lord Corlys Velaryon, tapping his fingers impatiently against the wood of the table. His purple eyes caught Otto’s gaze, and the Sea Snake frowned, flicking his eyes away with a scoff. Otto never understood why the Master of Ships disdained him so, or why he seemed generally supportive of Prince Daemon, who had once called up arms against the Driftmark King’s own navy, the one he had amassed to support his wife and son’s claim to the Iron Throne during the Great Council ten years ago. So far, though, Lord Velaryon had not posed a strong obstacle against Otto’s own plans.
The doors to the chamber at last flung open, revealing the King of the Seven Kingdoms, and the Small Council stood to greet him, save Lord Velaryon. On his right was the Princess Rhaenyra, young and beautiful. To everyone’s surprise, on his left, was the Prince Daemon.
The three remaining members of House Targaryen entered the Small Council room as one. They were draped in black, with only the slightest red accents, appropriate for their mourning state, but still the colors of their House, dark and bold and striking as ever against their shining silver hair. They cut a powerful image, reminiscent of the three heads of the dragon that snarled across the banners that decorated the very walls of that room.
Otto felt the bravado that had been growing since he had told the King of his brother’s careless words in the brothel rush out of him like a gush of air. How ceaselessly frustrating it was, to be reminded how small it felt to stand in the presence of dragons. It was enough to make any proud man bitter.
He consoled himself, though. Although Daemon’s presence was surprising, Otto presumed he was only here to hear of his disinheritance from the King’s own lips. He was sure that the infuriatingly smug smirk on the prince’s lips was from ignorance, having no idea was what in store for him. He ignored the doubt that threatened to creep into his thoughts (the king was to have confronted the Rogue Prince last night…).
Viserys and Daemon took their places at the table, setting down their orbs. The Princess, instead of making her way to the side table to begin performing her duties as the King’s cupbearer, stood resolutely between her father and uncle, hands tucked behind her. There was no hiding the dark circles under her eyes, or the King’s, but her gaze was strong and steady.
For a long moment, no one spoke. The chime of the city’s bells followed the gentle breeze that drifted through the open balcony, uncaring of the heavy tension that weighed on the group gathered.
“Your Grace,” Otto at last began, “perhaps first we should discuss—“
Viserys held up his hand, effectively cutting off and silencing him. Otto tried desperately to ignore the way Daemon’s smirk grew across the table.
“My lords,” the King finally said, “You find yourselves with a King more torn with grief than any that have come before him. Not since the Conqueror’s time was a such a beloved queen lost in such a tragic manner. Worse still, since at least my ancestor Aegon had the luxury of a target for his rage and vengeance. Alas I have none to blame but myself.”
“And we comfort for your loss, Your Grace,” Otto told him gravely. “If I may say, I know the feeling well.”
Daemon rolled his eyes.
“Thank you, Otto. But to solicit your well-meant condolences was not my intention today. My beloved wife and son’s ashes will be laid to rest in Dragonstone today, but the loss of them has not been laid to rest in my heart. And so, I find that I am not fit to govern, at present. Grief fogs my wisdom, and heartbreak swallows my patience. I need a true period of mourning – space and solitude to reflect, and remember.”
Otto bowed his head. “Understandably, Your Grace. You must take a much-deserved reprieve. Your loyal Council will continue to serve and protect your kingdom, and will await your return anxiously.”
“Yes, I do intend to take a break. And I know I can trust every man on this Council with my people. Every man. And thus, I, Viserys Targaryen, First of His Name, hereby do name my brother, Prince Daemon Targaryen, Regent in my stead.”
There was a collective gasp around on the room, and Otto felt the floor drop from his feet.
“Your Grace!”
“Your Grace, you cannot be serious—"
“Your Grace, there is no precedent for such a measure—”
Viserys once more held up a hand to silence the room. “I am most certainly serious, Lord Beesbury, and I am aware of the lack of precedent, Lord Strong. However, that does not mean precedent cannot be set, or changed, as my grandfather and grandmother did countless times during their reign.”
