Harrenhal was thick with tragedy. A graveyard of ambition, its walls had seen the rise and fall of men old and great. Daemon had not ventured this far from King’s Landing in years, yet here he was, in a place that reeked of loss and decay. The black castle felt lifeless, a hollowed-out ruin with its pride long since crumbled. If there had been anyone left to challenge him, Daemon thought, he would have it quickly. 

A shrill cry shattered the silence. The storm raged on, rain pouring down in relentless torrents as if the Gods themselves sought to drown out whatever history remained here. Caraxes announced his arrival with a deep, guttural growl, his claws scraping against the remnants of the once-mighty fortress. 

His rider pressed on, weaving through the cold, empty corridors, each step echoing in the vast emptiness. Water pooled beneath his boots. The scent of damp dirt was thick in the air.

Daemon paused before a pair of heavy doors, where muffled voices stirred behind them.

This was the moment the Rogue Prince knew well, the stillness before the storm, the breath held before a strike. Once, he had fought for Viserys. Now, he fought for Rhaenyra. The cause had changed, but war was all the same. 

With one swift motion, he kicked the doors. The hinges groaned under the force, the sound swallowed by the storm outside. He stepped forward, Valyrian steel raised, ready to carve through whatever poor souls dared to stand in his way.

The room was smaller than he expected, with its occupants unimpressive. A handful of men sat around a table, their faces weathered but indifferent. At the head sat an old, plump man, completely unaffected by Daemon’s presence. 

“I’m claiming Harrenhal,” Daemon announced, the words left flat, devoid of triumph.

No one moved. Men stared with unreadable expressions. Even as Dark Sister remained poised, sharp, and waiting, none of them seemed to have a shred of fear. Finally, the old man, presumably Lord of Harrenhal, studied him, calm and composed. Lord Simon Strong. Harwin’s great-uncle. Loyal to Rhaenyra, oddly compliant, and utterly unafraid.

“So it appears,” Lord Strong murmured, devoid of the fear Daemon hoped for. 

“Caraxes have been growing quickly.” Your teasing is effortless, yet carries weight that lingers in the warm air. Daemon lets it settle deep in his chest, a warmth both familiar and unspoken, as he continues to scratch beneath his dragon's scaled neck. His fingers move with practiced ease, but his gaze, as always, drifts to you. 

There is no fear in your expression, the wary caution he’s come to expect from others. The lack of hesitation and trembling hands. Instead, he sees quiet admiration, your touch lingering on the beast's hide as if Caraxes were nothing more than a hound at your feet. 

The sight of it, the contrast of delicate fingers against hardened scales, stirs something deep inside Daemon, something possessive, something inexplicably tender. You move closer, the tips of your fingers grazing his own. It’s fleeting, barely there, yet enough to pull a knowing grin to his lips. 

“He’s almost large enough to saddle two,” he muses, edged with amusement, but the meaning behind his words is unmistakable. The invitation has always been there, spoken and unspoken alike – a promise that passes like the wind that flutters quickly between your hair and the fire that stirs in the hearth after a long night. 

Still, the warnings echo in his mind. The dragon keepers' stern words, his grandfather’s displeased sighs, and his brother’s inevitable outrage. 

Viserys’ voice is almost tangible now. You would do no such thing! Daemon can practically see the arched frown of his brother, the exasperation in his features. The very thought makes him laugh, a silent, mindless chuckle under his breath. 

Yet you, as always, are persistent. 

You tilt your head, studying him. It takes everything in him not to reach out and trace the loose hairs that frame your face. There’s something in your gaze, something deep, something knowing that makes him feel as though you see straight through him.

It’s unnerving. 

It’s intoxicating.

It’s you. 

The summer heat clings to both of you like wet skin. The lingering scent of pine and damp Earth settles into your lungs like a fresh, made bath. The Riverlands are fertile in their crops, land, and people. Their beauty lies deep in their nature; however, no flower or gemstone could ever compare to the way you stand amidst them, unbothered by the weight of your House or the expectations it carries. 

“Are you asking, My Prince?” There’s a lilt in your voice, teasing and testing. 

