Chapter Text
Chapter I
He could still smell the blood. He had been removed from the room by some member of the kingsguard. He couldn’t remember the knight’s face, but could still see the maroon stains on the white cloak as he was gently led away. Legs moving slowly and robotically in his shock, mind struggling to process the events of the afternoon. It had been hours since he’d been led to his rooms and a maid had removed his blood-soaked clothes, and he still felt like he couldn’t breathe. As if his chest would collapse under the pressure of his next breath. As if the next breath would imprint the smell of the blood in his nostrils, so that he would not know a second of respite from his torture.
Certain sounds somehow managed to penetrate through the thick fog clouding his mind. Rhaenyra’s scream as she saw her mother’s body laying on the bed where Aemma had once told her stories of old Valyria when bad storms drove the little princess from her own chambers. Mellos’ tentative announcement of his son’s death, a mere hour after his violent removal from his mother’s womb, followed by the Grand Maester’s soft retreat out of his room upon receiving no response from the king. At some point, as he stood immobile by his bedroom window overlooking the keep from its tall tower, he thought he heard Syrax roar in despair, the dragon so connected to its riders’ soul.
The guilt was suffocating, only superseded by his shock. For so long, he’d prided himself in the tight rein he had on his dragon. His brother had grabbed on to every piece of Targaryen history and culture and had molded himself in their image. Viserys, however, had taken in the family histories as cautionary tales. Even before him becoming king was a possibility, he had admired Jaehaerys the Conciliator, whose grandparents had conquered and subjugated the seven kingdoms and who had a peaceful, prosperous reign. So he tamed the roaring in his blood, and made it his mission to keep the peace in every room he entered, just as much as Daemon made it his mission to unleash chaos wherever he was. The peaceful king, that was to be his legacy. Tournaments and feasts and joy. He shied away from controversial decisions, trusting his advisors to love and protect the realm as he did.
How, then, had he ordered for his wife to be cut open? Had her hands and legs held down as the master approached her with a knife, her terrified screams asking him what was happening. Heard her scream in pain as her womb was teared open, her child violently pulled from within her, as she bled out. Just when, in his quest to be remembered as the peaceful king, had he become a monster?
For so long he had felt superior to Daemon – considered himself a just king, a good father, a loving husband in a way Daemon had never proven to be. He loved his brother, knew there was no fiercer defender of their family even as his little brother wreaked havoc throughout the seven kingdoms and beyond. Knew he had Daemon’s loyalty even as the younger man chafed against the inferiority of being a second son. A second Maegor, Lord Hightower called him every time the Hand wanted to drive his point home, to procure Daemon’s exile once again. For all his faults though, Daemon would’ve never ordered a member of the family cut open. Would’ve never caved in to the council’s suggestions to keep putting babes in Aemma’s body, even as her body and the light in her eyes continued to diminish with each painful, bloody loss.
All of the sudden his chambers felt oppressively lonely. Hours had passed as he stood by the window, but he couldn’t bear it a moment longer, and called for the kingsguard posted outside his door to call for Daemon.
“Brother.” Daemon’s voice sounded subdued, so unlike his usual confident swagger. “I am sorry for your losses. May the Gods protect them.”
Viserys nodded, not having any words to add.
“The maester gave Rhaenyra some sleep wine. She cried herself to sleep, but with any luck the wine will keep the nightmares from waking her. I’d had the maids wash her earlier so she wouldn’t fall asleep in her…bloody clothes, otherwise it might’ve shocked her when she waked.” Daemon continued.
“Bloody clothes?” Viserys asked, his mind still slow in connecting thoughts, emotions, memories.
Daemon hesitated in his response, warring between his instinct to protect his grieving brother and his righteous anger over finding Rhaenyra sobbing, draped over her mother’s butchered body.
“I left the tourney as soon as I realized something was amiss. By the time I got rid of my armor and returned to the keep, Rhaenyra had made her way to Aemma’s rooms. When I got there, she was…holding on to Aemma’s body.”
