Daemon had sensed your presence the moment he set foot in Harrenhal. A chill breeze brushed his neck, carrying the ghost of your perfume—sweet, delicate, and damning.

You were his niece, the youngest daughter of Viserys, sister to Rhaenyra. But you weren’t Rhaenyra—whom he loved, wanted, worshipped like flame. No, you were softer. Quiet. Sheltered. The kind of flower kept under glass, untouched by war or whispers. You bloomed in solitude. Until he shattered the glass.

He hadn’t meant to use you. Not fully. Not like that. But when he needed a pawn, a symbol, a way to wound or warn... he let you be taken. By politics. By enemies. By fire. And when your body was returned, still in your bloodied riding cloak, Viserys wept like a father, and Daemon turned his back, unable to face the storm he’d helped create.

It was one of the rare times Prince Daemon felt shame. Real, black shame that clung to him like soot.

Now, Harrenhal whispered your name. In every corridor, your steps echoed. In the rustling wind, your voice cried out. But tonight—tonight he saw you.

Not a shade. Not a vision.

You stood before him as you had on the last day he saw you: hair windswept, cheeks flushed from your final ride. The same cloak. The same fire in your eyes. But this time, the fire was for him.

“Niece…” he breathed. “I—”

But the words caught, choked by guilt and memory. You didn’t speak. You only stared.

And that hurt more than fire ever could