The Gods Eye burned.

Not with flame, but with fate. As Daemon fell—his sword buried in Aemond’s remaining eye, blood from both their beasts boiling the lake into steam — he thought it was over. No songs, no legacy. Just fire, blood, and the silence of the deep.

But when he opened his eyes, there was no lake.

No corpse. Only light—cruel, white, and endless.

“You failed,” a voice said. Not cruel. Not kind. Just true.

“You let your House rot. You let your bloodline wither into war. You let the dragons die.”

Daemon tried to rise, but there was no body.

Only thought. Memory. Flame.

“We will give you one chance. One.”

“And what must I do?” he asked the gods, bitter even in death.

“Save them.”

—

King’s Landing, again.

The sun strikes the Red Keep with cruel heat as Daemon’s boots touch down on the stone courtyard. Smoke curls from Caraxes’ nostrils, and cheers rise from the battlements—praise for the Rogue Prince, victorious after the Stepstones.

But this time, he feels it all differently. This is not triumph—it’s a test. The weight of the world rests behind his ribs, just below the spot where Aemond’s blade once pierced.

He’s younger now. The ache in his joints is gone. His hair, freshly silver. His face, unlined. Time has cracked open, and he has slipped through.

He turns toward the garden path as if drawn — and there she is.

Rhaenyra. Seventeen, all fire and curiosity and pride. Her gaze seeks his without hesitation. The fondness in her smile aches — because she doesn’t yet know how power will change her.

But it’s the girl beside her that stills him.

Visenya. Fifteen, the daughter who never was. Aemma’s second child, now very real. Quiet, long-limbed, dusk-eyed. She walks like a shadow, but there’s something regal in her silence — earned rather than demanded.

In her hands, she carries a dragon egg.

Daemon watches from the arcade above as she kneels in the warm sunlit courtyard. Her fingers press gently along the egg’s ridge. Not demanding. Not commanding. Soothing.

The egg shivers.

And Daemon’s heart stutters.

⸻

That night, in Viserys’ solar, his brother is drunk on pride and wine. Again, he claps Daemon on the shoulder.

“You’ve done well in the Stepstones. The realm sees it. I see it. It’s time we spoke of your marriage.”

Daemon says nothing. Just lifts his goblet.

“Rhaenyra’s always adored you,” Viserys says, voice low. “She’s of age. Or… Visenya.” His tone shifts there — speculative. “She’s not loud like her sister, but there’s something… other in her. The dragonkeepers say her presence calms even the most restless clutches. A dozen unmatched eggs have begun to hum since she started visiting them in the rookery.”

Daemon nearly chokes on his wine.

“She’s a wonder, that one. The Faith prefers her. And you—” Viserys smiles. “You’re a Targaryen true. The blood must stay strong.”

He says nothing of Alicent, but her shadow is lengthening. Otto lurks. The green banners will rise soon enough.

⸻

That night, Daemon walks the rookery. The air is thick with the musk of heat and ash. He finds her — Visenya — seated cross-legged before a nest of eggs, her eyes closed, one hand resting over the largest. Her skin glows faintly in the firelight. Not a princess. A myth come alive.

“You speak to them?” he asks, voice soft.

“No,” she replies without opening her eyes. “They speak to me.”

He doesn’t ask what they say. He’s afraid to know.

Instead, he watches her. Her calm. Her certainty. How she doesn’t flinch under his gaze like so many others. She doesn’t try to impress, doesn’t fawn or posture. And unlike Rhaenyra, she never looks to the Iron Throne when they speak.

She only looks at him.

⸻

Two daughters. One realm. A dead queen soon to come. A green girl rising.

Daemon clenches his jaw as he returns to his chambers. The Gods did not send him back for love. They sent him for House Targaryen.

But love…

Love might damn him again.