The godswood of the Red Keep was quieter than the halls, the air thick with the scent of rain-damp earth and fallen leaves. The sun was dying in the west, casting golden light through the boughs of the weirwood, its red eyes watching all in silence.
Daenerys sat beneath it, her hands clenched in her lap, her back straight as a spear. The silk of her gown rustled with every breath, though her face betrayed nothing—nothing save the storm behind her eyes.
He came to her softly, as he always did. No armor, no sword. Only Daemon, in a dark cloak and high boots, the glint of Blackfyre nowhere in sight. For once, he seemed uncertain as he approached.
"You came," she said without looking at him.
"I always do," he replied, and sat beside her.
For a while, there was only the whisper of wind in the leaves.
"I remember," she said at last, "when we played at war in the courtyards. You would be Aegon the Conqueror, and I Visenya. Or Rhaenys, depending on your mood."
Daemon smiled faintly. "And you were always better with the wooden sword."
"But you were better with words," she said. "And now look at you."
He said nothing.
"The sword," she whispered, "Blackfyre... do you know what it means?"
"I know what it is," he said. "A gift. A symbol."
"A claim," she said, turning to face him. "A challenge. Do not pretend you don't understand. Blackfyre was the sword of kings. Of conquerors. My brother is the rightful heir. You know that."
He met her gaze, his expression unreadable. "I never asked for the crown."
"But would you take it if it were offered?"
A pause.
The silence said more than words ever could.
"I don't want to fight Daeron," he said at last. "He is a good man. A better prince than I'll ever be. But this—" his jaw tightened, "—this is my father's doing. Not mine. I didn't ask for his love, or his sword, or this name."
"Blackfyre," she whispered. "He named you for the sword. Not Targaryen. Not Waters. Blackfyre."
"He wanted to wound Daeron," Daemon said bitterly. "Not raise me."
"And you let him."
That stung. His shoulders tensed. "What would you have me do, Daenerys? Refuse him? Spit on the only scrap of acknowledgment he's ever offered me? I have lived in shadows all my life—bastard, whelp, Waters. And today, for one moment, I was seen."
"You were always seen," she said, her voice tight. "By me."
That silenced him again.
He reached for her hand, and she let him take it. His fingers were warm, calloused, trembling ever so slightly.
"This changes nothing," he said. "Not between us."
She looked at their hands joined in the fading light, then up into his face. His eyes were sincere, stormy with emotion—but behind them, there was something else. Fire. Pride. A hunger that had never been there before.
"It changes everything," she said softly. "You may not see it now. But the lords saw. The court saw. The realm saw. They will whisper. They will wonder."
"Let them."
"They will turn you into something else," she said. "A sword with a name. A shadow with a crown. You were mine, Daemon. Now you're his."
"I am still yours."
He leaned in and kissed her—softly, fiercely, with the desperation of a boy who had gained the world but feared losing the only part of it that mattered.
And for a moment, she let him.
But when he pulled away, her eyes were glassy, distant.
"We cannot be what we were," she whispered. "Not anymore."
He rose, silent and solemn, and she did not follow.
The godswood swallowed him in shadow, and Daenerys sat alone beneath the red leaves, staring at the blood-colored face of the old weirwood tree, as the wind carried the first chill of winter through the air.