Ｓｉｘｔｅｅｎ
𝒽𝑜𝓊𝓈𝑒 𝑜𝒻 𝓅𝑒𝓉𝓉𝓎 𝓇𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓃𝑔𝑒
╚══ ❀•°❀°•❀ ══╝
Viserys Targaryen was never supposed to inherit the future of the house. That honor passed through many brothers, sons, and uncles of the volatile Targaryen line before ever so much as brushing upon his name. Of thirteen children, one became a nun, one a runaway, eleven dead, and it was a mystery as to how such devastation could reign in a powerful house. Some deaths were far more obvious, such as Viserra's car accident that ended both her and another of her sisters. She had been a vicious and rebellious child, refusing to marry a longstanding partner of the Targaryens.
Or perhaps Aemon, who decided to join the army and never returned, or perhaps Baelon the Brave himself, who had gone slowly insane with grief after his brother and sister's death. If age or line of succession meant anything, it would have been Rhaenys Velayron, daughter of the first heir, Aemon, who succeeded next after the passing of her father or her grandfather. Or even, for that matter, Rhaenys's son Laenor.
For Daemon Targaryen, this would not do.
The grab for power in the last years of his grandfather's life was a greedy one, and Daemon could still remember the vibrant smell of antiseptic in the air of Jaehaerys Targaryen's hospital room. On his arm was a young girl, of the sort Daemon could hardly remember. She had been lined up with a group of others when he had picked her, not just for the platinum blonde hair, or the spitting image she had of Alysanne Targaryen, but for her quick wit and ease of falling into a role.
"When one nears the end, one likes to reminisce," was his newest order, prior to entering that room. Memory was the artist, an impressionist who added color, smell, sound, and even emotion to any event at the drop of a whim.
"Alysanne?" Jaehaerys had once been a man of wise words and great wit, but the opioids had taken much of his mind in replacement for easing the pain.
The look-alike, Kala, was quick to grasp his outstretched hand, sitting at his bedside as she had many times before. Daemon Targaryen, barely a man of 22, had only watched the scene play out like the director of a film as he finally entered, shutting the hospital door behind him. His fingers splayed over old awards, and medals from the war, all reminders that such a fighter would go out, surrounded by strangers.
"My love," Kala greeted, pressing the old man's wrinkled hands to her lips as Daemon took hold of his grandfather's chart. His eyes were darting down, spotting the increase in fentanyl in comparison to his last visit. By now, the vibrant white hair on Jaehaerys's head was bare, wrinkled like the membrane of an egg, with skin so thin, it was nearly translucent. Daemon could see the vibrant blue veins, one of the many signs of the cancer spreading.
"I missed you," Jaehaerys whispered, blind in one eye by now, but he was staring intently at the young girl he thought was his wife.
"Let us bury the unpleasant past," Kala said, pressing her lips to his fingers, not minding the swelling, clubbing tips. Brave girl indeed, Daemon thought with a smirk as he flipped through the pages. It had been their fifth visit thus far, but Kala never shied from it. Determined for her cut.
"Where is Saera?" Jaehaerys asked, looking around, as if he had been cast back in time, waiting for a little girl to enter.
Daemon thought that amusing, for him of all people to ask on his aunt. Saera Targaryen was truly born at both the wrong time and to the wrong man. Her first words had been 'no'.
'You must learn to care for the household,' they had ordered, and 'no' she answered. 'Marry this man,' Jaehaerys demanded, to which she had firmly said 'no'. Daemon thought it admirable how his aunt would rather give up any claims to her cut of inheritance, all for the sake of bodily autonomy.
Now, nobody knew where she went, as flaky and flippant as the wind.
But talks of Saera had severely broken a marriage.
Kala, not knowing much of the scandalous Targaryen gossip, knew of this public one. When Saera had left, she had spit on her name, releasing scandalous material, sexual paraphernalia, and, most damning of all, her alluding to the roots the Targaryen family had still in criminal activity. There had always been whispers, competitors that have gone missing, and contracts that had no benefit to the opposing party, signed. Nobody, however, of the family had ever said a word, and whispers they remained.
Truly, she was Daemon's favorite.
"You said you wanted to never speak of her again," Kala whispered, eyes cast away, as if in pain. She had certainly done her homework, fitting into his grandmother Alysanne's skin as if it were the one she had been born to. She even adapted the mannerisms, the tapping of her fingers against her knee, the way she would wrinkle her nose when displeased, and even the exact accent, the exact inflections of tone. Truly, she was impressive.
"I was wrong," Jaehaerys said, and those were words Daemon had never heard from his grandfather, so he assumed those opioids were doing as he wanted. "I was wrong." His voice was breaking, and Daemon wondered if he remembered all the children he once had that could no longer sit beside him.