The young prince meets your gaze without hesitation. “No,” he corrects, stepping closer, letting the space between you dwindle into nothingness. His breath is warm against your skin, his presence all-consuming. “It is a command.”

You stifle a laugh, barely. “A command?”

His lips curl, devilishly. “Yes.” His voice drops lower, softer, as a whisper meant only for you. “You wouldn’t disobey an order from your Prince, would you?”

You should falter, but you never do. That is your curse, and that is his. 

You shake your head, falsely demure. “No, I would never.” A pause. “Though… what the prince speaks is against the King's commands, is it not?” You’re leading him into a trap, and he knows it, and still, he cannot resist following you in.

He exhales sharply, vexed and utterly enamored by your banter. “He doesn’t have to know,” he grumbled, as though his grandfather’s words had never truly held weight against his desires. 

Daemon lowers his head, resting it against your shoulder, as though conceding a silent defeat. Between you and Caraxes, he finds himself surrounded, trapped in a cage of his own making – one of fire and steel, of warmth and long.

“One word to the King, and I’ll have you killed for that,” he mutters against your skin, devoid of any true threat. 

You inhale, letting his presence wrap around you, the scent of smoke and sun-warmed leather settling into your senses. “You forget yourself, my Prince.” Your fingers thread through his silver hair, nails scraping lightly against his scalp, and he shudders, barely perceptible. “You couldn’t kill me if you tried.”

His head snaps up, sharp and sudden, his keen eyes piercing into yours. “You don’t know that.”

A lie. A weak one. One you both know. 

Daemon’s heartbeat is erratic, his hands uncertain as they hover just above yours. You don’t need magic to see the anticipation in his gaze, the unspoken ache that lingers between. He always waits for you to close the gap, always lingers on the edge of restraint, as if savoring the moment before the inevitable falls.

And yet, you turn away. Instead, your attention drifts to the intricacies of his dragon armor, fingers grazing over its fine details as though each piece tells a story only you can read. 

“I am your betrothed,” you remind him, voice softer now, wistful. “What other reason had King Jaehaerys declared this marriage for?” Your hands lift, resting gently against Caraxes’ long, curved neck. The dragon chirps, an oddly affectionate sound, his head tilting toward you like a beast tamed by gentle hands.

Daemon watches, fascinated and helpless.

A huff of laughter escapes you, fond and resigned. Your eyes are gleaming with something unreliable. 

Gods, he was lucky.

Daemon did not anticipate meeting Lord Tully. His decaying health interrupts his plans for the additional Southern troops to fight in the war. For days, the Rogue Prince paced through the ruined grounds of Harrenhal, watching the fortress slowly crumble around him, just as his patience was beginning to fray.

He had expected this rendezvous to take a few days, just long enough to gain an answer and drive the Riverlords to the fighting cause. But with no word from Riverrun and his impatience gnawing at him, Daemon decides to take matters into his own hands.

He would not wait any longer.

By the morning, it was confirmed: Lord Grover Tully would not come. Instead, his grandson, Oscar Tully,  the heir to Riverrun, would make the journey in his stead. 

The Prince Consort, already frustrated, ran his fingers through his platinum hair. His body stiffened from the restless nights spent in Harrenhal, constantly stirring, unable to rest without the creeping, vivid hallucinations that plagued him. The silver-haired prince’s irritation only deepened. He could feel the weight of his impatience bearing down on him, as though time itself were slipping from his grasp.

With a sharp exhale, Daemon strode to the grand hall, his boots bouncing off the cold stone floor. His presence was as commanding as ever – every eye in the room turned toward him as he entered. His expression was grim, his scowl a mark of pure annoyance, and the room seemed to tighten with the weight of his temper.

“My- My Prince!” A young voice came about as a boy scrambled to catch him. Behind him, Lord Strong, as meek as ever, stood awkwardly, unsure how to soothe the nervous young lord.

“My- My Grace— Your Grace,” the boy corrected, his gaze flickering nervously between Daemon and Lord Strong. The Prince could smell the wretched scent of anxiety from him. 

