daeron II targaryen
Daemon’s quiet when he enters the throne room, the soft sounds of his boots falling against the tiles and the mourning bells outside combining to a strange, haunting rhythm. It sends a chill up Daeron’s spine.
His bastard brother stops beside him, his eyes trained forward, to the Iron Throne. “I get the sword, you get the throne. Is that how this works?”
The new king cuts his eyes downward, to where Blackfyre sits at Daemon’s hip, looking as if it belonged no where else but there. (Years later, when the kingdom is ripped apart between the two of them, he’ll wonder again if it, and everything else, really did belong with him.) “I didn’t know you’d even get that.”
Daemon has grace enough to laugh. “Neither did I. Blackfyre and legitimization.” There’s a wicked stirring in his eyes when he turns back to stare at the throne. “It makes you wonder.”
Daeron’s imagination doesn’t have to wander far. Some of the lords have already been quietly questioning which son Aegon had truly wanted on the throne. He doesn’t comment either way. Partly because acknowledging such talk would only fan the flames of the simmering treason even more, but mostly because Daeron doesn’t know the answer to that either.
He looks again to the sword of his ancestors, now in possession of someone other than the king for the first time in it’s history. “It does make you wonder, brother. It does indeed.”