King's Landing, The Red Keep – 132 AC

The war was over. That's what they all kept saying. Dorne had finally bent the knee, Tyrosh had fallen to our banners, and the Triarchy's navy had been reduced to charred wood and ashes. The bloodshed was done, and now the lords and ladies of Westeros were flocking to King's Landing to celebrate House Targaryen's victory. If I had to hear one more "Well done, my prince" or "Your house has brought peace to the realm" from yet another lord or lady I barely knew, I might scream.

There I was, standing in the thick of it all. Dressed to the hilt in Targaryen black and Velaryon silver, a seahorse brooch fastened at my belt, while my red coat bore the Targaryen three-headed dragon across the chest. The whole ensemble screamed "prince"—my mother had made damn sure of that. The crown atop my head, polished so brightly it reflected the candlelight, was the final touch. I looked like royalty, felt like I was suffocating, and wanted nothing more than to rip the whole thing off and run as far as Tyraxes could carry me.

But I couldn't.

I stood there, forced into my finest clothes—too tight, too stiff—and pretended to care about yet another nobleman I didn't remember, bowing low with his daughter beside him, her eyes darting between me and her father like she was afraid I'd suddenly transform into a dragon and burn them both where they stood. Her father offered the usual pleasantries, something about how his house was proud to fight for the crown, how he hoped the peace would last. All I could manage was a nod and a polite smile, but inside, a fire I hadn't been able to put out for moons was raging.

Anger. It was something I wasn't used to. I was Joffrey Velaryon, after all. The youngest son of Rhaenyra Targaryen and Laenor Velaryon. I had an easy life. Always had. Surrounded by a loving family, wanting for nothing. I had my mother, my brother, my sister, and the love of my fathers, both Laenor and Harwin. I had been raised with kindness, with strength, but not with this kind of... frustration. Not this burning fury that had been bubbling under my skin since I had been dragged back to King's Landing, far from where I wanted to be.

At first, it had been fear. I was scared, confused, watching everything happen so quickly, as if the world had sped up while I was left behind. One moment I was squiring under Uncle Daemon at Bloodstone, learning what it meant to be a knight, to be more than just a prince in name, and the next, I was ripped from my post because the Triarchy had started pushing back into the Stepstones. My mother ordered me home, "for my own safety," as if I were still some helpless child. I hated it.

Then came the news about Lucerys. My sister. My closest sibling. Her dragon, Ghost, attacked by the Cannibal, barely surviving, and Lucerys herself... I couldn't even imagine the horror she must've felt, watching her bondmate almost die. But what hurt the most was that I wasn't told about it. No one thought I needed to know. I had to hear it through whispers, servants talking behind closed doors, the real story hidden from me because I was "too young to understand." Too young, too fragile, too *inconsequential*.

They could shove that nonsense where the sun doesn't shine.

And now? Now, after moons of being treated like a child, after being kept out of the real discussions, the real decisions, they suddenly expected me to play the part of the prince again. Stand here, smile at this lord, nod at that lady, shake hands, and pretend I had a role in all of this. Like I had any say in the war or the peace. Like I hadn't been left in the dark for moons, just a figurehead, while the adults fought and bled and made decisions about the fate of the realm.

Did they want me to be a prince, or did they want me to stay a child? They couldn't seem to decide, and that indecision was driving me mad.

"Your Highness?" The nobleman's voice brought me back to the present. He had finished his speech—something dull and predictable, no doubt—and was now gesturing to his daughter, who offered me a nervous curtsey. "Might I present my daughter, Lady Celine? She would be honored to—"

I didn't hear the rest. I couldn't focus on their words, not when the anger was boiling over again. Lady Celine looked at me with wide, expectant eyes, waiting for me to say something charming, something princely. I could feel my lips pulling into the shape of a smile, but it wasn't real. It was the mask I had been forced to wear ever since I was brought back to the Red Keep.

Another polite nod. Another empty promise of, "It's a pleasure to meet you." But it wasn't. It wasn't a pleasure to meet any of them, to stand here playing the role of a perfect little prince while the real decisions were being made elsewhere. While my aunt, my uncles, even my sister had been in the thick of it, fighting, leading armies, making deals, I was here... greeting nobles.

I wanted to be anywhere but here.

