Chapter Text
Knights, maesters, and common men alike struggled to understand why the King had been found the way he was. Some claimed he had been poisoned, his corpse staged to resemble suicide. Others insisted he could no longer bear the guilt of his wife’s untimely demise and had hurled himself from his window in a fit of madness. A superstitious few whispered of dark magics or ghoulish interferences like Queen Aemma Arryn’s spirit taking her revenge. Still others believed the King had been inebriated and simply fell by chance.
None could deny the truth: the Peaceful King was dead, impaled upon the castle grounds for all to see. Worst of all, he had left no son to inherit his throne, thus paving the way for Maegor Come Again.
Daemon Targaryen had not known his day would begin this way.
Had he understood the true depths of Viserys’s despair, he would have remained at his brother’s side, comforting him. He would not have been here, wasting away on his own grief, for both his family and his ambitions.
He could have saved him. He could have protected him.
Instead, he nursed a vicious headache while sprawled in a seedy brothel when Ser Harrold arrived with the news.
He was hungover, reeking of ale, having drunk deep with his whores and gold cloaks, mocking and grieving his brother and his late wife, his own cousin. Daemon had held no particular fondness for Aemma. She had been a skittish creature, fearful of dragons, yet judgemental whenever he avoided the Vale to escape his Bronze Bitch of a wife. She was plainly his brother’s wife and that was that. In short, Aemma had been more Andal than Valyrian despite her looks.
But, she had been his cousin and good-sister— she was family, constant throughout his life. And she had died for Viserys’s foolish dreams, leaving only Rhaenyra behind. Alone. An unwanted princess rather than a prince of the blood.
His heart ached at the thought of his princess, who had lost her mother so young—though she had been older than Daemon himself when he lost his own. She had been so happy when he had given her the Valyrian steel necklace last morning. Her haunted gaze at the funeral had been a startling sight in contrast to her earlier joy. She completely shut down, crushed with grief, but did her best to stay strong. He did not know how to comfort her, but he tried. Viserys had been even more inept than he was.
Perhaps Daemon had misunderstood just how needed he truly was in this family.
Ser Harrold cleared his throat to announce his presence. The old knight’s blue eyes were clouded with a sorrow he made no attempt to hide. Daemon often forgets that Ser Harrold had watched both him and Viserys grow in court. He showed no anger at finding Daemon with his paramour, Mysaria, and another silver-haired whore whose name Daemon could not recall. He tried to focus, sobering at once when he took in the Kingsguard’s expression.
In that moment, it was clear Viserys had not sent Ser Harrold to punish him for whatever venomous words he had spat out during his ill-conceived celebration.
“A Kingsguard in a brothel, here to break your vows?” Daemon said dryly, his mouth parched. When the knight said nothing, he continued. “Did my dear brother require something, Ser Harrold?”
“There has been an incident at the Red Keep, Your Grace,” Ser Harrold replied quietly. His voice was grave and clear. “You must come at once.”
Daemon blinked, letting the silence stretch, refusing to move.
Surely, Ser Harrold was mocking him?
The old knight knew better than to use that title so carelessly, it belonged only to Kings. And no matter how much Daemon had desired for the crown, styling himself as one worthy, for his brother’s approval, he was not King.
He was the Rogue Prince.
The King was Viserys. Viserys the Peaceful.
For Daemon to be King, Viserys would have to be…
“The King is dead.”
Ser Harrold sank to one knee. He looked up at Daemon as though he were not a wretched sight, unwashed, hungover, dressed in scraps unbefitting royalty, but his rightful liege. Daemon felt nauseous.
“Long live the King. May the Seven bless your reign.”
A shrill ringing filled Daemon’s ears, drowning out the world. He wanted—needed—to blot out the knight’s words, to pretend they had never been spoken. Viserys could not be dead. He had been hale and healthy enough despite his grief, still strong, always able to laugh through his wines and feasts. Fat, perhaps, but not sickly. Not dying.
Seven Hells, he was barely older than Daemon himself.
It had to be a lie. Some cruel misunderstanding. Some courtly farce spun out of control, one that reached the white cloaks’ ears. The maesters could be mistaken. It could not be true that Daemon was now the last living son of Prince Baelon. Viserys had taught him how to walk, how to read, and how to be happy after mother died. He had shielded him from their grandfather’s tempers and the court scandals he often put himself in. Daemon loved him fiercely so, no matter how often Viserys vexed him, no matter how weak he sometimes seemed.
He had gathered an army for his brother. He was willing to spill blood for him. To spill their cousin’s blood if it came to it. He ensured the crown sat safely upon Viserys’s head for their family.
