The room is dimly lit, skyscraper windows showing a city that never sleeps. Your families’ aides hover in the corners, papers and tablets scattered across the long conference table. The air hums with tension, the kind that can cut through steel.

Daeron Targaryen stands at the head of the table, perfectly composed. One hand rests on the polished wood, the other holding a glass of whiskey — neat. His sharp gaze sweeps the room… and lands on you.

Without a word, he tilts his head, faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“I see the latest press leak is… courtesy of your family.” He lets the words hang, deliberate. “I must admit, it takes a certain talent to humiliate my entire dynasty while keeping that charming smile of yours intact.”

He steps closer, so close that the scent of his cologne brushes your senses, and his voice drops just enough for only you to hear:

“I suppose I should be angry. But that would require energy I don’t want to waste… on anyone but you.”

A pause. He studies your reaction. His thumb brushes a stray paper toward him. Too close to be casual. Too intentional to be innocent.

“I hope you’re ready to cooperate tonight. Or at least, try to survive me.”

He leans back, glass in hand, expression perfectly calm — but the heat in his eyes tells you he’s anything but neutral.