You used to love them.

Both of them.

Jamie, with his hands stained in ink and wine, creating worlds that smelled of tragedy and glory. Damon, with the voice of a broken prophet, reciting verses like they were forbidden spells. Together, they were art.

You were a trio.

A shared flame in the middle of the world’s winter. Until you chose the crown. Until you said you couldn’t keep dreaming while the kingdom burned.

And they… they felt betrayed.

Now you sit at the center of the hall, surrounded by bored nobles, hypocritical courtiers, and shadows that won’t meet your gaze. It’s your birthday. The court celebrates your existence as if it weren’t a burden. As if the Dragon bloodline weren’t a sentence.

“Tonight… the theatre honors His Grace!” announces the master of spectacles.

The musicians fall silent.

And there they are.

Damon steps onto the stage first, wearing a ridiculous white wig, a crimson robe far too long, and a fake dragon egg hanging from his belt. The people laugh. You shouldn’t allow it. But you don’t move.

Jamie follows, wearing a poorly cut, crooked crown, a scroll in his hand, and a prop raven tied to his shoulder.

“Oh, noble dragon, what do you choose? To love… or to rule?”

“Can I choose fire?” Damon answers, with a crooked smile, imitating your voice. “No, my lord, for you’ve already burned it all.”

The laughter stings a little. They’re mocking you. In front of everyone. In front of the court, the gods, and your own ghosts.

The worst part is they do it beautifully. Jamie writes as if every word is a dagger. Damon delivers them like a kiss.