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The flickering firelight cast long, grotesque shadows across the desolate Great Hall. Only the dying embers offered warmth, a stark contrast to the cold fury simmering within Daemon. "Dragonslaying is no knight's tale, my love," he growled, the rumble in his chest vibrating through the floor as he circled the obsidian table. His footsteps echoed hollowly in the cavernous space, the silence broken only by the insistent crackle of the flames. Reaching Rhaenyra's side, he loomed over her, his shadow swallowing her whole for a moment.
Night had cloaked the castle in darkness, a fitting shroud for the dreams that lay dashed upon the cold stone. Their advisors had long since fled, leaving the weight of a fractured kingdom heavy on their shoulders. Rhaenyra met his gaze, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. "Viserra is right," she whispered, her voice hoarse with grief. "We cannot unleash the dragons. I will not rule a wasteland."
Her hand, once cradling the promise of a queen, lay empty on the table. Daemon's own hand reached for it, a gesture of comfort that died in mid-air. The phantom weight of their lost child hung heavy between them. "They stole your birthright," he snarled, his voice laced with a barely contained rage.
Rhaenyra shook her head, a single tear tracing a glistening path down her cheek. "We cannot declare war, Daemon. I am sworn to protect the realm, not burn it to ash." His hand found hers then, their fingers intertwining in a silent vow. As they watched the flames writhe and dance, a morbid thought flickered across Rhaenyra's mind: Soon, it will be them consumed by the flames.
A pang of guilt stabbed at her heart. Her thoughts drifted to Viserra, her eldest daughter. The telltale bruises marring her neck, the haunted look in her eyes, the perpetually bloodstained fingers from a nervous tick – a chilling echo of Rhaenyra's own childhood. "Viserra is also right about another thing," Rhaenyra said, her voice shaky. "She is bound to the Hightowers now, by my actions. We cannot expect her to turn against her own husband."
A humorless smile twisted Daemon's lips. "Not in death, she won't be."
A shiver ran down Rhaenyra's spine. Blood ties be damned, Aemond would pay for what he had done to their daughter. "I fear for her, Daemon," she confessed, her voice barely a whisper. "This endless scheming and betrayal... it's tearing her apart."
Daemon took her hand, his lips brushing a gentle kiss against her knuckles. "Viserra is a dragon, Rhaenyra," he assured her, his voice firm yet laced with a tenderness reserved only for her. "She is strong." His violet eyes, however, glittered with a cold fury. "And as for that one-eyed... excuse me for my language... cunt," he spat, the promise of vengeance heavy in his voice. "He will meet his end the moment you claim your rightful place upon the Iron Throne."
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Lord Borros rumbled to his feet, a tremor shaking his massive frame as Prince Aemond entered the cavernous hall. A young woman stood beside him, the mirror image of a Baratheon with her dark hair like a raven's wing and eyes as deep and stormy as a midnight sea. Her beauty wasn't of the ethereal kind, but one carved with sharp angles and a strength that demanded respect. Not like the moon Aemond had known, all soft curves and gentle luminescence.
