117 AC, Driftmark
The splendor of the great hall of Sea Snake was greatly diminished so late into the night. The servants had been sequestered away – to question or to execute, Daemon did not care which – and the rest of the nobles were too distraught over the Hightower to be in the mood for the planned revels of the evening.
Even the surprise announcement of his marriage to Laena was not enough to lighten the somber mood and the Keep had grown quiet as the grave far earlier than it was meant to.
Not that Daemon cared.
He was in no mood for revels.
"Must we always do this dance?"
Daemon sniffed the pastry in his hand, turning it over and over before he tossed it aside and picked up another. The first smelled strongly of old shoes – somehow – and peppers. He took a bite of the second. And then another. It was the third that told him he wouldn't enjoy and he set it back on the plate, half eaten and the problem of someone else.
Daemon dropped into the nearest seat and waited for Viserys to elaborate.
But he did not.
Instead, he continued to stare at him.
Pale purple eyes searching his face.
Viserys kept himself perched on the Driftwood throne for only a moment longer before he gave up the gambit and stepped down. He was not the tallest man, a fact which Daemon never let him forget when he finally outstripped him in their shared youth, and relied heavily on the might and majesty of the world around him to elevate his stature and remind them of who their King really was.
It did not work.
Or perhaps it did.
For all save for Daemon, who would never forget the image of his brother on the back of Balerion the Dread and the shadow of a man he had become. The first ravages of illness had already taken their hold – poisoning his skin and rotting muscle beneath – and he could hardly reconcile the once fearsome dragon rider with the man now.
"Daemon," Viserys pressed, sounding tired. He peered down at the table of sweets, lips pursed. It was a cobbled together assortment, left behind from breakfast before the bulk of the Tourney, and had been well and truly picked over. When the chaos of the death of Ormund Hightower's death burned the brightest, the sweets were brought back out as a pacifying measure. But now that the fallout seemed to have finally simmered into low embers, they were left with the scraps.
"No," Daemon finally admitted, shoulders sagging. He gave up on trying to find the perfect pastry distraction and instead started his search for wine.
Even if it was of the salty variety.
Viserys sank down into his own chair, mirroring Daemon's crumpled posture.
Like a pair of old men, whose burdens had become too great, they sagged under the weight of their own thoughts.
It had been a hell of a day.
"Do I need to ask for permission?" Daemon asked, folding his arms over his chest.
"To marry Laena? Even if you did, I highly doubt you would be of the mind to ask." Viserys looked at Daemon for a brief moment, face impassive before the pair of them shared a knowing smile.
"No, I suppose I am not."
"You do not sound overly happy about your new bride," Viserys said, watching his face carefully. "I had hoped to someday see you in wedded bliss, but it appears…"
"The Lady Laena wishes to travel with her father on his next trade mission," Daemon said, cutting off Viserys as he began to feel antsy.
Something itched at the back of his mind.
Something wicked.
Something awful.
Why should he have to do it? Why should he throw away himself, all in service of the daughter he never wanted? He was chattel to his family once- a bargaining chip to keep the Vale in line – and he swore to himself that he would never again be pulled so low. And yet, he was. Only this time, he was the one doing it to himself.
Willingly.
Gladly.
Without a second thought.
Resentment built inside him at the very idea of it all. Children were supposed to mold their lives to their parents, not the other way around. The pettiest part of him wanted to hold Ophaella to blame. It was her, after all, that was the center point to all his recent troubles. But every time he felt his anger for her growing, it was quickly replaced by a concern of equal or greater measure.
And he despised himself for that fact.
He despised himself for becoming a man he could hardly recognize.
For becoming the man he swore he would never be again.
A man who compromised. Who acquiesced. Who bent his knee and served at the will of anyone but himself.
Above all else, he swore he would find himself in no marital bed save for the one he wanted to share with Rhaenyra.
"To where?"
"Bravos, at first. After, who knows?"
