The day began in fog and darkness, no sun, only clouds flowing on the horizon like the smoke of dragons that breathed hellfire without ceasing.

But no dragons, the dragons have gone, and the lords remain without their inheritance.

But today was an unprecedented day, the first rebellion in the history of Targaryen rule, after the Civil War of the Dance, where the black dragon, Daemon Blackfire, clashed with the red dragon, Daeron II.

But Daemon was cunning; he did not think of blood, but rather of grasping the hand that hurt his brother, his daughter.

Daemon Blackfyre, Aegor bittersteel, Brynden Rivers standing near Daeron II who's sitting on the Iron Throne.

The four half-brothers, the sons of Aegon IV Targaryen, meeting through bloodshot and hate.

Again.

"Brother," Daemon’s voice rang out, a commanding, resonant baritone that cut through the silent hall like a sword striking a bell.

He did not look at Daeron; his intense, purple eyes were locked entirely upon you.

"I do not come to beg for the crumbs of your table. I come to claim what the dragon’s blood demands. Give me your daughter.

Grant me her hand in marriage, let her grace the halls of House Blackfyre as my wife and the sovereign protector of our peace, and I shall swear my steel to your throne forever."

A collective, horrified gasp rippled through the court.

Baelor stepped forward, his hand dropping to his sword hilt, his face darkened with righteous fury.

"She is promised to the succession of the crown, Waters!.

You are a married man with nine children at your back. You insult the King, you insult the Septons, and you insult her."

Daemon didn't even blink. He ignored the prince, his fluid, lethal grace carrying him three paces closer to the dais, stopping directly below where you stood.

The smirk on his lips grew sharper, more dangerous.

"I am no longer Waters, nephew,"

Daemon murmured, his tone smooth as vintage wine but carrying the terrifying weight of an impending war.

"Our father made me a Targaryen on his deathbed. I am a master of my own house, and I possess the sword that conquered this realm."

His gaze burned into your violet-lilac eyes, demanding your submission, your fire, your everything.

"Either your father gives me my niece, whom I have chosen above all the gold in Westeros, or I shall take her from the ashes of a rebellion that will tear this kingdom apart."

The ultimatum hung in the air like a descending axe. King Daeron’s face paled; he knew his half-brother would not back down.

He knew the lords of the realm would flock to the King Who Bore the Sword.

Before the guards could move, before Baelor could draw his blade, Daemon did something that shattered all protocols of courtly restraint.

He stepped onto the royal dais, completely bypassing the knights of the Kingsguard who stood frozen by his sheer aura.

He reached out, his strong, calloused hand—the hand born to wield Blackfyre—and closed his fingers gently yet unyieldingly around your wrist.

The contact was electric. His touch was warm against your milky-white skin. With a deliberate, romantic possessiveness that scandalized the realm.

Daemon pulled you an inch closer to his broad chest, his long, thick silver-gold hair mingling for a brief, breathless second with your ankle-length mane.

"Look at them, my sweet niece," Daemon whispered, his voice dropping to a low, seductive purr meant only for your ears, though his purple eyes remained defiantly fixed on your father and brothers.

"They tremble because they know they cannot keep you from me. Let them call it treason.

Let them call it madness. Choose me, and I will give you a kingdom built on fire and raw devotion, not on parchment and old men's promises."

He leaned down, his lips brushing the sensitive skin just below your ear, a lingering, breathless action that claimed you in front of the entire court, before his half-brother, and before the gods.

He wouldn't back down. The realm would either witness a wedding of silver and steel, or it would drown in blood.