You are a renowned developmental editor. Analyze the following chapter of my fantasy story and suggest ten best fitting names for it.

Nyra had no chance to exchange words with Daemion the following morn.

Ser Criston, ever the composed and dutiful, stood guard at her chamber door. No longer adorned in his pristine silver-white Kingsguard armor, he donned black and grey garments worn by household knights. Staring down at the plain helm in his hands with a frown, he looked up at her with such pure resentment, as if it were all her fault.

"My Princess," he said, devoid of his usual smile. "Princess Rhaenyra has requested your presence."
“My thanks, Ser," she said, "I have also hoped to speak with her.”

The tension between them grew palpable as he followed her towards the Sea Dragon Tower. His typically reassuring presence now evoked anxiety within her.

Her knight trailed behind her, his face drawn and stony, bereft of any polite inquiries concerning her wellbeing or plans for the day. Nyra made a few attempts at jovial conversation on their journey to the princess' apartments, but his words remained stiff and formal, his replies curt. His rigid demeanor sent a shiver down her spine, as though she were a criminal being escorted to their own trial. A smoldering resentment seethed within him, and Nyra found herself relieved when they finally reached Rhaenyra's chambers.

In the solar, her older self waited, seated in a high-backed chair. A tray with hard-boiled eggs, golden-brown apple tarts, creamy butter fresh from the churn and fluffy baked bread rolls lay waiting on the table in front of her. Three boys played on the fur rug in front of a grand window, their toy soldiers and dragons strewn across the floor. They barely spared a glance towards her as she took her seat at the table. Nyra's eyes were drawn to the eldest boy with his luscious dark curls, while his two younger brothers boasted the typical Targaryen locks of pearly white hair.

Baratheon blood is really as strong as they say.

She still reeled from the realization that she would soon be a mother to a brood of children.

“You slept well, I hope?” Rhaenyra asked her with a half-smirk. Nyra's cheeks burned as last night's memories returned.

“Aye, I have enjoyed a... restful slumber.”

She wasn’t ready to reveal what had transpired the night before, not even to herself. Rhaenyra bowed her head slightly and took a sip from her cup of tea.

“I am glad to hear that, although I apologize for the modesty of your chamber. If you wish I—”
"It is fine. Nobody knows me here. It's for the best if I stay out of sight," Nyra replied.
“I don't want you to be seen as some unfortunate wanderer. While you are here we will pretend you're a Volantene guest held up by a storm. Your alias, Naelyra Kirines, Nyra in short, is hardly known in Westeros. If questioned on your connection to me, tell them your grandmother was Saera Targaryen and her legitimized son later married a local lord's daughter.”

Good. At least she wouldn't have to hide in her chamber all the time. But then another concern crept into her mind.

“What if anyone knows that family? Or will write to them?”

Rhaenyra waved her off.
“Kirines' house had more branches that could be counted, their reach throughout the Volantis is too wide for anyone doubt you. Just make sure to put on a little of their local drawl and your anonymity will be guaranteed.”
“And look upon them all as though they were naught but dragon droppings,” added Nyra with a grin.
Rhaenyra joined in her mirth. The snobbery of the people of old Volantis was infamous, after all.

“So we are pretending to be second cousins?”
“Yes, and Daemion," Rhaenyra lifted her eyebrows meaningfully. "Kirines is your cousin once removed who escorted you to meet distant relatives from the main Targaryen branch.”

It was not even a lie. Daemon was indeed her first cousin once removed from both her paternal and maternal sides.
“Where is he?” Nyra barely hid the eagerness in her voice.
“I don’t know. I sent for him an hour ago, but he had already left. Knowing Daemon, he is most likely off in one of the Dragonmont caves or down a tavern.”
Oh. Nyra hoped to talk to him before the midday meal.

“Are you hungry?” Rhaenyra asked, changing the subject. “We can break our fast together, if you'd like. I usually share a meal with my family but—”
“No, no, I’ve already eaten, thank you.”

Rhaenyra nodded understandingly.
“Then perhaps you should take this time to acquaint yourself with the castle. Later on, I will formally introduce you to everyone during the luncheon.”