As the nobleman and his daughter finally moved on, I let out a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding. My hands clenched at my sides, nails digging into my palms as I tried to reign in the frustration. My mother... my mother needed to make a decision. Either I was a prince of the realm, with duties, responsibilities, and a voice in the matters of war and peace, or I was still a child to be coddled, sheltered from the harsh realities of the world. She couldn't have it both ways. Not anymore.

I looked around the room, the Great Hall filled with nobles celebrating our victory, and for the first time, I felt out of place. This wasn't my victory. I hadn't fought in it. I hadn't earned it. I had been left behind, standing in the shadows while the rest of my family secured our future. Even now, I was just a symbol, something for the lords and ladies to fawn over, to curry favor with.

I hated it. I hated all of it.

"Joffrey."

The sound of my name pulled me from my thoughts, and I turned to see Rhaena standing a few feet away, watching me with a raised brow. She had that look on her face, the one she always wore when she thought I was being too dramatic.

"What?" I asked, my voice sharper than I intended.

She tilted her head slightly, her dark curls brushing against her shoulders. "You looked like you were ready to punch that lord in the face. I thought you liked this part—meeting the lords, pretending to be charming."

"I used to," I muttered, crossing my arms over my chest. "Before I realized how pointless it is. I'm tired of all of it, Rhaena. I'm tired of being left out. Everyone treats me like I'm still a boy, but I'm not. I'm old enough to be part of this, to be part of something."

Rhaena's expression softened slightly as she stepped closer. "You are part of this, Joff. You're a prince of the realm. You have a role to play, even if it's not the one you want right now."

I scoffed, shaking my head. "And what role is that, exactly? Shaking hands? Smiling at noblewomen I don't care about? That's not what I want, Rhaena. I wanted to be in the war, with Lucerys, with Aemond, with Uncle Daemon. I wanted to fight for our family. Instead, I was left here, in this... this gilded cage."

Rhaena sighed, crossing her arms as well, mirroring my stance. "You were kept safe, Joffrey. That's what her grace wanted. To make sure you didn't end up like Lucerys. Or worse."

"Safe," I repeated, bitterness creeping into my voice. "I was kept useless."

She looked at me for a long moment, her expression unreadable, and then she sighed again, shaking her head. "You're too much like father," she muttered.

"I'll take that as a compliment," I shot back.

She smiled faintly, but there was something sad in her eyes. Something I couldn't quite place. "It is. Just... don't let the anger get the better of you, Joffrey. It's easy to feel like the world's against you, especially when you're young. But things will change. You'll see."

I didn't respond. I wasn't sure I believed her.

Rhaena turned and walked away, leaving me to stew in my own frustration. Just then, Lord Whatever-his-name-was stepped forward and introduced his daughter with a grin that made my stomach churn. The girl—Lady Felyse? Felise?—curtsied, as if she were waiting for approval, like a hound begging for scraps. I gave her a polite nod, as was expected, while my mind wandered elsewhere. I had no interest in this game of matchmaking, yet here I was, a key player whether I liked it or not.

It didn't help that the vultures were circling because of the announcement. The crown, in all its wisdom, had decided that Tyrosh would be my seat of power in the future. Prince Joffrey Targaryen, they called me now, even though I still wore the name Velaryon for the moment. But that would change. As soon as I was sent off to rule in Tyrosh, I'd shed my father's name and become a Targaryen in title, if not in heart.

That was the price of duty. My duty.

I could already hear the whispers. "Tyrosh is a jewel," they'd say. "A seat of power on the Narrow Sea, a bridge between Westeros and Essos." And then the part that really made them lick their lips: "A marriage to Prince Joffrey could secure alliances across the Free Cities. Imagine the influence. The power."

It was all politics. Always politics. Nevermind that I'd been left in the dark during the war, treated like a child while my siblings and cousins fought, bled, and made names for themselves. Nevermind that I wanted nothing to do with ruling some faraway city that felt like a punishment disguised as a reward. My mother—Queen Rhaenyra—had other plans. She was thinking ahead, always looking at the future, always worried about the next war, the next threat.

House Targaryen had nearly been wiped out more times than I cared to count. My mother didn't want to leave anything to chance. If the main line of Targaryens fell—gods forbid—I was the backup. I would become the one to step up to the Iron Throne. Tyrosh wasn't just a seat of power; it was a contingency plan, a way to ensure that the Targaryen bloodline never went extinct.

