Chapter 14: Chapter 14: A Brotherly Reunion
The Red Keep was larger than memory.
That should not have surprised me. Every place I had seen since waking in Othorion’s body had been larger, louder, dirtier, and more real than anything a page or screen could have prepared me for. Still, walking through the halls of the castle that had shaped so much of Westerosi history left a strange pressure in my chest.
Red stone rose around me in hard angles, polished by centuries of power and blood. Guards in Targaryen colours watched us pass. Servants lowered their eyes. Courtiers stared with open curiosity before remembering themselves.
I followed Daemon Targaryen in silence.
That was all I could do.
My armour made every step louder than I wanted. The gold-bronze plate, still marked by scratches and dents from Bloodstone, did not belong among silks, polished floors, and painted walls. My cloak still carried the faint smell of salt and smoke no matter how much I had brushed it clean after landing. World Breaker hung at my side, dark and quiet, the Valyrian steel blade hidden in its scabbard but no less present for it.
I had arrived in King’s Landing with nothing else.
No servants. No spare clothes. No proper escort. No Vaeron beside me to whisper sense into my ear when my thoughts became too loud. I had come in armour because Daemon had given me no time to come as anything else.
Perhaps that was the point.
The guards before the throne room doors straightened when Daemon approached. Their eyes moved from him to me, lingering on my hair, my armour, and the sword at my hip. I saw questions forming behind their faces. A silver-haired stranger in foreign armour, walking behind the Rogue Prince as if dragged from a battlefield and brought before the crown.
One of them announced us. "Prince Daemon Targaryen."
The doors opened. Sound washed over me first.
The throne room was alive with courtly noise, the murmur of nobles, petitioners, knights, servants, and officials gathered beneath the shadow of the Iron Throne. It was not as loud as a battlefield, but somehow it felt more dangerous. Battle declared itself honestly. Men there held swords, shields, spears, and bows. Here, weapons were hidden behind smiles, rings, titles, and soft voices.
Then I saw the throne.
The Iron Throne rose at the far end of the hall like a monument to violence pretending to be law. Melted swords twisted upward in jagged black shapes, points and edges catching the light with cruel indifference.
It was uglier than I expected, and more impressive for it. No comfortable seat of kingship. No graceful symbol of rule. It looked like something that wanted to cut any man arrogant enough to sit upon it.
And upon it sat Viserys Targaryen. For a moment, the world narrowed around him.
He looked very much like the man I remembered from another life, though memory had failed to capture the full weight of seeing him alive. His pale hair fell neatly around a face marked by kindness, weariness, and the slow burden of rule. He was not yet the broken figure he would become in later years, not yet consumed by rot, grief, and the consequences of every compromise. But the seeds were there. I could see them in the tiredness around his eyes, in the careful way he held himself, in the faint strain behind the warmth.
King Viserys the First. The man whose weakness would not come from cruelty, but from love, indecision, and the desperate belief that peace could survive without hard choices.
Beside him stood Otto Hightower.
He, too, looked painfully familiar. Tall, composed, severe, with the measured restraint of a man who never needed to raise his voice to make others obey. He wore authority like a second skin, his face arranged into the calm expression of a loyal servant while his eyes missed almost nothing. The Hand of the King had been speaking when we entered, one hand lifted slightly as if continuing a point that had just lost its audience.
The court turned. Every gaze shifted to Daemon. Then, slowly, many shifted to me.
I hated that part. Daemon loved it.
He walked forward as though the throne room belonged to him almost as much as it belonged to the man sitting upon the throne. There was no hesitation in him, no discomfort, no sign that he felt the weight of the court’s attention as anything other than entertainment. I followed a half-step behind and to his right, far too aware of the sound of my armour and the fact that I had no idea where exactly a foreign sellsword captain was meant to stand in a moment like this.
This was not my scene. It was not my court. It was not my family. And yet Daemon had placed me in the middle of it.
Whispers moved through the crowd. I heard fragments.
"Stepstones."
"Is that him?"
"Galeris, they said."
"Valyrian?"
"The Crabfeeder’s killer."
Each word settled on my shoulders with uncomfortable weight.
At the base of the throne, Daemon stopped. I stopped beside him because there was nowhere else to go.
For a heartbeat, no one spoke.
Viserys looked down at his brother with an expression I could not easily name. Relief, irritation, love, caution, all tangled together in the face of a man who had spent too much of his life wanting Daemon close and fearing what would happen when he came.
"Brother," Viserys said at last.
His voice carried through the hall, warm but guarded. Daemon looked up at him. Then, to the visible surprise of much of the court, he bowed. It was not a careless bow, nor a mocking one, though with Daemon it was impossible to tell where sincerity ended, and performance began. He lowered himself before the Iron Throne, one knee bending, head inclined.