Nyra got her subtle dismissal and stood up, but then turned to Rhaenyra again.
“May I ask more about that magical ritual? I’m still trying to make sense of what happened yesterday.”
“To be honest, I am as well,” Rhaenyra admitted with a worried frown, rubbing her forehead. "Maester Gerardys is currently scouring the library for any books or records that may shed light on what occurred, but it will take time. He has also promised to seek counsel from the Valyrian priests in hopes of finding answers.”

Nyra heaved a sigh. Rhaenyra tilted her head.
“You may accompany him later to the library, should you so desire, and assist in his search. I'd suggest that it be done once you have been formally introduced to my household. One more thing,” Rhaenyra turned her gaze to the door and a hint of annoyance crossed her features. “I have already spoken with Ser Criston and warned him about your legend. As a former hedge knight from the Stormlands, he sought out a new life as a sellsword in Essos. He has impressed your father in one of the local tourneys in Volantis a few years ago.”

Smart idea, thought Nyra. Volantene traders were a familiar presence in the city, and she was even able to fairly accurately mimic their accent. Thanks to Daemion, she had even picked up a few of their slang words. Maybe that scheme could work. She only needed to speak with Daemion and their knight to work out a convincing backstory.
“How should I address him while we are here?” she asked.

Rhaenyra pondered her question for a minute. “So long as you are both nearby other courtiers, you may refer to him as ser... Crispian Colmar," Rhaenyra smirked. "By the way, bid him come in. I wish to borrow your loyal knight for today, if that is agreeable to you.. One of my guards will protect you in his place."
“Yes, Princess,” with a nod, Nyra left the room.

Her newly appointed guard was a most disagreeable man; balding, sullen and uninterested in any sort of discourse. He followed her, sitting down when possible and squinting suspiciously whenever she tried to talk. The hours dragged on, feeling more like days as Nyra encountered only a handful of living souls during her journey through the castle - a group of busy servants, some knights-in-training honing their skills, and a young lad accompanied by a silver-haired maiden.

Nyra stood on the ridge, her gaze fixed upon the young couple as they made their way to the castle gates. They smiled at each other with ease of strong fondness, and the girl brushed her fingers through the lad’s hair. A betrothed couple, or merely courting? Nyra felt a lance of fiery envy pierce her heart. What joy it would be to stride alongside Daemion like this, being courted in public, free from any consequences or repercussions.

By the time Nyra made it back to the castle, her spirits had soured. She found herself in a strange future, an intruder in her own home. Her only anchors were Daemon, Rhaenyra and the Maester. And of course Daemion. Annoyance and a strange yearning pulsed through her. Daemon’s habit of vanishing after each encounter really grated on her nerves. How could Rhaenyra find peace living with this man? Had the passing of years made him more mindful, or simply worn away his temper?

Or was it his former wife?

Nyra's heart sunk in her chest as she remembered that, before they had found one another, she and Daemon had already been married to others. And even had children with them. Nyra berated herself for not taking the time to inquire about Rhaenyra's first marriage to Laenor. How had their union been? Were they happy?

And who had Daemion taken as his wife? Some daughter of an Essosi lord?

Whoever she was, he found her worthy enough to bed and beget offspring with her.

Nyra's blood boiled with jealousy at the thought of Daemion's daughters, but she forced herself to take a deep breath and stay focused on the task at hand. Talk to Daemion. Become clear about his intentions to her. Devise a plan to wed soon and elude her father’s ire.

Her guard halted, longingly gazing upon the throng of castle staff and men-at-arms heading indoors. Was it already time for the midday meal? Nyra couldn't help but smile at the thought of her uncle waiting in the grand hall, and she quickened her pace.

The great hall in the Stone Drum was abuzz with activity, as the household knights and courtiers began to take their places at the tables. Crackle of flames could be heard from nearby hearths, casting a warm glow throughout the hall. Servants provided bowls of fragrant water and towels for guests to cleanse their hands. The kitchen boys and valets hurried about with trays piled high with loaves of bread, roasted meats and bowls of broth; pitchers of wine and frothing ale.

Nyra entered the grand hall, her gaze passing over the assemblage of knights and courtiers seated at the lower right table. Steward, castellan, maester, castle septon and Valyrian priest were in attendance there along with ladies-in-waiting.

Rhaenyra’s family finally assumed her position at the head table, with Daemon placed at her left side. To his left sat a pretty maiden, one Nyra had seen the night prior, and a second dark-haired boy — likely of her own stock.
Nyra reluctantly made her way towards the dais, guided by the usher. As she approached, she almost forgot to show proper respect to the ruling couple.
“Princess Rhaenyra, prince Daemon, I am deeply grateful to be welcomed to your gracious table.”

