# The Brass Monkey Tavern - Street of Silk, Evening, 105 AC
The Brass Monkey was a place of careful degradation, positioned with mercantile precision in that narrow margin between respectability and ruin. Too dear for the dockside scum who scraped their coppers from honest labor, yet too rank with sweat and sin for the merchant sons who dreamed of knighthood. Here drank the men who walked the knife's edge—gold cloaks whose oaths lasted precisely as long as their next wage, smugglers who'd grown fat on the Hand's blind eye, sellswords who'd pledged their steel to whoever's purse jingled loudest. It was, in short, a place where loyalty was measured in cups of wine and the friendship of strangers ended at the tavern door.
Tonight the place heaved with bodies and noise. The City Watch had won some minor skirmish—cleared a nest of thieves from Flea Bottom, perhaps, or caught some fool trying to counterfeit the king's coin—and now they celebrated with the fervor of men who'd survived another day in a city that devoured its guardians whole. Laughter crashed like breakers against stone. Cups slammed on tables. Whores worked the room with professional efficiency, their painted smiles as false as the gold leaf on the tavern's sign. The air was thick enough to chew: stale ale, unwashed bodies, torch smoke, and beneath it all the faint copper tang of blood that never quite left a fighting man's clothes.
At a corner table—positioned, as always, so that he commanded views of both the front door and the back passage—Prince Daemon Targaryen held court among his captains.
Old habits, these. The sort learned in the Stepstones, where an open room could become a killing ground between one breath and the next. Where a man who didn't watch the doors ended the evening with a blade between his ribs and his purse in another's pocket. Daemon had learned those lessons in blood and screaming, and he'd never forgotten them. Even here, in King's Landing, in a tavern frequented by his own men, he sat where he could see death coming.
They were rough men, his captains. The sort Daemon preferred. Men who understood that command was earned with steel and proved with scars, not inherited with titles and sealed with pretty words. Men who'd follow him into the black heart of hell if he asked it—not because he was a prince, but because he'd already led them there once and brought them back alive.
To his right sat Harwin Strong, and gods, what a sight he was. Broad as a siege tower and twice as immovable, with shoulders that made doorways weep and hands that could crush a man's skull like a robin's egg. The tavern's furniture groaned beneath him as though protesting the fundamental injustice of being asked to support such mass. Yet for all his size, there was intelligence in those eyes—his father Lyonel's shrewdness, glimpsed like a blade beneath dark water. Though where Lord Strong possessed patience, Harwin had only the barely leashed violence of a man who knew his own strength and enjoyed using it.
"Another round," Harwin rumbled, his voice like stones grinding together. "And this time, actual wine, not the piss you served us last."
The serving girl—bless her, she looked all of fifteen—bobbed her head and fled. Harwin watched her go with the mild interest of a cat observing a mouse it had decided not to eat.
Opposite him sat Stevron Darklyn, younger son of that old and star-crossed house. Where Harwin was all size and strength, Stevron was blade-thin, sharp-featured, with the hungry look of a hunting dog that's been kept too long from the chase. His dark eyes never stopped moving—cataloging exits, counting armed men, measuring distances. A man could slit a throat with hands like his, Daemon thought, and never spill a drop on his sleeves. He had that kind of precision about him, that economy of motion that marked the truly dangerous.
"The Watch grows fat on success," Stevron murmured, eyeing the celebrating gold cloaks with something between contempt and envy. "Three thieves caught in Flea Bottom, and they act as though they've conquered Dorne."
"Let them celebrate," said Luthor Largent, pouring himself another cup with steady hands. Gray-tempered and weather-worn, Luthor was a third-generation gold cloak, the sort whose family had bled for this city since the Conqueror's day. His hands never stopped moving—adjusting his belt, checking his blade, rolling his cup between calloused fingers—as though idleness itself were an enemy to be fought. He'd seen too many alleys run red, knew too many ways a man could die in King's Landing. That knowledge sat behind his eyes like a second soul. "They'll need the memory when winter comes and the city turns on itself. Always does."
