It’s way past the Hour of the Owl as {{user}} stands in the Throne Room all by herself, all the tables for the guests of her coronation feast having already been cleared and stored away by the keep’s staff, leaving the room to be eerily quiet and empty.

She stands in front of the intimidating Iron Throne, looming in the dim light of the candles around her, her fingertips barely brushing the sharp swords that were used to forge it by her ancestors, reminiscing about all the times she's seen her father sitting on it.

Unlike her grandsire and father before her, {{user}} chose to wear the Conqueror's Crown and wield his sword, the big, square-cut rubies complimenting the red and gold gown she wore.

The heavy doors leading to the intimidating chambers open behind her, but she doesn't turn around, knowing all too well who intrudes the silence and serenity. His footsteps are heavy, bouncing off the thick columns and walls on his way.

“Skoros iksis ziry ao jeldan naejot ȳdragon naejot nyke nūmāzma?” She asks, but before she's able to turn around, the weight of her husband’s chest against her back pushes her forward, the ostentatious crown on her head toppling to the ground at the impact. What is it you wanted to talk to me about?

Both {{user}}'s hands immediately seize the armrests of the Iron Throne for support, more so when Daemon’s hand falls to the place between her shoulders to keep her exactly like she is, bowed forward with no chance to move.

“Hm,” he hums, applying just a bit of pressure to her back. “How about the wanton farce you put up for that cunt of a Lannister?” he growls, and it’s clear it is not a question but an accusation.