𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐆, daemon targaryen

DAEMON.

TWO DAYS had passed since the confrontation with Eleanor, and the gilded halls of the Red Keep felt more confining than ever. Daemon found himself seated at the council table, a place of honor bestowed upon him by the King, but instead of feeling pride, he felt an acute sense of isolation.

The council members were engaged in a heated debate over trade agreements with the Lannisters, their voices rising and falling like waves, but Daemon's thoughts wandered. He was physically present, but his mind was elsewhere—haunted by Eleanor's words and the fierce look in her violet eyes. She was ignoring him, and it stung more than he'd expected.

She doesn't want me around. The thought twisted in his gut like a knife. 

As he gazed around the room, the grand oak table gleaming in the candlelight, he felt an overwhelming sense of being trapped. The lords and ladies debated with fervor, consumed by their politics and ambitions, while he wrestled with a void inside him that nothing could fill.

"Daemon?" a voice broke through his reverie, and he turned to find Lord Hightower staring at him expectantly, as if he'd asked a question.

"Pardon?" Daemon replied, shaking his head to clear his thoughts.

"Your opinion on the matter?" Hightower pressed, raising an eyebrow.

Daemon opened his mouth, but the words eluded him. What did it matter? He wasn't interested in the petty squabbles of men who spoke of power as if it were a game. He was lost in thoughts of a girl with dark hair and a spirit that burned brighter than any crown.

"I believe," he finally said, forcing the words out, "that we should focus on what's best for the realm, rather than simply filling our own coffers."

Murmurs of agreement rippled through the council, but Daemon still felt detached. His gaze wandered to the window, where the sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows across the courtyard. He could almost picture Eleanor standing there, her back to him, refusing to turn around.

She's not angry; she's hurt. The thought played on repeat in his mind, a painful reminder of the rift between them. He missed her laughter, the way she challenged him, how unafraid she was to push against his boundaries. Now, all he felt was the absence of her fire, and it gnawed at him like an unquenchable flame.

The discussions carried on, but Daemon's attention faltered again. He couldn't stop thinking about their last encounter—the way Eleanor had stormed out, the pain in her voice, the way she had looked at him as if he were a stranger.

He wanted to apologize, to mend what was broken between them, but how could he when she was so adamant about keeping her distance? If only she could see that I'm not trying to cage her. I'm trying to protect her.

Viserys's voice echoed through the room. "Daemon! Pay attention, we're discussing the Lannisters."

Daemon rolled his eyes, his brother's ineptitude gnawed at him daily. The man had neither the strength nor the cunning to rule. He was a puppet, and the realm knew it.

"We need to settle this matter with the Lannisters. You know how delicate these negotiations are." Viserys stated, his gaze calculated as he stared at Daemon

Delicate? Daemon scoffed inwardly. "It's simple," he said aloud, his voice cold. "You cannot trust the Lannisters. They have always looked out for themselves, and they will sell the crown out the moment it benefits them." 

Viserys chuckled, as if Daemon's warning was nothing more than brotherly banter. "Ah, you always see enemies everywhere, Daemon. We must play the game, not fight every battle."

And that's why you shouldn't be allowed near the throne. Daemon thought bitterly. He wanted to say it aloud, to tell his brother that he was weak, that he didn't deserve to sit on the Iron Throne. But he held his tongue, knowing it would only lead to another futile argument.

"Play your games, brother," Daemon muttered, his tone dripping with frustration. "I've no interest in such things."

He stood up and walked towards the door before Viserys could respond. Every step felt heavier, weighed down by the anger and sorrow he could not escape. The Red Keep felt like a prison, and the only person who could make it bearable—Eleanor—was the one person who refused to speak to him.

As Daemon stepped into the shadows of the Keep, he felt more caged than ever, trapped between duty and the one love he could never fully possess. The sound of laughter caught his attention. Daemon turned his head toward the end of the hall and saw Eleanor, standing with Teresa, her handmaiden, and a few other women of the court. Her laughter rang like a melody that cut through his despair.

For a moment, he was entranced by the sight of her. But as he took a step closer, Eleanor's gaze met his. The joy in her eyes faded, replaced by a coolness that made his heart sink.

He called out to her, "Eleanor—"

But she didn't respond. Instead, she turned away, whispering something to Teresa before retreating with the other women. It felt like a physical blow, the distance between them growing with every step she took.

Daemon clenched his fists, anger and sorrow rising within him. He wanted to demand she look at him, to understand that he wasn't trying to hurt her. I'm trying to protect you. Can't you see that?

But as he stood there, alone in the shadows of the hall, he realized no amount of shouting would bridge the chasm between them. He had lost her trust, and now, he felt more alone than ever.