'Feed the poor; fuck the rich; feign to help the middle!'
-Taken from 'The Red Prince', performed by the Mummer's Guild.
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It was a clear summer sky when Rhaenyra flew back to King's Landing.
She found the King in his chamber, reading histories in the morning light. He closed the book as she entered.
"I take it, my child, since your brother is not beside you the quest is lost."
Rhaenyra sat, devastated. "It's not just that, Father. He left without looking back. It was almost as if—"
"He was a stranger?" Viserys said.
She shuddered. "How did you—?"
"I have long felt the same. You may not know it, but I have watched my children closely. Closely enough to see that Rhaenar has no notion of the mistakes I've seen him make.
"Most days I still see the son I love, even now, with all the hate he bears me. Yet there were moments — when he thought no one was looking — when I saw… indifference.
"I never understood why it unsettled me in those early years. He was always Rhaenar to us."
"Until he wasn't," Rhaenyra finished.
Viserys paused, studying her. The flushed determination in her reminded him of Rhaenar arriving with ten-page outlines of some new project or building scheme.
Gods.., how his duties had kept him from noticing such nuances sooner. His children were more alike than he'd ever realized.
Was it Aemma in them? Himself? King Jaehaerys had been the tireless worker, and how he had doted on Rhaenar. Perhaps the sister was no different.
'What a Queen she'll make…'
For a moment he considered telling Rhaenyra of his dragon dreams; that no matter what he saw, Rhaenar's face was always shrouded.
Alas, he kept the thought to himself.
"You did well, Rhaenyra. I am proud of you, as your mother always was." He managed a small smile. "Now go have a bath. You stink of dragon, and we have a ceremony to plan."
So the cupbearer-turned–queen-to-be bowed. Rhaenyra left her Father's chambers with the sense that, for the first time in a long while, or perhaps ever, they were finally of one mind.
King Viserys turned back to his book, stealing a few quiet moments before facing another day without his One True Love.
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Meanwhile, Prince Daemon was reading his histories as well.
Normally the habit steadied him.
Today, the place spoiled it.
Runestone, ancient fortress of the Vale's easternmost peninsula, seat of House Royce.
Daemon's prison.
Banished by the King. Cast out by his own blood. Left to rot in a land that reeked.
Daemon groaned, shut the book, and stepped onto the balcony for air.
The keep was crowded. Men of the City Watch had followed Daemon into exile, gold cloaks slipping through corridors and courtyards.
Beyond the walls, spread across the surrounding countryside, flashes of red capes broke the landscape also.
Rhaenari troops had been here on his arrival, and their presence still irked Daemon. His nephew, it seemed, had stationed soldiers to oversee the breeding of livestock.
Sheep everywhere. Daemon could not decide whether the boy truly thought the land ripe for such profit, or if he and his lady wife had done it solely to fuck with him.
Whatever their reason, the Men in Red were no shepherds. Disciplined, sharp-eyed, and unmistakably Crownlander with a taste for news from King's Landing.
The red and gold cloaks mingled easily, and Daemon noted that some of the red's order had begun to rub off on the gold.
That was all well and good for improving the discipline of Daemon's rank and file, but the longer this went on, the more comfortable his men became with staying here. The thought alone made Daemon want to retch.
He yawned, stretched, scratched his backside, and looked farther across the grounds. There he saw the next absurd addition courtesy of his nephew.
Silo after silo after silo~
An entire forest, with more under construction. Docks built to service the silos, and every ship that arrived seemed to bring a dozen cats. Daemon had never seen so many a feline.
The whole sight made Daemon restless. It was all so industrial. He should be doing something. Anything.
Daemon had half a mind to gather his men and make for Dragonstone.
Better the island — his nephew's military compound though it was — than this sheep-stinking pit.
And, disciplined or not, those troops would never dare act against the Uncle of their beloved prince. Daemon would have safe passage. He could simply ask forgiveness later.
But the King had ordered him to remain in Runestone. And for now, especially after the latest family rift, Daemon would hold his place and wait for his brother's anger to cool.
None of this, of course, made Runestone any easier.
So you could imagine Prince Daemon's delight when he heard a roar, and when he looked up, Caraxes and Sundance circled the sky.
As always, Rhaenar landed wherever he pleased — something Daemon privately took pride in, for the boy had learned it from him.
As always, the attendants rushed to lay out the carpet.
Only this time Daemon didn't mind. Runestone was an impressive keep all things considered, and evidently an important piece in whatever Rhaenar planned.
