Chapter Text
When Alicent Hightower strode into the box in green, Daemon’s first thought had been to take the dagger from his boot and throw it, sink it into her heart and see if she bled green too. He had held back, and he was glad of it, for he doubted his brother would have rewarded such an action with announcement of his union with Rhaenyra—though it would be warranted for killing a traitor.
Instead, he found himself newly betrothed—even though he and Rhaenyra were already wed—and on his way to the throne room, where his brother had called for his council to assemble.
On his way out of the tourney grounds, Daemon grabbed a passing squire he recognized as trustworthy enough—the Massey boy, Egg’s sparring partner. “Find my son and Ser Harwin. Tell them to come to the Red Keep, immediately.” He had no need to grab Ser Steffon, as the man fell into step with him as soon as he passed him.
Inside the throne room, Daemon found the small council, Corlys and Rhaenys, and the Hightowers crowded around the throne, where Viserys sat. Rhaenyra stood at her father’s right. Their eyes met as he strode forward. They had had no chance to speak since the king announced their betrothal, but the looks they had shared said enough—they sent heat curling through him, lust and victory both, even as they gathered here with these nascent Greens.
Daemon bowed his head to the king and then to Rhaenyra. “Your Grace,” he said. “My princess.”
“Daemon,” Viserys said. “Now we shall begin.”
Daemon stepped back. Viserys would have to be a fool not to see the two factions that had formed—the Velaryons, Lord Beesbury, and Ser Tyland literally on Rhaenyra’s side; Otto, Mellos, Lord Hightower, and the queen on the other. Daemon had long thought his brother a fool. But perhaps not today.
“And what shall we speak of, husband?” Alicent asked. “Your declaration? Are congratulations in order?” Her gaze went to Rhaenyra.
“My thanks, your Grace,” Rhaenyra said, her voice cold. “I am quite pleased with the match.”
“We are not here to speak of Rhaenyra’s marriage,” Viserys snapped. “We are here to speak of treason.”
Even Daemon was surprised at that.
“Treason?” Hobart Hightower sounded affronted. “And who do you accuse of such, your Grace?”
“Tell me, Alicent,” Viserys said, ignoring him, “what meaning the color green holds for you?”
Green. Daemon's eyes flicked to Rhaenyra, who looked back at him. Why had the color so alarmed Viserys? It must have been in the dreams Alys had conjured. What did Viserys know?
The queen met Viserys’ gaze, only the hint of a quaver to her chin. “I do not take your meaning, husband.”
“Do you not? Green is a peculiar color for you to wear. It has never been favored by you, and it is not a color of my house, nor yours.”
“Your Grace, do you mean to say you have called us here to discuss the queen’s gown?” Grand Maester Mellos asked. Corlys too looked confused at Viserys' question, though Rhaenys, Daemon noted, did not. “Her Grace dons the most handsome of clothing, of course, but I must ask why—”
“Must you?” Rhaenys cut in, her tongue as sharp as Dark Sister. Daemon did nothing to hide his smirk.
“Ser Tyland, we were just discussing signal fires,” Viserys said. “Will you tell the Grand Maester the significance of the color green?”
Tyland shot a sidelong glance to the queen as he answered. “When the Hightowers call their banners to war, the beacon atop the Hightower glows green.”
Otto spoke next. “Your Grace—”
Viserys ignored him. “What meaning should I take from this, Alicent? Your arrival, so late, so pointed, to the tourney to celebrate the nameday of my chosen heir, wearing a call to arms? What might declaring war on the heir to the Iron Throne be, if not treason?”
Alicent looked from her father to her uncle and then back to the king. “I—” she began, but before she could say more, the clank of armor and clomp of boots sounded from the door.
“Daemon!” Harwin’s voice was pained and too loud, and he hurried forward without bowing to the king until he’d nearly reached Daemon’s side. He was bloodied—his lip split and a jagged cut down his right arm, doublet, shirt, and skin sliced through—and had no cause to be, for he had not competed today. “Your Grace, my Princess, my prince.”