How could Viserys be dead when Daemon should have been there to protect him?
Daemon sprang from the shoddy cot and dressed with sharp, furious movements. He refused to look at Ser Harrold again, refused to speak another word until he saw his brother with his own eyes. The knight’s face was too grave for jest or japes, but Daemon demanded proof. Cold, undeniable proof that his brother was in Morghul’s realm, lost to Baelerion’s embrace.
He seized Dark Sister, his grip white-knuckled, ready to cut down any man who dared be responsible for Viserys’s death. Little did he know, the man responsible for Viserys’s death was already dead.
The body had been left where it fell.
That alone was wrong.
No sheet, no shroud, no respect. It was just Viserys laid out beneath the open sky, as though the castle itself rejected him out of its bosom. He did not look peaceful in death. Quite the opposite. His body had been torn apart by the fall, gore scattered where stone tiles and iron spikes had met flesh. Some pieces lay far from the rest of him, remnants of his corpse broken violently upon the castle spikes, bone protruding in certain areas. He had no crown to identify him, but with the head of his brother’s silver hair and his usual nightgown...
Daemon knew who he was.
Viserys had been impaled by various spikes but the force of the fall had ripped him open. Viserys was dead. Dead. Dead. Dead.
Viserys was just chunks of meat on this blasted castle floor. He left Daemon all alone. Dead. Dead. Dead.
There were few sights capable of bringing Daemon Targaryen to his knees. He could not remember the last time he had wept in front of someone. Or retched like a greenboy. But at the sight of Viserys, his elder brother, his king, reduced to ruined meat on the castle grounds they used to run around together was too much. Daemon staggered back, his stomach heaving. Dark Sister slipped from his grasp and clattered against the stone.
He turned away too late to blink away the sight.
Bile burned his throat as he dropped to his knees, the sob tearing out of him raw and uncontrolled. His hands shook violently, useless at his sides. The world blurred as his vision became narrower and the unbearable truth laid out before him.
Ser Harrold hovered close, a steady presence above him, silent and helpless as the new King of the Seven Kingdoms broke apart at his feet.
He collected himself swiftly.
After the body had been respectfully covered with a shroud, with the help of several Kingsguard and a handful of trusted gold cloaks, Daemon knew there could be no delay. Grief would have to wait, no matter how much he wished to fly away on Caraxes and burn something. His fingers twitched to beat someone bloody, yet no one around could be that unfortunate victim to his anger. Questions could not afford to be left unanswered and only he was trustworthy enough to take up the mantle.
From the manner in which Viserys had been found, the knights surrounding him were already whispering the same conclusion, that the King’s death had been self-inflicted. A tragic decision. A sorrowful end brought on by the despair of being a widower with a dead son.
Daemon rejected it outright.
He ordered that a maester be summoned quickly. Mellos, Runciter—both, if necessary. He would not rely on assumption or rumor. If his brother had been pushed, if poison had touched his lips, if some snake had crept into the King’s chambers through the hidden passages in the walls, Daemon would know.
Yet even as the thought burned in his mind, he knew the truth might never be seen plainly on Viserys’s broken body. Scattered meat, bone, and ruined stones told only part of a story. The rest would lie in the room itself—the shadows, the walls, the secret passages known by Daemon and Viserys alone.
“Who knows of his death so far?” Daemon asked at last, his voice low and distant, as though it came from somewhere far beyond the remote courtyard. “Apart from the knights with us now.”
Ser Harrold Westerling stood straighter at once, eyes flicking back to the blanketed form on the floor. “Ser Steffon was the first to hear the fall and discover the body while making his rounds on castleground. I stood guard outside King Viserys’s chambers, but he had ordered me to the end of the hall. He was acting odd but not in the way where he’d… I did not think there’d be cause for concern, just that he was grieving. No one entered after he took his leave to rest, Your Grace. I cannot swear that others did not glimpse him before word was sent for you, but to my knowledge, you are among the first to be informed, my King.”
A tight coil of anger twisted in Daemon’s gut. How could no one have heard him? How could Viserys have fallen alone, unanswered, with guards so near?
His jaw clenched, but the anger faded as quickly as it came. Ser Harrold was old. He had served Viserys faithfully for over 2 decades. He had served Daemon himself, and Rhaenyra as well. Time dulled senses, even the sharpest of ears, he could not fault the loyal knight, especially since it had been him who had been ordered away.
It, however, did imply Viserys was quiet that night, with no sign of a struggle taking place in his blasted chambers. He was in a somber mood as well, more so than usual. Daemon wondered what went through his brother’s head before he…
Daemon closed his eyes briefly, trying to keep the image of the mangled corpse out of his mind.
