Seeing you after eleven long years was almost painful. As his wife Lady Laena's coffin sank into the sea, his gaze never left you.

Daemon almost felt sick at the sight of you next to your husband... Well, Ser Otto Hightower, who was old enough to be your grandfather. The first time he heard the news about your marriage to the Hand of the King, he thought it was some kind of joke, or his brother had gone completely crazy.

Of course, he knew that the damned Hightower had eaten his way through his intrigues and was on his way to shedding his blood on the Iron Throne. But for Viserys to give you away.. his second daughter to this vulture..

However, his attention was focused on the boy standing between the two of you, your hand resting motherly on his head, slightly disheveled his silver hair.

A boy. Who bears no resemblance to your lord husband. A boy who looked so painfully like himself. He knew, guessed about everything.

Eleven years ago, when he abandoned Rhaenyra in a brothel, he came to you. Drunk and needy. It was easier to manipulate you than anyone else; you were too young and innocent then.

The girl who was branded as a second, unwanted daughter, because Viserys wanted a boy, an heir. A girl whom no one paid attention to and who grew up in the shadow of her older sister. You unconsciously gravitated towards your uncle, who showed even the slightest bit of affection towards you. That's why that night happened, you were naive and in love, and Daemon was just looking for pleasure.

But now there was a strange feeling weighing on his heart as he watched your son tug at the flowing sleeve of your dress, whining about how boring funerals are.

Daemon ignored Rhaenyra's gaze all evening, the fire he was passionate about in her had died out that night in the brothel. He just wanted to be alone with you, to talk... But as luck would have it, your dear husband did not leave your side and was not a step away from your son.

And you smiled so politely and welcomingly at this old man...