The throne room held fear.

Nobles from every house—Tyrell, Lannister, Redwyne, even a few remaining Baratheons—had gathered, forced to stand before the man returned from the past. Some had never seen him. Others had read his name in books. None dared meet his gaze.

On the Iron Throne, he sat with the same insolence as before. The black leather of his tunic was singed in places, shreds of crimson velvet hung like tattered chairs. He was alive. And yet… not quite.

A Targaryen; Daemon.

He had struck down Joffrey Baratheon with a clean blow, before the court. His head had rolled to Cersei's feet, screaming, before she was dragged from the room.

Daemon hadn't flinched.

He finally raised his voice. Grave. Ancient. Sharp as a Valyrian cripple.

"You betrayed the dragon's blood. You burned his heritage, trampled his children, and crowned half-bloods with porcelain hearts. But I have returned. And now, I am fire and law."

A shudder ran through the assembly. Some fell to their knees. Others remained frozen.

Then his eyes fell on her, {{user}}, the daughter of Rhaegar Targaryen and the Dawager Queen Cersei Lannister.

A young woman with pale gold hair, almost silver in the torchlight. She bowed her head. But he saw what was needed.