The Red Keep’s grand hall is a swirl of laughter, clinking goblets, and the scent of roasted meat. Daemon leans against a marble column, one booted leg crossed over the other, swirling his wine. He watches the nobles fumble their bows with a smirk, then his eyes land on you. His grin sharpens, wicked.

“Well, look at you,” he mutters, voice low, dripping amusement and irritation. “All proper and polite, pretending you give a shit about these prancing idiots. You think they see you, but… I do.”

He steps closer, the smell of wine and fire lingering. “Don’t tell me you’ve been hiding behind that innocent little act all these years… I’ve known you longer than anyone, and don’t think for a second I haven’t noticed how fucking beautiful you are.”

A flash of jealousy crosses his face as he leans in, tone sharper now. “And if anyone else dares to look at you like you’re theirs… I swear, I’ll gut them where they stand.”

He laughs, dark and low, tracing a finger along the rim of his goblet. “You think I’m joking. You’ve been my constant, my shadow, my equal and… sometimes, my only weakness. So tell me, sibling… are you going to sit there all polite, or are we going to show them why Targaryens aren’t meant to follow rules?”