Daemon's own father had died just two months ago, setting off a chain of events that led him right here.
"Darling," Kala said, reaching over to stroke her small hands over his face. There was something motherly about her touch, a sort of instinct that Daemon had never seen in his own mother. She, however, had been young when she had him and young when she died. "Let us speak no more of Saera. She is home once more, content."
"Where is she?" Jaehaerys looked disoriented, confused, as if the world was spinning out of his control, around its axis, gone once again. He was breathless the more he talked, understandable considering cancer had by now metastasized far beyond his lungs. There wasn't much left of them now that he had undergone a partial pneumonectomy, so speaking wasn't ideal. "Where is my daughter?"
Kala stroked her fingers over his face, "She's upset Jaehaerys."
"When is she coming?" Jaehaerys whispered, his eyes wet, dripping down the sides of his face.
"She's under much pressure as your last daughter," Kala said, wiping away the tears. "So much fighting, but you needn't concern yourself. Let me read to you, my love, as I once had."
Daemon glanced up from the chart, his eyes narrow as he was once more reminded of memory and its intricate art, able to add, subtract and even embellish it. Morphing a daughter who'd sooner die than come back into the politics of a family tearing itself apart. It began with turning that daughter into someone more noble. Someone so unlike the Saera whom he knew quite well.
"Baelon is my heir," Jaehaerys had some wit yet, bits of clarity seeping back in past the drugs. Luckily, not too much sense returned, for then he'd realize who truly sat in this room with him.
"My love." Kala fluffed the man's pillows, as any good wife would. "Baelon is gone and the line is ambiguous as to whom comes next. Your will has yet to be clarified," Kala said, moving her fingers along his face as the old man leaned into her touch. He had drafted many amendments, and many new heirs, but Baelon's death had been unexpected and sudden enough that the ambiguous reading was left to debate for Velayrons to pick their teeth on.
"You would say Rhaenys once more," Jaehaerys whispered, croaking out the words as Kala continued to coo him.
"I understand your meaning now, husband," Kala told him with a gentle stroke of her fingers. "I did not before, but now I do. Baelon was a fine choice, and his son Viserys is next by right."
Daemon watched it all unfold, an impressionist, a director, a ventriloquist, and a brother. "Who are you?" Jaehaerys asked, squinting at Kala now, his weakening, diminishing vision drifting away.
"Best let him rest now, Alysanne," Daemon said, shutting the chart.
"Alysanne," Jaehaerys whispered, his voice cutting off as the pain increased. He squeezed his eyes shut, as if the very act of breathing now made the pain all too real. Daemon's fists clenched around the folder, patience certainly not his ideal method. If it were anyone else, he'd simply use blatant violence, get what he wanted, and be done.
However, Daemon was many things, but a kinslayer, he was not.
"Alysanne," Jaehaerys whispered again, attempting to reach for her, so she might not leave him. Daemon was stoic in the background as Kala looked to him, a brief glance to which he nodded.
"My love," Kala cooed, stroking her gentle fingers up his arm, over the tubes that strapped to his veins. "I have to return. They are voting soon, and Saera needs me, needs us united behind Viserys."
"Viserys?" Jaehaerys whispered again, clarity coming back.
"Your chosen heir." Kala leaned forward, switching to Valyrian as if she had spoken it all her life. "We fear there might be bloodshed if this is not decided soon."
"Let's go, Alysanne. He should rest, and we have work to be done," Daemon said carefully, watching the bits of confused clarity re-enter Jaehaerys's face as Kala kissed his cheek goodbye. He begged for her to stay, and she went on the act perfectly, embellishing memories so they might be unrecognizable to others who also experienced them. She was able to make it sound more truthful than the owner's own memory. It was all just impressions of past events, thousands of them, vying for the superior story. There was no reality and certainly no power. Power was what one took.
"You did well," Daemon said, once they made it outside the room. The moment the doors closed, his clever little actress straightened, no longer the facade of a long-since-dead grandmother. She immediately opened her compact mirror, taking off the blue contacts with two swipes of her fingers.
Her true eyes were a rich, dark brown that were so deep that they reminded him of his sleepless nights, awake, and staring into the creeping darkness. Ever the restless soul, Daemon felt compelled to look deeper, searching for something inside her. However, her soul was a veiled thing, and her eyes were not about to show him anything. Eyes certainly weren't good liars, but oftentimes, they were so guarded that they revealed nothing at all.
"Did I?" Kala asked, and now her accent had amended, back to the one she had picked up in Harlem, where he had met her.
