The rain rolled in like it had something to prove.

It hammered the coast in sheets, bending trees at their waists and flooding the pebbled edges of Driftmark’s long private drive. Thunder cracked overhead—low, wide, as though the sky were splitting behind the sea—and the wind churned through the gullied hills that surrounded the estate. Even the old house seemed to hunch into itself, its heavy stone frame grown darker and slicker with every passing hour.

A sleek black car—too new for the manor, too quiet for how fast it was moving—cut a wide arc around the circular gravel path and hissed to a stop in front of the east wing.

Daemon’s wing.

A beat of silence passed.

Then the door opened.

The youngest Velaryon stepped out without an umbrella. Their canvas jacket was already wet before the car even pulled away, curls damp and sticking to their brow, the sea air clinging to them like memory. They didn’t shiver. Didn’t flinch. Just hoisted a single worn duffel over one shoulder and walked up the three wide steps to the threshold.

The estate behind them was mostly dark—the old manor sleeping in silence. In contrast, the east wing glowed faintly from within, all warm amber light behind smoked glass and coastal concrete. It was modern and severe, all sharp edges and storm-safe architecture, but still somehow unmistakably his.

The door opened before they knocked.

Daemon Targaryen stood barefoot in the entryway, jaw set, sleeves pushed to his forearms, pale hair pulled back from his face like he’d been in the middle of something and didn’t care what. He said nothing at first.

Then:

“You look like hell.”

The Velaryon didn’t answer. Their eyes were glassy, unreadable in the rainlight.

“I didn’t text,” they said finally, voice low.

“I noticed.”

“I didn’t want to go back to the manor.”

“I noticed that, too.”

Lightning flickered far out to sea. The wind pulled at their jacket, but they didn’t adjust it. Daemon studied them, eyes sharp beneath the tiredness.

“Let me guess,” he said. “Words were said.”

“I said mine first.”

“Rhaenys or Corlys?”

They gave a tired half-smile. “Flip a coin.”

Daemon leaned a shoulder against the doorframe, arms crossing. “So you drove through a thunderstorm instead of answering their calls.”

“I turned off my phone,” they replied. “There wasn’t much to answer.”

It wasn’t dramatic. Their voice never cracked. There were no visible tears. But something brittle sat in the bones of their stance—shoulders drawn too tight, breath just slightly too shallow.

“I don’t need a place to stay,” they added, a little too quickly. “I just didn’t want to be there.”

Daemon looked past them, out at the storm swallowing the bay. Then he stepped aside.

“You’re soaked. Come in.”

They hesitated. Just for a moment.

Then they moved past him into the house.

Inside, it smelled like cedar and citrus, like the kind of incense no one admits to using but burns anyway. There were books stacked sideways on the kitchen counter, a small fire flickering in the recessed hearth, a playlist humming something low and brooding over speakers set into the concrete walls. The windows trembled under the wind but held.

Daemon shut the door and turned back to them. Rain dripped from the ends of their hair onto the matte stone floor.

“I’m not asking what happened,” he said simply. “Unless you want me to.”

“I don’t.”

He nodded. “Fine.”

Another silence. Then, quietly, without looking up:

“Can I stay?”

“You already are.”

They nodded, shoulders lowering by a fraction. Daemon walked past them, picked up a towel from a low stool near the fire, and held it out without fanfare. They took it.

“Room’s clean,” he added. “Closet still has whatever you left behind last summer.”

They paused. “You kept it?”

“I don’t throw away things that matter.”

Lightning cracked again.

And for the first time all night, they looked him in the eye.