It was better this way. For none to know at large that the King was dead.
The Small Council would soon need to be told, leeches and rats already circling the scent of power, eager to debate succession and legality while the King’s body was still warm. He was not naive enough to think the Hightower cunt would allow him to assume power easily. He would accuse him, no doubt. Daemon had no patience for such drivel and senseless topics. Not yet. Not until Viserys had been properly honored, reduced to ash and flame as a dragon ought to be.
“Keep it that way,” Daemon said quietly. “Once the maesters arrive, they will determine whether he drank too much, slipped… or whether something more was done to him. I will take to my brother’s chambers to investigate further.”
Daemon swallowed hard.
He wanted, desperately, to hear that Viserys had been poisoned, or drunk, or careless. Anything but the truth his heart feared most. Anything but the knowledge that his brother had chosen to leave this world of his own will. To be the first Targaryen King to do so. To leave him. To leave Rhaenyra.
Gods… Rhaenyra.
“My niece,” Daemon asked, forcing the words past the growing pit in his stomach. The poor girl was an orphan like himself now. “Where is she?”
Ser Harrold cleared his throat. “Ser Erryk is guarding her chambers. The princess has not yet woken nor has her lady-in-waiting. Shall we send for the princess?”
The concern on the old knight’s face was unmistakable. He loved the girl as fiercely as any father might, since he was unable to have children of his own, per his vow. He dreaded being the one to burden her with yet another loss, something Daemon could relate to.
“No,” Daemon replied softly. “I will go to her.”
He would not allow Rhaenyra to stumble upon her father’s broken body. Not after she had watched her mother and little brother burn only the night before by her own command. He would not let some smooth-tongued courtier deliver the news with hollow sympathy or veiled ambition. No one will circle her with greed, not when he was here to protect her.
She would hear the truth from blood. From family. From another dragon.
“Do not allow the Hand to convene the Small Council without me,” Daemon continued coldly. “Keep him confined to the Tower of the Hand. Along with his brats. I will hold a meeting once I finish my investigation with Largent and Strong.”
He had no desire for that irritable, mousy girl clinging to Rhaenyra in this moment either. This grief would remain within the family until he decided otherwise.
“Your Grace.” Daemon winced every time Harrold fucking called him that. It should’ve been someone else, not him. He got what he had wanted but he felt powerless, perhaps he misjudged his desire for his brother’s approval and throne.
Ser Harrold nodded sharply and barked orders to Ser Rickard and Ser Arryk. Daemon watched closely, committing to memory which of the Kingsguard obeyed without hesitation, and which questioned him. That knowledge would matter now.
He was King.
And for the first time in his life, he did not want the crown.
Not when the crown came at a cost like this. His brother had been too young, it wasn’t supposed to be this way.
Without another word, Daemon turned and strode toward his niece’s chambers, boots echoing softly against the stone.
She needed him now more than ever. And this time, he would not fail her—not as he had failed Viserys.
Ser Erryk let him pass without question. It seemed he already knew what had transpired, likely from his twin, who had gone ahead to the courtyard with the rest of the Kingsguard. Daemon inclined his head in thanks, and Erryk shut the door quietly behind him, sealing him in his niece’s room.
Rhaenyra’s chamber was vast yet homely, unmistakably still a maiden’s room. Pretty things filled the space— soft colors, childish adornments, the sort of comforts meant to soothe a girl rather than a woman ready to marry. He was glad Viserys had never pushed Rhaenyra into marriages she did not want, the girl was rebellious as is.
She was much like him.
The bed was dressed in the finest sheets, gifts from her father and himself, both who had spoiled her without restraint. Aemma hated whenever he came by the Red Keep to steal her daughter’s attention away from her. He used to delight in Viserys’s jealousy over Rhaenyra, as the girl preferred him.
A single narrow window sat along the far wall, barred and gated with gilded laurels decorating it; Viserys had always fretted over his only child far too much.
Daemon forced himself not to think of windows.
If only his brother had shown himself the same care he gave to Rhaenyra.
His gaze drifted to the vanity, and a small smile touched his lips when he saw his necklace resting there, laid out respectfully. He made a mental note to gift her more silks and jewels. She had long since outgrown dolls and carved dragon toys, her first of which came from his father. Rhaenyra was growing. She was still a girl, yes, but not for much longer. Soon, she would be a woman.
