The Crown of Love and Beauty

When the clamor of the tourney grounds was swallowed by the night, the castle's banquet hall was already ablaze with a hundred torches. Gilded candelabras reflected off tables laden with roasted boar and mead, the rich aroma of spices mingling with the sharp tang of strong wine to weave a lazy, fervent web beneath the vaulted ceiling.

Daemon Blackfyre Targaryen had just unclasped his mud-stained cloak when a hand hooked into his arm.

Daemon Targaryen swirled his wine cup, his gaze falling upon the red rose crown in the crook of his arm as he raised an eyebrow. "What? Won the crown but can't bear to give it away? Don't tell me you intend to sleep with it?"

Before he could finish, Rhaenys approached with a silver cup, a playful glint in her violet eyes. "Could our little Daemon have found a sweetheart? Do you think your sister is no longer worthy of the title 'Queen of Love and Beauty'?" As she spoke, she cast a deliberate glance at the floral crown in his arm, her fingertips lightly brushing the dragon crest on his chest—a faint mark left by a lance during the tourney, carrying a trace of imperceptible concern.

Daemon looked down at the night dew clinging to the petals, but when he raised his head, he met the gaze of Jocelyn Baratheon. That look suddenly reminded him of how Jocelyn had stared at him that afternoon—a gaze that was an incredibly complex vortex:

There was a deep resentment toward the injustice of fate for taking away her beloved husband, Aemon;

There was a dizzying, stinging pain brought on by his face, which so closely resembled her late husband's;

And beneath that layer of ice, there surged a near-instinctual pity for his "tragic background." That gaze was like a fine needle, pricking him gently.

When he looked up, his line of sight collided with a tangle of other gazes:

Queen Alysanne sat at the high table, her silver hair cascading like moonlight, her expression gentle yet carrying the grandmotherly scrutiny unique to her;

Princess Gael was whispering to Aemma, and when she turned, she offered him a faint smile—that smile was pale and fragile, possessing a childlike innocence like a flower ready to wither, which pierced him instantly, looking exactly like the gentle, frail Daenerys he remembered from his past life when they first met;

Alicent Hightower stood in a corner clutching her wine cup, her lapis-lazuli eyes shining with startling intensity, like stars in the dark of night;

There were even several noble maidens from across the Seven Kingdoms, just come of age, glancing his way with blushing faces.

"I..." he began, but Viserys was already laughing and raising his cup. "Never mind who he gives it to, the champion must be fined three cups! Today he made our 'Rogue Prince' taste the mud!"

Amidst the roar of laughter in the hall, Daemon was forced to drink half a flagon of Dragonblood Wine. The liquid burned his throat, yet it could not suppress the turmoil in his heart.

Queen Alysanne gave him the "grandmotherly affection" he had never experienced in his past life; Rhaenys had treated him as a "younger brother" since his rebirth, treating him as close as "siblings"; his cousin-in-law Aemma was always as gentle as Rhaenys, treating him like a brother; and Gael's fragile, familiar gaze left his heart unsettled...

These warm bonds were treasures he had never possessed in his past life of blood and fire, and had never dared to hope for.

This crown, at this moment, felt like a searing hot iron.

"Why not give it to Princess Rhaenyra?" Borros Baratheon suggested loudly, winking. "She is the most pampered little princess today! Perhaps the future queen!"

The laughter grew louder. Daemon followed the sound and saw Rhaenyra being held in Aemma's arms, her tiny fists unconsciously clutching a lock of Queen Alysanne's silver hair, her violet eyes half-closed, her little mouth slightly pouted, clearly uninterested in the commotion or the crown that symbolized "love and beauty."

"Good idea!" Viserys was in high spirits, shouting through the haze of wine, "Give it to my daughter! To my future queen!" He strode over and took the red rose crown from Daemon's hands, his movements carrying the clumsiness and pride of a new father.

Daemon breathed a sigh of relief, as if a heavy burden had been lifted.

Viserys walked to Aemma's side and carefully, perhaps even exaggeratedly, suspended the floral crown above the sleeping Rhaenyra, drawing another round of good-natured laughter and applause from the crowd.

The vibrant red roses, set against the infant's soft silver-gold hair and pink, tender face, formed a strange yet heartwarming picture.

