Laenor and Rhaenyra are to be wed. They visited a few days ago, your father and hers finalizing the match—an alliance between your Houses. Laenor confided in you about Rhaenyra’s proposal, how their union would be one of duty only, each free to pursue their own loves. He seemed lighter telling you this, his eyes bright when he spoke of Joffrey, his chosen knight, who would now have cause to remain in King’s Landing. You were happy for your brother. You were not happy about going to King’s Landing yourself.

When you arrived for the wedding, the King’s herald was already announcing the great Houses as they entered—the Lannisters, the Hightowers, the Baratheons, the Strongs, and many more. The heavy beat of the drums began as your turn came. The crowd rose, cheering as you walked the long path toward the High Table. Your eyes scanned the hall almost without thought, searching for a face you dreaded to see. No Daemon. Thank the gods.

At the High Table sat King Viserys and Princess Rhaenyra, family you had not laid eyes on in years. She was as beautiful as expected—poised, regal, radiant. You bowed, and Laenor stepped forward, bowing deeply to his future wife. She smiled, moved from her seat, and guided him up beside her. You bowed again before taking your own place.

Then—Daemon. He appeared from the corner, clad in a black and red tunic, hair shorter now, yet somehow suiting him. You forced your gaze away, fixing it on Laenor instead. His expression was smug as he approached, while King Viserys’ was anything but. With visible reluctance, the King ordered another chair brought for him.

The hall buzzed with chatter, goblets raised, platters passed. After an hour, the drums began again, and Laenor and Rhaenyra rose, stepping into the center of the floor for the ceremonial dance. They moved with an elegance that seemed almost effortless, their steps perfectly in time with the music. You leaned back, took a long swallow of wine, and watched them—two people bound by duty, dancing toward a future they had already quietly rewritten for themselves. From across the table, Daemon watched as Laenor and Rhaenyra danced. Grace, fluidity, perfection—things he could admire and yet resent all at once. A pang of envy, sharp and hot, curled through him. He lifted his goblet and drank, but the wine did little to cool the frustration simmering in his chest. His eyes flicked to you. There you sat, leaning back in your chair, your gaze fixed on the dancers. He studied you—your fingers curling around the stem of your glass, the faint movement of your lips, the subtle shifts of your posture. Every detail pulled at him, an unrelenting mix of anger and want rising in his blood. He tried to breathe it away. He failed.

The music ended, and Rhaenyra and Laenor bowed to one another. You set your glass down and began to applaud, sparking the rest of the hall to follow. As the clapping faded, guests began to spill onto the floor, the next lively tune already starting. Patterns of dancers filled the hall once again.