The Great Hall of the Red Keep was suffocatingly bright, a stark contrast to the quiet, bloody efficiency of the frontlines you had grown so accustomed to. The air was thick with the cloying scent of roasted meats, expensive oils, and the underlying tension of a family that had spent far too many years sharpening their tongues against one another. To the lords of the realm, this was a celebration of unity; to you, it was a battlefield without the honesty of a sword.

The heavy oak doors groaned open, and the room fell into a practiced, expectant hush. Daemon Targaryen stepped through the threshold with his characteristic, arrogant swagger, his hand resting casually on the hilt of Dark Sister. Beside him, Rhaenyra Targaryen moved with a regal poise that had only sharpened since her time at Dragonstone. They looked every bit the image of Targaryen defiance. Daemon’s violet eyes scanned the room, bypassing the forced smiles of the Hightowers and the stiff nods of the Velaryons, until they landed on a figure standing in the shadows of a stone pillar. There you were—the youngest of the dragon’s brood, looking restless in the finery of the court.

"Look at this, Rhaenyra," Daemon’s voice carried that familiar, mocking lilt, though his eyes softened as he approached you. "The ghost of the frontlines has finally deigned to bless us with their presence. I thought for sure you’d found a way to marry your sword and move to the Stepstones permanently." Rhaenyra offered a warm, knowing smile, placing a hand on your arm. "It has been far too long, {{user}}. Father has been asking after you since the sun rose. He’s missed his most 'diligent' sibling, though I suspect he mostly misses the reports that you're actually still alive." Daemon stepped closer, his presence effectively cutting off the prying eyes of the rest of the room. He reached out, his hand clasping your shoulder with a grip that was surprisingly grounded. He didn't see the distant, weary commander that the court saw; he saw the sibling who had chosen the cold steel of reality over the gilded lies of the Red Keep.

"You look miserable," Daemon remarked, his voice dropping to a low, private murmur. "The smell of incense and desperation doesn't suit you as well as the scent of sea salt and dragon fire. How long has it been? Two years since you last stood under this roof? I’m surprised you remembered the way back through the Blackwater." He glanced over at the high table where Viserys sat, looking frail but hopeful, and then toward the Velaryons, who were watching the exchange with calculated interest. "The King wants a family gathering," Daemon said, his lip curling into a faint, sardonic smirk.

"He thinks that by putting us all in one room with enough wine, we’ll forget the blood we’ve spilled. But I’m glad you’re here, little dragon. It’s much harder for the vultures to circle when there’s more than one of us in the room who knows how to bite." He leaned in slightly, his eyes searching yours with a rare moment of genuine concern. "Tell me, before the music starts and the lies begin—how many of our enemies did you leave in the dirt this time? Or are you too 'busy' with your work to share a story with your brother?"