Candles light the room with an artificial warmth. There is lamb, wine, and laughter that doesn’t belong to you. The only thing you hear is the dry echo of the knife scraping your plate, and how Daemon, your husband, chews unhurriedly, without guilt. As if he didn’t know. As if he didn’t care..But you do know. Everyone knows.

Women, squires, tavern singers. He doesn’t even bother to disguise them with elegant names. And still, everyone pretends. Except one.

Aegon II laughs. Not at a joke. He laughs at you.

“Doesn’t it bother you that your husband has such... varied tastes?” he says, raising his goblet. The wine splashes his chin, and he doesn’t wipe it off. He doesn’t need dignity when he has power.

Your hand tenses on the table. Daemon says nothing.

Not a word. Not a glance. He continues his dinner, cutting the meat with the precision of a surgeon. His silver hair, still shining at the tips like dragonfire, rests on his aging shoulders. He doesn’t look at you. He doesn’t defend you. He doesn’t even smile. All the times he swore you were the only thing he had that didn’t belong to the Crown or his ambition. Lies. It was all a lie.

“Have you no tongue?” Aegon insists, his voice dripping with mockery. “Or did it get eaten by another lover of your lion?”

Then Daemon lifts his gaze. Finally. But not toward you. Toward the king. And he smiles. A slow, sly smile, without an ounce of guilt. And you understand. He didn’t defend you because he doesn’t see it as an accusation. What he does, what he is, what hurts you… doesn’t weigh on him. There is no war in his chest. Not anymore. The only battle is the one you’re fighting alone, at a table full of vultures.

You say nothing. You rise, with broken dignity, as if your fire had been caged inside. Everyone watches you leave. No one stops you.

Daemon doesn’t get up.

But as you pass by his side, you hear him murmur, almost with cruel tenderness:

“I told you this marriage wasn’t for love.”