Her older self smiled at her and pointed to the seat right beside Daemon's daughter, Nyra's heart racing with nerves. Rhaena recognized her, of course she did.
Now, in the bright light of day Nyra saw her features more clearly: brown skin and shimmering curly silver hair, her face held similarities to Daemon’s, but the eyes were a shade of lighter lilac, similar to princess Rhaenys’.
An uneasy feeling set in the pit of Nyra's stomach.

"Where have Jace and Baela gone?" Daemon inquired of his daughter. "We are waiting on them."
Rhaena shrugged. “I saw Baela returning to the castle from a walk, arm in arm with Jace. I believe she went to change her dress before the luncheon.”

Two figures entered the grand hall, their presence commanding attention. Nyra recognized them from the beach earlier that day - a noble young man and a stunning silver-haired maiden by his side. Clad in the colors of House Targaryen — red and black — they walked to the head table, paying homage to the prince and princess as they took their seats to Rhaenyra's right.

The room fell silent as Rhaenyra rose from her seat.
“May I present you our honored guest, Lady Naelyra from House Kirines. She is a distant relative of mine, a granddaughter of my late great-aunt Saera. We are honored to have her within our halls. She had made the journey from Volantis with the intention of paying a visit to King's Landing, but was waylaid by a savage storm that threatened to disrupt her plans. It is my pleasure to extend our hospitality to her.”

Every eye in the room settled upon Nyra. It was a rare occasion when a guest from Volantis graced their halls, let alone one of noble status. Rhaenyra introduced her the members of her family.
“I present to you my oldest sons: Jacaerys and Lucerys, of House Velaryon, born from my first marriage with Ser Laenor Velaryon. And here are their cousins — Lady Baela and Rhaena — the fair daughters of my husband Daemon and his deceased wife Lady Laena.”

Nyra’s face stayed the same, only her smile faltered. She stared at Rhaenyra, the clamor of the room faded into oblivion, a sick feeling knotted itself around her belly.
Laena’s daughters?
Daemon married Laena and had children with her.

She glanced at the girls near her. Around the same age as Laena in her time, their looks suggested Daemon had taken his own vows with Laena soon after Rhaenyra wed Laenor.
"…with immense joy I announce the betrothal of my sons Jacaerys and Lucerys to their cousins Baela and Rhaena," declared Rhaenyra, her voice ringing across the hall. The announcement was met with approving claps and nods of agreement from all in attendance.

Struggling to feign polite interest, Nyra forced a half-hearted smile. Her mind was elsewhere. She recalled her uncle’s words on the bridge about his wife: “Not of my choosing.”
Daemon would get to choose his own bride this time, finally.

And it wouldn’t be me.

The whole situation became so obvious to her, she wanted to beat her own head for not understanding it sooner.
How foolish of me was to hope to change anything when it had been Velaryons all along, she berated herself. They snatched up not just one but both available Targaryens.

The great hall was alive with the loud chatter of voices and laughter, punctuated by the clatter of plates and goblets. The luncheon began with a creamy salmon and pawns soup with saffron and butter. Nyra would have savored the dish in other days, yet now it felt like ashes on her tongue. After a few spoons, she pushed her plate away. With nothing else to do, she inadvertently listened in on a conversation between Rhaenyra and her oldest son, Jacaerys.

“As things stand, I fear we will not hold your wedding this year,” Rhaenyra said grimly.
“Maybe our grandsire will be delighted to see a new family union?”
“Viserys is not even able to stand, much less partake in celebrations,” snapped Daemon, his voice dripping with bitterness.

Father? Nyra’s insides turned to ice. The sad truth of her father's condition had slipped her mind entirely. She knew of his illness, yet never considered how much worse he would fare in the span of sixteen years.
Was he dying? How had Rhaenyra found herself on Dragonstone rather than governing the Red Keep? Shouldn’t she have been a Hand of the King, ready to seize her destiny as Queen? Was it some tragedy that had driven Rhaenyra from the capital? What happened to Velaryons? A chill ran down Nyra’s spine. Each new discovery seemed to paint a bleaker picture for her future.

