The Crown of Love and Beauty

As the noise of the tourney grounds was swallowed by night, a hundred torches already blazed in the castle's great hall. Gilded candelabras reflected off tables laden with roast boar and mead. The rich scent of spices mingled with the bite of strong drink, weaving a languorous yet fervent web beneath the vaulted ceiling.

Daemon Blackfyre Targaryen had barely taken off his mud-spattered cloak when a hand hooked around his arm.

Daemon Targaryen swirled his wine and glanced at the crown of red roses cradled in his arm. He raised an eyebrow. "What? You won the crown, and now you're reluctant to give it away? Don't tell me you plan to sleep with it under your pillow."

Before he had finished speaking, Rhaenys came over with a silver goblet in hand, amusement dancing in her violet eyes. "Has our little Daemon found someone he fancies? Does he think his big sister isn't worthy of the title 'Queen of Love and Beauty'?" As she spoke, she deliberately glanced at the garland in his arm, but her fingertips gently brushed the dragon embroidered on his chest—the faint mark left by a lance during the tourney, and her touch carried a hint of concern.

Daemon lowered his gaze to the dew clinging to the crown, then looked up and met Jocelyn Baratheon's eyes. Her gaze suddenly reminded him of the look she had given him that afternoon—a profoundly complicated whirlpool:

A deep resentment toward fate for being unjust, for taking her beloved husband, Aemon;

A dazed, piercing ache at the sight of his face, so much like her dead husband's;

And beneath that layer of ice, even a trace of instinctive pity for his "tragic past." Her gaze was like a fine needle, pricking him gently.

When he lifted his eyes, however, they collided with a tangle of other gazes:

Queen Alysanne sat on the dais, her silver hair falling like moonlight. Her expression was gentle, yet carried the scrutiny unique to a grandmother;

Princess Gael was whispering to Aemma. When she turned and gave him a faint smile, it was pale and fragile, childlike in its innocence, like a delicate flower that could wither at any moment. It pierced him in an instant, reminding him of the gentle, frail Daenerys from his memories of his previous life, when he had first met her;

Alicent Hightower stood in a corner, holding a goblet. Her lapis-blue eyes shone brilliantly, like stars in the dark;

Even several noble girls from across the Seven Kingdoms, newly come of age, were glancing his way with flushed cheeks.

"I..." He had only just begun to speak when Viserys raised his goblet and laughed. "Who cares who he gives it to? The champion owes us three cups first! Today he let our Rogue Prince taste the mud!"

Amid the laughter filling the hall, Daemon was made to drink more than half a jug of Dragonblood Wine. The liquor scorched his throat, but could not quiet the turmoil in his heart.

Queen Alysanne had given him the grandmotherly affection he had never known in his previous life. Since his rebirth, Rhaenys had treated him as her "little brother," as close to him as a sister. His cousin by marriage, Aemma, was always gentle with him, much like Rhaenys, treating him as a younger brother. Gael's fragile yet familiar gaze left his thoughts in disarray...

These warm bonds were treasures he had never possessed amid the blood and fire of his previous life, and had never dared hope for.

At that moment, the crown felt like a red-hot brand.

"Why not give it to Princess Rhaenyra?" Borros Baratheon called out, waggling his eyebrows. "She's the most beloved little princess here today! Perhaps she'll be queen one day!"

The laughter grew louder. Daemon followed the sound and saw Rhaenyra in Aemma's arms, her tiny fist unconsciously clutching a strand of Queen Alysanne's silver hair. Her violet eyes were half-closed, her little mouth puckered. She clearly had no interest in all the commotion—or in the crown symbolizing "love and beauty."

"Good idea!" Viserys cried enthusiastically, emboldened by drink. "Give it to my daughter! My future queen!" He strode over and took the crown of red roses from Daemon, his movements clumsy with the pride of a new father.

Daemon breathed a sigh of relief, as if a burden had been lifted from his shoulders.

Viserys went to Aemma and carefully—almost comically—held the crown above the sleeping Rhaenyra's head. It drew another round of warm laughter and applause from the onlookers.

