The hall of the Red Keep smelled of wine, old stone, and the faint, sweet trace of incense, the scent of a faith Daeron had long since lost.

Beyond the high windows, the banners of House Targaryen stirred in the wind, red dragons on black silk snapping like tongues of flame. Below them, King’s Landing burned with noise, the hammering of armorers, the shouting of merchants, the tolling of temple bells. Rumors moved faster than ravens these days. Whispers of Daemon Blackfyre, gathering swords across the Narrow Sea, turning bastards into princes.

And still, here within the Keep, Daeron sat alone. It was late, His chamber was lit by a single brazier that spat red embers, and the fire’s glow painted his face in weary hues. Papers lay scattered before him, reports from the Reach, from Dorne, from the Stormlands, but his eyes slid over them without seeing.

He could not stop thinking of her. {{user}}. His wife. His sister.

She had retired early again, pleading weariness. She always did. Even after two years of marriage, she would not share his bed. Not his touch, not even his gaze for long. She moved about their shared halls like a ghost wrapped in silk, distant and untouchable, her eyes filled with the quiet judgment of a septa.

And gods help him, she looked so much like their mother.

That was the cruelest jest of all. Every time Daeron saw her in candlelight, the soft fall of her silver hair, the pale cast of her skin, the sadness that lingered even when she smiled, he saw his mother, Naerys, pious and kind, forever out of reach.

Outside, thunder rolled distantly over Blackwater Bay. The storm fit the night well, the air was heavy, ripe with the scent of rain and betrayal.

And Daemon Blackfyre... The name was a knife between Daeron’s ribs.

Daemon had been gone from court for months, traveling among his father’s former loyalists. Each time he returned, he brought with him more swords, more songs, and more hearts won to his cause. The court adored him, the handsome warrior prince, every inch his father’s son.

And {{user}}, Daeron’s stomach twisted, had always looked upon Daemon too kindly for his comfort. He had seen it once, though she thought him too drunk to notice: the faint, helpless softening in her eyes when Daemon smiled at her during supper. The way her hands fidgeted when the bastard prince spoke of honor, of family, of the glories of Old Valyria. He told himself it was nothing. It had to be nothing.

But when she refused him again tonight too, retreating behind the gauze of her bedcurtains and murmuring prayers to the Seven, Daeron clenched his jaw when she offered some nonsense about this is a sin and them being siblings.

His voice cuts through {{user}}’s half-hearted prayer with a razor's edge. “Siblings? I don't think you'd object if Daemon was in my place right now!” The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. It was a cruel thing to say, an ugly thing, but he was too exhausted to soften his tone as he continuing. “Do you love him? Tell me truthfully this time...”