The last was Rickard Thorne, and he was a puzzle even to Daemon. A Stormlander by birth, with skin darker than the rest and a manner so quiet you could forget he was there—until you needed him, and then he was a blade in the dark, swift and sure. He bore himself like a man long accustomed to suspicion, long past caring what soft lords thought of his birth or breeding. Daemon trusted him more than half the knights who swore their oaths in silk pavilions and had never seen real steel drawn in anger.
"The city always turns on itself," Rickard said softly, his fingers absently tracing the pommel of his dagger. "That's why we're needed. That's why they pay us." A pause. "Some of us, anyway."
Laughter at that—bitter and knowing. The City Watch's wages were notoriously irregular, dependent on the Master of Coin's mood and the treasury's fullness. Half the time the men went unpaid for months, and the other half they made up the difference with creative interpretations of their duties.
The table before them told the story of their evening in wine stains and empty bottles. Fifth cup? Sixth? Daemon had long since stopped counting. The drink was good—better than the swill most of the tavern served—but tonight even the finest Arbor gold tasted like ash in his mouth.
When he set his cup down, he did so with force. The sound cracked through the air like a slap. Conversations at nearby tables stuttered and died. Men glanced over, saw the prince's face, and quickly found other things to occupy their attention.
"My brother," Daemon said, his voice low and edged like a knife drawn slowly from its sheath, "is a *fucking* coward."
The words fell into silence. Profound silence. The sort that makes men remember they have somewhere else to be.
His captains didn't flinch—they'd heard Daemon rail against Viserys before, heard him curse the Small Council, heard him call Otto Hightower every name that could be spoken in public and several that couldn't. But this was different. This wasn't political theater or princely pique. This was something darker, more personal. This was a wound speaking.
Harwin Strong shifted in his seat, making the wood creak alarmingly. "Your Grace," he began, his rumbling voice pitched low and careful—the tone one used with a man standing at a cliff's edge, "perhaps this is a conversation better suited to—"
"To when?" Daemon's laugh was sharp enough to draw blood. "When I'm sober? When I've had time to dress my fury in courtly language so it doesn't offend Otto Hightower's delicate sensibilities? When I can smile and bow and pretend that what nearly happened today was anything other than *murder*?"
He reached for the bottle, hands not quite steady, and poured with the elaborate care of a man who knows he's drunk but refuses to admit it. Wine sloshed over the rim. "No. I'll speak now. While I still remember how to be *honest*."
"Then speak, Your Grace," Stevron Darklyn said. His lean face was unreadable in the torchlight, but his eyes—gods, those eyes never stopped moving, never stopped calculating. "You have our ears. And nothing spoken here leaves this room. You have my word on it."
"Your word." Daemon's smile was a savage thing, all teeth and no humor. "Yes, I'll trust that. Better than the word of kings and councilors, certainly."
He drank deep. When he lowered the cup, his face had gone strange—grief and rage warring for dominance, neither quite winning. "He was going to let them kill her."
Silence again. But this time it was different. This time, understanding began to dawn.
"Your Grace?" Harwin's voice was very gentle now, as though speaking to a wounded animal. "The queen?"
"Queen Aemma." Daemon's voice cracked on the name. "My good-sister. His *wife*. The woman he's shared his bed with for eleven years. The mother of his child." His fingers tightened on the cup until the veins stood out like ropes beneath his skin. "And he stood there—*stood there*—while Grand Maester Mellos sharpened his knives. While they held her down."
"Gods," Luthor breathed.
"She *begged* them." Daemon's voice had gone hollow now, stripped of its fury, leaving only grief. Raw grief, the sort that makes men look away. "She begged. She looked at Viserys, looked him in the eyes, and she *begged* him not to let them do it. And do you know what my brother did?"
No one answered. No one dared.
