The castle lay nestled amidst a wooded hollow along the Blackwater Rush, far enough from King's Landing and the halls of court, but not so far that the scent of the city could not still be carried by the wind. It was an old Targaryen holding, modest by royal measure, with black stone walls veined with red and ivy growing wild along its facade. A place forgotten by history—until now.
Princess Daenerys arrived at dusk, cloaked in the orange light of sunset, with a half-score of guards sworn to her name and one knight of the Kingsguard, Ser Willem Wylde ever close behind. Her husband's permission and her brother's reluctant consent weighed heavily on her shoulders, but the burden was hers to bear.
Daemon Blackfyre waited for her beneath the boughs of a great weirwood tree in the castle's godswood, a stark thing of red leaves and white bark—a foreign God to both of them, yet one that bore witness to a moment neither the Seven nor R'hllor nor the Gods of Dorne had claim to.
He wore no crown, no black armor, no sword. Only a simple doublet of dark crimson, his hair still the silvery gold of their shared blood, tied back behind his shoulders. His eyes—the color of the storm—met hers across the godswood.
For a long moment, neither spoke.
"It's been many years, Dany," he said, breaking the silence. His voice was quieter than she remembered, tempered by time and burden.
"It has," Daenerys replied, her hands folded before her, trembling slightly. "And the years have not been kind."
"They never are," he said, his smile brief and bitter.
They walked together through the godswood, their guards giving them space, though Ser Meryn followed a few paces behind. As they passed under the red leaves, the scent of river mist and pine hung in the air.
"I heard rumors," Daenerys said, voice barely above a whisper. "That you intend to raise your banners."
"Rumors travel faster than armies," Daemon replied. "And sometimes do more damage."
"But are they true?" she asked, halting.
He turned to face her fully, and for a moment, he was not the man who had become the Black Dragon, the legitimized bastard who carried Blackfyre. He was the boy who once walked the gardens of the Red Keep beside her, who plucked roses for her from the castle walls and whispered dreams of dragons reborn.
"I never sought the crown," he said. "I never asked for Blackfyre. It was his doing—Aegon the Unworthy, Father to us both. He gave me a name, a sword, a legacy I never desired."
"But you kept it."
"I kept you in my heart," he said softly.
Daenerys's breath caught, and she looked away. "You married. Rohanne of Tyrosh."
"As you did," he countered, though not unkindly. "Maron is a good man, from what I hear."
"He is," she said. "He gave me children. Sons. And peace."
"I am glad," Daemon said. And though he smiled, there was sorrow in his gaze. "It should have been me."
"I came here to ask you not to go to war, Daemon," she said, her voice tightening. "For the sake of the realm. For the sake of everything we once shared."
He looked up toward the branches above, red against the darkening sky. "They whisper my name in the Stormlands, the Reach, the Riverlands. Lords send their sons to me, their swords, their coins. I could turn them away—but for how long? You think I want this rebellion?"
"You have the power to stop it before it begins."
"I have the power to be crushed beneath the weight of a crown I never asked for," he replied. "Do you know how many call me King? How many say Daeron is a bookish pretender, too Martell to be Targaryen? Did you know that Daeron had me arrested on account of baseless rumors that I will rebel several moons ago?"
"You know he is a good king," she said sharply. "You know he is trying to unite the realm without blood. That was always his dream. Peace through marriage, not fire."
"Then he should not have denied me you."
Those words cut her deeper than she had expected.
"Was that why?" she asked, almost choking. "Because he gave me to Dorne, and not to you?"
Daemon stepped forward, and for the briefest moment, their hands brushed.
"No," he said. "I loved you long before there was talk of crowns or causes. And I love you still. But this… this is no longer about you or me, Dany. It's bigger than us now. The future of my family and the hopes of the realm rest in my shoulder, and I will not fail them. I will sit upon the Iron Throne, and usher in a new era where true dragons reign once again"
Tears welled in her eyes, but she would not let them fall. "Then I have failed."
"No," he said. "You came. You tried. That is more than most have ever done for me."
He bowed his head, then turned away, back toward the stone halls of the manor.
As Daenerys watched him go, her heart ached with a grief deeper than war. A war she now knew was no longer avoidable.
And in the shadows beyond the trees, Ser Willem stood waiting.