Daemon's line—my uncle's branch of the family—wasn't eligible. Daemon had signed away his and his descendants' rights to the throne long ago. Politically, they were no more than the Wardens of the Narrow Sea, lords in all but name. Dragonriders, yes, but their claim to the crown was severed by their own hand. So, the duty had fallen to me, the youngest of Rhaenyra's sons.

I wasn't sure if that made me feel special or if it just made me feel like a pawn in the never-ending game of thrones.

Another lord stepped forward, this one even more eager than the last, his daughter practically shoved toward me with an apologetic smile that didn't reach her eyes. I could barely summon the energy to remember her name. I tried to listen, I really did, but my thoughts kept drifting back to everything I had lost in the past moons. Bloodstone. My training with Uncle Daemon. Even Lucerys and Ghost's attack haunted me, gnawing at the edges of my mind.

I didn't belong here, playing this polite, political prince. My blood was stirred for action, not endless greetings and fawning sycophants. I clenched my jaw, forcing my lips into the same tight smile I'd been wearing all night, and nodded as politely as I could manage. But inside, I was simmering. This was all so pointless.

And then there was Daeron.

He stood at the other end of the hall, fending off a similar wave of noble families eager to marry their daughters to the last unwed prince. The only difference was, Daeron looked like he was born for this. He played the part of the princely Targaryen effortlessly, charming the lords and ladies with a smile and a soft word. He was good at it, and he made it look easy. I hated that.

Daeron and I were the only ones left without betrothals, and after the war, the court had sprung into action like a pack of wolves smelling blood in the water. Everyone wanted to secure their daughter as the future princess.

Another lord approached, another introduction, another daughter curtsying before me. I barely registered it. My thoughts were too tangled, too clouded by the weight of expectation pressing down on me. I could already feel the pressure tightening around my chest. Tyrosh, prince, Targaryen—duty, duty, duty. That's all anyone cared about. That's all that was ever expected of me.

Did anyone care what I wanted? Did it matter?

I forced my attention back to the present, to the hall filled with nobles, all of them staring at me like I was some prize stallion they were eager to bet on. I glanced down at the silver seahorse brooch on my belt, a symbol of my Velaryon blood, and then at the Targaryen three-headed dragon embroidered on my chest. Soon, only one of those would matter. Soon, I'd shed the name Velaryon for Targaryen. Not because I wanted to, but because that's what my mother had decided.

That was the plan. The future.

But as I stood there, smiling at yet another pair of wide-eyed nobles, I couldn't help but wonder how much longer I'd be able to play along. How much longer I'd be able to stand here, pretending that this was all I wanted. Because if there was one thing, I was sure of, it was that the fire burning inside me wasn't going away anytime soon.

And one day, it was going to ignite.

Lord Petyr Piper and his daughter, Melony Piper, stood before me, smiling like they were presenting me with a gift I hadn't asked for. I barely kept the grimace off my face as Melony giggled and fluttered her eyelashes, clearly trying to catch my attention in the most obvious way possible. She was about my age, maybe younger, with bright red hair and a dress that probably cost more than most of her father's vassals made in a year.

"Prince Joffrey," Lord Petyr began, bowing slightly as Melony did the same, "we are honored to stand before you and offer our congratulations on your great victory over Tyrosh."

My victory. I had to bite my tongue to stop myself from rolling my eyes. What victory? I hadn't fought in the battles, hadn't faced the dangers my father, uncle, and siblings had faced. Tyrosh wasn't conquered by me—it was taken by dragons, by fire and blood, none of which had anything to do with me. But here I was, draped in Targaryen colors, wearing a crown and pretending like I'd earned any of this. I gave them a tight smile, nodding as if their words didn't make me want to scream.

"Thank you, Lord Petyr," I said, my voice flat despite my best efforts. "It is... appreciated."

I could feel Melony's eyes on me, batting her lashes in what she clearly thought was a charming way, and I had to fight the urge to sigh. The court was abuzz with whispers of alliances, of marriages, and it wasn't lost on me that I was one of the few remaining Targaryen princes without a betrothal. Now that Tyrosh was officially under House Targaryen's control, the vultures were circling, eager to marry their daughters to the prince who would one day rule the Free City.

It was exhausting.

"It is such a pity," Melony chimed in, her voice sweet as honey but dripping with ambition, "that House Targaryen stopped with Tyrosh. Imagine if you had taken all of the Triarchy under your command. Lys and Myr would have made fine additions to your dominion."

