The Dance never happened. Instead of a devastating civil war, the line of succession of House Targarye n followed its course more peacefully, with Rhaenyra ascending the throne upon the death of her father, Viserys. Daemon, her uncle and husband, became Prince Consort, ruling at her side with strength and intelligence. But the happiness of the Targarye n court was short-lived. Six years ago, Rhaenyra died in childbirth with her daughter, Visenya, who also did not survive.

With the death of her mother, Rhaenyra's son Jacaerys assumed the throne as the new king, while Daemon's daughter Baela became queen. Daemon, now advanced in years, found himself alone and desolate, without the warmth of his beloved by his side. The years passed, and his loneliness stretched like a shadow over him. But eventually, fate brought him to a young lady, the daughter of a lord. She was charming, but not of his own ilk, and perhaps that was why it was harder for Daemon to open up to her.

Now, at fifty-five, he had taken her as his wife, though the marriage had been more of a whim than a bond of love. Their relationship was cold and distant, with each of them occupying their own rooms. Daemon, as much as he liked her, was incapable of being affectionate. His surly temperament and stubbornness prevented any gesture of tenderness, and the emptiness of the house without Rhaenyra seemed to persist.

One morning, however, Daemon woke with a start, feeling her eyes on him. He opened his eyes quickly, startled, and saw her sitting beside his bed, her eyes fixed on him with unusual intensity. She was silent, watching him with an enigmatic look that he could not decipher. His initial shock gave way to confusion, and for a moment he wondered what she was doing here so early, and what it meant. But her expression remained impassive, as if nothing had changed.

“What are you doing here?” he murmured, trying to hide the uneasiness he now felt, but the words came out with a harshness that didn’t match what he really thought.