Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
THENAMEDAY festivities were in full swing by the time Eleanor and Daemon left his room. The courtyard of the Red Keep was alive with music and laughter, the sound of fiddles and drums filling the air as courtiers danced and celebrated. Lanterns cast a warm glow across the stone walls, their flickering light reflecting off the golden goblets and richly adorned tables.
Eleanor's heart raced, but it wasn't from excitement. The tension between her and Daemon still lingered, thick and palpable, like the storm clouds that had marked their birth. She glanced at her twin brother, his face betraying nothing as they descended the steps into the crowd. His violet eyes remained focused ahead, unreadable, as if the kiss they'd shared moments before had never happened.
As they moved through the throng of well-wishers, nobles bowed and curtsied, offering their congratulations and praise. Yet Eleanor felt as though they were walking through a haze, the revelry around them distant and unimportant compared to the fire that had ignited between them in the privacy of Daemon's chambers.
She couldn't forget the way his lips had felt against hers—the heat, the passion, the unspoken longing that had surged between them. It had been wrong, forbidden even, but in that moment, it had felt inevitable, as if the gods themselves had willed it.
Daemon's hand brushed against hers, a fleeting touch that sent a shiver down her spine. She wondered if he felt it too, the magnetic pull that always seemed to draw them together, no matter how much they tried to resist. But before she could say anything, Daemon turned to her, his expression cold and composed.
"Smile, sister," he whispered, his voice low so only she could hear. "It's our nameday after all."
Eleanor forced a smile, though her heart wasn't in it. The weight of Daemon's whispered words clung to her like a shroud, as if reminding her to keep up the pretense, to bury what had just transpired between them deep beneath layers of duty and expectation. She raised her chin, greeting the nobles who approached with practiced grace, but inside, her thoughts were spinning like a storm out of control.
As they walked further into the courtyard, their presence commanded attention. Lords and ladies dressed in their finest silks, adorned with jewels that sparkled in the lantern light, all turned to admire the Targaryen twins. Their striking silver hair and haunting violet eyes, inherited from the blood of Old Valyria, set them apart. They were not just heirs, they were symbols—living proof of the dragon bloodline's power.
"Your Grace," one of the noblemen said, bowing low before Eleanor. His eyes lingered on her with more interest than was appropriate, a fact not lost on Daemon, whose jaw visibly tightened.
"Thank you," Eleanor replied, her voice calm, though she could feel Daemon's gaze burning into her side. She turned slightly, catching his expression out of the corner of her eye—possessive, protective. It made her pulse quicken, a reminder of the forbidden fire between them.