Her words hit me like a slap, and I felt my body tense. The arrogance, the sheer ignorance of that statement made my blood boil. Did she think war was a game? That conquering entire cities was as simple as adding pieces to a chessboard? I was ready to snap, to remind her that the Triarchy wasn't some plaything for House Targaryen to collect, that real people died in these wars—my family had risked everything. But before I could say anything, Lord Petyr turned sharply to his daughter, his face flushing red as he muttered a hurried chastisement.

"Melony, that is not—"

He didn't have to finish. A soft but commanding voice spoke from behind me, cutting through the tension with the precision of a Valyrian steel blade.

"Conquering all of the Triarchy would have brought nothing but ruin," Lucerys said, stepping forward with the grace and confidence that made her every bit the queen she was born to be. I turned, and there she was—my older sister, radiant in a stunning teal dress embroidered with intricate patterns that shimmered in the candlelight. Her crown, silver and laced with pearls, cascaded down her thick black curls, giving her an ethereal glow.

I couldn't help but smile. Lucerys had always had a way of defusing situations like this with poise and a touch of quiet authority that I could never quite muster.

Melony's eyes widened, her cheeks turning pink as she curtsied deeply. "Your Highness," she whispered, clearly caught off guard by Lucerys' presence.

Lucerys smiled, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. "Lady Melony," she said, her voice polite but firm, "there are many reasons why Lys and Myr were not conquered, and why they will never be part of Westeros. To do so would bring more trouble than triumph."

She turned her attention to Lord Petyr, who was nodding along as if he'd suddenly remembered how dangerous it was to challenge a Targaryen, especially one with Lucerys' sharp wit. "Essos is a continent with different customs, different ways of life. Slavery is not just present there—it is the backbone of their economy. The moment House Targaryen took control of Tyrosh, we were tasked with the responsibility of eliminating slavery, which is no small feat. Lys and Myr are no different, and to take them would mean tearing apart the very fabric of their society, which would lead to rebellion, economic collapse, and chaos. That is not something Westeros can afford."

I could see Melony shifting uncomfortably, her earlier bravado fading as Lucerys continued.

"Not to mention," Lucerys added, her gaze never leaving Melony's, "the language barrier. The people of Lys and Myr speak Bastard Valyrian, not the Common Tongue. Communication alone would be a nightmare, and any attempt to impose our laws or customs would be met with resistance. And their Gods... the deities they worship are far removed from the faiths of Westeros. The God Trios, for instance, is foreign to us and yet deeply ingrained in Tyrosh. Integrating such beliefs into our realm would be a challenge we are not prepared for."

Lucerys took a step forward, her presence commanding, though her tone remained calm. "As it is, House Targaryen will have its hands full in Tyrosh—eradicating slavery, introducing the Common Tongue, and integrating the Free City into the laws of Westeros. To take more than we can handle would not be a victory—it would be a disaster."

Melony was silent, her earlier confidence shattered, and Lord Petyr looked like he wanted to disappear into the floor. I almost pitied them. Almost.

"Prince Daemon may wish he could take all of the Triarchy under Targaryen rule," Lucerys said, her voice softening just slightly, "but he knows better than anyone that it is not possible without causing untold chaos. And chaos," she added with a pointed look, "is something we have seen enough of."

There was a long, tense silence. Melony looked down at her hands, fidgeting, clearly unsure of what to say. But Lucerys didn't miss a beat, her voice calm but cutting as she continued her impromptu lesson. It was like she was addressing a whole room full of students instead of just Lord Petyr and his daughter, Melony. Honestly, I was enjoying every second of it.

"In simpler terms," Lucerys explained, her tone light but unmistakably firm, "rapid expansion—especially into territories that are so vastly different from our own—would only make Westeros fall apart. You can't expect to absorb a place like Lys or Myr without care. Adding Dorne and Tyrosh has already stretched us thin, not to mention the Stepstones only became part of the realm a couple of decades ago. It's too much, too fast."

I didn't bother hiding my amusement. Watching Lucerys talk down to Lady Melony Piper, who was now staring at her shoes like a scolded child, was more entertaining than any tourney or feast. Lucerys was so sure of herself, so confident, like she was born for this. And she was.

Lucerys had always had this way about her—this ability to make you feel like you were being taught a valuable lesson, even if you had no idea what was happening. She wasn't cruel about it, not like some of the lords and ladies at court. No, she was too smart for that. She explained things with patience, but there was always an edge, a reminder that she *knew* more than you did. She could humble anyone with a smile.