Daemon had always been a cog in the machine of his family, never comfortable in their sparkling lights and public image. Ever the good son was never how anyone would describe him. Reckless and cruel and ambitious were far more adequate descriptors. His father had been just as mad, just as impetuous, but where his father earned the nickname 'Baelon the Brave', Daemon was 'the Rogue' or 'the Bastard of Flea Bottom'.
Aptly named, he supposed. On the days he met Kala and her group, they had been congregated under the bridge, mostly boys, kids who lived nowhere, and who had nowhere else to go. That was certainly not Daemon, who, despite not being in line to the great inheritance, was still from great money. Baelon had not been a poor man, having made his own millions off the loans from his father.
However, while Daemon had many places to go, he never felt a sense of belonging in the niche that he was to occupy. There was always a restless peace that he despised.
"He didn't fold," Kala said, glancing over to Daemon as she took out her lipstick to reapply the deep red, matching the Targaryen colors. "And you walk away, yet again, with nothing." She sneered at him, no sign of that motherly touch that she had adopted within those four white walls. Perhaps the sterilization of the antiseptics had erased her terrible personality.
She went to walk away, but he had gripped her arm, dragging her right back to him. Her dark brown eyes stared into his very soul, and she looked unimpressed with what she saw there.
"We walk away with nothing," Daemon reminded her, and her nostrils flared, but even then, her eyes were veiled. "I am starting to believe you do not want to walk away with anything. Or, perhaps you would rather back my cousin Rhaenys in my stead?"
Rhaenys would likely never take the aid of someone who betrayed another to go to her side, but Daemon could never tell with her. Daemon could barely tell if it was his cousin who wanted the inheritance and title, or her husband, or if their will was one and the same.
"I back the winning team," she said simply, staring at where his hand had wrapped tightly around her arm. "Even if I think you are insane."
Daemon's brows arched, but she wasn't done.
"The ones who are crazy enough to think they can be at the top are always the ones that do anyway, so what does it matter?" Kala tore her arm from his grasp, and the fabric of her long sleeve dress nearly singed his hand. "Just remember who helped put you there once you have everything you want."
"I am an honest man," he told her, and she scoffed as if he had told a joke. "Who wouldn't go back on a deal."
"You are a manipulator," she said slowly, staring straight into his eyes, unperturbed about the reputation that made him out as deadly. His family might be fine trying to pretend they had always been clean, making honest trades, but he saw the world for what it was. Men at the top would destroy everything to stay there, so why not be that man? Someone was going to do it anyway, so why not him? Alas, the second son meant he'd have to make do with the meager pickings, becoming crueler in order to be great.
"I am more of an outcome engineer," he told her instead. "And I will get what I want with or without you." Her scowl deepened, and he sent her an apologetic smile that only a gentleman could give. "But I'd prefer you with me."
"Your grandfather can't handle any increase in drugs. He will die soon, and from how it sounds, it looks like he finally wants to give his support at women's suffrage," Kala said with both brows raised, crossing her arms as if the entire situation was hilarious. Which, as Daemon knew, it was. No one had been more against women's rights than his grandfather, who had pointedly called his daughter a whore for having a boyfriend. He, who never denied the rumors that she sailed away to become a high-class prostitute across the sea.
"Belief is easily manipulated," Daemon replied. "Only knowledge is dangerous to us now. Make certain he believes Saera backs Viserys, make him believe that next time, and we both win."
"And if we are too late? If he dies first?" Kala asked, carefully.
"Then he dies and we make due," Daemon smiled down at her, no warmth to be found since eyes didn't lie. "Perhaps next time, he will be in brighter spirits."
"What if Rhaenys attempts the same thing? Attempts to appeal to him?" Kala asked carefully.
"She wouldn't. An honest and fair woman, my cousin," Daemon said, almost fondly. "That's why she'll lose."
Kala shook her head. "As you wish. Perhaps send me more family gossip, and I will read through it to use next visit," she agreed, waving at him from over her shoulder. His eyes dragged down her once more, but they were as restless as he was, and they slipped back to the door where his grandfather lay. He was hardly recognizable to him, and perhaps that was a bit disappointing.
Perhaps he did want, after all these years, to not have to do this. Perhaps, stupidly, he wanted someone to turn to him and say he was enough. But Daemon had learned long ago that respect could not always be given, and second sons had to take it.
So, he continued on his way, always scheming.
The streets of New York were always noisy, but when one is from a family treated like royalty, they often became suffocating. So, when it was necessary, Daemon liked to blend in, and this was made easier with the rain, where everyone had their eyes down, umbrellas up, and hoods shielding them. He could slip in easier, slithering around the streets that he knew so well.