Laenor rushed in after him, out of breath and still half in armor. “Your Grace,” he said, bowing quickly, then joining Harwin at Daemon’s side.
“What’s happened?” Daemon asked. Harwin hesitated, just a beat, looking from Daemon to Rhaenyra and back. There was only one thing that might mean. “Where is Egg?”
Harwin took a breath, hesitated again. He was less practiced at hiding truths in front of those who did not know of Egg’s true story, and Daemon had no time for the mincing of words. He grabbed Harwin’s arm and dragged him to the side, throwing a hand up to stop Laenor from following. “Speak. Now.”
“After the queen came out, Egg was upset. Had one of his episodes. I saw him from far off, but before I could get to him he made it to your tent. I was only a minute behind him, no more than that, but when I got there… Daemon, someone took him.”
“What?”
“One of them had him, and two more came at me, one from behind. I fought them both, killed them, but the third… he has Egg.”
Daemon felt a rush of fire in his chest. Somewhere far off, he felt Caraxes shift and roar. They had taken his son. He started to turn, to head to the pit where his dragon waited for him to burn everything in their way.
“Wait,” Harwin said, grabbing his arm. Daemon tried to shake him off, but Harwin was strong and he did not let go. “Listen. The men I killed. Neither of them had tongues.”
“So?”
“Alys. She told me…” His words were stilted, but he forced them out quickly enough. “When Larys had Harrenhal burnt in her world, when he killed…me, he used men without tongues to do it.”
Larys Strong. Could he have already had tongueless men to do his bidding, before leaving for Harrenhal? Could he have left them in Otto’s service? He had been the Green’s Master of Whispers in Aegon’s other life. A man who drove Alys to kinslaying, a man who had been nearly inhuman in his spying…
“He is dead, but—”
“Is he?” Daemon asked sharply.
Harwin bristled a bit, then looked thoughtful. “The missing servants.”
“You found one dead at Harrenhal. Not the other.”
“You think it was the servant. His body—”
Daemon was already turning away from him. He strode back toward the gathered men and women, bypassed Corlys, who was reaching out a concerned hand, and walked right to Otto.
The worm’s throat fit his grip perfectly. Daemon squeezed. “Where is he?”
Shouts erupted around him. He felt hands on his shoulders, trying to pull him away. He ignored them and then they were gone.
“This will not get easier,” he snarled.
Otto’s mouth worked but no words came out, and in his eyes… was that satisfaction?
“Daemon!” Rhaenyra’s voice.
Daemon let go.
He turned toward her as Alicent and Mellos rushed to Otto’s side. Hobart was beside Harwin, glaring at him, and Tyland and Corlys stood halfway between where they had been and where Daemon now stood. Rhaenyra had started toward him, but she had stopped only one step down from the Iron Throne.
Viserys was standing, glowering down at them all. “What is the meaning of this?”
“That leech has taken my son.”
He heard the catch of Rhaenyra’s breath, saw it too, in the ways her lips parted. “Egg has been taken? When?”
Harwin stepped forward. “From Prince Daemon’s tent, my princess, not an hour ago. I failed to stop them.” Harwin bowed his head in an apology he could not say to her, because Rhaenyra was naught more than Egg’s cousin here, was she?
The fire that flashed through her eyes spoke to more than that. “Men attacked and stole a child in mine own uncle’s tent? Father, this cannot stand. We must find him, immediately.”
“We shall, Rhaenyra,” Viserys said. “Daemon, why do you think Otto sent them? Ser Harwin?”
Daemon did not give Harwin time to answer, for he would have no answer that pleased the king. Neither would Daemon, but he cared little and less about that now. “Were the Hightowers not called before you just now for their treachery? Who else?”
“What use would I have with a bastard, your Grace?” Otto asked. “Even a royal one?”