"He *listened* to Mellos. Listened when that gray-robed vulture told him duty demanded sacrifice. That a son—a *son*, mind you, a boy he'd never even seen—was worth his wife's life. And my brother, the King of the Seven Kingdoms, Lord of the Iron Throne, Protector of the Realm..." He laughed, wild and bitter. "He *agreed*. He gave the order. He authorized them to cut her open like a pig and pull the babe out while she screamed."
The table had gone very still. Even the celebrating gold cloaks seemed to sense something in the air, some shift in the tavern's atmosphere that made them lower their voices and glance toward the prince's corner with unease.
"They told him it would be a boy," Luthor said quietly. Not defending, just stating fact. "The maesters. They said the child would live."
"A *boy*." Daemon's voice dripped venom. "A prophecy made flesh. The son and heir he's craved since his wedding night. And for that—for the *promise* of a son—he traded the woman who'd given him everything. Who'd suffered through eleven years of pregnancies and stillbirths and dead babies. Who'd wept in his arms while they buried children too small for coffins. He traded *her* for a boy he'd never met. A ghost. A dream."
He reached for the bottle again, movements sharp and violent. Poured without looking. Crimson liquid splashed across the scarred wood, pooling like blood. "Do you know what that makes him?"
The question hung in the smoke-thick air.
"What sort of man," Daemon continued, his voice dropping to something soft and deadly, "gives the order to butcher his own wife because some gray-bearded leech in council robes tells him it's for the good of the realm? What sort of king values duty over love, prophecy over flesh, the realm over the woman he swore before gods and men to protect?"
"A king."
The words came from Rickard Thorne, quiet as falling snow. He hadn't moved, but every eye at the table turned to him. His dark face was thoughtful, sad even, but there was no judgment in it. Only a terrible understanding.
"A king," he repeated. "A man raised from his cradle to believe the realm's needs outweigh his own heart. That duty matters more than love. That sometimes—" He paused, meeting Daemon's blazing gaze steadily. "That sometimes the crown's weight demands cruelty be dressed as mercy, and murder be called necessity."
For a moment—just a moment—it seemed Daemon might lunge across the table. His whole body went taut as a drawn bowstring, hands clenching into fists, jaw working as though chewing back words that wanted to be shouted.
Then he slammed his hand down on the table. *Hard*. The impact sent bottles jumping, wine sloshing. A cup fell and rolled, clattering across the floor. The noise made half the tavern turn.
"*Fuck* that!"
The words rang out like a bell, clear and fierce. Daemon was standing now—when had he stood?—leaning forward with both hands braced on the table, his silver hair falling around his face, his violet eyes burning like dragonfire in the torchlight.
"Fuck duty. Fuck the realm. Fuck every scheming maester and boot-licking lord who hides behind words like *necessity* while they spill the blood of those they're sworn to protect." His voice rose with each word, carrying across the suddenly silent tavern. "That's not rule—that's *cowardice*. Cowardice wrapped in silk and called wisdom by men too craven to name it what it truly is."
"Your Grace," Harwin began, but Daemon cut him off with a sharp gesture.
"No. No, don't—don't try to soften it. Don't try to give me context or explain the king's position. I know his position. I've *heard* his position. Duty, duty, duty. The realm needs an heir. The succession must be secured. As though any of that matters when weighed against *murder*." He spat the word. "Because that's what it was, Harwin. That's what it would have been. Not a tragic necessity. Not a hard choice made by a man with no options. *Murder*. Killing a woman who trusted him, who loved him, who'd given him eleven years of her life and gods know how many dead children—killing her for the *promise* of a son."
The captains exchanged glances. Unease rippled between them like wind across water.
"Your Grace," Harwin tried again, his massive shoulders rolling as he chose his words with visible care, "the king made a grievous error. No one here would deny that. But he was cornered—given counsel by men he trusted, told both lives hung by a thread. He made a desperate choice in desperate circumstances, perhaps believing that either way would end in death. That doesn't absolve him, but—"
"But you would *contextualize* it." Daemon's laugh was acid. "Is that what we call murder now when kings commit it? Context?"
He leaned forward, eyes blazing. "You want context, Harwin? I'll give you context."
