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(EM Vol. 2: A Wandering Melody) Chapter 33: Bloody Brine
🕑 Added 2025-07-12 14:00:14 +0000 UTCChapter 33: Bloody Brine
123 AC, Dragonstone
Daemon Targaryen should have been smiling. He should have been loudly laughing; the moment he had heard Viserys speak the news, “I have sent a letter to the Small Council. I have decided that, starting from my return to King’s Landing, Otto Hightower will no longer be my Hand. He has served me faithfully for years, but it is time for him to rest and return to his family home.”
This had once been one of his greatest desires, the urge to protect his brother from that reaching, ambitious, and all-around unpleasant man. He did not know why Viserys liked the man so much or still believed in some way that he was impartial, with his grandson being a claimant as the next King, but the man was akin to some insect that would not let go of his hold on Daemon’s brother.
He sat at the table, dining privately with the rest of House Targaryen, the true House Targaryen, without the Hightower bitch and her spawns, but for some reason, House Velaryon was invited. Viserys had been oddly insistent for this dinner, saying that he had a few announcements to make and wanted to do them privately.
Looking around the room, he saw shocked expressions on most faces, including Rhaenyra’s, but not on the Velaryons. This meant that Viserys hadn’t made that decision on a whim. He’d spoken to people about it, like Corlys Velaryon of all people, and yet he kept it from him.
What was another secret he was not privy to? Daemon shook his head in bitterness. His brother never trusted him, did he?
He was happy with Otto Hightower’s dismissal as Hand of the King, of course, but the timing and circumstances of that decision changed things.
Daemon had spent years warning Viserys off the Hightower leech. Years! He had sat in the Small Council as his brother agreed to the man’s every move, as if their roles were reversed. And all he had gotten for his warnings were reprimands and banishment. And yet when a sorcerer criticised him, not a Prince of the blood, he seemingly threw away years of his supposed friendship with Otto Hightower.
And yes, Daemon knew that the sorcerer likely had a hand in this, even a fool could see that. The man who healed Viserys, the man who obviously knew secrets pertaining to Daemon’s family that even his wife refused to share, a man who never denied that he practised magic, and a man whom Daemon, despite himself, found himself wary of.
Daemon had gotten what he wanted, but he wasn’t happy, was he? This was proof that Viserys truly thought very little of his judgment, that he did not trust him, even after years of loyalty.
And then Viserys shattered his expectations once more, “This comes to the matter of Otto’s replacement. Rhaenys Velaryon will be the next Hand of the King.”
That caught most of them by surprise once more, even if it explained why the Velaryons knew of Otto’s dismissal in advance. Daemon hadn’t expected to be Hand, but he felt a pang at being denied once more. Then again, what was another slight amongst the thousands he had suffered at the hands of his brother?
But Rhaenys Velaryon?
She was capable, he’d give him that, but it spat on his efforts during the Great Council, giving more power than it was wise to the woman he once considered a rival for his throne, a throne that Daemon fought and bled to give him.
It didn’t help that she still disliked him for what happened to Laena, even if he had no hand in her death, even if he still mourned her, years after her death. She still blamed him for Laenor…
In a single day, Viserys threw away a snake for a scorpion and gave power back to the Velaryons. No wonder Corlys looked extremely smug at the feasts in the last few days.
No, Daemon never expected to become Hand, but he did think that Viserys would have done the smart thing and chosen Rhaenyra instead, his chosen heir, his favourite daughter, and the woman who had flown to King’s Landing to heal him.
Rhaenyra obviously had thought the same, given her reaction. Shock, followed very quickly with a suppressed anger, “By your leave, Father. Come on, boys.”
She gave her children a pointed look, and they all shuffled and followed her outside, leaving him, his daughters, and the Velaryons alone at their almost untouched food. Seeing where things are going, he turned to his daughters and spoke up softly, “Alright, girls, why don’t you join the boys alongside your stepmother?”
Baela looked like she wanted to argue, but nodded when he gave her a severe look. Rhaena, ever dutiful, just followed her out, her little dragon, Solarys, climbing up her body and nestling itself around her neck like a scarf, as they left.
He was proud of her, Rhaena. He loved the idea that she would one day enjoy the wonder of riding a dragon, to roam the skies as her ancestors did before her. There was no feeling like it.
And what a dragon she hatched. He had to admit that even as a hatchling, the beast had a grace to it, like a King or Queen amongst its kind. It was growing quite quickly. Far quicker than what was normal, now that he thought about it. They also didn’t celebrate it properly. Things had been somewhat hectic, with Rhaenyra all but running away to King’s Landing without explaining herself because of the sorcerer’s obscure words about songs of all things.
Giving her one last look before she left, Daemon promised that he would come up with a way to celebrate it properly once Viserys left Dragonstone.
Turning towards his brother, Daemon shook his head in disappointment and downed a glass of wine, “I have to admit, Viserys, you’re doing a rather good job at undermining your chosen heir.”
