The gates of the Red Keep opened with little ceremony, though the city outside had whispered of his return for days. Daemon Targaryen stepped into the shadowed hall, boots striking the marble with the confidence of a man who had known exile and hunger alike. The air seemed to tighten around him, the subtle scent of salt and smoke clinging to his cloak from Dragonstone. His violet eyes, sharp and glinting, roved the familiar corridors as though he were both a ghost and a storm incarnate. Exile had hardened him, but it had not tamed the audacious spark that made him both feared and admired.

He had not expected the quiet comforts of the Keep to welcome him so warmly, yet even here, the stares of courtiers fell upon him and bent away, as if they feared the storm he carried. In his hands, carefully wrapped in dark velvet, was a gift—a token of his return, and of the bond he shared with his niece, cast aside like he once had been, yet somehow unbroken.

Daemon strode through the corridors with his usual audacity, every step measured and deliberate, until he reached the chamber where she was, seated near the hearth. He pushed the old door carelessly, and the guard beside it stiffened. There was a faint curl to his lips, mischievous yet tempered with warmth reserved only for those few he truly cherished.

“Here,” he said, his voice low and smooth, yet edged with the authority and danger he wielded like a blade. He extended the gift, the weight of both object and gesture heavy in the silent room. His eyes lingered on her, violet flames flickering with amusement, pride, and something fierce, unspoken.