Although it was only six, the sky was already blanketed by thick darkness. The fog was made thicker by the East River, where it blurred every detail with its rough veils, punctured at various distances from the glow of looming towers and rays of light that escaped from the thousands of illuminated windows. His shoes slapped against the rain-soaked roads, glittering from the many street lamps. A bitter wind swept past, heavy with icy particles, against his face.
He had little thought as he made his way past the crowds, everyone's pace in hurried, incognizant steps. He made it to the hotel first, quick to notice the many cars pulled up, familiar ones of the differing family. It already answered for him much of what he already knew was to come.
"I don't even want to be heir," Viserys told him later into the night, to which Daemon found laughable. "I want nothing from Jaehaerys."
It had been a long night of weighted discussion, family yelling, screaming, vying for differing names in the ever-growing pool. Rhaenyra Targaryen would never know the actual work that went into making certain a woman did not gain power, as Daemon would never be the one to tell her.
But the current Rhaenyra was a six-year-old, who enjoyed playing in her mother's gardens over the politicking and scheming of the Targaryens who occupied the hotel.
"You have the best claim," Daemon told his brother instead, sitting against the chair with little care for his wet shoes or the bits of water sliding down his face. The conversation needn't ever happen if Daemon had been born four years earlier than his older brother who would rather read and frolic around Europe than have true responsibility. Daemon might have been quick to temper, perhaps even cruel, but he was learned and worked for the influence that he wanted and Viserys did not. "Whether you want it is irrelevant."
"They are all insane," Viserys continued as if he did not hear it. He was pacing the hotel suite, forced out of his home in Dragonstone, just to make certain he did not miss his grandfather's death. It was a duty rather than a want, but he made it clear that he and his family only wanted to return, not get trapped in New York and forced to continue the fight of legacy. "The 'discussion'," Viserys continued, putting air quotes around the word with both his hands. "Was hardly that and even then, cousins who I thought myself fond of were already against me. Just let Rhaenys's son Laenor have it, and be done with it."
"Laenor is seven," Daemon's low voice cut through the sizzling tension, eyes narrowed. He had thought his greatest opposition would be the dozen cousins who all thought themselves best fit, and would have suspected it to be his own brother. He had known Viserys was squeamish about the responsibility but thought it was something he'd eventually get over.
"Rhaenys would do well in his stead." Viserys shook his head as he spoke, and Daemon followed his brother's line of vision toward the room where his daughter slept silent in her bed. Aemma was pointedly quiet, pouring herself more wine from across the room. "She deserves it far more than I do and she would do right by the Targaryens as a whole."
"She is a Velaryon," Daemon said carefully, now standing. "You would have the legacy our family built, chisel away to a woman with another man's name?"
"It's only a name," Viserys said, only twenty-four, but he had grown stout and old in Dragonstone. He had dined on the great feasts offered, fit for a king, and enjoyed all the benefits of firstborn to Baelon the Brave. Daemon thought it ironic that once the piper came, his brother would rather ignore the call.
"Only a name," Daemon whispered in high Valyrian, the sound coming out harsh and guttural. "It's all that is left of us. It's what will succeed us. And, in the end, it doesn't much matter to me what you want."
Viserys shook his head with an incredulous laugh, as if he couldn't believe what he was hearing. He spoke in English, as though he were refusing the very blood in his veins. "I am not the chosen heir, and there are many others who desire it as much as I do. Baratheon and Velaryon alike." He finally reaches for the paper that rested near Aemma's bottle of wine. She pointedly flinches as he yanks it from the surface, slapping it into Daemon's chest so hard that it nearly winds him.
Daemon doesn't rise, even as violence travels throughout his bloodstream, begging for retaliation. If it had been anyone else, maybe he might have met it. Instead, he sends one, unimpressed glance toward his brother, and grabs the Newspaper that had fallen onto his lap. It was the front page, written in bold lettering, that caught Daemon's ever-present attention.
THE TARGARYEN FAMILY TREE IS A CIRCLE
Daemon's eyes continued down the page, his fists clenched into the pages as he read down the lines upon lines of slander, but what got his ire was the intro. 'Delegations arrive to discuss the future of House Targaryen and their multibillion-dollar enterprise that makes up much of the global economy. This puritan family has been private since old Valyria's destruction, but the last few decades have concluded that their image is a farce. Child labor factories in China, shady business deals, and now allegations of incest have come to light. Sources conclude that cousins marries cousins or daughters to fathers inside the workings of the richest family in the world. This is seen in Viserys Targaryen's marriage with Aemma Arryn, the fifth child of duke Rodrik Arryn. The former Arryn, unbeknownst the public, is the second cousin to the Targaryens meant to take over after the peaceful and wise Jaehaerys.'