His voice dropped then, became something quieter. More dangerous. The sort of quiet that makes men reach for weapons.
"My brother has watched his wife suffer for eleven years. He's seen her body torn apart by childbirth. Seen her weep for babes that never drew breath, never opened their eyes, never lived long enough to be named. He's held her while she begged him—*begged* him—to stop. To let her rest. To give her time to heal. And every time, *every* time, he promised her it would be different. Next time would be better. Next time they'd have a son who lived, and it would all be worth it."
Daemon's hands were trembling now, though whether from drink or fury none could say. "And when the day came—when she was screaming and bleeding and the maesters whispered of knives and difficult births—what did my brother do? Did he remember those promises? Did he think of the woman he'd shared his bed with, who'd given him a daughter bright as the sun, who'd loved him despite everything?"
He slammed the table again. The crack echoed like thunder. "No. He chose the ghost of a boy he'd never seen over the woman who'd shared half his life. He chose ambition over love, prophecy over flesh, duty over *decency*. And when she begged—when she looked him in the eyes and *begged* him not to let them cut her—he looked away."
The words hung in the air like smoke. Thick. Choking.
"What would you have done?"
The question came from Stevron Darklyn, soft as a knife sliding from its sheath. His dark eyes never left Daemon's face. "If it had been you on the Iron Throne. If it had been your wife screaming. If Mellos had come to you with that same choice—save the child, lose the mother—what would you have done, Your Grace?"
The tavern seemed to hold its breath.
It was a dangerous question. They all knew it. Stevron wasn't asking hypothetically. He was stripping away the comfortable fury of judgment, demanding to know whether Daemon's rage sprang from conviction—or merely from the luxury of a man who hadn't been forced to choose.
Daemon said nothing for a long while. He stood hunched over the table, one hand still braced against the wood, the other clenched around his cup. The torchlight caught in his silver hair, made shadows dance across his face. Rage warred with grief there, then with something harder to name. Conviction, perhaps. Or certainty born of long contemplation.
When he spoke, his voice was steady. Cold as hammered iron.
"I would have trusted the midwife."
The words fell into silence like stones into water.
"The woman who's seen a thousand babes drawn screaming into the world. Who's caught them in her hands, cut their cords, laid them at their mothers' breasts. Not the maester." His lip curled. "Not the gray-robed scholar whose hands are soft, whose wisdom comes from books written by men who've never heard a mother scream, who thinks a woman's body is just another puzzle to solve with knives and leechcraft."
He straightened then, and the firelight caught in his eyes, made them blaze violet-bright. "I would have chosen the woman who lived beside me. Who shared my bed, my board, my life. Every time. Every hour. Without hesitation or shame."
"The living over the unborn," Luthor murmured.
"The living over the unborn," Daemon agreed. "The wife over the whisper of a son. The woman I *know* over the boy I've imagined." He leaned forward, his voice gaining heat. "Viserys will never understand that. To him—to them all—a queen's worth ends where her womb fails. They cannot see that queens matter more than princes, that the bond between man and wife outweighs every prophecy, every schemer's dream of succession."
His voice cracked then, just slightly. "What good is a realm if the price of ruling it is murdering those you love?"
No one answered. The question sat between them like a corpse at a feast—impossible to ignore, impossible to address.
"Strong words, Your Grace," Luthor said at last. His weathered face was unreadable. "Dangerous ones, if they travel beyond these walls. The wrong ears might hear treason in them."
"Let them." Daemon's smile was feral, sharp enough to draw blood. "Let Otto Hightower whisper in council that I've turned against my brother. Let the maesters clutch their chains and bleat about tradition and succession. I am *done* holding my tongue for men who dress cowardice in duty's clothes."
He straightened, swaying slightly—from drink or exhaustion or fury, impossible to say. "My brother nearly murdered his wife today. *Authorized her death*. Stood silent while his maesters prepared their knives and his queen wept in terror. And I am meant to bow my head and call it necessary? Pretend the crown's weight absolves a man of sin?"
