Chapter Text
The streets of King’s Landing ran with a dark, sluggish red that afternoon. Daemon had done what was commanded, his face a mask of cold obsidian as he rode through the crowds. He didn't look at the eyes of the men he cut down; he looked through them, seeing only the bolted door of the royal bedchamber.
The heavy doors of the Great Hall swung open with a violent crash. Daemon strode in, still armored, his black plate splattered with the gore of the smallfolk. He didn't stop to clean his blade; he let the blood of the 'Mad King's' subjects drip onto the pristine stone floors.
Viserys was waiting for him, pacing before the Iron Throne. When he saw Daemon, he didn't recoil at the scent of slaughter. He smiled. It was the wide, vacant smile of a man who had finally scrubbed the world clean of its dissent.
"It is done, then?" Viserys asked, his voice airy and light.
"The gutters are full," Daemon spat, pulling off his helm to reveal hair matted with sweat and red spray. "The people are silent. Are you satisfied, Brother? Does the crown feel heavier now that it’s soaked in the blood of the poor?"
"The crown is light as a feather, Daemon," Viserys replied. He stepped closer, stepping over a smear of blood as if it were a puddle of rainwater. "Because the gods have seen fit to bless the purity of our union. They have answered the call of the Dragon."
Daemon narrowed his eyes, a cold dread pooling in his stomach. "What are you prattling about?"
"Rhaenyra," Viserys whispered, his eyes glowing with a terrifying, ecstatic fervor. "She carries the seed. The circle is truly closed now. A new heir is coming, born of the purest fire, untouched by the world of men. My daughter... My darling Aemma is with child." Again.
(Viserys... Rhaenyra is not Aemma...)
The world seemed to tilt on its axis. Daemon felt the air vanish from the room. The blood on his hands felt suddenly, searingly hot. He thought of Rhaenyra, the girl he had tried to protect, the woman he had just slaughtered innocents to keep alive and the realization that she was now bearing the fruit of this nightmare broke something inside him that had survived every war.
"You monster," Daemon breathed, his voice a ghost of a sound.
Viserys didn't flinch. He laughed, a high, brittle sound that echoed off the swords of the throne. "I am a King! And soon, I shall be a father twice over to the same golden line. Go, Daemon. Clean yourself. You smell of the mud. I must go to my Queen."
In the lavender-scented tomb of Aemma’s chambers, Rhaenyra sat by the hearth. She was still in the arms of Laurene and Cyrene, a huddle of three girls trying to hide from the sun.
The doors burst open. Viserys didn't walk; he surged into the room. He looked as though he were walking on air, his robes billowing behind him.
"Out!" he commanded, waving a hand at the handmaidens.
Laurene and Cyrene hesitated, clutching Rhaenyra’s shoulders for one last, desperate second before the King’s glare drove them from the room. They retreated into the shadows of the hall, their faces masks of silent grief.
Viserys dropped to his knees before Rhaenyra’s chair. He took her hands, the hands that were cold as ice, and pressed them to his face.
"My perfect girl," he crooned, his voice trembling with a manic, obsessive joy. "I knew the gods would favor us. Do you feel it? The life within you? It is the future of our house. It is the blood of Old Valyria, returned to us."
Rhaenyra looked down at him. She saw the madness in his eyes, the way he looked at her stomach not with the love of a father, but with the hunger of a collector who had found his most precious prize.
"It hurts, Father," she said, her voice a flat, dead monotone.
"The fire always hurts at first, my love," Viserys said, reaching up to stroke her cheek. He didn't notice her flinch. He didn't see the way her eyes were fixed on the silver basin across the room. "But think of the child. A son, perhaps. A boy with your eyes and my crown. He will be the King of the World."
He leaned forward, pressing his ear against her stomach, his eyes closing in a state of religious ecstasy. Rhaenyra sat perfectly still, her hands gripped on the arms of the chair. She looked over the top of his head at the tapestries of dragons burning cities, and she felt a cold, sharp clarity.
She was no longer just a trophy. She was the cage. And the thing growing inside her was the bars.
"He will be beautiful," Viserys whispered into the silk of her gown.
"He will be a ghost," Rhaenyra replied, so softly he didn't even hear her over the sound of his own pulse.
It's funny... Rhaenyra had always wanted a brother; she just never expect that she would birth her own brother.