At night, the air deep within the Dragonpit was scorching.
Torchlight flickered against the stone walls of the cavern. Daemon sat inside, waiting quietly for the king's arrival.
He had not gone to the Red Keep, because he knew Aemond had informants there.
So he chose this place instead and invited Viserys to come.
The stone door was pushed open. Daemon smiled at the newcomer and spoke.
"Brother."
After a while, looking at Daemon whom he had not seen for a long time, Viserys removed the golden mask from his face.
Under the firelight, the decay on his left cheek was laid bare.
Daemon looked at him, his breathing faltering for a moment.
"You…" Daemon's voice caught in his throat.
He had meant to say that he looked much better, but the lie was too clumsy—even he could not believe it.
In the end, he only said, "You should sit."
He reached out and steadied Viserys by the arm.
Viserys allowed Daemon to support him as he walked toward the crude wooden chair beside the stone table.
It had been hastily prepared by the Dragonkeepers, a strip of red cloth laid over it.
As he sat down, Viserys let out a suppressed groan.
Daemon saw the look of pain on his face, and the cold sweat seeping from his brow glinting in the firelight.
Daemon frowned and said, "You need milk of the poppy."
Viserys was breathing heavily.
"I'll have someone—"
"No need." Viserys cut him off.
"Tonight… no need."
Daemon sat opposite him.
Between them stood a rough stone table, upon which there was only a jug of wine and two earthen cups.
No silverware. No crystal decanters. None of the luxury a king ought to have.
This was the depths of the Dragonpit beneath Rhaenys's Hill in King's Landing.
"You look," Daemon finally said aloud, "not far from death."
A twisted smile tugged at the half of Viserys's face that still obeyed him.
"The maesters say… a few more years at most…"
He raised his trembling right hand and pointed at the wine. He needed it to dull the pain.
Daemon poured two cups.
It was wine from the North—harsh and burning in the throat, but strong enough.
He pushed one toward his brother.
"What do you still need to worry about?"
"Would it not be better to wait quietly for death?"
"All these troubles—I will deal with them after you are gone."
The words were cruel. Daemon knew it, but he could not stop himself.
Viserys did not grow angry.
He lifted the cup. With difficulty, he took a sip; his throat made a low gurgling sound as he swallowed.
He set the cup down and looked at Daemon.
"What I fear is after I die…"
"I fear that when I close my eyes…"
"I fear my children will turn their blades upon one another."
The right side of his face—the eye there still mostly whole—fixed on Daemon.
In that eye was a look Daemon had not seen in many years. A kind of… resolve.
Viserys's voice suddenly grew clear and strong, as though the pain in his body had, for the moment, receded.
"So I have come to ask you, Daemon."
"Will you still refuse to yield?"
The cavern fell silent.
Daemon did not speak. He lowered his head and slowly turned the earthen cup in his hand.
The rough clay scraped against his palm.
That coarse touch brought back the Stepstones—the sea wind, the salt spray, blades and blood.
He had fought in those islands for years. For what?
At first, to prove himself. Later, to carve out a kingdom of his own.
In the end… in the end, only to have something to do.
Because Viserys had no need of him.
Viserys had his daughter Rhaenyra, a new heir, a court that could turn without his brother Daemon.
Daemon lifted his head and asked in return, "And if I do not yield?"
"Will you have me killed, Viserys?"
Viserys's hand tightened around the cup upon the table. With a harsh rasp, he said, "The Kingsguard are outside."
"If I call out once, they will rush in."
He forced the words out in one breath, then began to pant sharply.
Daemon looked at him and then let out a bleak laugh.
"You would kill me?"
"Now? Here?"
He rose to his feet and spread his arms.
"Then do it, brother."
"I will not resist."
"Call the white cloaks in—or do it yourself."
"I swear I will not move."
Viserys did not stir.
He only looked at his brother—at the man standing in the firelight, chest laid bare.
Then, without warning, tears welled from his good right eye and ran down his cheek.
He did not wipe them away.
"Why…"
"Daemon, why must you be this way?"
"Why can you not step back?"
"For me—for this family—for the kingdom our father and forebears built…"
Daemon lowered his arms.
He did not sit. Instead, he stepped before Viserys and looked down at his brother.
When he spoke, his voice was calm.
"Back then…"
"It was you who clapped my shoulder and said the Iron Throne would pass from brother to brother."
Viserys fell silent.
"After the Great Council," Daemon went on, "when I stood at your side with my men, sword in hand."
"We returned to your chambers—just the two of us. You poured two cups of wine, far finer than this. Arbor summer red."
"You clapped my shoulder. Your hand was heavy—I have never forgotten it."
"You said, 'Brother, thank you. One day the Iron Throne will be yours as well.'"
He paused.
"I believed you. I actually fucking believed you." Daemon laughed, and the sound was full of self-mockery.
"I thought my brother would not lie to me."
"So I waited. One year, two years, five years, ten."
"I helped you put down rebellions, helped you cow those lords, helped you do every dirty and thankless task."
"I waited for the day you would keep your word."
Then Daemon's voice began to tremble—the kind of tremor born of anger he could not hold back.
"And then you declared Rhaenyra your heir."
The words struck Viserys like a hammer against his heart.
Viserys closed his eyes, and tears streamed down.
This time he could not hold it in; a choked sob escaped him.
"I hate you," Daemon said.
"Not because you denied me the crown! To hell with the Iron Throne! Do you think that thing is comfortable to sit on?"
"What I hate is that, for the sake of that Iron Throne, you lied to me!"
"You are my brother, Viserys!"
"We grew up together. We explored the Dragonpit together. We ran through the halls of the Red Keep together. We trained with the sword together."
"When our mother died, it was you who held me, because I was crying so hard I could not stand."
"When our father died, it was I who stood beside you, because I knew we had only each other left."
He crouched down until his gaze was level with Viserys, who sat before him.
"But you betrayed me!"
"You cared only for yourself!"
"You cared for that Iron Throne!"
"Did you ever care for me!?"
"You took the thing I treasured most—my trust in you—and drove a knife through it."
"And now you ask me why I will not yield?"
"How can I yield?"
"If I yield, then what were all those years of waiting worth?"
"What was my life worth?"
"And you would not let me wed Rhaenyra—I know why."
"After you became king, you never trusted me."
Viserys opened his eyes and nodded.
He admitted it—at last.
"I feared you would take vengeance upon me," Viserys said.
"I feared you would use Rhaenyra to do it."
"Daemon, I know you."
"When you love, you can burn yourself to warm the one you love; when you hate, you can burn the whole world."
"I did not know what you felt for Rhaenyra—whether you truly loved her, or whether you meant to take back what you believed was yours through her, or to seek revenge."
"At that time, I was very afraid…"
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