He truly expected Viserys not to answer, or just avoid the question, as he always did. Instead, he let out a groan, “I wish I could have named Rhaenyra my Hand, Daemon. I truly wish I could have, but tell me, how do you think she’d fare in a Court of Greens? How do you think you’d fare surrounded by people who supported Otto Hightower for years? I will not have my court turned to ashes because of some imagined slight. Rhaenys will do her duty as my hand, until the scales are balanced enough. Once this happens, we will revisit the idea of Rhaenyra being a hand.”
This time, Daemon couldn’t control himself and chuckled to himself, despite not feeling any amusement, “You are punishing your heir for your own failings. I told you many times that leaving the Hightowers unchecked would end poorly. But you don’t trust me, do you? You never have. I thought that we were brothers, that even before our disagreements and bickering, you had at least some faith in me. I won you your throne, Viserys. I fought for you. And yet, all you have given me in return is sending me away and keeping secrets from me.”
Viserys didn’t meet his eyes. He looked down at his cup, at his fingers trembling faintly around the stem, “In my life, I have made many decisions that I regret. I should have prepared Rhaenyra more. I should have listened to Otto less, perhaps. I should have… Aemma… I did not like sending you away, Daemon, but you cannot deny that you had no fault in this as well. Even now, looking back, I do not know if it was the right decision. Yet I cannot deny that I failed you as well.”
Daemon leaned back, jaw tight. “Regret means nothing if you keep doing it.”
“I am trying to hold a crumbling realm together, one that I was too ill to protect,” Viserys said, with steel in his voice. “Every choice I make alienates someone else. You are right, I allowed Otto too much influence in my court, and with it, I hurt Rhaenyra. Choosing Rhaenys as my Hand would provide the realm with more stability, something that it desperately needs. Yet, my own heir does not see this. She only sees the perceived slight and walks out of my hall like I struck her.”
They sat in silence for a long moment, the tension hanging thick between them. He wanted to yell or argue, but he could see it in his eyes, it would be akin to arguing with a wall. Viserys had made his mind, and Daemon knew from his experience that nothing would change his mind.
Viserys had made his move. Not a bold one. Not a clever one. A compromise, as always. A small, bitter part of him almost laughed. For all his talk of balancing scales and holding the realm together, his brother had done nothing more than replace one political parasite with another. Otto with Rhaenys. A Hightower with a Velaryon. And yet again, he’d chosen anyone but him.
If he’d known this would be the outcome, Daemon mused, staring into the dregs of his wine, perhaps he should have let the bitch win the Great Council. Let Rhaenys have her crown and be done with it. At least then, he wouldn’t be sitting here, denied, dismissed, and once again left holding his tongue while another got handed the reins.
Corlys must have realised the same, as Daemon could practically feel the smugness radiate from him. Oh, how he wished to cut off his tongue with Dark Sister.
But there was another serious issue: why the sorcerer had recommended Rhaenys and why Viserys listened to him. As far as he knew, all they had was a conversation on the day of the King’s arrival that barely lasted for a few minutes at best, and yet at that time, a stranger had changed the political scheme of Westeros.
The silence was deafening, oddly enough. Viserys obviously expected Daemon to react harshly, and he was really tempted to prove him right, but it wasn’t worth the effort anymore, was it?
Finally, the tension was broken as a Kingsguard knocked on the door, pushing it open just wide enough to step aside and let in a figure that Daemon had not expected to see anywhere near Dragonstone.
“Lord Larys Strong, Your Grace,” the knight announced, voice low.
The room shifted. Even Viserys looked genuinely surprised, brows rising ever so slightly as he set down his cup. “Larys? I was under the impression that you would stay in King’s Landing. In fact, I believe you said that your presence there is indispensable.”
The clubfooted man stepped inside, his cane tapping softly against the stone. Daemon always hated this man. He was the Hightower bitch’s creature, that was for certain, but there was something in the way he held himself, in the way he looked at everyone around him, that made the rider of Caraxes want to burn him.
As if to prove his point, the Master of Whisperers offered a shallow bow, eyes flicking over everyone present before resting on the King.
“I was,” he said, voice calm and composed. “But urgent news reached us. I thought it more prudent to deliver it to you personally, and the Lord Hand, in his wisdom, agreed with me.”
Daemon didn’t bother hiding the suspicion on his face. “So urgent you had to sail across half the realm yourself?”
“I believe so. Oh, how I wish I had the luxury to travel on a whim. Alas, my condition and my work in King’s Landing make it quite difficult.”
Viserys seemed irritated, but he spoke up nonetheless, “What news do you have to share with us, Lord Larys?”
“The Greyjoy Line has ended. Pyke has fallen. The Iron Islands are in chaos,” the crippled man spoke up, and that made Daemon freeze completely, the cutting remark that was at the tip of his tongue disappearing.
Viserys simply stared at the man, as if struggling to understand that piece of information. To be fair to him, this also seemed to be the general reaction outside the room: “How?”
