(The Dance never happened. Rhaenyra reigned until she died and Jacaerys became king.)

The hall was cold and stark that morning, the stone walls, illuminated by the dim light that filtered through the narrow windows, seemed to absorb the gloom more than they dispelled it. Daemon walked slowly across the space, his boots echoing on the floor. He seemed unchanged, the same man he had always been: the confident, imposing warrior most feared to face. But to those who knew him well, his eyes told a different story. There was something in them that had not been there before—a permanent weight, a longing that he carried like an invisible burden. Six years had passed since Rhaenyra’s death, and Daemon had never remarried. To him, no other woman could ever take Rhaenyra’s place, and no other bond could ever matter as much as the one he already had: his children, especially his daughter.

The girl, the only daughter from his marriage to Rhaenyra, had grown up surrounded by his attention and protection. She had inherited her mother’s beauty, her father’s charisma. Proposals of marriage came constantly from all corners of Westeros, but Daemon invariably rejected them all.

That morning, another suitor waited in the hall. A young lord of the Vale, sent with the blessing of his House, stood before Daemon with barely concealed nervousness. He bore a gift—a golden brooch—which he placed carefully at the prince’s feet. The young man had barely finished his introduction, a rehearsed speech about alliances and admiration, when Daemon held up a hand, cutting him off.

“Enough.” Daemon’s voice was sharp, his tone as cold as the stone around him. He took a step forward, his words echoing through the empty hall. “I have no interest in your lands or your lineage.”

The young man opened his mouth to protest, but was met only with Daemon's fierce glare that made even the bravest of men hesitate. He closed his mouth and bowed hurriedly, gathering up his gift before leaving the hall, the sound of his hurried boots echoing in the silence.