The vivid red roses against the baby's soft silver-gold hair and rosy cheeks made for a strange yet charming picture.

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

Daemon watched as the crown finally came to rest above the little princess. At last, the subtle burden in his heart lifted.

Halfway through the feast, he excused himself to get some air and went out into the courtyard. Moonlight scattered across the fountain like silver shards. A low dragon's rumble came from the distant Dragonpit. Glutton seemed to sense his mood; there was a soothing quality to its growl.

The cool night breeze eased the heat of drink and commotion.

"The blood of the Targaryens certainly has a way of unsettling people."

A deep voice sounded behind him. Daemon turned and saw Taimond Lannister standing in the shadows, his green eyes glinting coldly in the moonlight like a deep pool.

Since losing the contest for Master of Coin, the Duke of the Westerlands had kept to himself. Now, however, he wore a velvet doublet embroidered with a lion, and toyed with a gold ring. It made a faint metallic scraping sound.

"Lord Lannister, you didn't seek me out in the middle of the night just to say that." Daemon's hand instinctively went to his waist—where Blackfyre should have hung, though he had left it in the great hall.

Taimond chuckled. The sound seemed out of place in the quiet courtyard. He stepped closer, and the moonlight illuminated half his face, making the other half look all the more sinister. "I thought you'd be another Daemon Targaryen. Proud, sharp, like Valyrian steel before it's been tempered. But what you said in the tourney today—'You don't need live steel to deal with family'—that surprised me." He paused, turning the gold ring faster between his fingers. Its faint clink was irritating. "The gold mines of the Westerlands are bottomless. They could fund an army capable of sweeping across the Seven Kingdoms. Lions don't make unprofitable deals. If you want... your banners flying above the Red Keep..."

"Lord Taimond." Daemon cut him off, his voice calm but unyielding, like steel striking steel. "My father was Prince Aemon Targaryen, and my grandfather was King Jaehaerys Targaryen. The Blackfyre in my hand is an heirloom of the Targaryen Lineage, not a banner of rebellion." He met Taimond's gaze directly, his violet eyes unfathomably deep in the moonlight.

The smile on Taimond's face stiffened at once, like a poorly made mask. Surprise flashed through his green eyes, then gave way to an understanding, scornful sneer. "Heh... It seems Targaryen family affection can win hearts more effectively than the gold of the Westerlands." He turned to leave, but paused and glanced back over one shoulder. Shadows hid his expression, leaving only his cold words to drift on the night breeze. "You'll regret it, boy. Blood ties may be warm, but they can be the coldest of all. Remember my words."

By the time his heavy footsteps faded at the end of the gallery, the eastern sky had begun to pale. Daemon gazed at the rising dawn, tinged faintly with rose, and breathed in the crisp air.

He remembered the rebellion he had sparked in his previous life, the one that swept across the Seven Kingdoms. He remembered countless nobles bleeding and dying over the word "legitimacy," their bones piling into mountains.

Back then, he had believed power was everything: the cold Iron Throne, the bloodstained crown.

But now, as his palm closed around Blackfyre, what he felt was heavier than steel, yet warmer—the sincere smiles of those who cheered him from the stands; the warm fingertips that had passed him a goblet; the concern that needed no words, yet was everywhere.

"Glutton." He spoke toward the Dragonpit, his voice as soft as a sigh, but filled with a resolve he had never felt before. "I won't follow the old path. Never!"

A long, low dragon's roar came from the distance, piercing the mist like a solemn reply—or perhaps a sigh for what had come before.

The great hall's clamor finally died away completely, and a new day slowly unfolded across Targaryen lands with the rising sun.

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

On the fountain's cold stone rim, the crown of red roses that had once belonged to the "Queen of Love and Beauty" lay still, forgotten in the morning light.

Crystal-clear dew trickled down the full petals, one drop at a time, silently seeping into the cracks in the stone like soundless tear tracks.

The morning dew soaked into it, making the red grow brighter, more glaring, like an ending that had yet to set and had yet to be written, glowing faintly in the still dawn.