I realised a moment too late that I was expected to do the same. Armour scraped softly as I lowered myself beside him.
The absurdity of it nearly struck me then. I, Heinrich Adler, once a university student from Dresden who had died beneath a chandelier, was kneeling in the Red Keep beside Daemon Targaryen before King Viserys the First.
I was wearing the armour of Othorion Galeris, carrying Valyrian steel, and standing in the centre of a moment history had already half-written without ever accounting for me. I should not have been there. Every instinct told me that. And yet there I was, head bowed, trapped in Daemon’s shadow.
"My king," Daemon said.
The court quieted further. Otto Hightower watched without moving.
Viserys leaned forward slightly. "Daemon."
Daemon raised his head. "I have returned from the Stepstones."
"So I see."
A faint murmur passed through the hall, but Viserys silenced it with a look.
Daemon’s mouth curved, not quite into a smile. "The Crabfeeder is dead. His armies are broken. The Triarchy’s hold over the islands has been shattered. The Stepstones is ours, and those who still resist do so only because fear has not yet taught them wisdom."
Viserys studied him. "Word reached us that you had been crowned."
The hall tightened around that statement. There it was. The dangerous part.
King of the Narrow Sea.
I kept my head bowed, though my eyes lifted just enough to watch from beneath my brow. Otto’s expression remained composed, but I saw the slight sharpening of his gaze. The lords around us waited like men leaning toward a flame to see whether it would warm the room or burn it down.
Daemon reached up and removed the crown he carried.
It was not the kind of crown made to impress a great city. It was a war crown, rougher and simpler than anything the court might admire, shaped by conquest rather than tradition. He held it in both hands and looked up at his brother.
"They named me King of the Narrow Sea," Daemon said. "The men of the Stepstones placed a crown upon my head."
Viserys did not move. Daemon lowered his gaze. "But I know only one true king."
The words changed the room. Daemon placed the crown before Viserys, bowing his head again. "My crown and the Stepstones are yours, Your Grace. I swear my allegiance to you, as your brother and your loyal servant."
Silence followed.
It was an extraordinary thing to witness, even knowing something like it should happen. Knowledge was useless against the reality of it. This was Daemon at his most dangerous, not because he threatened, shouted, or drew steel, but because he made surrender look like victory. He had returned with conquest, with a crown, with a story, and now he laid all of it at Viserys’s feet in front of the court.
He had made himself impossible to ignore. And he had dragged me into the shape of that triumph. Viserys’s face softened. That was the danger with him. A harsher king might have seen only ambition. A colder one might have demanded hostages, terms, explanations, punishments. Viserys saw his brother kneeling before him and wanted, painfully, to believe in it.
After a long moment, the king rose from the Iron Throne. The swords around him seemed to catch at his robes as he descended, but he came down carefully, step by step, until he stood before Daemon. The hall watched, breathless.
Viserys placed a hand on Daemon’s shoulder. "Rise, brother."
Daemon rose.
For a moment, the two men looked at one another, and I saw what history often flattened into names and consequences. They were not merely king and prince, rival and problem, ruler and rogue. They were brothers. That made everything better and worse.
Then Viserys embraced him. The court erupted into applause.
Some clapped with genuine relief. Others because everyone else did. Otto Hightower did so last, slowly and politely, his face revealing nothing. I remained kneeling for a second longer than I should have, uncertain whether rising too soon would seem presumptuous or staying down would make me look ridiculous.
Daemon solved the problem by glancing back. "Up, Captain."
So I rose. The applause began to fade, and only then did Viserys’s attention settle fully on me. I felt the weight of it immediately.
The king’s gaze moved over my silver-white hair, my purple eyes, my battered armour, and the hilt of World Breaker at my side. There was curiosity there, and perhaps surprise. I did not doubt he had been told something of me before, but hearing of a foreign Valyrian sellsword and seeing one standing in his throne room were not the same thing.
Daemon noticed his interest. Of course he did. "Your Grace," Daemon said, turning slightly toward me, "allow me to present Captain Othorion Galeris of the Dread Legion."
I bowed again, lower this time. "Your Grace."
Viserys looked intrigued. "Galeris?"
"A Valyrian family in Essos," Daemon said before I could decide how much to explain. "Old blood, by the look of him. He commands a sellsword company of some discipline. Five thousand men, give or take the ones Bloodstone swallowed."
The casual mention of my dead made something tighten in my chest, but I kept my face still.
Daemon continued. "It was Captain Galeris who offered the plan that broke the Crabfeeder’s position. He walked alone into the dunes and drew the enemy from their caves. When the trap closed, he pursued their leader into the tunnels and killed him on the ridge for all to see."
The whispers started again, louder this time.
Viserys’s eyes returned to me with new focus. "You killed the Crabfeeder?"
