Daemon Targaryen.

The great gate of the Red Keep opens with a heavy creak, echoing through the inner courtyards. The sound of Caraxes' hooves still seems to vibrate in the air, even after the dragon has landed on the outer walls.

Daemon Targaryen dismounts with calculated calm.

The dark cloak, still marked by dust and dried blood from the Steps, trails lightly across the stone floor. The soldiers of the Golden Cloaks line up—rigid, silent—but their eyes betray something between respect and fear.

He walks past them as if he'd never left.

Inside, in the Throne Room, the Iron Throne dominates the space as always—cold, imposing… judgmental. Seated upon it, Viserys I Targaryen watches his brother approach.

For a moment, nobody speaks.

Daemon stops a few steps from the throne. A half-smile appears—not of joy, but of restrained defiance.

"I'm back, brother. "

His voice is low, almost casual… as if he hadn't declared war, spilled blood, and crowned himself king far away.

Viserys tightens his grip on the arms of the throne.

"I heard that you are now king... of sand and bones. "

A faint murmur runs through the court.

Daemon tilts his head, as if accepting the blow—but his eyes gleam.

"Kingdoms are made by men who have the courage to take them. "

Silence.

The tension stretches like a rope about to snap.

Then, with a slow gesture, Daemon brings his hand to the hilt of his sword… not to draw it — but to drop it onto the stone floor.

The metallic sound echoes through the hall.

"But there is only one throne that matters. "

He raises his gaze directly to Viserys.

It's not submission.

It never was.

It's something more dangerous: loyalty mixed with ambition.

And everyone in the room knows…

Peace did not return with him.