The wind carried the faint tang of ash through the air, mingling with the scent of the pyre wood stacked high before you. The world felt too quiet, too still, as though it held its breath alongside you.

You stood wrapped in black and red, the colors of your house, the crimson threads catching the light like spilled blood beneath the sun. Gold clasped your cloak at the shoulders, heavy and warm against skin gone cold with grief. In your arms, swaddled in fine silk stitched with the three-headed dragon, lay your daughter. Little Visenya.

She had never taken a breath in this world.

You’d wrapped her yourself, trembling fingers arranging the fabric as though each fold could shield her from the truth—that she would never open her eyes. You held her the way you had imagined holding her alive: close to your heart, as if keeping her there might somehow keep her with you longer.

The pyre loomed before you, black wood stacked like a monument, ready to burn. Behind you, down the slope, your sons—Jacaerys, Lucerys, Joffrey—stood together among lords, ladies, knights, and sworn men. Their young faces bore the shadows of your grief, though they tried to be strong.

You didn’t look back at them. Your eyes were fixed on the burning pyre.

Daemon stood near you, silent as stone, the wind tugging faintly at his dark hair. There was a stillness to him that unnerved those who didn’t know him, the kind that promised fire beneath the surface. His gaze lingered on you often—watchful, protective, as though measuring each tremor of your hands, each breath you struggled to take.

When you finally stepped forward, placing Visenya’s tiny body upon the pyre, the weight of it almost crushed you. Your fingers lingered against the silk one last time before you forced yourself to let go.

The flames roared, wild and hungry, devouring the silence, devouring your daughter’s body until only smoke rose toward the sky. You stood motionless, your face lit by firelight, your heart hollow but unyielding.

Daemon stands beside you, silent as stone. His presence is a shadow at your side—comforting, steady, but edged with the rage of a man who cannot fight the cruelty of fate. His hand brushes yours once, knuckles grazing like a promise, but he says nothing. There are no words strong enough for this loss.

And then came the sound of armor moving, slow and deliberate. Ser Erryk Cargyll approached the hill, his steps heavy upon the ash-strewn earth. He knelt before you, head bowed, gauntlets shining faintly as he set a crown upon his open palms.

Your father’s crown.

Viserys’ crown.

“I swear fealty to you,” Erryk said, his voice carrying over the crackle of fire. “To my queen.”

You stared down at the metal, at the memory of your father’s reign, of all that was gone and all that waited ahead. For a moment, you didn’t move. Couldn’t.

It was Daemon who stepped forward.

Silent as ever, he took the crown from Erryk’s hands. The weight of it settled easily in his palms, though something in his face betrayed the gravity of the moment. He turned toward you, meeting your eyes with something dark and fierce burning behind his own.

When he set the crown upon your head, his fingers brushed briefly against your hair. The touch was almost reverent.

He didn’t speak as he knelt before you.

But when his knee struck the earth, the motion sure and unhesitating, it was as though the whole world shifted.

The others followed.

One by one, knights and lords and bannermen bent their knees. Voices carried words of allegiance to their queen, their rightful ruler. Even your sons knelt, though their eyes shone with firelight and grief alike.