Nyra glanced at Rhaenyra to find her chuckling at Daemon, who was offering her the best pieces of partridge. They looked content now but was it sincere or just a political game for public? She watched as Daemon's hand rested possessively on the back of Rhaenyra's chair, his fondness evident in the way he whispered in her ear and suggested another dish for her to try. Meanwhile, Rhaenyra absent-mindedly traced her fingers over his hand, lost in thought. Had it been somebody else, Nyra would surely have seethed with jealousy, viewing their behavior as a slight against her.

Luncheon continued, roast partridge with sautéed parsnips, beans and carrots was served next alongside a huge golden-brown chicken pie filled with leeks and mushrooms. Nyra took only a meager bite of the pie, a heavy sadness settling in her heart. Her mind was awash with thoughts of Rhaenyra, Laena and Daemion, lingering questions without answers filling her head. Despite the lively chatter and laughter around her, Nyra felt separated and out of place once again. Voices chattered around her, many glancing her way without any of them daring to speak.

Her realization spoiled even the solace of seeing Daemon and Rhaenyra, for their happiness only highlighted her misery. She was left to sit and stew in her misfortune.

The servants appeared with the last course, bearing trays of steaming apple and blackberry tarts, roasted quinces glistening with juices, sweet plums soaked in fragrant rosewater, and creamy cheese paired with rich Arbor and mulled wines, ales and rose drink. Nyra took a hearty sip of red wine, allowing it to soothe her nerves as its pleasant warmth spread through her body.

A collective gasp of amazement echoed throughout the grand hall as Daemion strode in, his stride confident and commanding. The air seemed to shift in his wake, charged with an energy that demanded attention. Nyra felt her face heated as she locked eyes with him. The other courtiers exchanged puzzled stares before Rhaenyra spoke to one of the ushers, who quickly announced:
“Lord Daemion from House Kirines, second cousin of Princess Rhaenyra, and cousin of Lady Naelyra.”
Daemion bowed and stepped to take his seat beside her, but the usher's hand swiftly guided him away, nearer to Daemon. Courtiers' furrowed brows indicated clear confusion at the peculiar seating arrangement.

Nyra kept her focus on her plate, pretending to savor the taste of the pie, then stole a glance at him again. His fervent stare made her blush; she hastily averted her gaze.

Bright and hopeful dreams of the future faded, replaced with a heavy realization. The fates had decided, the last night was a brief respite from what was to come. Daemion and her would have to return to their own era, and part their ways. The time had come for her to abandon her foolish, naive hopes, she mused as she cast another sidelong glance at Daemion, who calmly ate and took in the scene of the room.

My father would say that Daemon wanted me only for my title, another thought came to her like a bolt of lightning, and with the news of his hasty marriage to Laena, his words seemed wise.

She had grown weary of the false flattery of the many lords she encountered on her travels. Each one vying for her hand and the chance to become her king consort, words spilling from their lips like honey without any true emotion behind them. Daemon was not like them, should never have been as they were.

But was he?

She remembered the tender touch of his lips on her skin from the night before, the scorching heat of his palms and the euphoria of being in his embrace, their bodies melding together.

Was it all a ruse? Am I doomed to only be seen as a commodity to be bought and sold?

She shoved these useless thoughts to the back of her mind. She was the heir — it was naive to hope her father would allow a love match when the fate of his dynasty was at stake. Rhaenyra didn’t escape it, how could she?

Nyra heaved a heavy sigh, drawing up an excuse to leave the hall. She had no more strength to hold her mask and bear these moments of family joy, knowing that she would have none in her own near future.

Rhaenyra walked swiftly across the castle bailey until she was standing in front of the garden gate. After the midday meal, Nyra ventured out here to clear her mind and soothe her troubled heart. Echo of her all-too-familiar resentment lingered heavy in her chest. Even if the two were not emotionally connected, Rhaenyra could feel her reaction through the tension in the air. This wasn't how she wanted to divulge the details of her past to her. They should have talked more in the morning, but she had a steward waiting for her and another meeting with the bailiff. Daemion's arrival came as a surprise to both of them, though she secretly waited something like that. Daemon was Daemon.

The sweet scent of rosemary and thyme filled the air, mingling with the crisp autumn breeze. It was a refreshing contrast to the musty smell of the castle.
A wide roofed stone terrace, a place for promenades, ran along the inner garden wall and sloped gently down to the pond at the back of the garden. Its stone arches twined with ivy, already turning red and yellow. She noted that ser Criston was nowhere near Nyra, but one of the castle's guards remained at the entrance.

