THE SOUL'S EXCHANGE

Whispering Voice's

Viserys sat on his chair in his personal office, staring blankly ahead, his fingers tapping restlessly on the cold, unforgiving metal of his seat. His head pounded, a constant thrum that never quite left him these days. The small council had been in disarray for weeks now, ever since Daemon-his dear, chaotic brother-had been appointed Lord Commander of the City's Watch. He could still hear Regulus, the Hand of the King, advising him in calm, measured tones that Daemon was the best choice. A strong choice. But Viserys wasn't sure anymore. No, not at all.

The whispers wouldn't stop. The voices were everywhere, lurking behind him, floating in the shadowy corners of the throne room, hissing in his ear.

"Daemon's out of control. He's destroying King's Landing."

"Fighting pits? He's closing them down with a sword. He's worse than the men he's killing!"

"Your brother is a liability, Your Grace. How long before he turns that sword on you?"

Viserys flinched, trying to shake off the eerie sensation of the words crawling down his spine. His eyes drifted to the council table, where Lord Strong had been making his case yet again. Harrenhal's lord had never stopped complaining since Daemon's bloody reign had begun. Every word out of Strong's mouth felt like an accusation, like he was saying it was Viserys' fault for putting Daemon in that position in the first place. And perhaps it was. Viserys rubbed at his temples, the whispers growing louder with every passing second.

He had been trying-he really had-to listen to everyone's advice, to balance the kingdom, to be the king his father had wanted. But no matter how hard he tried, the voices were always there. They told him one thing, then the opposite. They whispered Daemon's name like a curse, filling his head with doubt. Was it a mistake? he wondered, his mind flitting back and forth between what Regulus had told him and what Strong had said.

He stood abruptly, robes swishing around him as he descended the throne. His thoughts were a storm, swirling with no way out. Daemon had caused so much chaos, so much trouble. But... had he? Hadn't the fighting pits been a problem for years? Viserys had heard about them often enough, but nothing had ever been done. It wasn't until Daemon-Daemon of all people-had taken control that they were finally gone. But at what cost? The streets were quiet, yes, but fear was thick in the air, like smoke from a dragon's breath.

"The commoners fear him," whispered a voice-or was it one of the lords?-Viserys wasn't sure anymore.
"Your brother is a monster. He's no protector of the realm."
"He'll bring the city to ruin, Your Grace. You have to do something!"

Viserys shook his head, desperate to clear the fog clouding his judgment. The truth was there somewhere-he just had to find it. He paced the room, hands trembling slightly, as he tried to make sense of the chaos Daemon had unleashed.

But hadn't Daemon always been chaos? A rogue prince, unpredictable, dangerous. And yet... hadn't he done more for King's Landing in these past few months than Viserys had managed in years? The crime rate was zero, and that was something, wasn't it? The streets were safer, the people... were they happier? Or just more afraid?

The whispers shifted again. "He's out of control."

"Daemon is not to be trusted, Your Grace. He'll take what's yours."

"It's only a matter of time before he makes a move for the throne."

Viserys stopped, his heart pounding. No, Daemon wouldn't. Would he? Could he?

His thoughts turned to Rhaenyra, his precious daughter, the heir he had named. The heir he had promised the realm. But with Daemon gaining power in the city, with his reputation growing... What if he wanted the throne for himself? What if Daemon thought it should be his bloodline that sat on the Iron Throne, not Viserys', not Rhaenyra's?