She lay sprawled across the bed, blissfully unaware of the morbid news that had brought him here. Her silver-gold hair fanned across the pillow like a halo. She was ethereal and he stood baffled by her brilliance. His niece—a pure Valyrian beauty. Pale skin, an aquiline nose, a small beauty mark near her pouty, heart-shaped lips. Aemma’s visage lived on in her daughter’s face, though Rhaenyra was plumper where her mother had been slender. He had not lied when he called her gevie in the throne room the day before. He enjoyed teasing her, keenly aware of her girlish crush on him. She showed such jealousy towards him taking the favor of another maiden.
Fat load of good that favor did for him.
He would never indulge it. Not now. She was unflowered, and he was not such a craven to go beyond such limits that punished those in Fleabottom for.
That was not to say he hadn’t once imagined marrying her when she came of age. He desired a Valyrian bride, and of the Valyrian women alive, she was one of the options.
His bronze bitch was a chain fastened by his grandmother, a woman whose mind had faded long before her body ever did. It was a miracle that the Old King allowed her to sell him off like that, to a lesser house such as the Royces. It was an embarrassment and insult to his pride and standing as a Prince of the realm. He took great joy in denying his grandfather a great-grandchild.
If Aemma and Viserys had struggled so greatly for a son, why should he not have been their heir? Why not allow him to take their daughter to wife and unite both bloodlines for the throne? They would have been happier for it.
Aemma would still be alive.
This was ambition speaking now, something he needed to remind himself to be wary of. They were empty thoughts, now. He had no heart left for the throne this day. What weighed on him was far heavier. It was a struggle to imagine telling Rhaenyra that she was alone now—alone, save for him. She was sleeping peacefully after a long night, to disturb it now… He was worried she may shatter beyond recognition.
Two Targaryens remained in the Red Keep. A pitiful remnant compared to the days of the Old King, when plentiful aunts and uncles filled every hall and the songs of their dragons could be heard outside.
Daemon sat at the edge of Rhaenyra’s plush bed and lifted a hand, brushing his thumb gently along her cheek. She was warm, breathing softly, lost in some distant dream, perhaps flying in Tessarion’s skies entertained by her mischief. He watched her chest rise and fall beneath the blankets, a fierce, protective ache tightening in his chest. There was still something left to guard in his life. Viserys’s line had not ended with him.
Tear tracks stained her cheeks, her silver lashes clumped together. Her eyelids were swollen and red-rimmed. She had cried herself to sleep, that much was clear.
Guilt struck him like a blade and its weight pooled heavy in his stomach.
If he hadn’t been at his brother’s side last night, instead of drinking and rutting around like an arrogant peacock, toasting a dead babe, he should have been here. With her.
The boy would have been named Baelon. After his father.
Daemon closed his eyes briefly, then shook her gently.
“Princess,” he murmured. “Wake up.”
Rhaenyra frowned, pinching her face as she groaned. She was not used to being waken so early, it seemed. He drank in the sight of her stirring.
“Alicent…?”
He laughed softly. “No, not the Hightower girl, I’m afraid. It’s your uncle, little dragon. Have you forgotten my voice already?”
Her lilac eyes flew open, shock giving way to sudden joy. She looked him up and down in disbelief before she surged forward, throwing herself into his arms. He let out a small grunt when she all but collapsed onto his chest, arms locked around his waist with a surprising amount of strength. She was so much smaller than him. Could he ruin her joy just like that?
“Kepus! You’re here!” She exclaimed with a relieved tone.
Daemon smiled, wrapping an arm around her and patting her back rhythmically, breathing in the faint floral scent of the oils he’d gifted her. After a moment, he gently eased her away, much to her displeasure, and brushed stray strands of hair from her face.
“Did you think I’d leave?” He asked.
She looked down, fingers twisting in the blankets, her rings unavailable to her. “You didn’t stay after the funeral. I thought… I thought you’d go back to Essos. You always liked it better there than here.”
The ‘with me’ went unsaid, yet Daemon heard it all the same, loud and clear. He shifted closer, lifting her chin with careful fingers, as if he were holding precious treasure, and turned her face toward his. Lavender met lilac, his gaze firm while her eyes were glassy and searching.
“I wouldn’t leave you like that, Rhaenyra,” he said quietly, the words heavy between them. His throat tightened. “Not so suddenly when your mother and brother—” He faltered, then forced the vow through clenched resolve to do better. “I promise I won’t leave unless you wish me to. I swear it.”
Rhaenyra exhaled shakily and her composure shattered. She twisted against his hold as fresh tears welled and spilled down her cheeks.
He hated seeing her crying, he always had.
