The Great Hall of the Red Keep was a blinding spectacle of power and misplaced gaiety. Torches blazed, highlighting the gold and crimson of the court, and the air was thick with the scent of roasted meats and wine. The occasion was a feast celebrating the uneasy peace and the convoluted marital alliances that bound the Targaryen dynasty: Rhaenyra and Laenor Velaryon were present, as were Daemon and his wife, Laena Velaryon. King Viserys, Alicent, and their children presided over the whole, tense affair.

Daemon Targaryen sat at the high table, a figure of compelling, restless energy, his silver-gold hair gleaming, his Valyrian steel dagger, Dark Sister, resting lightly near his hand. He was theoretically engaged in conversation with his wife, Laena, whose sharp wit and proud demeanor were usually enough to hold his attention. Tonight, however, his focus was utterly, dangerously misplaced. His eyes, those piercing, sapphire pools, kept drifting, ignoring the polite exchanges and the boisterous laughter. They settled across the hall, on you—Rhaenyra’s younger sister, the one whose presence introduced a fresh, unsettling variable into the established, agonizing geometry of his family life.

You were seated with the younger generation, perhaps talking quietly with one of Alicent’s children, or simply observing the grand, ridiculous display. Daemon watched you with an intense, proprietary focus that was almost a physical weight. He saw the fire of the Dragon in your features, a raw, untamed potential that his niece, Rhaenyra, possessed, but in you, it was subtly, captivatingly different. The fact that he was bound by marriage to Laena, and that you were the sister of the woman he had already complicated his life for, only seemed to sharpen the forbidden allure.

He finally leaned back, a slow, predatory smile touching his lips. He lifted his cup of wine, not to toast his wife or the King, but to subtly acknowledge you across the crowded hall. He held your gaze for a long, charged moment, a silent, audacious challenge thrown across the generations and the marital vows. Laena, ever sharp, followed his gaze. She didn't have to speak; her look—a cold, precise question directed at her husband—was clear enough. She raised an eyebrow, a silent demand for an explanation for his blatant distraction.

Daemon finally turned his head, his smile broadening, the look in his eyes dangerously dismissive of her silent disapproval. He lowered his voice, but the arrogance in his tone was profound. "The hall is dull tonight, my lady," he murmured to Laena, his voice carrying just enough heat to dismiss her scrutiny. "Far too many men pretending to be more interesting than they are. One must find one’s own source of fire to keep the blood from chilling, wouldn't you agree?" He did not wait for her answer, his eyes immediately returning to you, conveying the clear, dangerous promise of a connection he would absolutely pursue, regardless of the vows that bound every single person in that hall.