The prospect sparked nothing but dread deep in his gut. He did not find Laena Velaryon uncomely, but there was no great swelling of love or lust or even like in his chest whenever he looked at her. Instead, when he looked on her beautiful face – a face that held no great love for him in return – all he saw was his own cage. A cage that he now willingly locked himself inside of, all to keep his daughter safe.
The Daemon of ten years ago would dash the Daemon of now against the rocks just for the mere thought.
"Daemon," Viserys started, voice dipping into concern. "Tell me true."
Tell him true.
What even was the truth anymore?
Was it the grim reality of what his daughter really was?
Or was it the façade they would maintain – the lie that would become the truth?
Daemon looked down at his hands and picked at the skin of his fingers, realizing, quite suddenly, why Alicent Hightower was so fond of doing so. Easier to pull at his own seams than let the world unravel them.
"Do you know what happened with the Hightower?"
"Why would you say a queer thing like that?"
"I may choose to act the fool to avoid being drawn into our family's abject nonsense, but I am not blind and I am not stupid. You have ignored my advice to find a wife for nearly two years. Laena is beautiful - if not a little young - but you have never as much as made eye contact with her. Am I to believe that you suddenly wish to throw off your cloak of bachelordom and play the part of the family man?"
"You may believe what you wish."
"Daemon," Viserys snapped, looking at Daemon in such a way that he felt pinned in place. They were only four years apart in age, but there were times that Daemon felt it was thrice that. He sank further into his chair, grimacing at the feel of the uneven grain.
He squirmed.
What wouldn't he give to be on the back of Caraxes right then?
"Was it Ophaella?" Viserys asked a prolonged moment.
Daemon supposed that was a reasonable conclusion to draw from his continued silence. It was also a reasonable conclusion to draw given that he had already told his brother about his worries for his daughter and her possible connections to Old Valyria.
But it still raised his hackles.
"No," Daemon practically snarled and the something wicked at the back of his mind turned towards the one person he should trust most.
But he had been banished from his side and his court one too many times to fully trust the Brother instead of the King.
The Brother might have more concern for his niece – tendency to get her eyes stuck in the sky, her mind stuck in a dragon, and her hands turned towards murder, aside. But the King, the one who had been up against the machinations of his advisors, his wife, and Daemon himself for years. A new something – something exciting, something powerful, something unheard of – might be just the thing the King needed to regain the power he had lost in his own court.
There were four people who knew the full extent of what had happened.
And that number would stay at four.
Laena, Aemond, himself and Ophaella.
Laena, he would strangle in her sleep at the first sign of betrayal.
Aemond, he feed to his dragon watch the body burn.
Himself, he would throw off the highest tower.
Ophaella, he was not sure there was a limit to what he would do to keep her safe.
The something wicked built once again before it turned sour and gave way to pure misery.
He despised himself more in that moment than he thought he ever had before.
"She was at the Tourney. Your son will attest to being with her the entire time. Ignoring the geographical impossibilities, she is also seven." Daemon hoped the reminder of her age would hint of the ludicrous nature of the very idea.
"You must admit it is strange, Daemon."
"What?"
"The entire affair," Viserys said, thoroughly put out. "Hobart is demanding blood as payment for the life of his son. He seems half crazed and might be of the mind to take it himself."
"And you would turn his anger on a little girl?"
"No. Truthfully, I care not. Ormund Hightower was a drunken fool who brought more shame to his house than he was worth. But he was the heir to his own and his father will not allow his death to be forgotten. Your little stunt with Lady Laena might have pulled attention, but that will fade and his son will still be dead."
"And Ophaella will still not be the one who did it."
"You must admit, the timing of it all is quite convenient." Viserys leaned back in his seat and folded his arms across his chest.
"Whatever conclusions you must draw, keep Ophaella out of them." Daemon stood, feeling himself unable to stomach another moment of this conversation. "I will speak to Lord Corlys tomorrow and ask his permission to marry his daughter."
"And if he says no?"
"I will marry her anyway."
Viserys stood up as well, anger masking his worn out face for a brief moment before it was replaced with resignation.
Perhaps he saw something in Daemon's expression or heard something in his voice. Perhaps the years of being pulled in all directions by the people he loved had finally started to wear on and he simply no longer cared.
