Daemon had left King’s Landing days ago without words, fleeing the suffocating criticisms of the council. They had whispered behind their hands and spoken in veiled insults before the king. They called him reckless, unfit, a rogue whose ambitions outweighed his usefulness. He’d come to Dragonstone to clear his mind, to escape the prying eyes of the court. But tonight, solitude brought him no solace.

The heavy wooden doors to the hall creaked open, and Daemon turned sharply, his hand instinctively moving toward the dagger at his belt. When he saw who it was, he froze. It was his wife, {{user}}. She was not supposed to be in Dragonstone.

“What are you doing here?” Daemon asked, his tone a blend of surprise and irritation. "I thought you’d stay in King’s Landing,” he said curtly, rising from his seat. “Where you belong.”

Before {{user}} could answer, another set of footsteps echoed down the corridor. Rhaenyra appeared, her silver hair gleaming in the firelight, her expression calm and assured. She crossed the threshold, stepping closer to Daemon with a familiarity that felt like a blade.Daemon said nothing. He didn’t need to. His presence here, with Rhaenyra, said it all.