Courtiers lined the walls, their silks and velvets a stark contrast to the battered steel you wore. Whispers rippled through the crowd like wind through wheat.

Who is that? Why does he not kneel?

At the far end, the Iron Throne loomed—a monstrous tangle of melted swords, jagged and cruel. King Viserys sat upon it, his crown glinting in the torchlight. His face was kind, but his eyes were sharp.

To the King's right, Daemon Targaryen stood with his weight shifted, one hand pressed to his side where the bandage had gone dark. His silver hair was tousled, his doublet undone. He looked like a man who should be in a maester's care, not standing in court.

But he was here. Watching you.