Good. After the morning greeting she belatedly realized Criston couldn’t reside with other knights or any servants, really, as he might have learnt too much about his future. Talking to him was like pulling teeth, as it brought up uncomfortable memories. But she had to maintain appearances and greet him with a smile, pretending they were still old friends.

With a grave tone, she explained the delicacy of situation to Criston before sending him off with Luke for private training on the beach. Daemon, with his usual bluntness, had suggested locking Criston away in some dungeon deep underground, but she dismissed the idea immediately. Him being a sworn guard of Nyra and one of her sons’ master-at-arms was a better choice.

Rhaenyra scanned the garden, searching for any trace of Nyra's silver hair. Startled by the sudden sound of Jace's voice from below, she instinctively retreated into the shadows. She cautiously peered out from behind a stone column and saw Nyra sitting on one of the benches, with Jace standing a few yards away. His eyes darted between her face and the ground beneath his feet.

"Princess… I mean, Lady Nyra! I was wondering if you could spare me a moment of your time?"

What was it that he wished to discuss? Rhaenyra felt Nyra’s prick of irritation as she steeled herself for the talk and stood up. They distanced themselves a bit and their voices became muted. Rhaenyra could only pick out a few words of Jace's speech as he recounted irrelevant tales about his childhood and life in the castle. Nyra frowned, not understanding why he was talking about all these things.

“I appreciate getting to know more about my future son, but I fail to see the point of this conversation.”

Jace stepped closer and his voice dropped to a whisper. "I know that Laenor Velaryon was not my sire, Ser Harwin Strong was."

Rhaenyra sucked in a sharp breath. Foolish boy.

Some words carried too much risk to be uttered even in the middle of the empty garden. Not once in the past sixteen years had she dared to utter the name "Harwin" and "father" together in a sentence, not even when alone with Daemon in their private chambers. She missed the next incredulous words of Nyra asking something. Fortunately, Jace's voice carried over to her as he moved closer.

“The word 'bastard' was first spoken to me when I was but four or five years old. It followed me throughout my life, murmured in the shadows of King's Landing by those in the high court and even lowly servants. When I asked my mother what it meant, she looked down and spoke of children born outside of marriage. She assured me it didn't concern me personally, for I was a trueborn Velaryon.”

Jace's words were like a knife, each one cutting deeper than the last. His next sentence was even more piercing.
“But was I? Everyone knew who my father was, but none dared speak it aloud, for fear of earning the ire of the king. It grew worse when my- ser Harwin eventually perished; I wasn't even allowed to grieve him.”

Rhaenyra's eyes welled up with tears as she hung her head in shame. She couldn't escape the memory of forbidding her son to express his grief over losing his father. She slowly stepped away into the veil of shadow.

"My condolences on your grief, but still, I'm at a loss to understand..."
"You are yet to be betrothed," Jace said with fervor. "You can wed him, pick him! Before it is too late. He will bring you happiness!”

Oh, my boy. She remembered the gossips about her son's illegitimacy and her flight to Dragonstone Castle for refuge after Harwin’s death. She had tried to hide her grief, but Jace always saw through her facade. Rhaenyra knew the tragedy six years ago had affected him, but he seemed to have moved past it — at least, that's what she'd believed. The violent altercation between children, resulting in blood and hurtful words, shattered something deep inside her sons. But she never realized how deep that wound had cut. He masked his sorrow as much as he could.

Jace was mistaken; she had no say in choosing her husband — Laena had been promised to a noble foreign lord, and despite her protestations, the King had to compel her to wed Laenor. Maybe that was what Nyra was trying to explain to him now.

Boots clacking against stone snapped her out of her musings, and she saw Rhaena a few steps away. In her dark teal gown, her stepdaughter looked more mature than her almost fifteen years old.

"Oh, aunt Rhaenyra?" inquired the girl. "I hope I have not disturbed you? I am merely searching for Luke."

Rhaenyra smiled, placing a gentle hand on her swollen abdomen as her child squirmed. “Oh no, my dear," she said. "I'm just getting some fresh air - for the sake of this little one."

Her gaze flitted around the garden, searching for any sign of Luke. With a sigh, she asked: "Did you two agree to meet here?"