Or perhaps he understood that there was nothing doing either way.
Daemon would marry Laena Velaryon.
He would take his daughter east.
And he would do so with or without the blessing of the King.
But he hoped to find the goodwill of his brother.
"I will ensure that Lord Corlys does not object," Viserys said after a long moment.
Daemon inclined his head ever so slightly in thanks.
"There is one more thing," Daemon said, keeping his voice as light and as conversational as possible.
"What?" Viserys almost sounded loathe to ask, but he did anyway, narrowing his eyes as he looked over Daemon once again.
"I would request that Aemond come with us. I am in need of a squire and he shares a closeness with Ophaella. I believe it would be good for them bo-"
"So, you would like to my face about your daughter's involvement in the death of my wife's cousin and then expect me to give up one of my sons as well?"
The son he cared the least for, but a son nonetheless.
Daemon clenched his fists by his side, willing himself to be accommodating.
It was a big ask.
He knew how might react if their roles were reversed - if he had a son that Viserys wanted to steal away and take across the Narrow Sea – but at the moment he could not afford the sympathy. He needed the boy. Not out of any sentimental desire or want for his daughter to have a friend, but a need for insurance.
They might think twice about coming for his daughter if he had their son.
At the very least, he could make sure of the boy's silence until he figured out a more permanent solution.
Maybe he would kill him one day.
Maybe he would find him a nice wife to marry up near Winterfell.
Maybe he would need to nothing at all.
But until that time came and until he sure of his commitment to silence, he would keep the boy close and under his eye.
"He is your second son, Viserys," Daemon said. "You have your heir in Rhaenyra and your spare in Aegon. You have no need for Aemond."
"His mother would not look kindly on such descriptions."
"They are the truth. A second son is good for one thing and one thing only." Daemon was not sure who he was speaking more about, Aemond or himself.
"He is five, Daemo-" Viserys started, only to be cut off by Daemon's scoff.
"He is seven, Viserys, and he hates everything and everyone almost as much as I did at that age." Not strictly the truth, considering Daemon only knew enough of the boy to know that he did not like the way he looked at Ophaella and seemed to stick to her like lichen. Seven, five, thirty-five, or dead in the ground, he would never accept that from the little prick, blood relation or not. "Squiring helped me. Let it help him."
"As far you as you were capable of being helped."
"You do not need to know my reasons," Daemon said.
"Apparently, I do not need to know anything at all. What good is being King if people still see fit to hide things from you?" Viserys looked down at his hands, shaking his head. "I wanted for a son for so long – I killed my wife in service of that desire – and now I have three and I do not know what to do with them."
"Then give him to me. Unburden your conscious and tell yourself that you have set him on his own path. An oldest son is to inherit land, a youngest goes to the Maesters. The middle, the second, the wholly unnecessary, goes to himself. Give me your son, Viserys, and I will give you something in return."
He would have his insurance.
He would have his new wife.
And then they would be off and Ophaella would be safe.
"What?"
"A person to blame for the death of the Hightower."
The servant cried out when Daemon stuck the green-hilted blade into his side.
His eyes searched in the dark, grasping at nothing and clawing at anything that he might be able to latch onto.
They were the desperate grasps of a man who knew he was about to die and Daemon almost pitied him. He did not deserve to die any more than anyone else, but he had never been the sort to get sentimental.
Daemon had already killed a man to protect Ophaella.
At the time, he had thought it was the final kindness he would pay to her mother. But those seven years now felt like a lifetime ago the count of his kindnesses towards the girl was now too high to measure. He only paid her mother the six, however. The rest he reserved for Ophaella.
He dug the knife in deeper, making sure his movements were slopped and hurried.
The motions of a drunken man.
The dying motions of Ormund Hightower.
They would assume the man found Ormund, drunken and useless and staggering through the hallways, and saw it as an opportunity to quarrel with him. He took a knife to the ribs for his stupidity. Whatever swirling rumors – whatever passing fancies of Harwin Strong, Rhaenyra, or anyone else – would die before they even truly got started.