Daemon barely acknowledged the trembling lord. Instead, his eyes slid toward Lord Strong, whose anxious disposition did little to calm his fraying nerves. “Lord Grover is looking better and healthier than I expected.” His words were sharp, testing the waters of this meeting. 

Lord Strong cleared his throat, his hands folded in front of him. “Ah, this is Oscar Tully, grandson of Grover Tully. He is heir to Riverrun and future Lord Paramount of the Riverlands.” He gestured toward Daemon hesitantly. “His Grace, the King… Consort, Daemon Targaryen.”

“It is an honor, Your Grace.” Oscar Tully said, bowing with respect. His eyes, however, were cautious as they met the Prince.

“Indeed,” Daemon replied, loosening his belt and placing his sword on the nearby table. He gestured for Oscar to take a seat. The boy hesitated, feeling the tension in the room thicken.

As Oscar sat down, he couldn’t shake the feeling that this meeting wasn’t just about formalities. There was something far more unsettling in Daemon’s gaze.

“How fair is your grandsire?” Daemon asked, his voice laced with disinterest.

Oscar lets out a sympathetic sigh. “Sadly, he remains incapacitated. He lies in a kind of waking sleep, unable to do much more than take mead to drink. This is barely enough to sustain him.” 

“So he’s alive.” Daemon‘s words were blunt and dismissive, though his eyes glinted with calculating edge. His fingers drummed patiently on the arm of his chair. 

“Yes,” Oscar replied, the weight of the situation evident in his voice. He struggled to keep his composure, aware of the tension mounting between them. There was something in Daemon’s demeanor that unsettled him, something that gnawed at his sense of duty. 

The Rogue Prince’s gaze narrowed, a flicker of disappointment crossing his features as he stood. He turned toward Lord Strong, as if forgetting the man still stood there.

“Unfortunate,” he muttered, though the words were more for himself than anyone else. He faced a few steps, his voice growing colder. “But perhaps. It presents an opportunity, doesn’t it?”

His stare fixed on Oscar now, the dangerous gleam in his lilac eyes unmistakable.

“A weakened lord, ripe for the taking. I had planned to rally Riverlords, bring them under my banner. But now, with your grandsire in such a state, I wonder how you’ll handle it.” The suggestion lingered like a sharp knife poised to strike. 

The young boy’s back straightened, his glare hardening. His voice, though steady, carried the weight of his house’s honor. “The Riverlands are not yours to conquer.” His words were firm and harsh.

Instead, Daemon’s lips twisted into a slight smile, though it was anything but kind. “Bold words.” He tilted his head slightly, intrigued by the young lord’s resistance. “But what of the old man?” 

His voice dropped lower, colder. “Perhaps… There's something we can do to hasten his departure. It would make things so much simpler, wouldn’t it?” His stare remained locked on Oscar’s, studying him closely. 

The Tully boy’s breath caught in his throat, the suggestion weighing heavily on him. His mind raced, trying to process what Daemon had just implied. His expression faltered for only a moment before he found his voice again. “Are you suggesting…?” 

The silver-haired prince chuckled darkly, leaning back in his chair. If you ever change your mind…” He allowed the silence to hang in the air like a poisoned blade. “The Riverlands are rich with opportunity. Too rich for someone as… restrained as you.”

Oscar’s jaw tightened, and his hand instinctively reached for the hilt of his sword. His anger flared, but he did not allow himself to act on it just yet. Instead, he turned toward the door, his steps deliberate as he moved to leave.

“I’ll be taking my leave, my Prince.” His voice was low, cold with barely contained fury. “Don’t ever speak of my grandsire in such a way again.” 

With a final, seething glance, Oscar made his way out of the hall, his footsteps echoing in the silence that remained behind. The tension in the room seemed to follow him, like a shadow he could not escape. 

Daemon remained seated, his smile fading into something darker as he reflected on the encounter. He had gone too far, but the young Tully’s defiance sparked something in him. There was something in the boy’s fierce loyalty, his strength in the face of Daemon’s threats, that reminded him of someone. 