"I will accept no slander of my family," Viserys hissed out the words, and Daemon's eyes slowly trailed up to him, lips in a tight frown.
"Is this all?" Daemon asked, flipping the paper to reach the employment section where the help wanted portion was printed. "Perhaps, should you be so unambitious and weak-willed, you should be looking at this page instead."
Those rumors had always been apparent, and the Targaryens made quick work to squash hearsay before they began to sink in and expose the family's 'queer customs'. Baelon and Alyssa were much too close, or so they said in the press. Daemon had heard every variation of his father and aunt's relationship. He had heard every insult, meant to bury his family, despite his mother's attempt to quell the rumors. Sometime later, much later, the rumors became so damning that Baelon and his sister could no longer be seen in the same room together, lest something nefarious come out to the public. His father was lost to grief when Alyssa died, and it was said that even his grief was a sign of guilt.
Daemon's mother was an ample, olive-dark woman with this permanently worn and disappointed look on her face. Daemon could remember so few characteristics these days about her besides him. He would, at times, try to find her in his face, study his reflection in mirrors as if he could reach in and pull her out. She had spent her entire life doing things for others, and occasionally, Daemon had caught her, heard the mulling plaintiveness in that lull of her voice that suggested she deeply regretted this.
Baelon didn't have nearly the same reaction when his wife had died, one moment there, and gone the next. What must it have felt like, Daemon often wondered, to lie back in a warm bath, letting the blood drip slowly into the water from slashed wrists? What a voluptuous and yet dwindling feeling. Daemon could still remember her face when he knocked open the bathroom door, so pale and serene and peaceful and lost. He had played some of her music at the funeral, played it from books he found, and having never known she had written it. How many gifts had this woman given up for the sake of children that people said weren't her own?
Daemon stood, shoving the paper into his brother's chest, walking past him to grab his own glass from the shelves, pouring from Aemma's wine. He looked at her as he did, the harshness leaving his face when he said, "Are you alright?"
Aemma's gaze trailed up at him, her eyes glassy, before she looked away again, staring off into space with deep timorous breaths that she tried to quell.
"I am trying to save my family," Viserys said, practically shaking. "You care only for yourself, and not the family you dare say you fight for."
Daemon's harsh scowl deepened, but he took a long drink from the glass, not stopping until he reached the dregs. "I suspect it was the Baratheons," he said in a low tone, eyes slipping over to his brother, ignoring the jab. "It is beneath both Corlys and Rhaenys to slander their own kin."
"I don't give a rat's arse who it was," Viserys shouted, only to have Aemma finally rise to life, fire and temper in her gaze, pinned on him. She was always more reticent about her personal affairs, far more than his brother. It also meant that when she showed them, Daemon had a mind to listen.
"This will follow our daughter. You may not care, but I do," Aemma replied, now standing, nearly staggering from the cloud of alcohol, and might have if Daemon had not steadied her by the arm. "I know exactly what snake did this."
Viserys lowered to his seat, looking already put out, his face in his hands. "I want to hear nothing more on the matter. Leave," he said to Daemon. "Back to your city of silk. To your bedlam of whores. I will fix this tomorrow, when I cast my vote for Rhaenys."
There was truly no advantage, as far as Daemon could see, in having a brother: he chewed with his mouth open, ate every single bag of crisps before Daemon could have even one, and was an ungrateful arsehole. Daemon worked his entire life and busted his arse just to keep himself relevant. Everything he had was often forgotten, his achievements diminished, and Viserys would never understand since he had been handed everything, only to bitch about it all as something he never wanted.
Viserys was the oldest. When their father died, he had said to him 'look out for your brother' on his deathbed. He never said a word to Daemon, as if it never occurred to him in the end. Perhaps Daemon made it his duty to look after his older brother, in spite of it all.
Daemon let out a laugh, "As you wish, brother," he said, not meaning it as he shared one last moment with Aemma. There was a fire in her that his brother seriously lacked, and it called to him now as she grabbed her phone and slyly went down her contacts, stopping at Tamar Baratheon, fifth cousin, and a traitor.
Daemon blinked, languid and lazy, before placing his hand on Aemma's shoulder and left.
Daemon didn't get to choose this family, but he had grown to be tolerant and even fond of it at times. Vengeance and retribution required patience and time, just to get it right, but such things were not a luxury here. So, he had 17 hours to save the family that his brother was determined to destroy.
─────•~❉᯽❉~•─────
Mohammad Ali once said, "You kill my dog, you better hide your cat."