Aemma smiled gently, and Queen Alysanne nodded with a smile.

Daemon watched as the crown finally hung above the little princess, and the subtle burden in his heart finally dissipated.

Halfway through the night feast, he made an excuse to get some air and walked into the courtyard. Moonlight turned the fountain into shattered silver, and from the distant Dragonpit came a low dragon's roar; the Glutton seemed to sense his mood, its cry carrying a note of comfort.

The cold night wind slightly dispersed the heat brought on by the wine and the clamor.

"The blood of the Targaryen line is indeed adept at making people restless."

A low voice sounded from behind him. Daemon turned to see Taimond Lannister standing in the shadows, his green eyes gleaming coldly in the moonlight like deep pools.

The Lord of the Westerlands had kept to himself since losing the struggle for the Master of Coin, but now he wore a velvet coat embroidered with the lion crest, fiddling with a gold ring in his hand, the movement accompanied by the faint sound of metal rubbing against metal.

"Lord Lannister, you didn't seek me out in the dead of night just to say that." Daemon's hand rested instinctively on his waist—where the Blackfyre sword should have been, though he had left it in the banquet hall.

Taimond chuckled, the sound somewhat abrupt in the silent courtyard. He stepped closer, and the moonlight illuminated half his face, making the other half appear even more sinister. "I once thought you would be another Daemon Targaryen. Proud, sharp, like unpolished Valyrian steel. But what you said on the tourney grounds today—'no need for real blades against family'—that surprised me." He paused, the gold ring spinning faster between his fingers, making a grating, irritating sound. "The gold mines of the Westerlands are bottomless, enough to support an army that could sweep the Seven Kingdoms. A lion never makes a losing deal. If you wish... to have your banner fly over the Red Keep..."

"My lord." Daemon interrupted him, his voice calm but carrying an unquestionable firmness, like steel striking steel. "My father is Prince Aemon Targaryen, and my grandfather is King Jaehaerys Targaryen. The Blackfyre sword in my hand is the heritage of the Targaryen Lineage, not a banner of rebellion." He looked straight into Taimond's eyes, his violet pupils infinitely deep in the moonlight.

The smile on Taimond's face froze instantly, as if he were wearing a clumsy mask. A flash of shock crossed his green eyes, immediately replaced by a knowing, heavily mocking sneer. "Ha... it seems Targaryen family affection is better at buying hearts than the gold mountains of the West." He turned to leave, then stopped, tilting half his face back; shadows shrouded his expression, leaving only cold words to drift in the night wind: "You will regret this, boy. Blood may be warm, but it is also the most cold-blooded thing of all. Remember my words."

When the sound of footsteps disappeared heavily at the end of the corridor, the eastern horizon was already tinged with a hint of white. Daemon looked at the rising dawn, stained with a faint rosy hue, and took a deep breath of the crisp air.

He remembered the rebellion he had ignited in his past life that swept across the Seven Kingdoms, remembering the countless nobles who bled for the word "legitimacy," their bones piling up like mountains.

Back then, he thought power was everything—the cold Iron Throne, the blood-stained crown.

But now, the palm holding the Blackfyre sword felt something heavier and warmer than steel—the genuine, smiling faces cheering for him in the stands; the fingertips that offered wine, carrying warmth; the unspoken but ever-present concern.

"Glutton." He whispered toward the direction of the Dragonpit, his voice as light as a sigh, yet carrying unprecedented resolve. "I will not walk the old path, never!"

A long, low dragon's roar came from the distance, piercing the mist like a heavy response, or perhaps a sigh for the past.

The clamor of the banquet hall finally subsided completely, and a new day was slowly unfolding over the lands of the Targaryen line along with the morning sun.

As Daemon turned to leave, a rose petal was blown by the wind into the water, drifting away with the morning light—

And on the cold stone edge of the fountain, the red rose crown that had once belonged to the "Queen of Love and Beauty" lay quietly, forgotten in the morning light.

Crystal-clear dew dripped slowly along the plump petals, one drop after another, silently seeping into the cracks of the stone like silent tearstains.

The morning dew moistened it, making the red appear even more vivid and glaring, like an ending that had not yet solidified and had not yet been written, emitting a faint glow in the quiet dawn.