The next few hours at Dragonstone dissolved into a fevered haze of coordinated action. The news of Viserys’s inevitable passing had been kept from all but a chosen few—the handful of loyal men-at-arms and two swift, trusted captains sworn to silence and Daemon's gold. The preparations were silent, carried out under the oppressive shadow of Voranthrax. Daemon, his mind operating with devastating clarity, oversaw the details: securing a handful of valuable documents, arranging encrypted signals for their few loyalists within the city gates, and ensuring the speed and silence of their ascent. You were with the dragons, a solitary figure dwarfed by the magnificent, terrifying presence of your beast. Voranthrax seemed to sense the enormity of the coming challenge. His colossal body shifted, the crystalline jade scales vibrating slightly, generating a low, resonant hum that spoke of untapped, apocalyptic power. Daemon found you there, in the echoing stillness of the outer cave where the great beast often rested. The darkness was illuminated only by the internal glow of the dragon’s scales, casting the cave in a strange, shifting landscape of emerald and shadow. He walked up to you, his movements quiet but certain. He carried two things: his ancient, ornate helm, and a small, heavy silver chain. "The saddles are secured. The men have their orders. Our ravens are primed to fly only when we command it," Daemon reported, his eyes sweeping over the immense, slumbering head of Voranthrax. He was not a prince reviewing his army; he was a worshipper preparing a sacrifice. You stepped into the intimate space he offered, resting your hand on the cold leather of his shoulder. "I feel the world holding its breath, Daemon. All the threads are pulled tight now. It is only fire or blood that can snap them." "Let it be both," he replied, his voice rough. He reached out, taking the small chain and fastening it around your neck. It was a simple, heavy piece of Targaryen silver, unadorned, meant to be worn beneath clothing. "This is no jewel for a courtier, Zaldrīzes. It is a piece of my own ancestral armor. A physical vow. When the world calls you Queen, this will be your final reminder that your sovereignty is bound by my faith, and my life is bound by your command." The gravity of the gift—a hidden, personal crown of silver—spoke volumes of his obsessive, yet devoted love. It was a physical symbol of the shared tyranny they were about to impose upon the realm. You lifted your hands to the chain, feeling the weight settle over your collarbone. "Then let us wear our conspiracy with pride, my love. For I need no crown to know I have claimed the true heart of the Prince of the city."

He leaned in then, his expression fierce, almost desperate, the true core of his protective, possessive nature breaking through.

He pulled you into a deep, desperate embrace—not the wild abandon of their night, but a slow, powerful absorption of one soul into another.

"If the gods of Valyria demand a price for this treason," he vowed against your ear, the words a sacred, unbreakable oath, "let them take my blood first. You were forged for this throne. You are the Queen who was always meant to be."

The final signal came an hour before false dawn. Not a raven, but the sound carried on the stiff sea wind: the heavy, iron tolling of the Great Bell of the Starry Sept, echoing faintly from thirty leagues across the water. Viserys was dead. The bells were ringing the death knell for the King, but to Daemon and you, they were sounding the beginning of your joint reign. Daemon pulled you to the cliff edge. Caraxes, sleek and ready, gave a low, expectant hiss. Voranthrax, sensing the moment had arrived, rose to his full, terrifying height, his vast wings beating the air in slow, thunderous arcs. The crystalline scales began to pulse faster, illuminating the entire mountain in a brilliant, terrifying jade-green light. Daemon secured his helm, his face hidden, now merely a figure of lethal command. He mounted Caraxes. "King’s Landing awaits its true sovereign," Daemon call.