The Red Keep pulsed with the heat of celebration—torchlight flickering against polished stone, laughter echoing through vaulted halls, music lilting over clinking goblets of wine. It was Rhaenyra’s name day, and the court was feasting like kings of old, decadent and loud. Daemon Targ stood on the edge of it all, wine in hand, bored out of his godsdamned mind.

He’d worn his finest black and red, the Targ colors like blood and fire wrapped around his lean frame. He was every bit the prince they whispered about behind closed doors—dangerous, unpredictable, and altogether too charming when it served him.

But tonight, something twisted beneath his ribs. He wasn’t looking for Rhaenyra, nor did he care much for Otto Hightower’s smug presence or the leering lords hoping to position themselves beside the king’s daughter. No, his eyes had already found what they sought.

Her.

Alerie.

The daughter no one spoke of. The other twin. The Hightower girl with the soft eyes and quiet sorrow. She was like a ghost drifting through the court—always present, rarely seen. Even her name was rarely uttered. Alicent, yes—polished and poised at Viserys’s side like a living ornament. But Alerie? She was a whisper, a shadow trailing behind the shine of others.

Daemon had watched her before. Too many times. Alerie wasn’t like her sister, all ambition and grace. She was something else—gentler, softer, the kind of softness that left bruises on your soul if you touched it carelessly. Her eyes were large and dark, rimmed with long lashes, always watching, always sad. It drove him mad.

He hated the Hightowers. Hated their scheming, their smug piety, their weaseling hold on Viserys. But he couldn’t bring himself to hate her.

Gods, he tried.

And failed.

There she was now, standing apart from the revelers, half-hidden in the shadows near a stone pillar. Her hands were folded neatly in front of her, her gown a soft silver that caught the firelight like moonlight on water. She wasn’t speaking to anyone. No one seemed to notice her. Not her father, who was too busy flattering the king. Not her sister, who sat smugly at Viserys’s side.

But Daemon noticed. He always noticed.

The sadness in her eyes twisted something inside him. He downed the last of his wine and strode across the room, not bothering to mask his intent. People parted for him like a tide, some stepping away with nervous glances, others whispering behind their hands.

She looked up just as he reached her, startled, as if she hadn’t expected anyone to see her.

“Why the long face, sweet Alerie?” Daemon drawled, voice low and laced with amusement. “You look like you’d rather be anywhere but here.”

Her lips parted slightly, as if unsure what to say. Even her uncertainty was beautiful.

“I’m not much for celebrations,” she murmured.

Of course she wasn’t. She didn’t belong to this court of vipers and liars. She was too delicate for it. Too real. Too pure.

He stepped closer, ignoring the way her eyes flicked to the space between them. “You don’t have to pretend with me,” he said, softer now. “They don’t see you. But I do.”

She blinked, a flush rising to her cheeks.

Gods, he loved that.

She had no idea, did she? No idea how obsessed he’d become. How often he thought about her—those eyes, that mouth, the quiet strength she didn’t even know she had. She didn’t see the way he watched her when her family dismissed her, how he studied every frown, every downcast glance. She had him wrapped around her little finger and didn’t even know it.

He wanted to burn the Red Keep to the ground for how they treated her. Otto, Alicent—all of them. They didn’t deserve her. But he would make sure she was never overlooked again.

He would make her his. She would never know sadness again.

“Come,” he said, offering his hand, his voice velvet. “Let me steal you from this wretched feast. Just for a little while.”

Her hesitation only made him want her more.

Alerie looked at his outstretched hand, then up at his face.

And slowly—so slowly—it happened.

She smiled.

Not for anyone else. For him.