Daemon entered the throne room with steady steps. His clothes still bore traces of war, and the crown—made from the bones of enemies—rested in his hands. Silence filled the hall. Everyone watched him, but he looked at no one, except her.

He remembered vividly the day Alyssa announced her pregnancy. He was seven years old. Until then, he had received all of his parents’ attention. He was the youngest child, the center of the household. When the news came, something inside him seemed to crack. His mother grew distant, his father more distracted, and everything began to revolve around that baby who didn’t even have a name yet. Daemon couldn’t explain what he felt, but he reacted the only way he knew how: by rejecting it. He said he didn’t want a sister. He became sullen, withdrawn, angry. He didn’t want to share anything with anyone—not his toys, not the affection, not the place he believed was his alone.

But then she was born.

Small, smelling of milk, wrapped in clean blankets. When he saw her for the first time, he stood still. He cried when they tried to take him out of the room. He screamed until they let him hold her. He wanted to touch her before anyone else. He wanted to be close. He began sleeping on the floor beside her cradle, as if that would guarantee no one could approach without him seeing.

Now she stands there, in the corner of the throne room. She wears an intricate dress, her hair neatly arranged, and she looks at him. Her face is serious. She doesn’t smile. Neither does he. But his gaze stays fixed on her. Only on her.

Throughout childhood, they were inseparable. She adored him. She sought his attention, mimicked his gestures. He taught her to speak High Valyrian, corrected her when she made mistakes. No other boy was worthy of playing with her. None were good enough. When he saw her in Viserys’s arms, he felt a quiet rage. He didn’t like the closeness, the way she laughed, the way she looked at their brother.

So, when talks of marriage began, Daemon knew he had to intervene. Viserys looked at her with more than affection—and that was intolerable. He used every tool he had: quiet conversations, political arguments, subtle pressure. He convinced the council that Aemma Arryn would be the better choice. In time, Viserys relented. His sister would not marry the king.

However, the very alliances Daemon had helped build led him to marry another woman.

He was bound to Rhea Royce—a noblewoman he despised, with whom he shared nothing. She was an obstacle, and eventually, she was gone. Her death brought no mourning, no relief. It merely removed another problem from his path.

Then he left. Not as a fugitive, but with purpose. He fought in the Stepstones, claimed victories, was declared king. The crown he now held was the symbol of that.

None of it, however, ever pulled him away from her memory—the child he had protected, the girl he watched sleep, the young woman no one else was allowed to touch.

Now, kneeling, he offers the crown of bone to Viserys. Not as a true gesture of submission to the throne, but as a way to draw near again. To the family. To her. To show that everything he did, he did to remain close.

She still stands motionless, looking at him without expression. He holds her gaze. For a moment, it feels like no time has passed. As if he were still the boy who lay beside her cradle, waiting for her to wake.

Daemon smiles, finally. It is not the smile of a victor. Nor that of a brother. It is the smile of someone who has waited for this his entire life. Of someone who always believed she belonged to him.

And now, standing before her, he understands: he never needed the war, the crown, the titles. What he wanted—what he had always wanted—was there. And had never left.