Aptly true statement.
Nobody with a sense of morals wandered the streets of Brownsville after dark. Brownsville, also named Flea Bottom to the inhabitants of Brooklyn, was lit only with a few streetlamps as Daemon saw the two men lingering outside the staircases that would lead down into a lower subsection of the street. Daemon barely glanced at them, walking down and opening the door after unlocking the many padlocks that barred it from the public. The inside smelt like a mixture of smoke and weed, the chairs all stacked on tables, but patrons never arrived to sit in them.
The room was filled with fumes as Daemon walked behind the empty bar to pour himself a glass of bourbon, hearing the doors close as Blood and Cheese walked inside. Certainly not the names that Daemon would have chosen for anything, but their methods were far more effective and impressive than their ability to choose a nickname under pressure. Also, they didn't ask questions, had had loyalty above all else.
"Twice in a year, Daemon," Blood said with a crooked grin, showing off a chipped tooth from the last time Daemon saw him. The Targaryen couldn't even remember why he punched him, but knew he wouldn't have minded never stopping. Even now, his fists thirsted for it, thirsted for anything to fill the empty quiet. "Must be a nasty business, having all those fancy cars and no other way to keep them."
Daemon laughed into his cup, contemplating murder once more.
"Perhaps this time, consider forgiveness," Cheese suggested, certainly the less savage of the two. However, considering he grew up in the underground, rat-infested tunnels of New York, homeless and alone and scraping off the crimes of society, he was no mere pushover. When Daemon recruited him, Cheese attempted to mug him, to knife him, but hadn't succeeded in either when Daemon offered him a beer.
"I always forgive my enemies," Daemon said carefully, passing over the folder tucked into his suit and sliding it over the bar. "But not a second before they are hanged."
Blood was the one who took it, brows rising in surprise. "You've never targetted family before," Blood said, and Cheese looked at the file over his shoulder.
"Family is rather subjective," Daemon said, setting the empty glass on the bar surface. "See it done by tonight. Should be an easy one. Payout enough to fix that tooth."
Blood ran his filthy palm along his jaw with a cracked smile. "Better to buy drinks. Forget it's even broken that way."
Daemon only snorted, finishing off the bourbon, despite not liking the taste. Daemon liked very little, at the end of the day. His eyes were always moving, darting to the double doors that he knew led to the backroom where the Second Sons were currently working. He could practically smell the smoke from beneath the doors, fumigating the space with a cloud of narcotics. Blood was the one who followed his line of sight with that annoying and crooked grin.
"Find out who's been scraping off the top?" Daemon finally asked, towards the empty silence that Blood filled with the scraping of his chair against the busted floors. No point in ever fixing up a temporary operation, Daemon had said before.
"Someone working under the Hightowers," Cheese said carefully towards the austerity of Daemon's frown, lighting up the joint and blowing it into the empty space to his right. It melded and mixed with the cloud of smoke behind him. "That Bronz kid had little else to say. Just another rat."
Daemon had figured as much. Otto Hightower had been a sycophant, sucking on his father's veins for a drop of gold. When Baelon died, it hadn't surprised him that the leech had found a new host, ever the obsequious servant towards the House of the Dragon. Or so he said.
"Kill him." Daemon had known of the boy, barely seventeen. He had even liked him for he seemed anxious to please yet not in an unctuous way. It was not Daemon who sent boys in, rushing along flea bottom and looking for a second son's complacency. "Quickly and cleanly." It was mercy, Daemon supposed, considering he didn't mind the Bronz boy and his ire would always be with the Hightower who made it his goal to poison the family to whom he swore his allegiance. Despite what Otto would have Viserys believe, Daemon didn't act without thinking.
Otto Hightower, who hid behind the Faith and used it to justify his own misdeeds. There were dead kids dumped in sewers who did not care about one man's righteousness. Justly so, Daemon refused to hide behind the guise of vengeance.
The House of the Dragon would be no more, slowly deteriorating and dividing with Otto's ambition to rise above his station.
"Send his daughter the hands," Daemon said with some manner of grim austerity. He had tried retaliating against Otto himself, but the war seemed to continue, despite all his attacks, both subtle and otherwise.
"Alicent Hightower? She's 9." Cheese seemed to disapprove, but Blood was already chuckling into his absinthe.
"Which is why I am not sending a head," Daemon answered, gripping the table with white knuckles. "See it done."
