If she came to give her blessing, it would only cause devastation, drawing his attention.

The goddess of lost causes.

Chaos.

The only word that could ever define you. Chaos. You seemed like an uncontrollable fire or a storm that advanced and swept away, as if the wind were your sole guide. A shape-shifter.

It wasn’t that you had the privilege of traveling; you didn’t need it. You found your journeys in the people you met and then abandoned. You never stayed; you were fickle, as if remaining in one place were your death sentence.

Daemon was no exception, even if he believed he could be. He never felt as naive as when he met you—the only woman who ever allowed him to forget Rhaenyra. Not even Laena achieved that, but you alone replaced his niece on the throne of his thoughts.

Those thoughts tormented him, like a thunderous scream that hunted him even in the deepest dreams. Lying in his bed, he could see the chaotic shadow of your figure projected on the walls, destroying everything in its path, yet he remained silent.

It was the tournament in honor of Joffrey’s name day, Rhaenyra’s youngest son, when Daemon, clad in black armor and wielding a wooden lance atop a black steed, approached the balcony where the court gathered. He placed the weapon before you. “Would Lady {{user}} grant me her favor?”