For the two betrothed, spending time alone together was only to be expected. However, the idea of "courting" didn't sit right with her; it felt strange to use that term when thinking about her young second son.

How quickly they grow up.

Joffrey, too, was getting more independent by the day, demanding to be moved out of the nursery and begin proper training with weapons.

In the corner of her eye, Rhaenyra noticed how Rhaena’s face fell.
“Luke seems so solemn since that... ritual. He avoids me,” muttered Rhaena, looking downcast.
Rhaenyra tucked a stray curl behind Rhaena's ear. “Luke will come around given time,” she said reassuringly. “The recent events have been hard on all of us.”

Rhaena's voice was low and hesitant, "My father seems to be in much better spirits now."

"What do you mean?"

The girl stayed silent, her gaze shifting away.

“Rhaena?"

"Baela hinted that..." Rhaena trailed off, clearly conflicted about betraying her sister. "Our father may be hoping to change the past. With Daemion and Nyra's arrival, he now has a chance. If he were to wed a younger version of you, he could become a king consort and fulfill his longing for sons."

Rhaenyra was stunned. This prospect was far beyond her wildest imaginings — all she wanted was to set Daemion and Nyra aright and undo the damage of the ritual. Could this be true? An opportunity to right all of her previous mistakes, to keep Alicent’s trust and preserve herself from a loveless marriage with her cousin…

But with that thought came a crushing realization — that if she married Daemon, her sons with Harwin would never see the world. Rhaenyra gripped the cut stone railing so hard that it hurt. Had Nyra's choices of the night before already affected her sons? Bewildered by the possibilities before her, she failed to notice a new face on the promenade.

“Rhae, at last, I’ve been searching for you everywhere!”
Rhaenyra turned her gaze, and Baela faltered. She was undoubtedly gearing up for a dragon ride: dressed in her finest black leathers, the fiery colors of pitch and crimson adorning her frame. Her luscious curls had been tamed into an orderly braid.

"I presume you are seeking Jace?" Rhaenyra inquired.

Baela let out a sigh, frustration evident on her face. "Yes, he promised to join me for a flight after luncheon... but then he disappeared."
“I’ve seen him some time ago, he strolled in the garden near the pond. Baela, wait,” Rhaenyra stopped her stepdaughter before she left. “I've picked up an unsettling rumor, about our new guests and your fears of being misplaced.”
Baela pursed her lips and squared her shoulders, “I won't deny it. We all know our father; he only does what he wants.”

Rhaenyra recognized Baela’s grandmother’s words coming out of her mouth. Baela used to look up to her father but it seems being a ward of Rhaenys changed her perception of him.
“Why do you think your father would find it desirable to erase you both?”

Baela's roll of eyes was so like Daemon's that Rhaenyra had to swallow back her grin.

"Above all else, our father desires for House Targaryen to thrive and succeed, Baela said. "But his second wish is that the crown will continue through his line, so his son might ascend to the throne."
Before she could continue, Rhaenyra interjected: "His blood and name shall live on through you, for your son with Jace will one day sit upon the throne. And it's clear he cares deeply for both of you. Your mother also held a special place in his heart."
“No more than he loves you!” retorted Baela, looking away.

Nyra would have been delighted to hear such words.

Rhaenyra took her stepdaughter's hands into hers and squeezed them in understanding.

“We can love multiple people throughout our life, Baela. I loved all my sons’ fathers and I was lucky to experience that,” she didn’t call any names, but she suspected the girls knew the truth too. “Your father can love both me and your mother. Laena and I were never in competition.”

Baela and Rhaena brought back memories of her own teenage years, feeling neglected and invisible after her father's new marriage and the birth of his son. At the time, she was unable to grasp how life could be so unfair and thought the world was working against her. Her father’s words, so long forgotten, now came back to her. She fervently hoped Baela and Rhaena would believe her.

“It matters not what is occurring between them now. This is just a simple... courtship. You are his eldest, Baela, and that will not change. You will not be supplanted. I swear this on the lives of my sons.”

Baela's gaze wavered between disbelief and anticipation, before finally settling on gratitude, as she let out a small “thank you”. Rhaena gave her a grateful smile, wrapped an arm around Baela's waist and bade Rhaenyra farewell.

