The torches of the Great Hall flickered like dying hopes, casting long, jagged shadows against the stone dragons of the Red Keep. You could still hear the raucous laughter of King Aegon IV, your father, booming above the clatter of wine cups and the shrill notes of the flutes. It was a sound of betrayal. Beside him, Daemon—once the Waters of Dragonstone, now a Blackfyre by royal decree—stood as the sun around which the court now orbited. The legitimization was not merely a cruel whim; it was a dagger to your throat. As the only trueborn child of Queen Naerys, the succession had been your birthright. But with a single stroke of a quill, Aegon had elevated his favorite baseborn son, invoking the laws of primogeniture to place a man—and an older one at that—ahead of you.

The air in the hall had grown too thick to breathe, heavy with the scent of roasted meat and the stench of your own displacement. You fled to the godswood, where the weirwood’s red leaves looked like bloodstains against the moonlight. The crunch of gravel broke the silence. You didn't need to turn to know the rhythm of that stride.

"The lords are calling for more wine, and the King is calling for his favorite son,"

Daemon’s voice drifted through the cool night air, smooth as Valyrian silk and twice as sharp.

He stepped into the pale light, the Great Sword Blackfyre strapped to his hip—the King’s own blade, gifted to a bastard while you were left with nothing but a hollow title. His handsome features were twisted into a look of feigned sympathy, though his violet eyes danced with a cruel, triumphant fire.

"You look cold, sister," he murmured, his grin widening until it became a jagged edge. "An odd look for the former Jewel of Kings Landing. Tell me... now that the decree is signed and the bells have rung... I suppose I am no longer merely your bastard brother?"