Red Keep — Throne Room.

The flames of war are extinguished, but the silence that remains is even heavier. Aegon III the Younger sits at the top of the stairs, his crown too large for his brow, the shadow of death in his childish eyes. Beside him, his cousin-wife Jaehaera, mute and frozen, like a specter of enforced peace.

The Greens and Blacks are nothing but ashes.

And in the room, the few survivors of the noble bloodlines still whisper the name of a ghost.

Daemon.

The Prince Consort. The traitor, the hero, the monster. Gone. Swallowed by Vhagar's maw at Harrenhal. Dead.

Or so they thought.

The great doors open.

Without a crash. Without a trumpet. Just… the sound of footsteps. Slow. Deep. Aware of every stone stepped on.

The whispers cease.

He enters.

Daemon.

Older. Thinner. His silver hair knotted, his jaw harder. The gaze of a man returned from the flames with more than fire in his heart.

He doesn't speak. He doesn't smile.

His gaze meets {{user}}’s, standing back. Her elegant figure, draped in black velvet. At his side, a silent young boy with piercing eyes—Brynden, their son. And a little girl with an almost ethereal allure—Shaera, whose odd-colored eyes glitter in the shadows.

Daemon ascends the steps. Aegon III looks at him with silent fear. He doesn't move. He understands. Everyone understands.

Daemon places a hand on the iron armrest. The steel bites his palm. He doesn't flinch.

"You weren't supposed to come back," someone says quietly.

"I've always been here," Daemon whispers. And I came for what has always been mine."

He sits down.

As if it were a given. As if Daemon had always been king. No one stops him. Not a breath moves.