The man gasped one final time before he fell still, eyes open.
Daemon stabbed the knife four more times, each shallower than the last before he pulled it out and placed it beside the man's open hand. He reached down and palmed the bleeding wound, collecting as much blood as he could. He stood to his feet and dripped it towards the door. He smeared it on the crude door handle and a little bit on the wood before he went back to the body and rubbed the rest of the blood onto the man's hands.
A bit of failed bandages, a few splashes of alcohol, and an open window.
A murder in search of a murderer.
A crime in search of a criminal.
Ormund was always stupidly fond of the color green. Even if the knife was not his, in all the chaos it would be easy enough to believe that it was.
Daemon bent down and closed the man's eyes with the hand not covered in blood.
It was the smallest kindness he could give.
Just as he had done seven years ago.
He had given Rhea Royce six, then.
And now he gave her a seventh.
Daemon hardly recognized himself anymore.
Alicent Hightower was incandescent.
Livid.
Murderous.
The shelf of decorative glassware now shattered on the floor was not enough to quell her rage.
How dare he?
How could he?
Send her son across the Narrow Sea and not even do her the courtesy of telling her first?
Viserys was an inconsiderate husband, at the best of times, and an absentee father, at the worst. But she had never taken him for the sort to engage in anything as close to the cruelty he had shown her and her family. It was not enough to deny her uncle the retribution he so rightly deserved for the death of his son, he then had to take hers as well.
It was a death of a different sort, but a death nonetheless.
A death of her love for the man – the King- she had once gladly shared a bed with.
A death of the position she once thought she held – a death of the power she thought she might hold.
But worst of all, it was the death of the little boy she knew Aemond to be. When he returned to her – and it was no guarantee now that he was in the hands of Daemon- she knew he would not be the same.
She would not know him and he would not know her.
"Alicent," Hobart said, voice still dripping with grief.
A servant, they said. A drunken brawl turned deadly had taken Ormund's life.
Alicent's scowl deepened and her rage continued at the sheer audacity of the lie.
"They took my son," She all but screamed, searching the room for something else to destroy. "They took him."
"Be thankful it is only across the Narrow Sea and not into the Arms of the Seven." Hobart stepped over the nearest pile of her destruction and came to stand at her side, shoulders slumped and face hollow. "Your father would advise you to be cautious and to remember the station that you hold."
"What station?" Alicent grabbed the closest curtain and gave it an almighty yank, satisfied as she felt the seams give under her hands. Her nail beds, picked raw and bleeding, ached. "I am a Queen in name only. What power do I yield if I cannot even keep them from stealing my son? What power can I hold if they laugh in my face?"
Hobart watched as she pulled the curtains down and stomped on them.
"I have never had the patience for court that my dear brother does," Hobart started, looking down at Alicent. He was much shorter than her father and they were nearly eye to eye, but she still felt like the little girl next to the grown man of her childhood. "But I am confident that if he were here, he would give you the same advice I am about to."
Alicent inclined her head, waiting for him to continue.
"The highest of towers are built on information."
It seemed her tower was buried deep in the dirt.
Alicent felt her shoulders slump, the rage giving way ever so slightly to sorrow and exhaustion.
"Build your tower, Alicent." His hand touched her shoulder, the skin cold and clammy. It was not a gesture of comfort, but of control, and she felt his fingers dig in.
"What can I do? They took my son."
Build a tower.
It was a laugh.
She had no stones with which to build it on.
No information to keep for herself.
How could she, when she did not even have power over her own son?
"Take the daughter," Hobart said, his own grief turning to rage. "Marry Ophaella to Aegon. Rip her from her father just as her father ripped your son from you."
"Daemon has refused betrothals for the girl."
"And your husband just sent your son to be his squire without asking you. Demand the betrothal as penance for the insult."
Perhaps that would be her first stone.
A daughter for a son.
Perhaps she could pull herself from the dirt – pull up her tower and build it into something that her House would be proud of.
Alicent would build her tower.
She would build it and build it and build it.
Maybe one day it would be high enough to knock the dragons from the sky.