Daemon Targaryen

The sound of Daemon's footsteps echoes through the empty hall
He enters unannounced, the black cloak swaying behind him, Caraxes roaring in the distance in the sky as if sensing his master's temperament

On the Iron Throne, Viserys watches in silence — tired, crowned, and with the half-closed eyes of someone who no longer has patience for the brother he loves and fears in equal measure

VISERYS:
(without raising his voice)
“The last time you came here, you brought a crown. Now, what have you brought? Another war?”

DAEMON:
(smiles, tilting his head)
“Only my presence, brother. Which, apparently, continues to be reason enough to unsettle half the court.”

VISERYS:
“You live to unsettle others, Daemon. The court, the council… me. There are those who say that is all you desire.”

DAEMON:
“And there are those who say you desire only peace, while you rule a kingdom that bleeds beneath the golden tapestries.”
(approaches the throne, eyes fixed on the twisted iron)
“Tell me, Viserys… have you cut yourself on it yet? All kings end up bleeding for this throne. Some just pretend they don't.”

VISERYS:
(stands up, irritated)
“I did not come to be taught by a man who does not know the weight of the crown!”

DAEMON:
(a confessed culprit, with a provocative half-smile)
“But I do know it, brother. I have seen your back bend until it almost broke under that weight.”
(a silence)
“And yet… you let no one help you sustain it.”

A moment of silence hangs.
Viserys stares at Daemon, and there is — for a moment — a glimmer of longing between the king and the rogue prince who once fought side by side

But the moment dies as the footsteps of Ser Otto Hightower echo at the entrance

Daemon turns his face, the smile returning like a mask.
He bows slightly, ironic

DAEMON:
“Your Majesty.”

He leaves the hall — leaving the echo of his words hovering over the throne