Daemon’s breath caught each time he mentioned his goodsister’s name. Viserys’ befuddled mind remembered, as if he had read it in a book once instead of lived it, how Aemma had doted on Daemon. Growing together, both younger than him by around a decade, the cousins’ childish screeches could be heard all along the keep as they chased each other with wooden swords or played pranks on visiting nobles. Aemma had always defended Daemon to his older brother when the latter’s frustrations mounted, speaking of Daemon’s loyalty, his love for his family, his need to feel appreciated. Sometimes, Viserys would listen to his beloved wife, and the morning after one of such talks would invite Daemon to go hunting, or riding, or join him for some wine in his chambers after dinner. Other times he would agree with his Lord Hand, dismissing Aemma’s words as further evidence of her good heart, throwing her favor on his undeserving brother.
“And she sleeps now.” Viserys responded, his tone straddling the line between question and statement, remembering that it was Rhaenyra they were talking about.
“Yes, I stayed with her until sleep claimed her.” Came Daemon’s response.
I stayed with her. Yet another way in which Daemon, despite Visery’s ill-conceived sense of superiority, showed once again that he was the better man. Viserys’ mind had refused to even think of Rhaenyra. His now mother-less daughter. His only child. He couldn’t face her, not after everything he had mercilessly taken from her. Had not even thought of her being informed of her mother’s labors, of finding the quickly cooling corpse, of being alone in the aftermath. Viserys had been alone by choice, his self-inflicted punishment to feel every ounce of guilt corresponding to the crimes for which he was responsible. But Rhaenyra, Rhaenyra had been left alone because no one thought of her. So focused on removing evidence of Aemma’s death, on trying to keep the new heir alive, on protecting the king. His seventeen year old daughter had been all but abandoned.
Except for Daemon. Daemon never allowed Rhaenyra to feel like an afterthought, to think of herself as lesser on account of her not being born a man. Even as the whispers became harder to ignore with each failed pregnancy, all around the keep mumbling about how they hoped this time the queen would bring forth a male child. Daemon would just increase his efforts, bringing Rhaenyra increasingly ostentatious gifts, telling her increasingly outlandish stories, showing her ever more daring maneuvers on their dragons. And now, he had been the one to pull her from the birthing chambers, the one to ensure she didn’t remain covered in her mother’s blood, the one to hold her hand until she fell asleep.
He could picture the image in his mind so easily. Rhaenyra trembling in her night gown, eyes swollen with tears that would not stop falling, hugging her knees, as Daemon wrapped himself around her, softly caressing her white hair until she fell asleep. He could picture it because it was an image he had encountered so many times throughout the years. When Rhaenyra was seven years old and had locked herself in her room because her parents would not let her take to the skies on Syrax yet. Or when she was 13 and overheard two septons talking about how wild Rhaenyra was, about what a disappointment she must be to the poor, son-less king. Daemon had always been the first to seek out and comfort Rhaenyra whenever something broke through the dragon-scale shell she used as an armor.
(And then, Daemon had verified Syrax’s training and rideability himself, before sitting Aemma and Viserys down and making a case for why they should let Rhaenyra ride the dragon that had hatched in her crib. He had also cut off the tongues of the two septons, exiling them to the silent sisters and loudly proclaiming such would be the fate of any other who dared disparage his niece. Lord Hightower had been horrified at the violence of the latter act, but Viserys remembered how proud Aemma looked of Daemon’s unapologetic defense of his little dragon.)
Daemon stood back leaning against the back of a chair, not making a sound, as his brother got lost in his thoughts. The oppressiveness in the room stilling his movements where he would typically be fidgeting. He had always been willing to stand behind his brother, supporting the king, when the older man had allowed it. Sometimes, the support looked like raising an army to oppose Corlys’, to defend his brother’s right as heir. Other times, it looked like holding Aemma’s hand, telling her bawdy tales and vulgar jokes until she finally started laughing, her spirits momentarily lifted as she processed another loss. Today, his support meant standing behind his brother, waiting for the king to tell him what he needed.
Finally, Viserys spoke.
“You have won many tournaments, been victorious in multiple wars, become known as the Prince of the City for your willingness to spend time with the common people, brought order and respect to the Gold Cloaks.”
Daemon was unsure what to make of his brother’s words, caught off-guard by the praise he so seldom received from the king and uncertain of what the words were leading to.