"No," Rickard said quietly. "You're meant to understand that he made a choice he'll regret until he dies. And your fury—however righteous—won't undo it."
He leaned forward, his gaze steady. "If you truly want to make a difference, Your Grace, ensure that next time—and there will be a next time, with some lord or lady—the right voices are heard before such folly takes root. See that your son, your wife, your allies have the power to stay a king's hand when fear blinds him."
"My son."
The words broke something in Daemon's voice. Pride and grief fought for dominance, neither winning. "My eight-year-old son. Jaehaerys." He sank back into his chair as though the weight of the world had settled on his shoulders. "When all others failed—when the maesters had their blades ready and my brother had given the order and *death* was coming for them both—my eight-year-old son used magic that most men believe is a children's tale."
He looked up, and his eyes were bright with tears or drink or both. "An eight-year-old showed more courage, more wisdom, more *honor* than the King of the Seven Kingdoms."
"Then your boy is a marvel," Harwin said gently. "And no mistake. But your brother is still flesh and blood, as flawed as any of us. A man who chose wrongly in fear and pressure—but who may yet learn from it."
His eyes met Daemon's squarely. "The question is, will you give him that chance? Or will you let your anger rot what little love remains between you?"
Daemon opened his mouth to answer—and by the fire in his eyes, his reply would have been anything but measured—when the tavern door flew open with enough violence to make every man in the room turn, hands falling to sword-hilts.
The figure who entered moved like a summer storm given human form—swift, purposeful, entirely unbothered by the sudden hush that fell across the Brass Monkey.
Lady Rhea Royce wore no silks tonight. No jewels. Only weather-stained leathers and a traveling cloak still dusty from the road. Her dark hair was pulled back in a severe braid, and her face bore the grime of someone who'd ridden hard and fast. But there was strength in her stride, iron in the set of her shoulders, and her eyes—brown as good earth, sharp as obsidian—swept the room with the cold precision of a battlefield commander assessing terrain.
When her gaze found Daemon, something in her expression shifted. Not softened—Rhea Royce was not a woman who softened—but changed. Relief mingled with exasperation, love tangled with the bone-deep weariness of a woman who'd spent eight years loving a man far too clever for his own good and far too proud to know when to hold his tongue.
"Husband," she said. Her voice cut through the tavern's noise like a blade through silk. Not loud, but commanding. The sort of voice that made men straighten without meaning to. "We need to speak. Now. Before you say something that cannot be unsaid and set in motion a tide of folly that will take *years* to mend."
Every captain at the table rose at once. Even soldiers hardened by war and city filth knew better than to remain seated in the presence of Lady Royce. Their respect was genuine—Rhea had earned that through steel, not courtesy—though tinged with the unease of men who'd just been caught conspiring.
Harwin Strong towered beside his chair, looking torn between offering his seat and making a tactical retreat. Stevron's hand had drifted toward his dagger before he caught himself. Luthor and Rickard simply stood, watchful and wary.
Daemon alone remained seated. His smile was sharp enough to draw blood. "My lady wife," he drawled, his voice rich with mockery and affection in equal measure. "Have you come to save me from myself again? How *dutiful*. Though I should warn you—the subject under discussion is of grave import. My brother's moral decay. The rot that passes for wisdom in the Red Keep. Kingship as licensed murder. That sort of thing."
"Yes," Rhea replied dryly, unfastening her riding gloves with slow, deliberate precision. "So grave that you're three cups away from declaring outright treason before witnesses. Which, incidentally, is why your son sent me to collect you before your philosophical musings about royal inadequacy become a matter for the Kingsguard."
A ripple of realization moved through the tavern. Men glanced at Rhea with new understanding—and new fear. This wasn't just some lady come to fetch her errant husband. This was Lady Rhea Royce, the Bronze Bitch herself, who'd broken a man's jaw for calling her that to her face. Who'd ruled Runestone in her own right. Who'd married the Rogue Prince and somehow managed to *keep* him.
