The Great Sept of Baelor had never held such silence. Even the septons, cloaked in starched white and gold, seemed muted beneath the looming shadow of the Dragonpit's ruin and the memory of Aegon the Unworthy. Outside, bells rang in solemn rhythm, a mournful melody for a realm still staggering from a mad king's final whim. But within the Sept, amidst its marble and stained glass, the Seven watched as a new king was anointed.
Daenerys stood behind the Queen Dowager, her eyes fixed on her brother as he approached the altar.
Daeron Targaryen—bookish, measured, calm. He wore a robe of black and red, but it was the crown that caught the eye: red gold, huge and heavy, each of its nine points ending in a dragon's head with eyes of ruby, emerald, and sapphire. It had been Aegon IV's crown, a grotesque bauble designed more for display than for dignity. Yet Daeron had not cast it aside. He wore it as a sign—of reconciliation, perhaps, or of conquest over the shadows of his blood.
The High Septon anointed his brow with holy oil and spoke the sacred words. When Daeron rose, the realm rose with him.
"All hail Daeron of House Targaryen, Second of His Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm."
Daenerys joined in the acclaim, though her voice felt far away. She looked at her brother—so noble, so composed. And behind him stood Prince Maron Martell of Dorne, golden-skinned and handsome, his eyes solemn with promise.
The Dornish had come at last.
She did not see Daemon at the coronation.
But that night, under the pale kiss of moonlight, she found him waiting by the Black Cells, beneath the Red Keep where shadows ran long. He wore no sigil, no colors. Only black.
"You came," he said.
"You sent for me," she replied softly.
He turned. Even in darkness, his silver hair gleamed like starlight. "You saw it, then. The crown."
She nodded. "I was there."
Daemon's mouth twisted into a smile. "The boy king plays at power with our father's gilded corpse still warm. Tell me—does the crown sit heavy on his brow?"
"Don't mock him, Daemon. He is your brother too."
"Aye. And you are my sister." He stepped closer. "But that didn't stop us."
Her breath caught.
Daemon reached for her hand, his fingers cold. "I am no longer Daemon Waters. I am Daemon Blackfyre. Our father gave me more than a sword. He gave me a name. A right. A place."
"A place?" she echoed.
"At your side," he said. "As your husband."
Daenerys looked up at him. His eyes burned—hungry, defiant, and still so full of longing. He meant it. He believed in it. Perhaps he always had.
But her heart fluttered with unease.
"I am not a bastard now," he pressed on. "We are equal, by law and blood. What cause remains to keep us apart? You are Daenerys of House Targaryen. I am of House Blackfyre. It is a new house, yes—but born of the same fire. Let us seal it, you and I. Let us make something that our cursed father never could."
"I… I don't know," she whispered.
Daemon's smile faltered. "Why?"
"Because everything has changed, Daemon. And you've changed too. The moment our father named you… the world shifted."
"Not for me," he said fiercely. "Not where you're concerned."
She looked away. "You said once that your love would remain the same. But love is not always enough."
He stared at her. "So you deny me?"
"I didn't say that."
"Then what do you say?"
Daenerys stepped back, the cool stone beneath her slippers echoing her retreat. "I say I must think. Carefully. We all must tread carefully now, Daemon."
He did not follow her.
And so she turned, her silken cloak brushing the stair, and vanished into the dark.