Someone like you.

Daemon’s thoughts flickered to his old life, to you, your own House, and the fire that burned you with it. How similar Oscar Tully was to the very person who had shaped Daemon’s destiny. And yet, Daemon knew the boy’s restraint would be his undoing, a weakness that could be exploited. 

His eyes darkened as he stood up abruptly, a sense of urgency seizing him. The Riverlands could wait. His mind turned toward other matters – more important matters. There was a war to be fought, and Daemon Targaryen would not be the one to stand aside. 

With a swift motion, Daemon snatched Dark Sister from the table and made his way to the Godswood. There, in the shadow of the great weirwood, he would meet his dragon, and the path to the throne would grow clearer. The Riverlands, the Riverlords, and Lord Grover Tully would all be pieces on his chessboard.

Viserys had been a fool to let that alliance go. Daemon would show him how it was done. 

You were his first love – there was no simpler way to put it. Daemon rarely spoke of you. Never to Rhaenyra, seldom to Viserys. Your name was a whisper locked away in his mind, a forbidden utterance. It felt almost sacrilegious to speak aloud.

And yet, when he saw glimpses of you, a flicker of movement in the empty halls of Harrenhal, he ran. 

For the first time in years, the Rogue Prince felt uncertainty. Real, unshakable hesitancy. Not of battle or death, but of yearning – of desperation. He wanted to reach out to you, to take hold of your body, and convince himself this wasn’t madness. 

The fleeting impression of your hair – the color, the silky sheen of it – haunted him like a memory half-thought, slipping through his fingers like mist. It danced at the edge of his mind, leading him deeper into the castle’s darkened corridors. The deeper he wandered, the further you drifted, swallowed by the shadows. 

His grip on Dark Sister remained firm. “Don’t run,” he murmured, but the words sounded wrong, as though he were the hunter and you the prey. 

He had accepted this visage of you too easily. He had seen his lost wife, Laena, and Rhaenyra in his dreams before, and they had shaken him, but this broke him. The mere trace of your scent, that familiar blend of oak and wildflowers, was enough to bring him to his knees.

Yet unlike them, you never appeared fully before him. The ghosts of this wretched place knew what you meant to him. They taunted him with pieces, never the whole.

“You can’t hide forever!” the silver-haired warrior called into the dark, his voice raw with frustration. The rain began to fall harder now, cold droplets striking his skin. His sword gleamed beneath the dim light, as sharp and unyielding as the grief buried deep in his chest.

And still, you lingered in his thoughts, needling at him like an ache that never healed. 

Daemon was used to keeping himself occupied – rallying men, strategizing, tending to the mundane affairs of war – but it was in the quiet moments that you returned. When he was left alone with his thoughts, you came back to him like a ghost who refused to sleep. 

Thunder cracked as he turned a corner. A soft, golden glow seeped through the cracks of a heavy wooden door at the corridor’s end. The scent that met him was unmistakable: fresh grass, pine, rain-soaked Earth. A memory, so vivid and cruel, flourished before him. He pushed the door open, stepping into another world.

The lake stretched beyond the rolling hills, its surface smooth and undisturbed. A great tree stood rooted in the Earth, its branches swaying in the wind. The scene was so painfully familiar that it nearly drove him to his knees. It was a cruel trick of the mind, but gods, it felt real.

And then, your voice cut through the stillness. 

“I never took you for a coward, my Prince.”

His grip on Dark Sister slackened. You stood before him, whole and untouched by time. 

You looked older, refined in a way that only deepened the beauty he had once adored. The sky-blue gown draped over your form was something he could swear he had seen before, something he had once mentioned in passing. Your hair, unchanged from his memories, caught the light just right, and for the first time in years, he was afraid to blink.

If he did, he might lose you all over again. 

When you turned to face him, smiling in that way only you could, he exhaled sharply. 

“Surprised?” you teased, your voice laced with something knowing, something bittersweet. 

Daemon laughed, low and breathless. He sheathed his sword, surrendering to this cruel dream. “I half expected you again sooner or later.”

Your gaze softened. “I hope you’re not disappointed.”