"The problem with rapid expansion," Lucerys continued, her hands folding neatly in front of her, "is that while it might make sense as a military tactic, it's terrible for long-term stability. When you conquer too quickly, you don't give the conquered people time to adjust, to accept their new rulers. And if you don't win the hearts and minds of the people, well, you're just inviting rebellion. We've seen that before, haven't we?"

She was talking about the early days of Westeros, the first shaky decades after Aegon's conquest, when the Seven Kingdoms weren't so united. It was a time of revolts and unrest, when the lords of the realm were still trying to figure out if this new Targaryen rule was something they could live with—or something they could resist.

Lucerys, of course, wasn't just lecturing Lady Piper. She was making sure the lesson sank in with anyone within earshot. And believe me, a lot of people were listening now. Even the lords who had pretended to ignore our conversation were leaning in a little closer, their eyes darting between me, Lucerys, and poor Lord Petyr.

"Expanding an empire slowly," she said, "gives you time to integrate the new territories properly. It gives you a chance to make the people feel like they belong, like they're part of something greater. And more importantly, it prevents overexertion. You don't want to stretch your resources too thin. That's how empires collapse."

I couldn't help the smirk that crept onto my face as I watched Lord Petyr try to salvage his dignity, nodding along with everything Lucerys said, even though it was obvious he wished he could vanish. He was probably regretting ever letting his daughter speak. Melony, meanwhile, looked like she was shrinking further into her elaborate gown with every word.

Lucerys was right, of course. It wasn't just about taking more land or gaining more power. You had to do it carefully, or you'd end up with a mess on your hands. Dorne and Tyrosh were enough to manage for now, and even that was going to take time. It would take years to phase out slavery in Tyrosh, to introduce the Common Tongue, and to integrate their strange gods into the Westerosi way of life.

We didn't need more chaos.

"We're already asking a lot of the people in Tyrosh," Lucerys said, her gaze finally landing back on Melony, whose face had turned an impressive shade of red. "Expecting them to adapt to our customs and our laws, all while trying to reshape their economy... It's going to take time. Patience. And it's not something we should rush into without understanding the consequences."

Lord Petyr cleared his throat, obviously eager to get away from this conversation as quickly as possible. He muttered something about his gratitude for the education Lucerys had just provided and then practically yanked his daughter away, dragging her through the crowd like she was a wayward child.

I couldn't hold it in any longer. A chuckle escaped me, and Lucerys turned to me with a mock sternness in her eyes.

"Princes shouldn't laugh at young ladies, Joffrey," she said, though there was a smile tugging at her lips. "It's unbecoming."

"Come on, Lucy," I said, still smirking. "You saw the look on Lord Petyr's face. He was mortified."

"That's because you were about to burst out laughing the entire time," she said, nudging me playfully. "Besides, I was just doing my duty, educating our noble guests."

"Oh, you were educating them, all right," I teased, "and I'm sure Lady Melony will remember this lesson for a long time."

Lucerys rolled her eyes, but I could see the satisfaction in her face. She knew she had put them in their place, and she had done it in the way only Lucerys could—calm, polite, and devastatingly effective.

As we walked back toward our family, I felt a warmth spread through me. Seeing Lucerys like this, so sure of herself, so alive again, filled me with relief. After everything that had happened—the war, the attack on Ghost, the darkness that had seemed to consume her for so long—it was good to see my sister back to her old self. She had always been like a second mother to me when our real mother, Rhaenyra, had been too busy with her duties as Crown Princess and later Queen.

Lucerys brought me a sense of security that no one else could. She had a way of making everything feel... manageable. Like no matter what happened, as long as she was around, things would be okay.

I turned to Lucerys, grinning. "Anyway, you really know how to make an entrance."

Lucerys smiled back, finally letting some warmth creep into her expression. "Someone had to save you from that conversation," she teased, her eyes sparkling with amusement. "I saw the way you were about to explode."

"Explode is putting it mildly," I muttered, shaking my head. "The audacity. As if it's so easy to just conquer entire cities like they're spoils in a game."

Lucerys' smile faded slightly, and she gave me a sympathetic look. "You're under a lot of pressure, Joffrey. I know it's frustrating being paraded around like this, but—"

"It's not just the parading, Lucy," I interrupted, my voice tight. "It's everything. The expectations, the title, the fact that I'm being forced to give up my name, my life. I didn't fight for Tyrosh. I didn't earn this. And now I'm supposed to just... accept it."

