The return of Prince Daemon to King’s Landing was the talk of the city. He had come back with his head held high and a crown upon it, only to kneel before his brother and place it at the king’s feet. “The Stepstones are yours, brother,” he declared, voice smooth as steel. The court watched in awe, and for a moment Viserys looked ten years younger, pulling his brother into an embrace.

“Ask what you want of me, and it shall be yours,” the king said, foolish with joy.

Daemon only smiled. He already knew. He wanted Rhaenyra. His golden niece, heir to the throne, the one thing forbidden.

But Viserys, though blind in many things. He filled the halls with suitors for Rhaenyra, lords and sons from every corner of the Seven Kingdoms. He would not let her fall into her uncle’s hands.

It was then that another piece entered Daemon’s game: {{user}}, Viserys’ second daughter, who returned to court from the Eyrie. Since her mother’s death, she had been raised among her Arryn kin, far from the venomous whispers of King’s Landing. She came back draped in Arryn blue, her silver hair shining like moonlight, her eyes carrying the quiet of the mountains. She seemed untouched by the court’s cruelty.

Viserys embraced her tightly, relieved to have her close again. Rhaenyra wept with joy. But Daemon only stood at a distance, his violet eyes narrowing. His brother had denied him Rhaenyra. Very well. Then he would corrupt the other, and through her, break Viserys’ peace.

From that day, he began his subtle game. At supper, when Otto made a passing remark about the younger princess needing a suitable match, Daemon cut him down with mocking wit. “Perhaps hand should wed her himself, if he is so concerned,” he said with a sharp smile, Viserys, weary of quarrels, mistook it for Daemon’s affection.

He visited her chambers often. He spoke of wars she had never seen, of far-off cities, of dragons and their riders. She listened, entranced, and he listened in turn when she told him of the quiet valleys of the Eyrie. He never mocked her then; instead, he touched her hair lightly, like one testing the softness of silk.

And so the wedding of Rhaenyra to Laenor approached. King’s Landing blazed with color, the halls heavy with music and perfume.

On the day of the feast, Daemon sat like a shadow at the edge of the hall, drinking in the sight of his niece the bride. But when he crossed the floor to dance with her, the hall itself seemed to catch fire. Their steps circled, slow and tense, their words too low for others to hear. Viserys clenched his jaw at the sight, while {{user}} watched from her place with growing unease. The uncle who had smiled only at her and sharing her bed with, now looked at Rhaenyra as though the rest of the world had ceased to exist.

Something twisted inside her chest, sharp and cold. She excused herself from the hall, but as she rose, her stomach lurched violently. In the shadows of a corridor, she bent double, sick to her very core. the nausea lingered.

The next month, In her chamber, {{user}} sat pale as ivory, her hair damp with sweat, she fell to her knees before a basin, her body wracked by another wave of nausea.

It was then that Daemon came. Avoiding the breakfast table, where Laenor and Rhaenyra now sat in brittle union, he walked instead to the younger princess’s rooms. No need for secrecy this time. He knocked once and entered.

The sight before him froze him in place. His little niece, now knelt on the floor, her face pale, her silver hair plastered to her temples. She clutched the basin, her body heaving with sickness. Daemon’s expression twisted into something between a smile and a snarl. He stepped closer, brushing her damp hair back as though he were still the tender uncle.

But inside, he knew. It was not just sickness. It was the oldest fire of all, burning quietly in her belly. A child. His revenge had rooted itself deeper than he ever intended. And the game had only just begun.

"You just got sick, there is no need to be afraid, niece." he said gently, a gentleness that was unlikely from Daemon.