“You know I never could be.”

You stepped closer, unhurried, as though you had all the time in the world. The distance between you felt insubstantial, easily crossed with just one step – but he held back, drinking in every detail of you as if committing you to memory all over again. 

“You were everything I ever wanted.”

The confession came easily, too easily, slipping from his lips before he could stop himself. And the way you reacted – averting your gaze, biting back a smile – reminded him too much of what once was. How you had always flustered under his words, how you had always been so unguarded with him. Daemon reached for you then, his fingers ghosting over your cheek, his touch hesitant, reverent. The surface of your skin was a torment in itself. 

And then, softly, you asked, “Would you say the same for your wife?”

It should have been a simple question. But your voice, the way you said it – distant, laced with something fragile – it carved through him.

Daemon inhaled sharply. “You know.” It wasn’t a question. Of course, you knew. 

Your lips pressed together in a small, knowing smile. “Your wedding must have been beautiful,” you mused, tilting your head. “Old Valyrian custom. Just as you promised me.” 

A knife twisted deep in his chest. 

You had been the one. 

He had known it then, and he knew it now. But fate had not been kind. Death had stolen you away before he could be the man you deserved. And now, here you were – a dream, a memory, a cruel illusion. His hand began to slip away from you, but you caught it, pressing his palm to your cheek. You held it there, grounding him. Your eyes, deep and dark, shimmered with unspoken words.

“I’m sorry, my–”

His voice broke. The words felt foreign in his mouth. Daemon Targaryen never apologized. But for you, he would. For you, he would have done anything. 

But you, ever resilient, only smiled – a quiet and bitter thing. “I don’t need your apology, Daemon.” Your fingers tightened around his hand, as though neither of you could bear to let go. “It was right of you to move on.” 

“If you had still been alive,” he mumbled, forehead resting against yours, “I would have wed you all the same.” You exhaled, shuddering at the admission. Daemon pressed soft, lingering kisses to your knuckles, the way he once had. “You know I would.”

“I know,” you whispered, the ghost of a smile on your lips. “And I would have accepted.” But then, the inevitable question. The one you had every right to ask. “Do you love her?”

His silence was answer enough. You looked away. Daemon felt it – the shift, the unspoken acceptance of something neither of you could change.

“I should hate you,” you murmured. 

And yet, you didn’t. 

Daemon knew this truth as well as you did: He loved Rhaenyra. She was the mother of his children, the flame that could not be extinguished. But you – gods, you – were the reminder of a life he had lost before he ever had the chance to truly claim it. And when you disappeared, as he knew you would, he was left standing alone in the hollow halls of Harrenhal. 

Dripping in rain. Haunted.

And still, you did not leave him. You never had. 

Perhaps you never would. 

Ever since then, Daemon’s mind has been occupied. He could not shake the thought of you away. Because every time he turned the corner or heard distant shouts far away, you were always expected to be there. You’ve been reappearing every so often, whenever Daemon would at least not want you to be. He would become distracted, occupied with one topic and then another. Very few men dismissed this as the way of his attempt to reconcile with the other allies back on Dragonstone.

He hasn’t sent word to Rhaenyra. It should have angered him – this hesitation, this silence, especially now, at the most critical moment of war. She deserved more than distance; she deserved a moment with him.

Yet Daemon continues to avoid it, pushing it aside in favor of more pressing concerns. There was Lord Strong, ever watchful and composed, his nerves barely concealed beneath the line of patience. Then there was Alys Rivers, the strange, peculiar witch who came to him in the dead of night, spinning tales laced with riddles. None of them would allow him a moment of silence. 

The urgency of the war was closing in on Daemon. With each passing day, more lords from the South arrived at Harrenhal, and his patience, once formidable, grew thin; his judgment clouded. 

In those moments, when the silver-haired prince least expected it, he saw you. In the shadows, behind passing figures, always there when you sought a moment of calm. 

At some point, he had gotten used to your presence. He could even predict when you’d appear like a shadow tied to his thoughts. Whether it was the growing sentiment he harbored for you or something twisted in the bones of Harrenhal, he wasn’t sure. Whatever it was, he didn’t mind.