“But,” continued Viserys, “you have made me proudest by your care of Rhaenyra. She brings out a side of you that no one else is privy to, just like with you she is able to be her most authentic, unguarded self. You have been her fiercest defender since we first laid her in your arms. It always brought…us…great joy and comfort to know that no matter what life threw her way Rhaenyra would have you at her side.”
Viserys took a ragged breath, prompting Daemon to feel like he should rush to fill the silence, but not knowing what words to say. The king continued speaking before Daemon could gather his thoughts.
“Nonetheless, Rhaenyra has never encountered a challenge as big as this, so she will need your love and support more than ever before. I must ask you brother – no, I must beg you, to promise me that you will be at her side. That you will continue defending her and supporting her, even as the rest of us overlook her in our grief. I know you too grieve for Aemma, but I must once again be selfish and ask you to do that which I in my weakness am not able to. Be there for her, lend her your strength. The blood of the dragon runs hot in you both, so do not unleash it carelessly, but don’t allow this loss to extinguish her fire either.”
Daemon stared at the fire lit in the chimney as his brother’s words sunk in. Part of him wanted to rage, wanted to ask why Viserys couldn’t be a father to the daughter he had left motherless. He wanted to ask how he could deal such a devastating blow, cruelly ripping from them one of the few remaining members of their small family, and yet be shielded from the grief he had caused – asking him to bear Viserys’ grief and Rhaenyra’s as well as his own. But Daemon couldn’t react thusly, not just because his brother wore his grief cloaked around him, but because he couldn’t imagine not being there for Rhaenyra.
His little dragon had been the most important part of his life since she was laid in his arms. He knew it would be up to him to defend the small babe from all that the world would try to impose on her, and at first that was how he saw his role. Then, as she grew into toddlerhood, he found joy in her smiles, in the love she gave him so freely, in her amazement at his presence. As an older child, he became her Valyrian tutor, supplementing the maester’s dry lessons with Valyrian fairytales and family histories and training her until she became the youngest dragon rider in their family. As she blossomed into woman-hood he was delighted in her blushes as her crush on him developed, he would gift her a flower just to see her confident, dragon-self fail to appear dignified and unmoved as she blushed and stammered a thanks before rushing out of the room. And then, he had returned from his travels this year to find her fully into her woman-hood – beautiful, and graceful but still so fierce. She had been called the Realm’s Delight through each of those stages, but she had always delighted him best of all.
“You have my solemn vow, that I will protect Rhaenyra above anyone and anything else.” Daemon responded, unable or unwilling to express his more vulnerable thoughts to his brother.
Viserys put a shaky hand over his brother’s. “You’re a good man, Daemon Targaryen. I am honored to be your brother.” He said, before walking back to the window where he had stood hours before.
Daemon nodded once, a small gesture filled with emotion, and understanding he was being dismissed.
“I will have the maesters bring you sleep wine as well. We all need to take the rest we’re able tonight.” He replied before making his way out of the chambers.
As night fell, and the sleep wine sat idle on the king’s table, the king shakily wrote a decree. By royal order, and with immediate effect, the unconsummated marriage between Lady Rhea Royce of the Vale and Prince Daemon Targaryen was annulled. He placed the royal seal on the three copies he made – one was to be delivered to Lady Royce, one to Prince Daemon, and the third to be recorded by the septons in the archives. He hadn’t done right by his brother in many occasions, but this was something he could still remedy. For years, Daemon had asked to be absolved of the unholy union he was shackled with, Aemma often his fiercest defender. He called the maester and the septon, and delegated them the tasks of sending the ravens and recording the annulment, dismissing them once they agreed to abide by his orders post-haste.
Maids brought food he could not bring himself to touch, just as he could not make himself drink the sleepwine nor any other drink in his chambers. The king continued to stand motionlessly by the window, watching the city lights turn on in the distance the higher the moon rose in the sky. Soon, the hour of the wolf would be upon him – the darkest hour of night, midnight. Signaling the beginning of a new day, his first day without Aemma.
Viserys Targaryen I opened the window he had spent so many hours standing by, and jumped.