The Grand Maester only continued to stare dumbly and slack-jawed at his sovereign, while Lord Velaryon simply watched the chaos with amusement. Princess Rhaenyra remained silent and stone-faced, and wholly unsurprised, the glint from the ruby at the center of her pendant twinkling merrily at them.
Daemon, the bastard, only smirked harder.
“Your Grace,” Otto finally said, fighting to keep his voice the usual measured and calm, “Surely there is no call for this. I am fully supportive of giving His Grace the time and solitude needed to get over this grievous tragedy, but there is no reason for a Regent. You are a healthy man in his prime.”
Viserys huffed a laugh, “Am I? Well, I thank you for such a compliment, Otto. That does not change my decision, however.”
“Even if you are insistent on appointing a Regent, Your Grace,” he tried again, “To select Prince Daemon, of all the people on this Council? I cannot allow it.”
Any prior good humor quickly fled Viserys’s face. He pressed his palms to the table and slowly stood from his seat, purple eyes glinting dangerously. “‘Allow’, did you say? Correct me if I err, but it is not the job of any man on this Council,” he growled lowly, “to ‘allow’ me to do anything. Not even yours, Lord Hand. I am the King of the Seven Kingdoms. This Council exists to advise and assist me, not the other way around.”
“Your Grace, please forgive my poor choice of words,” Otto bowed, “I only meant…Do you truly believe Prince Daemon to be the wisest choice? I thought we agreed…” he trailed off, eyes flicking to the smug prince.
“Agreed on what?” Viserys prompted impatiently.
“Your Grace…”
“Go on, Otto, spit it out,” Prince Daemon waved his hand.
Otto frowned, his rage growing. “I thought we agreed that the Prince Daemon was no longer to be your heir. That you would name the Princess Rhaenyra as your new heir.”
That finally provoked a reaction out of both Daemon and Rhaenyra. The prince’s eyes widened, his smirk dropping from his face, while the princess’s mouth fell open. Both threw disbelieving glances at the King, who only stared at Otto coldly.
“I do not recall ever officially making that decision. In fact, I recall telling you I would speak to my brother first, and ascertain the veracity of your claims against him.”
“And?” Otto challenged, “Did my Prince deny them? Such heinous words on such a tragic day.”
“Spying on me, Otto? I’m flattered,” Daemon sneered. The princess watched the interaction, the confusion on her face deepening.
“It is my duty to protect the King from any threat to his rule, whispered or otherwise,” Otto sniffed.
“You think you need to protect him from me? His own brother? You dare think you have the right to interject yourself into our family? Pit dragon against dragon? I suppose you do. In fact, that’s exactly what you want, isn’t it?”
“Of course not, but yes I do think it necessary to protect the King from your ego and ambition.”
“Are the palace servants slacking in their duties? Do you need your looking glass cleaned so badly, Lord Hand?”
The color rose in Otto’s face, and he stood sharply, sending his chair skittering across the stone floor. “How dare you insinuate—”
“Enough!” Viserys shouted, banging his fist into the table, causing Princess Rhaenyra by his side to flinch slightly at the outburst. “That is enough,” he said more measuredly. “You two will need to learn to cooperate with each other, because while Daemon is to be Regent, I have stipulated that he is not to make any changes to the Small Council without my approval. You two are stuck with each other.”
Daemon and Otto fell silent, but continued to glare hostilely at each other, the tension between the two practically visible and burning. The prince eventually leaned back into his seat, hand going instinctively to the pommel of that damnable Dark Sister. Otto felt himself practically trembling, the prospect of having to share power over this Kingdom with him making him nearly blind with rage. Of all the – Viserys didn’t need a regent! He had him! The Hand of the King! What good was this useless fucking pin on his chest if not for this?!
Calling on every ounce of control he had built over the last decade as Hand, he took a calming breath and seated himself again. “Your Grace,” he tried for a final time, “do you truly think it wise to name a man whose very role on this Council and as your heir been questioned time and time again?”
”By you, Lord Hightower,” Princess Rhaenyra spoke for the first time, drawing the eyes and attention of everyone present.
“…pardon me, Princess?”
“My uncle’s position as my father’s heir has been questioned time and time again by you.”
“By this Council, Princess,” Otto corrected through gritted teeth.
