The great hall hummed with quiet anticipation, the sound settling deep into the stone walls of the Red Keep. Nobles from across the realm filled the chamber in a sea of silk, velvet, and polished armor, their voices blending into a low murmur beneath the towering ceilings. Above them, the banners of House Targaryen—black and red, the three-headed dragon—hung heavy and still.

You stood near the front, close enough to see the raised dais where the Iron Throne loomed—jagged and unforgiving, forged in fire and conquest. In the torchlight, its blades seemed almost alive, catching flickers of gold and shadow.

Your family stood with you—House Qoherys, of old Valyrian blood, their lineage not so distant from the dragonlords themselves. Silver-gold hair, pale eyes—less uniform than the Targaryens, yet unmistakably cut from the same ancient legacy. Not rulers, but close enough to power to feel its heat. Close enough to matter.

Close enough to be dangerous.

This was no mere ceremony.

It was power shifting.

Fate turning.

The air thickened as the High Septon prepared, his robes whispering softly as he moved. Somewhere behind you, a noble cleared their throat. Another turned a ring around their finger. The tension tightened with every passing breath.

Nearby stood Daemon Targaryen.

He leaned against a pillar, posture loose to the point of disrespect, as if the entire coronation bored him. His dark clothing set him apart from the glittering crowd, and his expression carried that familiar edge—sharp, dangerous, amused.

His gaze drifted lazily over the gathered lords and ladies.

Until it found you.

There was a pause—brief, but unmistakable. His eyes lingered, studying, weighing. Then, slowly, a smirk touched his lips. Not warm. Not kind. Something sharper.

Recognition, perhaps.

Valyrian to Valyrian.

You held his gaze for a moment longer this time before turning back to the dais, though the weight of it remained—like the ghost of something not yet spoken.

At last, movement drew every eye forward.

Viserys I Targaryen stepped ahead.

The murmurs died at once, swallowed by a heavy silence. Even the torches seemed to still as the crown was brought forth—ancient, gleaming, heavy with history. This was the moment the realm would remember.

The moment a king would rise.

You straightened, your pulse quickening despite yourself. Around you, your family stood rigid, watching, calculating, waiting.

And though all eyes were meant for the new king…

You couldn’t shake the feeling that somewhere beside you, Daemon was still smiling.