“You should be kinder to him, Daemon.” You urged, keeping pace just behind him. 

The Targaryen Prince strode past the blacksmiths, where molten metal hissed and sparked. At last, the Riverland army was starting to prepare with steel forged, strategic planning, and boots ready to march. Everything was falling into place. And yet, doubt lingered, fed by none other than you. 

“He is my nephew,” you muttered, softer as if your blood would convince him to reconsider. 

“That Tully trout,” Daemon snapped, jaws tightening. “He challenges me at every turn, questions orders like he’s already won his damn banners.”

You stayed silent for a moment, letting his anger breathe. 

“He looks at me like I’m some relic,” Daemon continued, voice low but sharp. “Like I’ve outlived my worth. The boy’s barely grown into his armor, and yet he dares to speak to me as though I’m the one who should yield.”

You tilted your head. “Perhaps he only wants to be heard. As you once did.”

Daemon stopped in his tracks, glancing over his shoulder. “And look where that got me.” 

You met his gaze evenly, unshaken. “It made you feared. It made others follow you.” 

“It made me hate,” he countered, softer now, the fire in his voice dimming. “By my brother. By the realm. Maybe even Rhaenyra.”

You stepped closer, your voice only a whisper now. “But never forgotten. And certainly never ignored.”

For a moment, something passed between you – recognition. Not of affection, but a shared weight. You had become a voice he could not silence, a mirror he could not ask to look away from. Whether you were a spirit or a shadow, you were part of him now, part of his reasoning. 

“He is my nephew,” you said again. And so Daemon tried, with a clenched jaw and cold civility, to treat Oscar, not as bait, but with understanding. “Compromise with him.”

In the cool air, the Rogue Prince waits by the Godswood, the chill of the South clinging to his chest like mist. The haunting presence of Harrenhal beside him was none other than a mutual reminder, but never an annoyance anymore. No, he’s grown quite used to their non-sequential riddles and whispers. Close by, boots and horses marched, and voices echoed, in preparation for war in the following days. But in his small corner of waiting, there was only silence. 

And you. 

You stood in an open space that replicated a window. Half shadowed in the pale sunlight, watching as he dwelt on, reminiscent of your previous memories. 

“Do you remember Riverrun?” you asked quietly, as if it were the question you had been waiting all day to ask. Today, you adorned a pale pink gown, draped in satin that elevated your figure elegantly. It softened your features, your gaze looking longingly at a distant memory. 

Daemon glanced up, brow furrowed not in confusion but remembrance. 

“I remember thinking I was being punished,” Daemon muttered dryly, lips curling at the corner. “Another full formality. Another highborn girl bred to smile and say little.”

You laughed, and the sound warmed the cold air between you. “You looked like you’d rather be thrown into a pit of vipers than be introduced to me.”

“Because I thought I was walking into a cage,” he said, voice low now, tinged with the memory. As if it's fresh in his mind, Daemon hums softly. “Polite words, sweet wine, and a girl too scared to meet my eyes.” 

Your gaze met him without hesitation, just as it had been back then. 

“But instead,” he went on, “you looked me over like you were the one judging me. No curtsy. No trembling hands. You told me my reputation was exaggerated and then asked if I’d ever done anything truly interesting.”

“And you said, ‘Not yet.’” A small smile played on your lips. 

Daemon’s smirk softened into something fleeting. “You surprised me. I wasn’t used to that.”

You took a step closer. “You still aren’t.” 

For a beat, neither of you spoke. There was something just beneath the surface, an ache too stubborn to name. In war, there was no time for softness, but in this moment, before duty pulled him away, Daemon would allow it. For a moment, he would allow himself to indulge in this fantasy. With you, everything around him disappeared and welcomed the cool breeze and warm skies. With you, he was able to understand the love his mother and father had, why it was worth settling down with the one you loved. 

His hand brushed against yours – just barely, a passing moment of contact, but it was deliberate. You did not pull away. 

Then, a knock. 