“Not from what I’ve observed.”
“Princess, if you’ll forgive me, you are in no position to understand these sorts of matters.”
Rhaenyra arched a cool brow at him. “Am I not? I have been pouring this Council’s cups for nigh eight years now. I have attended more Council meetings than almost any of its current members, and nearly as many as you, Lord Hand. And while I might not have a cock between my legs, I do in fact have two perfectly functioning ears on my head.”
Daemon barked a laugh at his niece’s words, while Lord Corlys coughed his amusement into his fist. Her father gazed at her appraisingly, impressed despite his tendency to see her only as his little girl. The rest of the room, however, could only gaze at their princess in shock.
“It has always been you bringing up complaints of my uncle,” she continued, “Always you are the first to point out any perceived mistake or fault. While other members of this Council may like or dislike the Prince in varying degrees, no one else has questioned his position as heir, except perhaps Grand Maester Mellos. In the eyes of the realm, the matter of succession was decided ten years ago at the Great Council of the year 101, when the male heir was chosen over an elder female one. How exactly did my uncle slight you, Lord Hightower, for you to despise him so much that you would rather sow the seeds of discord and put the realm to war than let my uncle keep his position as a possible future king?”
Otto gaped at her. Wont to see her as his king did, Rhaenyra rarely played a factor in his mind. She was always quiet when pouring their wine, and Alicent only reported her preference to flying dragons over applying herself to her studies. To Otto, Princess Rhaenyra was merely a spoiled but dull princess, to be of most use in several years once she was of age and wed. It appeared he underestimated her.
He wondered if he had also underestimated his own daughter’s attachment to her.
Lord Corlys finally spoke for the first time since the Targaryen’s entrance. “The Princess is right. The precedent was set for all the realm to see when my own wife and son were passed over – the Great Council believed the Iron Throne should only pass through the male line. Fuss over it now or later, it does not change the current state of things – Prince Daemon is the presumed heir.”
“I thank you again for the support, Lord Corlys,” Daemon said, leaning back in his seat with satisfaction.
“Less support of you and more offense on behalf of my wife, Prince Daemon,” Corlys told him.
“I take no offense myself, my lord. If I had a wife I actually enjoyed fucking I’d side with her as well,” Daemon remarked mildly, smirking at the groan of disapproval from Lord Beesbury. For his part, Corlys could not stop his lips from twitching in amusement.
“Daemon,” Viserys chastised quietly, eyes flicking to Rhaenyra. Daemon’s grin widened, catching the princess’s eye, who only rolled her eyes, though her father couldn’t see.
“In any case,” Corlys continued, “I, for one, will be intrigued to see how our prince takes to governing. Look at it this way, my lords, if he fails you will only have more fuel for your whinging.”
Against the feeble protests of Beesbury and the Grand Maester, Otto opened his mouth to argue again, but was silenced once more by the King. “No more, Otto. My decision is made and final. I will make the announcement to the Lords paramount and vassals that remain in King’s Landing tonight, and tomorrow, Maestor Mellos, you are to send ravens across the Realm announcing the same. This will be done, by order of your King.” Viserys’ gaze bore into the Maester, who bowed his head in obeisance.
“Your Grace, please, at least let us discuss the matter further,” Otto tried one final time, “For everything I have done for you, grant me this favor. Has my counsel ever before led you astray?”
That, for some reason, made Viserys stiffen rather than soften, and suddenly he found himself at the end of a glare so strong, it rendered the thought that drifted through his head almost quaint - that here was the last rider of Balerion, the Black Dread.
“That remains to be seen, Lord Hightower,” Viserys muttered lowly, sending a shiver down Otto’s spine. And without another word, the King marched out of the council room, his daughter trailing behind him. Seconds later, Daemon stood from his place at the table, stalking slowly around its head until he was standing just before him.
A predatory glint lit those lilac eyes, and Otto felt equal parts of dread and rage fill his belly.
“I do so look forward to working with you, Lord Hand,” the Targaryen prince said with a smile, “See you all at first light on the morrow.” With that, he exited as well, his cloak of gold fluttering in his wake, leaving Otto to stew in his fury.