Lucerys placed a hand on my arm, her touch gentle but grounding. "I know it feels like you're being pushed into something you didn't choose, but you're stronger than you think. You'll make Tyrosh your own, Joffrey. You'll be a great prince, whether you realize it or not."

I wanted to believe her. I really did. But all I could think about was the weight of the crown, the endless expectations, and the fact that no matter what I did, I would never truly be free of the shadow of House Targaryen.

"I'm glad to see you back." I said, grinning as I walked beside her.

Lucerys glanced at me, her smile softening. "I've always been here, Joffrey."

"I know," I said, my voice quieter now. "But it hasn't always felt that way."

She didn't say anything for a moment, and I could feel her watching me, her eyes searching mine for something. Finally, she nodded, her expression thoughtful. "It's been a hard time for all of us," she admitted. "But we've made it through. And we're stronger for it."

I didn't say anything to that, but I knew she was right. We had made it through. And while there were still challenges ahead—Tyrosh, the future, everything the crown expected from me—at least I knew I wasn't alone in it. I had my family. I had Lucerys.

At the throne, my mother, Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, sat in all her glory. She looked more regal than I'd ever seen her, her silver-blonde hair cascading over her shoulders, the crown of Westeros resting on her head like it had always belonged there. And around her, like orbiting planets, were the key players of this war-weary kingdom. Daemon was standing off to the side, arms crossed, watching with that sharp, assessing gaze of his. Lord Corlys and Princess Rhaenys stood close together, their eyes scanning the room, ever the sea-hardened observers

At the center of everyone's attention, though, was Aegon. My uncle was glowing with pride, and in his arms was little Saera Baratheon, his newborn daughter. She had the unmistakable black hair of her Baratheon relatives, thick and wild, but her eyes... those eyes were pure Targaryen. Deep purple, dark like Aegon's, a clear mark of her lineage despite her more Baratheon features. She was beautiful, I'll give her that. And Aegon was showing her off like she was the most precious thing in the world, cooing and fussing over her while the rest of us watched with some combination of amusement and warmth.

The cooing and soft murmurs of admiration quieted down when my mother finally spoke, her voice carrying easily over the hall, commanding attention.

"The war is over," Rhaenyra declared, her tone filled with both relief and authority. "Dorne and Tyrosh are now part of Westeros."

There was a brief moment of silence, like the entire hall was absorbing the weight of her words. We had won. The endless battles, the bloodshed, the uncertainty—it was over. Dorne had bent the knee, and Tyrosh, after so much blood and fire, was ours. It felt like the first real breath we'd taken in moons. Even I could feel the tension easing from my body, just a little. Finally, some peace.

But of course, my mother wasn't done.

"To celebrate this victory," she continued, "there will be a tourney, and a festival held during the upcoming fortnight."

The room buzzed with excitement at that. There hadn't been a proper tourney in ages, not with war and all. Lords and ladies loved nothing more than a good festival, especially after a long stretch of grim news and battle reports. I could already see the younger lords exchanging grins, no doubt already imagining themselves in the lists, jousting for glory.

But I should've known better than to think the announcements would stop there. My mother had a way of always holding something back until the perfect moment. And, true to form, she wasn't finished.

"As you all know," Rhaenyra said, her eyes sweeping the room, "my youngest son, Joffrey, will soon be taking the Targaryen last name and founding a branch seat of the Targaryen Crown in Tyrosh."

There it was. The announcement I'd known was coming but still felt like a punch in the gut every time I heard it. The moment I would shed the Velaryon name and take up the mantle of Targaryen, officially and forever. The future Prince of Tyrosh. My future, laid out for me with no real say in the matter.

I plastered on a smile, as I'd been trained to do, and nodded along as the crowd murmured in approval. They all seemed thrilled by the idea. Why wouldn't they be? It was a political masterstroke, securing Tyrosh for the crown. But for me, it felt like the chains tightening, pulling me further from the life I'd known, the life I might've wanted.

And then, of course, came the real surprise.

"There is more," Rhaenyra continued, her voice cutting through the noise like a blade. "Today, I am pleased to announce the betrothals of my son and my brother. Prince Joffrey Targaryen will be wed to Rhaena Targaryen, and Prince Daeron will be wed to Baela Targaryen."

