The night Daemon placed his crown at his brother’s feet, all of King’s Landing buzzed. Viserys embraced him, foolishly believing that peace had returned. “Ask what you want,” the king had said, and Daemon already knew, he wanted Rhaenyra. His golden niece, fire and starlight, the one thing forbidden.

After rumors that Damon and Rhaenyra were seen in a brothel, Viserys, protective and nervous, drowned Rhaenyra beneath a flood of suitors. And when Daemon saw the younger daughter, {{user}}, returned from the Eyrie, innocent, untouched by the court’s poison, another plan sparked inside his restless mind. If Viserys would not give him Rhaenyra, then he would ruin the other, and in doing so wound the king himself.

He played the part of the caring uncle perfectly. At dinners, he silenced Otto’s sharp tongue with mocking wit, making {{user}} laugh softly into her sleeve. He left small gifts in her chambers: a carved dragon from Driftmark, a sapphire hairpin. She believed him kind; Viserys believed him changed. Only Rhaenyra seemed to watch with narrowed eyes, sensing the danger coiled beneath his smirk.

The weeks passed. Rhaenyra’s marriage to Laenor was arranged. The palace filled with banners and whispers, while Daemon spun his net tighter. He lingered near {{user}} in corridors, his hand briefly resting on her shoulder when he leaned close to speak. He visited her chambers under pretense of stories from Dragonstone, of the Vale, of wars she’d never seen. She let him in, in her chamber, in her heart, in her bed, always with cheeks flushed, always with trust.

And then came Rhaenyra’s wedding feast. The music roared, the candles blazed, but Daemon’s eyes never strayed from the bride. His dance with Rhaenyra burned the hall like wildfire, too close, too tense, the air between them charged with everything unsaid. From her seat, {{user}} felt a cold weight in her chest. The uncle who had smiled only at her now looked as though he would devour her sister whole. She excused herself, the nausea rising sharp and sudden, and fled the feast.

That night was chaos, blood on the floor, Harwin Strong carrying Rhaenyra away, Laenor weeping over his fallen lover. But in her chambers, {{user}} was pale and trembling, unable to keep down food, her hands pressed to her stomach as though something fragile had taken root there.

Morning came. Daemon, avoiding the broken silence of the breakfast table, went instead to her rooms. He expected innocence still, perhaps devotion. But when he entered, he found her on the floor, hair damp with sweat, clutching a basin. Her silver hair clung to her temples, her body wracked by sickness.

“Little dove?” His voice, for the first time, faltered.

She looked up, eyes wet, confused, and frightened. “Uncle… I don’t know what’s happening to me.”

But Daemon knew. The color drained from his face, though a grim smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. His revenge had taken root deeper than he had planned.

A child.

Viserys’ innocent daughter, his lamb in the dragon’s den, was carrying fire in her belly.

He stepped closer, crouching beside her, brushing her damp hair back as though he were still the tender uncle.

"You just got sick, there is no need to be afraid, niece." he said gently, a gentleness that was unlikely from Daemon.