"I Need Rhaenyra."

"I need Rhaenyra."

"Daemon." His brother's voice is wearied and wrought with frailty. He looks an old man as much as he sounds. The crown weighs heavy atop his head, his silver hair faded to little more than wisps, a faint remembrance of their great ancestry. The sight stirs something of a sympathy, mayhaps a pity within Daemon, as well as the first whispers of grief. Viserys will not long live, and the Prince would weep for that loss were it strong enough to quell his rage.

"I know we've had our differences," his brother says softly, "but let them pass with the years."

What kind words, and so easily spoken by the feeble ghost of the man before him. The King knows his death is nearing, and this is no more than a desperate ploy to earn some forgiveness before he reaches his grave. Daemon isn't of a mind to grant him such peace. Not after the banishments. Not after the offenses. Not after Rhaenyra.

Not after Rhaenyra.

His brother's words are a sharp reminder. Years. Years have passed, though he's hardly to know it. Time has been uncertain for the Rogue Prince, with many a year feeling a month, and the midnight hour often disguising itself as a lifetime. It is only by sparing a glance at the princess, his princess that he can truly be sure.

She is now a queen in her own right. His heart cannot but swell with pride to see her carry herself with such regality, a self-assuredness accompanying her every step and yet not in the slightest diminishing her ferocity. She is the blood of the dragon, the blood of Old Valyria, a goddess reborn to take what is hers. A goddess he would gladly worship.

There was a time he would not wait to be given the chance, but take it, as he did those years ago during their adventures in the heart of King's Landing, but seeing her now, he cannot bring himself to do it. He wonders if her life is better for his absence. He would hope so, if not for his own selfish desires.

His brother's voice pulls him from his thoughts, away from the sight of his niece. "There's a place for you in my court," Viserys says, "if that's something you should need."

Daemon seethes, his lips forming the words before he can think to stop them. "I need Rh..."

He stops.

He shouldn't say it.

To the Seven Hells with shouldn't, he can't say it.

He can't bear to say it. There's too much truth in it. He needs her.

He's always needed her.

"...nothing," he grimaces. Unable to stomach meeting his brother's eyes, he forces his gaze down to the rough cracks in the stone. Nothing.

Nothing. The word tastes a lie, and an unconvincing one, at best. She envelops every thought, fleeting or otherwise, that finds its way through the labyrinth of his mind. His heart is hers, entirely, and it's only now that he understands the emptiness that permeated his life these last ten years.

"I want Rhaenyra," he had told his brother, knife at his throat. He remembers looking at the blade and thinking that death would be preferable to losing her, and yet he still considered it wanting. He had never thought himself naïve, but what other word spoke such truth?

His hand on the hilt of Dark Sister, ever the calming influence, he forces himself away from his brother, refusing to so much as glance at his would-be queen.

"I'm sorry for your loss, my prince." Otto's voice stops him dead in his tracks. Dark Sister calls to him, and though the temptation is difficult to resist, he manages.

"No matter how fat the leech grows," Daemon sneers, "it always wants for another meal."

He wonders, as he walks away, if it was the right course. Any of it. If he should have slain Otto Hightower where he stood. If he should have forced his brother's hand and taken Rhaenyra to wife all those years ago. If he should have done as she asked at her wedding feast and cut through her father's kingsguard.

"Take me to Dragonstone and make me your wife," she had said, venom in her words and something else he could not quite place. At the time, he thought she was merely tormenting him, taunting him with all he could not have. Now, he cannot but wonder if she desired him as much as he did her. If it was not a mockery, but a genuine plea, an admission of her deepest desires.

What life might have been had he only obliged.

As he wanders the beach, somewhat melancholy under the light of the emerging moon, he is vaguely aware of gentle footsteps behind him. There's no need to look. He felt Rhaenyra's eyes on him. He felt her yearning. It mirrored his own.

He does not know what this night will bring. But if the Gods are good, they will never again threaten to tear them asunder.