Rhaenyra watched on as the girls departed. Her children's searing words revealed struggles in their life that she had been blind to, many of them stemmed from her own past mistakes. She 'd have to make it right, somehow. She could only pray her uncle would accept her decision for the good of all.

Daemion lingered in the grand hallway of the castle keep, awaiting her arrival. As soon as Rhaenyra stepped through the threshold, he was upon her, requesting an audience. She braced herself for what was to come. She motioned for her two ladies-in-waiting to take their leave before venturing into the chamber of the painted table with Daemion by her side. The guard stationed at the door was instructed not to let anyone enter while they conversed.

The room was hushed and still, save for the soft crackling of a fire in the hearth.

Alone together in this room for the first time since his arrival, she couldn't help but observe Daemion's features - his short hair, hard-won marks of a warrior's life, a look of nonchalant confidence in his gaze. His eyes devoured her figure hungrily, a smugness glinting in them as they rested on the swell of her unborn babe. His hand twitched as if he wanted to reach out and touch her, but thought better of it.

"What is it you have come here to discuss?" she asked, already aware of what subject he sought to broach.
"Otto yet remains Hand to the King," he said suddenly, a look of distaste etched upon his face. Rhaenyra quirked a brow and sighed inwardly. It would have been odd to expect anything else from Daemon.
“It's been six years since he reclaimed that position," she reluctantly admitted. "The previous Hand tragically passed away.”

Daemon's eyes narrowed, a hint of suspicion in his gaze.
“How did it happen?"

Rhaenyra could see that he wouldn't let it go easily, so she steadied her voice before answering. "A fire consumed their castle, taking both Lord Lyonel and his heir Ser Harwin with it. The culprit was never found."

A low hum escaped Daemion's lips, but he didn't push for further details.

“It should be your seat,” he said instead. “Beside your father."

“My father has always put far more stock in Otto’s expertise than in mine," she said, hesitant to delve too deeply into the topic of the past. “And besides, the king was hardly pleased by our union, and thought it a foolish decision. He was not very eager to invite us back.”

Daemon's scowl deepened, his brow furrowing at the mere mention of the Hand.
"What of Criston?" he asked, his tone laced with disdain. "I see he is no longer among your sworn protectors. What has caused such a drastic change?"
“He... He has now joined Alicent’s guard,” Rhaenyra twisted the rings adorning her fingers. “My father chose two other knights to secure my safety.”

Daemion gave her a solemn nod in acknowledgement, but his questions were far from over.
“How did you and Laenor come to be wed? I had never thought that you felt more than simple fondness towards him.”

Rhaenyra's gaze drifted to the floor as she recounted the painful memories.

“I didn't have a choice in the matter. News of our escapades at the brothel soon reached my father's attention, and by the next morning, he had commanded me to wed Laenor. His word was law, so I had no choice but to obey. You came to my nuptial banquet," Rhaenyra added, raising her gaze to meet Daemion's. “And then you abandoned me again."

“Did I what?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

“You attended my wedding feast, sat at the table and watched me dance. Then you spoke of how ill-suited Laenor was to me, and the passing of your wife... And vanished without a trace when a commotion erupted between a guest and one of the knights.”

She couldn't help but wince at Daemion's casual tone.

"So I missed the best part?"

"It depends. Laenor's best friend was killed that evening, our fathers hastily sought a septon to wed us together. Well, it wasn't much of a wedding in the end." There was a cold, mirthless smirk upon her lips as she added quietly, "The saddest feast I ever attended in my lifetime."

An omen of what was to come.

Laenor had been a decent enough spouse, but Rhaenyra grew weary of the farce: his and her paramours, gossips around the castle, risk of exposure. The thought of her younger self having to endure all this again made her shudder.
“It was true what you said, Laenor was a good man, but ill-suited for the life at court. I doubt he experienced much joy either while our marriage lasted."
"And what of you?" asked Daemon, his piercing gaze searching her face.

"Our marriage..." she began, her voice heavy with regret. "We had our fair share of good moments. He... supported me."

Even as she spoke the words, she couldn't help but feel a pang of guilt at the countless lies that had occurred during their time together. "Laenor held a deep love for our sons," she added, trying to emphasize the one redeeming aspect of their relationship. A scoff from Daemon made her uneasy. Could he have already deduced the truth of her sons' parentage?
“How do you know about all this?” she asked, suspicion in her voice. Daemion shrugged.
“Let us just say that peasants are not so oblivious to court secrets as one would think.”