Once he was back onto the dark streets of Brooklyn he kept his hood up and head down, blending in with the city once more. The city was illuminating itself against the oncoming night. Electric lights sizzled and jagged in the main thoroughfares, and street lights in the side streets glimmered a canary green or bright gold. The stars were constricted by the millions of lights, only a few visible in the spring sky. The smoke in Long Island would mitigate the splendor, and the sky would be blazing in a crimson battlefield by morning. New York would move on, not minding the sirens that will befall it come first light. The clouds of the street would be a delicately painted ceiling overhung against Tamar Baratheon's household come morning.
But the murder of a cousin was not Daemon's intention. The dead could not suffer, after all.
He arrived back late into the night, where all that was left of evidence to their presence was the drained bottle of wine that Aemma had left atop the table and a box of tissues, now empty as well. Daemon had shrugged off his coat, tossing it on the rack as he went searching for water in the fridge, walking about the royal suite with a roll of his eyes.
His brother, ever the first to complain about his role, seemed content using all that power and money to stay in the most expensive suite at the Ritz-Carlton. He sat at the long, black marble table with only the dim lights on the ceiling, leaving the room with a soft yellow glow, reflecting against the freshly wiped modern art on the white walls.
He was neck deep in paperwork, in phone calls to lawyers, late night talks with old friends, when he heard the pitter-patter of footsteps against the hardwood floors. He glanced over, barely paying attention to the unwanted guest as she entered. He sighed, watching her stretch her arms above her head with a loud yawn that could shake the room.
"Uncle Daemon?" Rhaenyra Targaryen said with a sleep-filled voice that made him lower his head into his hand, as if she would not see him. He continued to scrape his pen across the page as she pattered her loud feet across the room to force out the chair across from him. The wood scraped loudly across the ground, filling the once-empty silence with noise as she struggled to climb atop the seat. She was only six, but now, with how loud she was being, she was living on borrowed time.
"Yeah, I heard you, but it's a bit late tomorrow. Get it by 7," he said on the phone, watching Rhaenyra struggle to hobble her tiny legs atop the chair.
"Whatcha doing?" Rhaenyra asked, yawning again, wearing her silk pajamas that read 'Ritz-Carlton' in bold letters across the pocket on the top. Over that, was a robe that was obviously not for children considering she drowned in it. It likely belonged to her mother, and she used it as a blanket.
"Go back to sleep," he said, and scowled, his eyes snapping towards the phone as the voice answered back. "No, obviously not you, moron. Get back to work."
"It looks boring," Rhaenyra continued, not minding his harsh tone.
"It is," Daemon said, putting the phone on mute to speak. "Which is why I am attempting to spare you of it. Go to sleep."
"No," Rhaenyra said with a smile, bouncing on her seat so she could sit on her knees instead, that way the table's surface wasn't at her neck. He watched with disinterest, unmuting himself to answer the next set of questions. "I want to spare from boring."
"No, the other one. Print that and have your signature at the bottom," Daemon ordered, muting himself again, his eyes back to his niece. "You don't even know what spare means."
She shrugged, not denying it. "I know lots of other words," she said instead. "Like circle. I know that word."
Daemon's brows furrowed together. "What?"
She made a circle with her fingers, as if to show him. "I know that word. I know the word tree too. There were trees outside Dragonstone before daddy made us leave. I want to go back to see the rowan trees."
Daemon's brows smoothed, not surprised when she pulled the newspaper from under her mother's ginormous robes. She opened right to the front page, pointing to the title with furrowed brows.
"I'll call you back," Daemon said over the phone, hanging up without waiting for an answer, eyes scanning from the title of the paper and up toward Rhaenyra's confused but determined face.
On the paper, she had circled several words with her crayons, and the page was covered in wrinkles, letting him know someone, maybe her, had balled it up into a fist. She pointed to the word circled in blotchy green crayon. "I don't know this word."
This was probably a moment to be serious, so Daemon probably shouldn't have laughed, but there this six-year-old was, pointing to the New York Times with the word 'incest' circled twice in crayon. He let out a laugh that he barely managed to hide with his fist. He lowered his face towards the documents aligned beneath him, sprawled out, and his shoulders shook.
"What's funny?" Rhaenyra asked, pointing to the word again, angry now. "I know this word," she said, moving along to others amongst the page, as if he were laughing at her lack of vocabulary. "And this one." She moved her finger again. And again. "What is this one?"
He let out a deep breath, feeling severely underqualified and far too sober for this position. He met her indigo eyes once more, trying to think of something to say as she stared up at him with that determined expression that told him nothing less than the truth would satiate her. His lips spread into a slightly fond smile, finding that an admirable quality.
She was certainly annoying, most definitely unwanted, but half the time, so was he. "Why do you want to know so badly?" Daemon asked, hoping to deflect her, but his niece was not so easily distracted. Perhaps when she was 4, he could throw a ball in one direction and she'd chase it like a wild labrador, but no longer.
