The throne room of the Red Keep had never been so still.
The golden light of afternoon filtered through the high windows in dusted beams, gilding the stone floor and the edges of the Iron Throne itself—a twisted mass of swords, melted and fused, sharp as ever. King Aegon IV Targaryen, the Unworthy, sat slumped upon that infamous seat, his frame swollen from wine and rot, though his eyes gleamed bright with satisfaction.
Below him, courtiers stood in a half-circle. Lords, ladies, knights, and scribes—all summoned for what was called a "day of celebration." The court had come dressed in finery, uncertain of what was to be celebrated, but knowing too well the King's whims rarely meant joy for all.
Princess Daenerys stood in her place beside the dais, clad in a gown of pale blue silk trimmed with black lace. Her silver-gold hair was braided in the Dornish fashion—a gesture to Myriah, at her brother Daeron's suggestion—but her mind was far from fashion.
Daemon Waters stood at the foot of the Iron Throne.
He wore black from head to heel, with a crimson sash knotted at his waist. No sigil adorned his chest, no badge of House, but there was a quiet, dangerous pride in his stance. He stood tall, his shoulders square, his expression unreadable as he looked up at the man who had never once called him son.
Until today.
King Aegon's voice rang out, dry as parchment but clear. "Bring forth the blade."
The crowd stirred as a knight stepped forward bearing a long bundle wrapped in silk. With a flourish, the wrappings were pulled away, and there it was—Blackfyre.
The blade was dark and rippling with the subtle waves of Valyrian steel, the hilt ornate with ruby-eyed dragons and the sigil of House Targaryen etched in gold. It had belonged to Aegon the Conqueror, passed from king to king through fire and war.
And now—now the King placed it in the hands of a bastard.
"Daemon Waters," Aegon said, smiling, "no longer shall you be nameless. You are of my blood. I claim you now, before gods and men." He rose, slowly, wheezing as he stood. "And more—I bestow upon you the sword of kings. The sword of dragons. Let all who see it know the truth: you are my son."
He took the blade and laid it across Daemon's hands.
The hall was silent for the span of three heartbeats. Then the murmuring began—quiet at first, then louder.
Lady Baratheon turned to her husband with a face of thunder. Ser Terrence Toyne muttered a curse beneath his breath. The Great Septon stood like a statue, his expression hidden behind his crystal crown. Queen Naerys, seated beside the dais, lowered her eyes and said nothing.
Daenerys looked to her brother, Prince Daeron.
His face was stone. He made no move, no protest, but his jaw was clenched, his eyes unreadable.
And Daenerys—she did not know what she felt.
Pride swelled in her chest at first. To see Daemon so honored, so raised. He looked every inch a prince, his hands steady on the hilt, his head bowed in deference. He had longed for a father's love, and now he had it—publicly, gloriously.
But beneath the pride was fear. A thrum of unease, like the crack before a quake.
Blackfyre was not a sword of idle affection. It was a symbol, and Aegon IV had wielded it like a dagger aimed at the heart of succession. Daemon was now no longer just her beloved—he was a rival to her brother, a stormcloud on the horizon.
Their eyes met.
Daemon looked to her through the sea of lords and whispers. His gaze was calm, but there was something behind it—something fierce, something sorrowful. She thought of the godswood, of whispered dreams and hidden kisses.
Then he looked away.
Aegon IV was laughing now, a wet, rasping sound. "Come, my son. Let them see you. Let them remember."
And Daemon stepped forward, raising Blackfyre high for all to see.
The crowd did remember.
So did Daenerys.