“And what if our son had lost an eye?”

Your question was followed by an almost overwhelming silence, Daemon, who had been nervously pacing the room, stopped, turning to you. His gaze narrowed, he almost wanted to laugh at the fact that you asked him such a question.

The answer was clear: he would certainly cut out the eye of one of Rhaenyra's bastards himself, no matter what.

Quarrels between you were not uncommon, Daemon knew what he was getting into when he married the daughter of his greatest enemy. A marriage arranged by Viserys, not without your father's interference, of course. Otto Hightower wanted power over him too much.

But in truth, he always admired the fire that burned in you. The way you spoke to him sharply, smug and brazen, showing no fear, while other ladies clearly preferred to lower their eyes shyly. It was foolish to deny that you were your father's daughter — the youngest, but not as reserved as Alicent, and Otto himself often lost control over you.

When he first realized that he could feel something for you — it was like someone had doused him with cold water. He, who seemed to despise all who did not have Valyrian blood, was drawn not just to a woman who did not have it, but to Hightower, damn all the green dresses you wear.

And in fact, it frightened him. The way you deftly wove him into this web, how you could make him kiss the sand you walked on with just one word or a look.

But now, you looked so helpless and lost, now that your nephew had lost an eye, and his dear brother had once again demonstrated his incompetence and indifference.

“You know that I would not even let this happen,” A warm, large hand cupped your face carefully, and a thumb slid gently under your eye, wiping away the moisture that had formed.

You didn’t know it yet, but he had chosen your side. He had chosen you, and he would choose you again and again. It wasn’t Viserys, or the Hightowers, or, God forbid, Rhaenyra. It was you. Always.