Rhea ignored the stares. She moved to the table with the smooth efficiency of a woman who'd spent half her life in armor, and fixed Daemon with a look that could have frozen dragonsbreath.
"Gentlemen," she said, inclining her head toward the captains with grace that somehow sounded like command. "You have my gratitude for ensuring my husband's evening has remained... contained." The pause before *contained* spoke volumes. "I will take charge of him from here. You may finish your wine—and perhaps your prayers—and return to your duties knowing the realm is, for the moment, safe from princely dramatics."
The captains exchanged glances—half amusement, half blessed relief. Harwin lingered longest, gathering his massive cloak about his frame.
"My lady," he rumbled respectfully, "should you require aid—"
"I have been managing Prince Daemon for eight years, Ser Harwin." Rhea's tone was light, but her eyes were hard as bronze. "I assure you, I have endured worse than wine and wounded pride. Though your loyalty does you credit. The crown should be grateful for men like you."
Harwin bowed—surprisingly graceful for one so large—and cast a last look toward Daemon. Part warning, part sympathy. Then he departed, his boots heavy on the floorboards. The other captains followed like water flowing after a breach, eager to escape before the storm truly broke.
When the door shut behind them, Rhea drew the chair opposite her husband and sat without waiting for invitation. "Well," she said, setting her gloves on the table with the finality of a judge's gavel. "Shall we discuss which part of your evening's performance Jaehaerys will need to clean up tomorrow? Or would you prefer to start with the part where you publicly denounced the king in a room full of half-drunk gold cloaks?"
Daemon stared at her for a long moment. Then he laughed—sharp and bitter, the sound of a man who'd found the punchline to a particularly cruel jest. "Gods above and below," he said. "I married a woman with the soul of Otto Hightower."
"No," Rhea said without missing a beat. "You married a fool who loves you enough to stop you from hanging yourself with your own cleverness. There's a difference."
Despite everything, Daemon's mouth twitched. Almost a smile. "Jaehaerys sent you," he said. Not a question.
"Your eight-year-old son," Rhea confirmed, "recognized that his father was on the verge of doing something catastrophically stupid and dispatched his mother to prevent it." She tilted her head. "Which is either remarkably astute or deeply humiliating. I'll let you decide which."
"Both." Daemon reached for his cup, found it empty, and scowled at it as though it had personally betrayed him. "Definitely both."
Rhea slid the wine bottle beyond his reach with quiet finality. "More concerning than your wounded pride," she said, "is that you're here at all. Drowning yourself in drink while fury eats you from the inside, when you should be with your family. With your son, who spent what power he has to keep death at bay. With your good-sister, who nearly died today. With your niece, who watched her father choose duty over love."
"Viserys chose *duty*." Daemon's voice went cold. "He chose prophecy. He chose the *realm*. He condemned his wife to death because some gray-robed vulture told him a son was worth her life."
"You're not wrong," Rhea said simply.
That stopped him. Daemon looked up, surprise flickering across his face.
"You're not wrong," she repeated. "Viserys made a choice no decent man should make. He listened to fools and butchers, and he condemned Aemma in the name of duty. There's no forgiveness for that. Your anger is right, Daemon. *Right*. Every bit of it."
She leaned closer then, her voice dropping to something harder. "But what you're doing now—sitting here among soldiers, spitting treason into your wine, working yourself toward a confrontation that will only end in blood and exile—this helps *no one*. Not Aemma. Not Rhaenyra. Not Jaehaerys. And least of all you."
Daemon's hand slammed flat against the table. "Then what would you have me do?" The words came out raw, desperate. "Smile at court? Drink to my brother's health? Pretend that regicide of the heart is just another duty of the crown? Bow and scrape while Otto Hightower whispers poison in his ear?"
"No." Rhea's voice was quiet, but it carried the weight of command. "I would have you go home. To your son, who used what magic he possesses to save two lives today. To your good-sister, who will wake from her suffering and remember that her husband chose duty over love—and that you were there. To your niece, who has seen what kingship truly costs, and will need those who love her more than ever."