For a heartbeat, everything stopped. The noise of the crowd, the cheers, the applause—it all faded into the background, like I was sinking underwater. I could hear the blood rushing in my ears, could feel my heart hammering in my chest. My smile stayed frozen in place, but I wasn't really here anymore. Not mentally. I'd disassociated, drifted away from the hall, from the people, from everything.

I hadn't known about this. I hadn't been told.

My mother had just announced my betrothal—to Rhaena—like it was nothing more than a passing comment, as if this was all part of the plan, I'd apparently been too slow to see. And now the crowd was erupting in applause, the lords and ladies clapping and congratulating one another as if they had anything to do with it. All around me, people were celebrating, smiling, laughing. And I just stood there, my insides a hollow shell.

I didn't know what I felt. Anger? Shock? Maybe both. I liked Rhaena—don't get me wrong—but the thought of marriage had never really occurred to me, not like this. Certainly not in the middle of a grand announcement where everyone found out before I did.

I was supposed to marry Rhaena. My cousin. She was beautiful, sure, but this wasn't about love or choice. This was about duty. Politics. Securing the future of House Targaryen. I was to be Prince of Tyrosh, and I would need a wife, a Targaryen wife to keep the bloodline pure and the alliances strong.

That's what all this was, wasn't it? A series of decisions made without me, all in the name of duty.

I barely remembered the rest of the day. Everything was a blur—the clapping, the smiling faces, the endless parade of congratulations from lords and ladies whose names I couldn't even keep straight. It all blended into a haze of noise, and I felt like I was floating above it all, detached, like none of it was real. My body went through the motions, but my mind... my mind had retreated somewhere far away, where the weight of what had just been announced couldn't crush me.

I didn't snap out of it until I was back in my chambers that night, the heavy door shutting behind me with a soft click. The silence hit me first. After the constant noise of the court, the quiet was almost suffocating. I stood there, staring at nothing, my hands clenched into fists at my sides. The day had passed in a blur, and now... now it was all real.

I was betrothed to Rhaena. I was to marry my cousin, take her as my wife, and rule Tyrosh. The rest of my life had just been decided for me without so much as a word of warning. And what had I done? I had smiled. I had smiled and nodded and acted like it was all fine, like this was the life I had wanted.

I wasn't sure how long I stood there, frozen, before I heard the soft creak of the door opening behind me. I didn't have to turn to know who it was. Daeron's presence was familiar, comforting even.

"Joffrey?" he said softly, his voice laced with concern.

I didn't answer. I couldn't. My throat felt tight, my chest aching with everything I'd been holding in all day. The silence stretched between us, thick and heavy. I could feel Daeron watching me, waiting, but I couldn't bring myself to speak.

Then, I felt his hand on my shoulder. It was a simple gesture, but it shattered the last bit of control I had left. I turned to face him, and the moment I saw the worry in his eyes, everything inside me broke. I couldn't hold it in any longer.

I fell into his chest, my hands clutching at his tunic as I sobbed. The tears came hard and fast, and I couldn't stop them. All the emotions I'd bottled up—fear, anger, frustration, love—they all poured out at once. Daeron wrapped his arms around me, pulling me closer, his hand gently rubbing circles on my back as I cried against him.

"I can't do this," I choked out between sobs. "I don't want to marry Rhaena. I don't want any of this."

Daeron stayed quiet, his hold on me tightening as he let me cry. It was a long time before I could form coherent words again. When I finally pulled back enough to look at him, my face still wet with tears, the words I had never been brave enough to say slipped out before I could stop them.

"I love you," I whispered, my voice raw with emotion. "Not Rhaena. You. I've always loved you, Daeron. I don't want anyone else."

Daeron's face went pale, his eyes wide with shock. For a moment, I thought I'd made a mistake, that I'd ruined everything. But then, his expression softened, and he let out a shaky breath.

"Joffrey," he said quietly, "I've always loved you too. But we can't... we can't be together like that. It's impossible. Two men can't marry."

The words hit me like a physical blow. I knew it was true. Of course, I knew. But hearing him say it... it broke something in me. I shook my head, my heart hammering in my chest.

"I don't care," I said, my voice trembling. "I don't care if it's impossible. I don't care about any of it. I love you, Daeron. I don't want to marry Rhaena. I want you."

Before he could say anything else, I leaned up and kissed him. It wasn't soft or gentle—it was desperate, full of everything I'd kept hidden for so long. For a moment, Daeron stiffened, his hands gripping my arms as if he was going to push me away. But he didn't. Instead, he kissed me back, just as desperate, just as broken.