Oscar Tully waits. And Daemon Targaryen, Prince of War, straightened himself with you still lingering at the edge of your thoughts. You never leave his peripherals, peering at the closed doors of Oscar Tully’s arrival. 

Daemon takes this as your way of reminding him of his promise. Compromise with him. He has to, for the sake of the army and the numbers it may offer; it would be big enough to rival Landing. He would be able to leave Harrenhal once and for good. The chamber door creaks open. Oscar Tully entered with the poise of a young man who was far too young to be leading an army. His red cloak trails behind him, confidently making a banner. He bowed, not too deeply. 

“My Prince,” he said, curtly. 

“Lord Tully,” Daemon replied, already grown annoyed at his presence. However, he hides it under his bravado. 

They stood alone now, in front of the Weirwood tree. With red tears trailing down its face, it is the only witness to their conversation. Save from you, of course, whose ever so close and unseen by all but Daemon. He didn’t look your way, but he felt where you stood. 

Oscar waits for no time. “We must address Willem Blackwood.” 

The Rogue Prince raised an eyebrow. “What of him?” 

“He butchered half the Brackens without trial. You gave the order, did you not?” Oscar’s jaw clenched. “But he went and burned their harvests, drowned their kin in the river, and even cut down the old weirdwood at Stonebrook. This cannot go unanswered.” 

Daemon scoffed. “They were traitors. The Brackens chose the green banners over ours. They knew the cost.” 

“There are costs, yes,” Oscar agreed. “But there are also laws. Traditions. We follow the Old Gods. If you wish to keep their swords on your side, Blackwood must be punished, seen to be punished.”

“Seen?” Daemon echoed darkly. 

The young boy straightens his posture. “A gesture of good faith. Announce his execution publicly so that it does not trample the Gods and the old ways.” 

For a short time, silence fell. 

Then Daemon’s voice, quiet but sharp. “You would use my own knight as an offering. To show them I can be swayed like some… puppet prince.”

“It shows you rule with justice, not vengeance.”

The prince took a step forward, and Oscar confidently held his ground, with no hesitation. “Blackwood did what needed to be done. He was loyal to me.”

“Loyalty cannot excuse sacrilege.”

Daemon’s fury glared behind his eyes, his mouth twitching, growing into a sneer. He turned, pacing like a dragon restrained by a frail chain. And that’s when your voice came – not aloud but from the quiet place he’d kept for you. 

“Justice is not weakness, Daemon. It is a rule. Without it, you would have no army, no order.”

You stood behind him, a silent mirror of the man he might become. He despised it. He needed it. At last, he stopped pacing himself. He did not want to look at Oscar, and instead glanced at the narrow window beyond the horizon of Harrenhal. 

“Very well,” Daemon said coldly. “You may announce it. Blackwood will die.”

The young lord exhaled, relieved as if the heaviest burden had been lifted. But without turning, Daemon added.

“You’re just like her.”

Oscar blinked, uncertain. “My Prince?”

Daemon does not answer. He’s simply looking at you, sitting in the same spot.

Lord Tully chooses not to press further and leaves without a sound, closing the door behind him. 

Yet you were still there, right behind him. 

The courtyard of Harrenhal was clouded in cold mist, the sky above gray and ever watchful. Lords from the South gathered silently, and their banners stood still in the air. Their eyes were fixated on the center of attention.

Willem Blackwood lay on the peak of a stone perch, lifeless and bloodied. His face bore hesitation and worry, who moments ago did not anticipate his execution. He was betrayed and swore loyalty to the man who carried the sentence. Daemon stood above coldly, gripping Dark Sister, as he stared down at the lifeless body. 

He said nothing. However, a wave of murmurs went through the crowd. Nods of approval and absolution, while others exchanged glances with each other. 

You stood behind him as always. As it was, your favorite spot to stand. Like the mist, your presence felt the breath behind his neck. He did not look at you, but heard you all the same. 

“It had to be done.”

As blood ran down the stone that held up Blackwood’s body, Daemon glanced at his sword. Silence clung to his chest as dusk settled with a newfound agreement between the Southern lords.