Her hand found his across the table. Her grip was strong, calloused from sword-work, steady as stone. "Be there, Daemon. Not as the Rogue Prince. Not as Master of Ships or commander or the brother who rails against the crown. Just as a man who loves his family. Be the one who *stays* when the rest of the world turns to ash. That's how you fight this—not with fury or rebellion, but with presence."
Daemon said nothing for a long while. The fire in his eyes guttered and dimmed, leaving only exhaustion in its wake. He stared into the dregs of his wine as though searching for truths his own mind wouldn't yield.
When he finally spoke, his voice was hoarse, stripped of all princely affectation. Raw. "I wanted to hurt him," he said. "Viserys. I wanted to—" He stopped, struggled for words. "I wanted to make him *see* what he'd done. To understand that some sins can't be smoothed over with council words or cloaked in talk of duty. That even kings must answer to their conscience."
His fingers curled into fists on the table, trembling. "And I knew—gods help me, I *knew*—that if I saw him tonight, if I looked at his face while this rage still lived in me, I would say things that could never be taken back. Things that would shatter what remains between us. Things that would break the realm."
He laughed, bitter as old ashes. "So I came here. Surrounded myself with men who know how to bleed out fury with steel and ale. Tried to drown my anger before it drowned me."
"And how has that strategy served you, husband?"
Daemon's smile was crooked, weary. "Poorly. The anger's still there. Sharper than ever. Wine just strips away the walls that keep a man from realizing how furious he truly is." He touched his temple. "And now I have a spectacular headache besides. So all in all, a magnificent failure."
"Then it's time to go home." Rhea rose, smooth and deliberate, like a commander marshaling troops. "Come, Daemon. The Red Keep still stands, and your family waits within it. Sleep this off. When morning comes and your head is clearer, we'll speak of what's to be done. But not tonight. Tonight, you need rest. And distance. And people who love you."
She held out her hand.
For a heartbeat, Daemon only stared at it. As though he'd forgotten what trust looked like. What surrender meant. Then, slowly, he reached for her. His movements were unsteady—pride bruised by drink and shame alike—but his grip, when it came, was fierce.
She pulled him to his feet with the practiced ease of someone who'd done this before. Would likely do it again.
"I love him," Daemon murmured as they made their way toward the door. The words were quiet, almost lost beneath the renewed clamor of the tavern. "Gods help me, Rhea, I love him still. I have loved him my whole life. I would *die* for him. But I don't know if I can forgive him. Not for this. Not for choosing crown and council over the woman who shared his bed. He speaks of duty as though it absolves him, but what is duty *worth* if it demands the lives of those we love?"
Rhea said nothing for a moment. Only guided him forward, her arm steady beneath his. When she spoke, her voice was low and sure. "Then don't decide tonight. Don't choose love or hate while your blood still burns and your head swims with wine. Go home. Be with your son. Be with the living. Let time do what fury cannot."
They stepped into the cool night air, and Daemon drew a shuddering breath, as though surfacing from deep water. The streets of King's Landing lay quiet around them, the city sleeping beneath a bruised and starless sky.
"In the morning," Rhea said softly, "the world will still be there. Your brother will still be king. Aemma will still be recovering. Rhaenyra will still need her uncle. And you will still have choices to make. Let that be enough for now."
They walked on, husband and wife, their cloaks stirring in the wind as they made their way back toward the Red Keep's looming shadow. Behind them, the Brass Monkey returned to its ordinary chaos, and the city slept on, blind to what small mercy had been won that night.
History would remember the Dance of Dragons as a storm born of pride and grief, of wounds that festered and never healed. Yet there were nights like this—nights when the storm might have broken early, when rage might have turned to rebellion, when a prince stood at the crossroads between restraint and ruin.
And chose, for love's sake, to wait.
That choice would not last forever. The rot in the realm ran too deep, the ambitions too hungry, the wounds too raw. But for tonight—for this one night—love stayed the hand of vengeance.
And in the darkness of King's Landing, beneath a sky heavy with coming storms, that was enough.
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