The royal chambers were unusually still, the only sound the low crackling of a half-dead hearth fire. The moon hung high beyond the narrow windows, casting a ghostly sheen across stone and steel. It was the hour when even the rats grew quiet.
Prince Daemon Targaryen arrived unannounced but expected, his boots echoing off the marble as he pushed through the chamber doors. His silver-gold hair fell loose over his shoulders, and his violet eyes flicked once around the room before settling on his brother.
Viserys stood with his back to him, facing the window. No crown adorned his brow—yet.
Daemon broke the silence. "You sent for me in the dead of night. That's either the mark of a mad king… or a clever one."
Viserys didn't turn. He spoke as if to the city beyond the glass. "Kings are often called mad for seeing what others refuse to."
Daemon's brow twitched. "And what is it you see, brother?"
Still, no answer.
Instead, Viserys finally turned, his face lined not with age but with something heavier—purpose, perhaps, or fear worn as armor. He studied Daemon, weighing him with the silence of a ruler—not a sibling.
"I'll ask you only once," Viserys said, voice low. "And I'll have only truth."
Daemon gave a slight nod.
"When the time comes—and it will come—I will ask things of you that may cost you everything. Your station. Your pride. Perhaps even your life. No explanations. No questions."
Daemon's smirk faltered, but he didn't flinch. "You've never asked for obedience."
"I'm not asking," Viserys said simply. "I'm offering you three things. And in return, I demand your loyalty. Without condition."
For a moment, nothing stirred.
Viserys stepped forward, the candlelight casting shadows across his features.
"First," he said, "your marriage to Rhea Royce. It will be dissolved. The High Septon will declare it void. You will be free of her."
Daemon's eyebrows rose slightly, surprised.
"Second," Viserys continued, "I promise you a legacy. Not now, not spoken aloud. But when the time is right, the realm will know what I have preserved for you. A place—perhaps greater than you imagine."
Daemon's expression grew cautious, measured.
"And third," Viserys said, voice lowering, "I have seen them. Their sigils in shadow—the lion, the tower, the seahorse. They move not with swords, but with whispers and masks. Their ambition poisons the future. They wear honor like armor, but twist it to serve themselves."
He looked at Daemon fully now.
"You will not know everything. Not yet. But I ask: will you stand with me regardless?"
Daemon studied him for a long moment. Then, quietly: "Yes."
Viserys nodded.
"Then go. Rest. Tomorrow, the crown touches my head. And the game begins."
Daemon gave a short bow and left without another word, his cloak swirling behind him.
When the doors closed, Viserys returned to the hearth, staring into the flames that danced like dragons—wild, beautiful, and destined to consume.