"I did, Your Grace."
"You pursued him alone?"
"Not entirely by choice or wisdom," I said before I could stop myself. "But yes."
A few courtiers murmured. Daemon’s smile sharpened at the edge of my vision.
Viserys seemed amused rather than offended. "Honesty is not always common in this room."
"No, Your Grace," Otto Hightower said smoothly. "Though neither is modesty after such deeds."
His voice was calm, almost pleasant. I turned my gaze toward him. The Hand of the King studied me with the quiet interest of a man measuring the length of a blade before deciding whether it belonged in his hand, his enemy’s chest, or locked away where no one could use it. I bowed my head slightly to him as well.
"My lord Hand."
"Captain Galeris," Otto replied.
The way he said my name made it clear he intended to remember it. That was not comforting. Viserys descended the final step so that he stood closer to me. "My brother says you command the Dread Legion."
"Yes, Your Grace."
"And where are your men now?"
"In the Stepstones, under my brother’s command until my return."
"Your brother?"
"Vaeron Galeris. My vice-captain and quartermaster."
Daemon’s grin widened. "The boy did not enjoy watching me take him."
Viserys looked at Daemon sharply. "Take him?"
The court quieted again. I felt Daemon’s amusement like a knife at my back. "He was reluctant to abandon his men," Daemon said lightly. "Understandable. Captains can be sentimental about their companies."
"That is one word for it," I said. The words slipped out too dryly.
Several nearby courtiers reacted with faint laughter before smothering it. Viserys looked between me and Daemon, and for the first time, I saw something like apology flicker across his face, though whether for me or for his brother’s nature, I could not tell.
"You came directly from the Stepstones?" the king asked.
"Yes, Your Grace."
"In armour."
"I was not given much time to change."
The silence after that was small, but noticeable.
Daemon laughed. Viserys sighed in a way that suggested this was far from the first time his brother had created an awkward situation and expected charm to carry everyone through it.
"I see," the king said.
Otto Hightower’s eyes moved briefly to Daemon, then back to me. "A dramatic entrance, then."
"Not of my design, my lord Hand."
"No," Otto said. "I imagine not."
Daemon looked thoroughly pleased with himself. I wished Vaeron were there. Not because he could have changed anything, but because he would have hated all of this in the precise way it deserved to be hated.
Viserys regarded me for another moment. Unlike Otto, his curiosity did not feel predatory. That almost made it more dangerous. Otto measured me as a potential piece on the board. Viserys looked at me as a man, perhaps even as a curiosity from a lost branch of the world his family still claimed as its origin.
"Old Valyrian blood in Essos," Viserys said softly. "And a Valyrian steel sword, unless my eyes mistake me."
"They do not, Your Grace."
"What is it called?"
"World Breaker."
A ripple moved through the court.
Daemon laughed again, louder this time. "A modest name."
"It was named by an ancestor with more pride than restraint," I said.
Viserys smiled faintly. "A common failing among Valyrians."
That earned more laughter, warmer this time. I allowed myself the smallest smile. "So I have heard, Your Grace."
For the first time since entering the throne room, the tension eased slightly. Only slightly. Enough for men to breathe, not enough for danger to leave.
Viserys turned back toward the court. "The realm owes thanks to all who fought in the Stepstones. House Velaryon, my brother, their men, and those who aided them have done a great service in securing the Narrow Sea."
Applause followed again. This time, some of it was for me.
I stood there beneath the attention of the court, armour scratched by pirate steel, World Breaker at my side, and Daemon beside me wearing satisfaction like a cloak. I had wanted to reach King’s Landing one day. I had wanted to stand near the people whose choices would shape the future. I had imagined doing so carefully, with planning, preparation, and enough distance to avoid being crushed by the first wheel of politics to turn my way.
Instead, I had arrived as Daemon Targaryen’s proof of victory.
Viserys returned to his throne, and Otto leaned close to speak quietly in his ear. Daemon remained beside me, pleased beyond measure, while courtiers stared as if deciding what kind of man I was and what use might be made of me.
I kept my face calm. Inside, my thoughts moved too quickly. Rhaenyra was somewhere in this castle. Alicent Hightower was likely nearby, though I had not yet seen her.
The court before me was not yet divided into green and black, not openly, not completely. But the fault lines were already here. Otto stood by the king. Daemon basked in applause. Viserys smiled because he wanted peace to be real. Lords whispered. Ambition breathed beneath every polished word.
And I, a foreign sellsword in battered armour, had been dropped into the centre of it with no warning and no escape.
Daemon leaned close enough that only I could hear him. "Smile, Captain," he murmured. "You are in King’s Landing now."
I looked out over the watching court. Then I smiled. Not because I was pleased. Because I understood, finally, that the battle had not ended when I left Bloodstone.
It had only changed rooms.
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