187 AC— Princess Daenerys Wedding Tourney*

The dust of the tourney grounds still clung to the air, tasting of grit and copper. Daemon Blackfyre walked through the shadows of the secondary stalls, his long, silver-gold hair matted with sweat and the heavy indentation of his helm. Every muscle in his chest ached, a physical reminder of the moment Prince Baelor’s lance had caught him, unhorsing the man many believed to be invincible. The crowds were still cheering—not for him, but for his half-brother’s son. Breakspear, they were calling him. A name earned at Daemon’s expense.

He pulled at the laces of his gambeson, his fingers trembling slightly from a mixture of exertion and a cold, quiet fury. It wasn’t just the tilt; it was the suffocating weight of King Daeron’s court. The King had not only cheered his son's victory but had reaffirmed Daemon’s "duty" to the realm—a marriage to Rohanne of Tyrosh, a girl across the narrow sea whom he had no heart for. To Daemon, the union felt less like a royal wedding and more like a political exile, orchestrated by a King who feared the dragon he couldn't control.

A shadow fell across the straw-strewn path, interrupting his brooding. Daemon stopped, his violet eyes flashing with a sudden, predatory sharpness. He didn't have his sword, Blackfyre, at his hip—it was back in his tent—but he still looked every inch the warrior. He saw a figure standing near the edge.

“Have you come to offer your condolences, I suppose?" Daemon’s voice was a low, melodic rasp, devoid of its usual easy charm. He leaned back against a wooden post, his frame dwarfing the structure. "Or have you come to tell me how 'gallant' the Prince looked as he knocked the King's own chosen heir into the dirt? Speak plainly. My patience today is as thin as my brother’s claim to the throne."