The throne room was dimly lit, shadows stretching long over the stone floor as you stepped inside. The Red Keep had grown quieter in Daemon’s absence, yet his presence filled it again like smoke curling in the air—unseen but unmistakable.

You folded your hands behind your back, the sound of your shoes echoing softly. He sat on the Iron Throne as if it belonged to him, lounging lazily, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.

“What do you think you’re doing, uncle?”

He barely glanced at you. “Sitting. This could well be my chair one day.”

You continued walking, calm and unhurried. “Not if you're executed for treason. You haven’t come to court in an age.”

Daemon leaned further into the jagged iron, one leg crossing over the other. “Aye. Court is so dreadfully boring.”

You stopped just short of the steps. “Then why come back at all?”

“I heard your father was hosting a tournament in my honor,” he said, voice light but laced with something sharper.

“The tournament is for his heir,” you replied, a soft smile tugging at your lips. Teasing, but calculated.

“Just as I said.” He leaned forward now, eyes narrowed and full of heat.

You tilted your head, voice smooth. “His new heir.”

A flicker of something passed across his face. Still lounging, still smug, but there was steel beneath the silk. “Until your mother brings forth a son…” He rose from the throne in a single graceful motion, descending the steps with the gait of a man who feared nothing. “You are cursed with me.”