When we finally pulled apart, he was breathing heavily, his forehead resting against mine.

"We can't," he whispered, his voice hoarse. "We're both betrothed. It's not right."

"I don't care," I repeated, my voice firm this time. "I don't care about any of it, Daeron. I want you. That's all I've ever wanted."

He hesitated, his eyes locked onto mine, searching, as if still trying to find a reason to stop, a way to resist what we both knew was inevitable. The air between us was charged, the tension thick enough to taste, and I could feel the rapid rise and fall of his chest as he fought the urge within him.

But then, the hesitation vanished. His decision was made.

His lips crashed against mine once more, but this time there was no restraint, no holding back. The kiss was urgent and fiery, filled with need that sent a surge of heat through my body. His hands cupped my face firmly, fingers threading through my hair as he tilted my head to deepen the kiss. His touch was both rough and deliberate, as though he had waited too long to let this happen.

Without breaking the kiss, he scooped me up into his arms. His strength was undeniable, and my body molded easily to his as he carried me, each step purposefully, driven by a palpable hunger. His hands pressed against my back, pulling me closer until there was no space between us, the sensation of his warmth seeping into me.

He laid me down on the bed, his body following mine in one fluid motion. His weight pressed against me, firm yet gentle, grounding me while his hands began to roam. His fingers trailed over my skin, leaving a path of heat in their wake. They grazed my collarbone, sliding down the curve of my waist, exploring every inch as if he needed to memorize the shape of me.

He paused for a moment, his gaze flickering over me as if trying to take in every detail, before his lips found my neck. His breath was hot against my skin, sending shivers through me with every soft, teasing kiss. His mouth moved lower, tasting, exploring, while his hands continued their journey, slipping over my hips and thighs with deliberate slowness, as though savoring the feel of me beneath him.

Every touch was electric, a heady mix of control and passion that made it impossible to think of anything else but the way his body pressed against mine, the way his hands grasped and held me, grounding me in the intensity of the moment. His fingers curled into my skin, not rough but firm, as though he couldn't bear to let go, couldn't pull away now that we were here.

My hands found him too, exploring the hard lines of his body, feeling the tension in his muscles as they flexed beneath my touch. His breath quickened, matching the rhythm of my own, and I could feel the heat radiating off of him, the undeniable connection of our bodies growing stronger with every moment.

His breath grew ragged, matching the rising tension between us. Every movement felt deliberate, filled with purpose. His lips found mine again, but this time the kiss was slower, deeper, carrying the weight of everything unsaid. The urgency was still there, but it was laced with something more—something that made my pulse race even faster. His hands traced over my body with a mix of tenderness and need, each touch igniting a fire that spread through me, making it impossible to think of anything but him.

He pressed against me, and I could feel the heat radiating from his skin. Our bodies moved in sync, responding to one another instinctively, as if we had been waiting for this moment for longer than we knew. His fingers tightened on my hips, pulling me closer, and I felt his body tense against mine as he held back, lingering at the edge of control.

A soft sound escaped my lips, and that was all it took for the last of his restraint to crumble.

He moved with more intensity, his lips trailing down my neck, leaving a trail of heat in their wake. My back arched instinctively, pressing into his touch as his hands explored every curve, every inch of me. The space between us had disappeared completely, replaced by a growing, insistent heat that seemed to build with every breath, every touch. His name was on my lips, whispered into the heavy air between us.

The pace quickened, the rhythm of our bodies matched by the pounding of our hearts, the growing need pulling us closer and closer to that inevitable peak. The world around us faded, and there was nothing but the sensations—the warmth of his skin against mine, the way his hands gripped me tighter as we moved together, the heat building to a point where it felt like we would both come undone.

And then, it happened.

That final, perfect moment where everything else disappeared—the tension, the restraint, the waiting—and we let go, lost in the pure, overwhelming rush of sensation. It was like the world had shattered around us, leaving only the feeling of each other, the sound of our shared breath, and the wild beating of our hearts.

For a moment, we were weightless, suspended in the sheer intensity of it all, until slowly, the world began to return, and we found ourselves still wrapped in each other's arms, breathless and trembling, hearts still racing in time.

He pulled me close, his arms wrapping around me as if he never wanted to let go. His breath was warm against my skin, and I could feel the steady rise and fall of his chest as we lay there, the weight of what had just happened settling between us. Neither of us spoke, but we didn't need to.