"I asked first," she said instead, pointing to the word again. "Papa cried holding it. I seen it happen," she switched to Valyrian, as if hoping he'd answer if she showed him her skill. Her vernacular had certainly gotten better than the last he taught her some of the language, once it appeared obvious Viserys wasn't interested in doing so.
"Your uncle is handling it," Daemon said instead, and watched her brows furrow, her expression growing more irritated that he had yet to give her a Webster's Dictionary definition. How one explains to a six-year-old what incest was, Daemon did not know. He never liked to talk to her like a child, perhaps the only one who did not. It could be tiresome, as he well remembered, to be spoken down to in such a way. Too many already did, and Daemon didn't want to add his name to that growing tally.
"What is it?" Rhaenyra asked again.
"Your cousin Laenor, you remember him?" Daemon asked instead, and she shrugged, which wasn't really an answer, but Daemon didn't much care. "Imagine you marry him."
"I'd rather die," Rhaenyra interrupted, her nose wrinkling.
He shook his head, "No, that's what that word means."
"Laenor doesn't wash his hands," Rhaenyra said, not listening.
"What?"
"When he goes poopy," Rhaenyra said, waving her hand. "He doesn't wash. He's gross. Is this article about that?"
Daemon's eyes darted to the side, sensing his out. "Yes."
"Oh," Rhaenyra said, glancing down at it. "I see." She carefully began to fold the newspaper into little squares, her lips pursed as she worked. Daemon watched her, still holding his pen as she continued until the New York Times was folded so much that it spurned any new attempt to bend. "Can you take this away?" Rhaenyra tossed it atop his pile of work, where it bounced once. "It made mummy and daddy sad. Laenor should wash his hands." She hopped off the chair, nearly tripping on her robes as she attempted to push in her seat. Some of the bulky material got caught underneath the wood leg, and he watched her yank it out with an ungraceful hiss and close her robes over her small body.
It dragged behind her as she walked back out of the dining room.
"Night uncle Daemon," she called from behind her, and Daemon stared after her with furrowed brows.
He blinked, rubbing his fingers over his temples with a slow laugh, forced out of his trachea as he lifted his phone to return to his call, first texting Kala one last time.
─────•~❉᯽❉~•─────
Saera Targaryen had no claim to any inheritance, and the entirety of support would drop should she ever be named heir. Unlikely, every soul with breath in them would deny aid, tarnishing the name that nobody knew was so fragile. However, Daemon did not need Saera's voice or even her presence. Her name was a mine, and one that Kala had studied up on in the long night.
When she sat by Jaehaerys bed once again that morning, they went panning for gold.
"Old age makes old men regret life decisions," Daemon whispered to Kala as they stood around, waiting for the will's final draft. Jaehaerys was certainly more lucid, but his memory of the events had changed and morphed with Kala's craft.
"Shame it couldn't come about sooner," Kala said back, glancing back towards Daemon's heated gaze, staring down at her. "Perhaps, should he have been a decent father, he'd still have some daughters left."
"That's a terrible thing to say about a family not your own," Daemon said back, lips twitching in a smirk.
"You've certainly said worse about them," she replied, and he shrugged.
"Because I can," he told her, his voice lowering an octave. "You may not."
Kala tilted her head sideways, saying, "I read that Jaehaerys once said that the best way to keep his daughters out of hot water was to pile dishes in it. Was that a rumor?"
Daemon snorted, looking away, "He's from a different time, one that hopefully dies out."
Kala's eyes narrowed, "men like you keep it alive."
Daemon didn't look back at her as he watched his grandfather sign on the dotted line. "Rhaenys would do well in a position of his caliber of power, better than Viserys ever would. Of that, I know. But Viserys has something that she does not."
Kala only watched the hard work they put into the endeavor pay off, saying, "and what's that?"
Daemon only laughed, "No sons." That makes me heir, Daemon thought, careful not to voice it. A raintree bent towards a window on one side of the bungalow, a quaint little place, perfect to welcome the death of an old man. It was an eavesdropping little branch, but the voices would not travel past the windows until Daemon wanted them to.
Kala pursed her lips, and said, "But he also has a daughter. Does that not worry you?"
Daemon did not answer, only walking forward to oversee the last signature of a dying man. He had only love for his niece, pretty gifts to spoil her, sweets to fatten her, and affection to turn her complacent without ever realizing that indulgences serve only to weaken her. He'd shower her gold, without ever realizing that the weight of such was a heavy one.
He was the true heir, and no little girl would take his place and ruin the House he served and bled for.