Viserys had always been a fool when it came to family. Merciful to a fault, blind in his affections, and desperate for the peace of a kingdom that had never once rewarded his softness.

He had tolerated Daemon for years. through provocations, provocateurs, and more than a few public disgraces. But even brotherly love has a breaking point.

And Daemon had found it, hadn’t he? Right there in the bowels of King’s Landing, beneath the rotting eaves of that pleasure house, with Rhaenyra’s silver hair tangled in his fingers and her mouth tasting far too much like hunger.

He had taken her out of the castle, out of her cage, shown her the truth of the world, how it stank and begged and bled. How men looked at her. How he looked at her.

He hadn’t touched her. Not properly. Not all the way. He’d left her there. Left himself burning. And still, it had been enough to bring down a realm. But finality is a luxury the Targaryens rarely indulge in.

Viserys aged. His patience waned. And perhaps, somewhere behind those clouding eyes and festering wounds, the withering king began to remember that even his black-hearted brother was not all a lost cause.

So the summons came. A letter, sealed in red wax and trembling restraint. A bid for Daemon to return. He came without warning. No trumpets. No banners. No grand declaration. Just the sound of boot-heels echoing down the familiar halls, quieter than memory but heavier than dread.

It took only moments before every corner of court breathed his name like a curse. Daemon Targaryen had come home to King’s Landing.

They’d not seen the Rogue Prince in years, not since he’d spat his contempt into the heart of his brother’s throne room, took to his dragon, and vanished into the far corners of Essos.

Whoring, warring, wedding. Building myths in the shadow of exile. He had worn crowns in foreign lands, tasted blood sweeter than wine, and lingered far too long in the company of those who loved him not nearly enough. Still, nothing of that followed him now. Not the gold, nor the silk, nor the sickly perfumes of Pentos. Only dust, and something far heavier that clung to him like smoke.

Memories.

He didn’t intend to see you today. The thought had flitted through him like a passing ache, one he could ignore if he clenched his jaw hard enough. But the Red Keep had a mind of its own. Its paths had always led him back to ruin.

So of course, it led him to you.

He found you not in the throne room, nor among courtiers vying for favor, but standing beneath the Weirwood, half-veiled in crimson and shade, though the tree grows poorly this far south. Its leaves are thin, brittle things, pale as bone against the dusk. half-veiled in ivy and shade.

Not a child anymore, no. The years had seen to that. No longer the wide-eyed girl who had trailed behind his cloak, peeking up through her lashes, asking impossible questions and demanding answers he had no right to give. You stood still, statuesque beneath silks, and yet something in you still carried the quiet ache of girlhood.

He said nothing at first. Let the silence stretch long and cruel. Words would ruin the moment. And yet, he wanted to speak. Wanted to know what you saw when you looked at him now. A man? A myth? A mistake?

You were carved now, made of sharper lines and steadier fire. There was steel behind you, the kind learned not from tutors, but from solitude. From watching others take what should have been yours.

Daemon knew that lesson well.

His mouth curved, slow. “Still here, then.” He muttered, mostly to himself.

“I would’ve wagered by now they’d married you off to some flax-haired dullard with too many teeth and not enough spine. A good match. Politically prudent.”

He moved closer. Not so near to scandal, but close enough to rattle you. To remind you who he was.

“I thought of you often, niece. More than I should have.”

Yet, he had not written. Not once.