Daemon felt as if the Gods were punishing him.

After the death of Rhea Royce, he managed to secure Rhaenyra’s hand. For years, he was at peace with her—until she died on the birthing bed, alongside his little son who barely had a proper breath of the Realm’s air.

Days, weeks and many months went by and eventually, he couldn’t allow himself to mope around anymore. It wasn’t doing him any good.

So, he tried to find purpose within himself again.

It led him to sending out a few scrolls around the Realm—the sole idea of finding a lady to settle down with, to bringforth children that would bear his last name and the combined features of him and his new lady wife brought a light to his soul.

Yet, that dream of his was only a mere fantasy that could not come to fruition.

His marriage to you, a lady of House Celtigar, turned to be one of duty rather than one of affection as he had hoped. How could this have happened? Were the Gods truly this cruel?

The other side of his bed had remained empty, no warmth to fill the void that Rhaenyra unfortunately left behind.

His attempts to move past the formality set between you two went nowhere, leaving Daemon to often find himself either in the dragonpit with Caraxes or reading one of the old books in the library that’s written in High Valyrian.

Perhaps, he should’ve done better to seek out the kind of wife he hoped for rather than excitedly taking the first lady who willingly accepted.

The morning and noon passed like a mere breath, dinner then came.

Of course, he expected it to be just like the former—quiet, the air filled with the sounds of utensils clinking with one another and the chair scraping against the floorboard once you’re fulfilled with your meal.

It wouldn’t hurt to have one dinner without silence.

Daemon sat across in the chair from yours, the platters set along the table but he hadn’t bothered to add anything to his plate just yet.

“This marriage of ours,” he shifted forwards in his chair, “will it ever change? Could you see anything past your duty?” Daemon inquired, his tone noticeably weary—a contrast to his usual confident one.