The thing of it was that Daemon didn’t know. But had he not known Otto was guilty already, then this would have done it—the way he asked his question, calm, concerned, but with the hint of affront. Otto had sounded that way a dozen times over when bringing claims to the king. A calculated way of speaking that it had taken Daemon too long to fight back against.
But that would be no proof to his brother. And the proof he did have—what was he to say? That a dead man had secret ways to spy on Rhaenyra and his tongueless brutes had seized Daemon’s son for reasons Daemon did not even understand, all under the order of the Hand?
“The Hand has spoken strongly against the boy, has he not?” Rhaenyra asked.
Hobart answered her, his voice nothing but a bug’s chittering in Daemon’s ears, then Otto spoke again, and his words too were lost to the thrum of his blood. Rage built inside of him, more for each moment his brother did not trust him. There was something in Viserys’ gaze that Daemon did not recognize, something that he had not seen before, and he hated it, hated that he no more understood his brother than his brother did him.
“Of course he has no liking for the bastard! That hardly means he stole him!” Alicent cried, her shrill voice breaking through Daemon’s thoughts. “Bastards are sinful creatures, and this one is beyond that. From the moment he arrived at court, things have been different. Daemon has lied about his circumstances. He knew of the child well before the boy arrived at court. Everyone can see it. Why would a woman hiding her child’s parentage teach him dragonlore, unless he’s meant to use it? Even trueborn, noble children are not fluent in High Valyrian! There is some dreadful plan around him. You must see it, your Grace! Daemon even has Rhaenyra calling him her own son! The Grand Maester heard her say it, the day Prince Daemon murdered Ser Criston! I know not what perversions the child sprang from but Lord Fleabottom’s certainly know no end!”
Rhaenyra strode down from the throne, that fire sweeping through her. He would not have been surprised had she bathed the Green bitch in it when she opened her mouth.
But before she could say another word, Viserys bellowed, “Silence! All of you!”
A hush fell on the room. Viserys sounded stronger than he had in a decade. He sounded like a king.
The king stepped down from the throne and walked to his daughter. That new look in Viserys’ eyes shifted as he stared at her. Daemon still could not read it, and neither could Rhaenyra from the look on her face. And then Viserys turned to Rhaenys.
“You were right,” he said in Valyrian, after a broken-sounding laugh. “There was something familiar.”
“Your Grace—” Otto began.
“Ser Otto, you will tell us where you have taken the boy. Now.”
A chorus of Green voices objected. Rhaenyra still stared at her father, and so did Rhaenys, their expressions so similar—confusion. But Daemon did not have time for confusion. His son was out there, taken by men who had nearly bested a knight like Ser Harwin, and Daemon could not bring himself to even think that he might be—
He threw off the thought and started for Otto again.
“Daemon Targaryen.”
Daemon stopped at his brother’s voice. Daemon turned, holding back the rage that roared through him still. Why was his brother trying to stop him from doing what needed to be done?
Viserys’ eyes were steady on his. “Today, you speak with my voice, brother, and if you would accept, you act as my hand.”
Daemon had not even realized he’d extended his arm, not until he looked down and saw the gold pin in Viserys’ palm.
His Hand. It was what Daemon had wanted for nearly a dozen years. It had meant much to him—the love of his brother, the respect of his family, the pride of all knowing he was chosen to stand beside the king, dragons united as their father had always wished.
But now, it meant that Viserys was enabling him to do all he must to save his son. Daemon would have done it anyway. But that hardly mattered as he took the cool, metal hand from his brother and pinned it to his chest.
“No.” The noise sounded punched out of Alicent. “Husband, please, no.”
“The queen is overcome,” Viserys said. “Ser Willas, please escort her to her rooms.”
The kingsguard walked to her side, a gentle hand to her arm to prod her along toward the doors. Daemon waited until she was gone to turn to Harwin.
“And you, Ser Harwin,” said Daemon Targaryen, Hand of the King, “shall escort Otto Hightower to the Black Cells.”