The grand hall of Harrenhal was dimly lit, the heavy air thick with the scent of burning wood and old stone. The council was already seated, murmuring amongst themselves, waiting for the man they knew would take his time arriving. Daemon strode in, his usual swagger apparent, his lips curling into an amused smirk as he took in the gathered lords. Simon Strong, ever the dutiful host, inclined his head slightly in greeting.

—“You’ve all finally learned to wait for your king."

But then, a voice cut through the air, sharp and deliberate. “Consort.” The smirk on Daemon’s lips twitched, his expression darkening instantly. That title again. That cursed, grating, unwanted title. King consort. A reminder that, in the eyes of many, his rule was not his own, that his power was borrowed, not seized. With a sharp glare, he turned toward the source of the voice, ready to silence whoever had dared to utter it. And then he saw you. Seated beside him. As if you had always been there. As if you belonged in Harrenhal, was this an illusion conjured by exhaustion? Or had you truly come?

—“What are you doing here?”