“I do not know, your Grace. Tales are varied, and even then, they are quite… fanciful. From what I understand, Dalton Greyjoy had summoned some kind of demon that destroyed Pyke and perished. There were tales that the Drowned God itself died. There were tales of the Earth Shaking in the wrath of the Drowned God and the sea swallowing the island in its rage. I cannot proclaim to know if any of them is true, but I believe that it was a natural disaster of some sort. What I do know is that the fortress of Pyke was destroyed and that the House Greyjoy is no more.”
Gods, one of the Great Houses of Westeros was gone, in a single day.
Rhaenys spoke first, her voice neutral. “The Ironborn choose their own leaders in the case of a succession crisis, do they not? The Kingsmoot. Even the Conqueror allowed them to choose their own Lord Paramount. Will they not simply gather again and name another?”
Larys inclined his head. “Yes, Princess. That has long been their way. But the death of the Greyjoys has left more than just a seat empty. There is no clear claimant. And the belief that their god has died has shattered much of what held them together.”
Daemon scoffed, setting down his cup with more force than necessary. “The Drowned God is dead now? And they all just… accepted it?”
“They didn’t,” Larys replied mildly. “That’s the problem. The priests are in disarray, too busy denouncing each other as heretics. Some demand sacrifice to appease the sea. Others insist that the Drowned God will rise again. Pyke lies in ruin. And the Ironborn have no idea what to believe.”
“So, a civil war,” Rhaenys said, tone clipped.
“Indeed,” Larys said softly. “It is not a question of if, but when. Every Ironborn ship with sails intact is now a throne unto itself. I cannot claim to know the future, Your Grace, but the next few years look to be quite bloody for the Iron Islands. I came all of this way, because it is only the King’s right and privilege to announce whether or not the Crown should interfere, and that decision will need to be made soon.”
Corlys hummed, “A large aspect of this conflict will likely be religious in nature. The Crown’s involvement would be dangerous indeed.”
“I believe so,” the Lord of Harrenhall agreed, “But there are reports that many of the Iron Islands’ Great Houses would not welcome that intervention. It seemed that many had scions who were imprisoned in Pyke, and they seem convinced, for some reason, that a Dragonrider saved them from some demon, specifically, a woman who is said to ride a large crimson dragon.”
The entire room turned towards Rhaenys, who seemed amused more than anything, “Are you insinuating that I somehow rode my dragon to the Iron Islands and back, to destroy Pyke, battle a demon or slay the Drowned God, for some reason, and then return to Dragonstone, without anyone noticing. I know that Meleys is the fastest dragon alive, but I’m afraid that I do not believe that this could be quite possible.”
“Of course, Princess,” the crippled man retorted with a smile, “I only deal with facts, and the fact remains that the Lords of the Iron Island seem favourable to your intervention and yours alone.”
So, that was Otto's play, then. Daemon had to admit that it was inventive, if a little desperate. If he had to guess, he had used Larys to spread these rumours to make Rhaenys look like a threat to Viserys' authority. He didn't think that it would work, but Viserys could be a fickle creature sometimes. Daemon couldn't help but wonder if Viserys would have been as doubtful if it had been he who had been blamed instead of Rhaenys.
Thankfully, Viserys cut in immediately, “I need to think on this. Let us move this discussion tomorrow. Lord Larys, I believe you are due your rest after such a voyage.”
Larys bowed his head, his smile still faintly lingering. “As you command, Your Grace. I shall take my leave.”
He turned, cane tapping gently against the stone floor as he moved toward the exit, only for the door to swing open before he reached it.
Ser Criston Cole stepped inside, face hard, jaw set, and for once, completely void of that knightly polish he always seemed to wear. Daemon didn’t like the man, but even he could see that something was wrong.
“Your Grace,” Criston said, addressing Viserys directly, “I beg your pardon, but I bring urgent news. The sorcerer… he was attacked.”
That alone froze the room. But the next words shattered it.
“He was with Princess Rhaena and Princess Helaena.”
It was chaos.
Viserys rose so quickly his chair screeched backwards, barely catching himself on the table. Rhaenys spun in her seat, her goblet tipping and spilling wine across her skirts, uncaring. Daemon didn’t even realise he was moving until he was already on his feet, voice cold and sharp, “Where is she?”
Criston raised both hands. “They’re safe. Both of them. No harm done. But…”
“But what?” Daemon snapped, dread crawling down his spine.
The Kingsguard’s voice lowered. “It didn’t look like men. It looked like shadows.”
AN: It’s always fun to write Daemon. I wanted to make him bitter at Viserys not taking a stance, even after Rhaenyra healed him, and choosing Rhaenys over him. Of course, he also listened to Harry instead of him when he asked Otto to be ousted, and he and Rhaenyra kept secrets from him. I hope this chapter came out like I wanted it to, but I don’t mind rewriting it depending on your feedback. As usual, please let me know what you think and if you have any suggestions.
Comments
athass_prkr
There was a conversation that I'll allude to in later chapters. You'll see a bit what I mean in the next chapter :)
Sayantan Roy
Did harry have no conversation or interaction with Rhaenys and her husband after the events of iron islands? Did I miss that? If not can you give us a glimpse into that?
Marius Petrauskas
nice