“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Kepus,” she sobbed. “Even if you wanted to stay with me, Father will just send you away again. He always does. You never stay after that. I won’t be surprised to see off Caraxes yet again, coming and going, just because you’re in my chambers unannounced! Should I expect my father to barge in here, spitting curses at you?!”
Daemon’s breath hitched and his fingers twitched.
He could not delay it any longer. She would need to know, now.
Rhaenyra stilled suddenly, her brows knitting together as she took in his expression—the way his jaw clenched, the grief darkening his eyes. She had never known him to cry yet his appearance hinted at just that.
“Something’s wrong,” she whispered. “What happened? Did my father say something to you?”
Sweet, foolish little dragon. She feared him getting another exile, perhaps even a banishment, never imagining the truth was far crueler. Sweet winter child.
“He didn’t,” Daemon replied, his tongue felt useless. “He didn’t tell me anything, Rhaenyra. He couldn’t.”
“What do you mean…?”
Understanding crept over her face in a slow, horrifying realization . She was too clever not to piece it together—too perceptive to ignore his presence in her chambers, the weight in the air. His appearance disheveled with further grief only added to her suspicions. With morbid fascination, Daemon watched the change in her expression.
“Where is my father?” she demanded, panic sharpening her tone. She got up from the bed, looking wildly towards the door. “Where is Ser Harrold?!”
Daemon pulled her into his arms before she could run off, crushing her against his chest. He knew her temper, her blood, and he knew how grief could turn violent when dragons mourned. She was just like him, afterall.
“Your father isn’t here anymore,” he murmured, tightening his hold as her body went rigid. “Ser Harrold is with him now, looking over him with other white cloaks.”
Her breath hitched violently as she began trembling. “Stop, Uncle, please.”
“Viserys is dead,” he said in a voice that offered no mistake, the words tearing free simply. “My brother. Your father.”
“You lie! You’re wrong!” She hissed. “Let me go! Ser Harrold!”
He could feel her world collapse right at that moment as she denied it, enraged tears wetting his doublet.
“He was found in the castle courtyard,” Daemon continued, each sentence tasting of ash. “He fell from his window.” His voice dropped, turning deadly. “I swear to you, Rhaenyra, little dragon— I will uncover who did this. I will have their heads. He could’ve been murdered and I knew nothing, for that I am sorry.”
She did not answer. She barely breathed. Only her continuous trembles told him she still lived.
Then a sharp, high-pitched wail came from her.
Rhaenyra screamed.
The sound ripped from her throat, raw and anguished, as she clutched at him like a drowning girl. Daemon rocked her gently, murmuring nonsense words he scarcely heard himself. Her grief was violent, consuming, each strangled sob shaking her small frame as though it might tear her apart. He had never been so scared in his life to see one break apart so swiftly. It was as if he saw his father mourn his mother once more.
Daemon ignored his own sorrow as rage flooded him instead.
If Viserys had done this to himself, if he had truly chosen this, the cowardly path instead of living— then Daemon felt no pity. Only fury. How dare he abandon her? How dare he leave his daughter alone in a pit of vipers because he had grown tired of breathing? He had a child to live for, one that Aemma birthed and yet he couldn’t stay alive and protect like their own father did with them. He was a fucking disgrace. He had no fucking right to abandon the only thing that mattered in this realm.
Viserys could leave him. He had never been a son. He never would be no matter how much he wished he was.
But Rhaenyra was better than Daemon. More precious. She was Viserys's only child.
He had no right to mourn a dead babe and her mother more than he loved his daughter.
Rhaenyra’s sobs turned wretched, her grief spilling into fury as well. She raged, punching him repeatedly, in the chest. She cursed her father, cursed the gods, cursed herself—her cunt, the throne, her helplessness. She clawed at her own hair, frantic, and Daemon caught her wrists at once, holding them fast against her sides.
“No,” he growled softly. “You’ll hurt yourself. Don’t.”
She thrashed violently for some time, then collapsed into him, fists clutching his doublet.
“Don’t leave me,” she begged, voice breaking completely. “Please, Kepus—don’t leave me too. Why? Why is he gone? Why am I never enough?”
Something inside him gave way at the tone of her voice. He did not want her to waste away, the only family he had left.
“I won’t,” he said fiercely, pressing his cheek to her hair. “I swear it.”
The castle could burn for all he cared.
His niece needed him and Daemon Targaryen, the Rogue Prince— No, King would not fail her. Viserys was dead and now it was his responsibility to keep Rhaenyra safe and care for her.
They stayed holding each other longer, the world around them narrowing, as the two grieving souls intertwined and became one.