So Daemon would host as Lord, as the moment demanded.
Everyone else in the castle seemed to feel the same. From his high seat in the Great Hall, Daemon counted every Royce cousin, second son, bastard, and hanger-on in attendance.
They all rose when the steward announced Prince Rhaenar.
Rhaenar offered the bare minimum of pleasantries as he passed, then said, "It is good to see you, Uncle."
This was how it always went when two true dragonriders shared a room. Everyone else existed only to watch.
"Welcome to my humble abode," Daemon said. "I'd say pardon the smell, but that goes without saying. So instead I'll bid you pardon the company."
"No need," Rhaenar replied. "Your company alone masks any scent. What are we drinking?"
They drank together at the main table, raised above the rest of the hall.
A feast had half-formed around them— at first only onlookers drifting in with cups, then kitchen fires being lit, then farmers wandering up from the fields, shepherds wiping their brows, and soon enough a proper feast took shape.
Three wines deep, feet on the table, the princes rambled about fighting and riding and fucking, wholly absorbed in one another's company.
They didn't notice the growing silence until it was complete; when only their voices filled the hall, their babbling nonsense about some tale from Fleabottom.
Then they saw the cause.
Rhea Royce entered, belly full and near to burst, yet more radiant than anyone remembered.
She looked at Rhaenar, then at her husband, then back to Rhaenar, and laughed.
"Hello, nephew. I see my husband has shown you the wine cellar, but hasn't had the courtesy to remind: No boots on the table!"
"Eeeeek!" squealed the Royce men-at-arms.
"Eeeeek!" echoed the Rhaenari shepherds.
Rhaenar roared, "Apologies, Aunt Rhea!" He rose to kiss her cheeks. "You know how it is. Us lads thought you were asleep. I'll wipe the table now!"
"Don't be silly." Rhea hugged him. His hardened core brushed the second heartbeat she carried. "Now sit. There's much you must answer for."
"For once I agree with my bronze bitch," Daemon said.
Rhaenar grinned. "That's what I do, bring family together. See?" he chuckled nervously, "All part of the plan!"
They talked long into the night. Laughter rose and fell as food and wine arrived in endless waves.
And when Rhea began her questions, Daemon could only appreciate the bond between his nephew and wife.
Through her, Daemon glimpsed parts of Rhaenar he would never have been able to ask himself.
Rhea, it seemed, had her uses when it came to drawing out answers.
"What's this nonsense I hear about giving up your inheritance?"
Rhaenar yawned. "As you say: nonsense."
"You didn't give up the Crown?"
"I suppose that part is true," he said. "Though I don't count that as part of my inheritance. The dragon bestows the Crown, I'll remind you. And since Father has proved himself unfit to rule our House, it falls to me to consider such things."
"So you've abandoned the Realm."
"Walk away from what my grandsire cherished? From all he devoted his life to?" Rhaenar sounded almost amused. "Hardly. I only mean that, for now, it's all semantics. Words and custom that Lords cling to. It simply suits my purpose, at the moment, not to disturb that order."
Lady Rhea sighed. "One of these days you will tell me the truth of it, or else I will have your men removed from my lands."
"Our lands, dear Aunty. Have you forgotten we are one family now?"
Rhea cast Daemon a disdainful look. "Sadly, I'm reminded each day."
"Bahaha!" Rhaenar roared. "Speaking of which, Uncle, I must say I'm impressed. Domestic life becomes you."
"Ha. Ha. Ha," Daemon said flatly. "Forgive me if I don't laugh more. My joy is rather spent of late." He sighed, "I shouldn't be here."
"Then say the word, and I'll send ships to bring you and your men to Dragonstone."
"My place is here. Still, I share my wife's sentiment. You should speak about your plans more openly. What do you intend now?"
Rhaenar winked. "Most of that is classified, I fear. Military matters. Loose lips and innocent lives and all that."
Daemon and Rhea exchanged the same pointed look — the same silent don't insult us—so alike that Rhaenar burst out laughing. They truly looked husband and wife in that moment.
"Don't be like that! I suppose I can share a few things," he said, settling. "Secrets between family. Understood?"
Both agreed. Daemon because the word family had been invoked. Rhea because she knew Rhaenar too well.
Words were Wind to Men of War~
Rhaenar began, "I will do as always intended."
As he listened, Daemon cursed his luck. What he'd give to be a fly on the wall when the small council got word of this!