“You have ruined her! What lord will wed her now in this condition?”

King Viserys’s voice thundered through the chamber, echoing off the high stone walls as though summoned by the very storm gathering outside. The heavy oak doors trembled faintly under the force of his words, and the torches lining the hall flickered, their flames dancing in agitated bursts, casting long, jagged shadows that clawed across the marble floor. His face was flushed with a mix of fury and disbelief, veins standing out like dark rivers beneath the skin of his temples, his breath coming in short, ragged gusts.

He had seized Daemon by the collar of his black velvet doublet — the fabric rich but worn at the seams, like the bond between the brothers — and shook him as though he could wring remorse from him, as though guilt were a tangible thing that might spill out like water from a cracked vessel. The gold chain of office around Viserys’s neck swayed wildly, catching the torchlight in brief, angry flashes, a symbol of authority straining against the weight of betrayal.

Daemon, however, showed no regret. He stood tall despite the grip on him, his posture rigid yet effortless, as if carved from the same ancient stone as the castle walls. His sharp features — the blade-straight nose, the strong line of his jaw — were composed, unyielding, and his violet eyes, the colour of twilight over the Stepstones, remained unflinching, fixed on his brother with a calm that bordered on defiance. There was no tremor in his stance, no flicker of guilt in his gaze — only the quiet, smouldering intensity of a man who had long accepted the consequences of his choices.

Viserys finally released him, shoving him back with a force that made Daemon stagger a single step — just enough to break the tension, but not enough to unsettle him. Daemon caught himself with the grace of a cat, one hand brushing instinctively at the creased fabric of his doublet, his expression unchanged. The sound of Viserys’s boots echoed sharply as he paced away, then turned, his robes swirling around him like storm clouds.

“You disgrace this House with your reckless actions!” Viserys continued, his voice raw with emotion, each word a hammer blow. “Have you no shame? No regard for her honour? For the legacy we carry? The blood of Old Valyria runs in our veins — we are not common folk, to act on impulse and desire! We are bound by duty, by tradition, by the eyes of a thousand lords watching for weakness!”

Daemon held his gaze, unblinking. The silence between them stretched, thick as molten glass, charged with years of rivalry, affection, and unspoken truths. Then, slowly, he straightened his shoulders, and when he spoke, his voice was low but clear, cutting through the charged air like a Valyrian steel blade.

“Wed her to me,” he said, each word deliberate, measured. “When I offered up my crown — remember? — you said I could have anything. I stood before you, Viserys, and laid my claim to the Iron Throne aside. You promised me any boon. I want Rhaenyra. I’ll take her as she is, no matter the whispers or the scorn. I’ll wed her in the tradition of our House — with dragonfire and steel, with blood and bone. She is mine by heart, and I will make her mine by law.”

Viserys went still. The firelight danced across his face, illuminating the conflict etched in every line — the king’s duty warring with a brother’s love, the weight of the crown pressing against the ache of family. For a moment, it seemed the very air in the chamber held its breath, waiting for his answer.