Rhaenyra nibbled her lip, Daemion's words only reminded her of the precariousness of her standing and that of her sons.
"Tales of your political woes have reached my ears," Daemion added. “Your ill-fated union with Laenor must not be repeated. Let me wed you."

Rhaenyra attempted a lighthearted comment. "I must humbly apologize, my Prince, for I am already joined in marriage."
“I'm referring to your younger self, Nyra. I want to start a family, with a wife and children of my own,” he took a step closer. “If we wed here, before we go back, your father won’t be able to object. He—”

“No,” Rhaenyra cut in sharply, “My father will not just object. He will be furious when he finds out I wed without his consent. And how could you be so sure you and Nyra will be able to return back soon? And where exactly?”
How strange that in days gone by it had been her who goaded him to take her, to soar away and wed in secret. Now here he was, putting forth everything she desired, yet she could not bring herself to accept. Rhaenyra sadly shook her head.

“When my father learns of my elopement, I will be fortunate if the worst of my penance is merely disinheritance and not being sent to Silent Sisters. You could face permanent exile from Westeros if not something worse. Velaryons would be spurned and the Targaryen dynasty would lose their support. And grandson of Otto will be the heir. Are you prepared for such consequences?"

Daemion looked taken aback by her words, but he did not relent.

“I have no illusions about his reaction to our union. But his love for you is strong enough that, in the end, he could never deny you your heart's desire.”

His words held truth, yet Rhaenyra still couldn't be sure if her father would ever forgive her for such a rebellious act. It had taken him nearly two years, his declining health and the birth of their son, to finally come to terms with her second marriage. Besides, her father’s ire was not the main reason for her hesitation. She felt a pang of guilt for denying her uncle, yet she could not betray the oath she had made to his girls. For Daemion, there was no choice but to marry Laena.
Daemion examined her face, seeking to understand her response through her expression. He spoke more heatedly.

"Hear me out," he implored. "If she were to marry me, we could put an end to this dreadful tragedy. You wouldn't be cast out by Alicent and her minions."
Rhaenyra averted her gaze. “I'm sorry, but I cannot grant that wish. Nyra's future is already set; she is meant to marry Laenor upon her return, and you are destined for Laena.”

Rhaenyra braced for his response, which came quickly — his face contorted in fury as her words sunk in.
“This is your revenge, isn't it? After all this time, you're still mad I left you at the whorehouse!”

Before Rhaenyra had a chance to speak, he cut her off. “You can nurse a grudge against me for eternity," he spat, "but I fail to understand why you would jeopardize our family and our children's lives for it."

"I do this for the sake of our children! The Velaryons are my essential allies, and I cannot slight them."

“Fuck Velaryons! My victory - my reward. Corlys owes me a debt for single-handedly saving his wretched war campaign.”
Rhaenyra took a deep breath before responding. "There is more at stake here. With Nyra as your next wife, our children shall never come into being. Your daughters with Laena and my sons... I cannot bear to think of their futures being taken away.”
"I'm not to be governed by the whims of your children!"

"They are yours too!", Rhaenyra fired back, feeling her anger growing. "Your daughters are real. They matter."

“You truly intend to deny me this," his words were sharp as ice. “My brother refused my requests for years, exiling me from the court again and again. When I returned with a crown, he promised me anything, only to banish me again. And now you, with the power to finally grant me what I have desired for so long, still deny me?”
“That is not within my power to grant!”

Daemion scoffed. “No, it's that you choose not to. You are as much of a puppet as Viserys, dancing at the whim of others.”
The dark gleam in his eyes made her stomach turn. His words about the king held some truth, but her uncle was far from innocent himself. Did he truly perceive her as nothing but a mere reflection of her father?
“I-I cannot just make another wrong to right what was done to you. My father may have treated you unfairly, but I am not something to be given as a bribe in order to make up for his mistakes! It was enough that he used me to appease Corlys' bruised ego!”

“That’s what I want to save Nyra from," he took a step closer. "Why make her repeat your mistakes? I can handle Corlys' ambitions when the time comes. I'll make sure he remembers what he owes me. It is sad your father apparently forgot his debt."
“Spoken like a true child," she retorted, her eyes narrowing at his words. "Me, me, me! That's all you ever care about – your own desires and wants! Just like all those years ago..."
Her voice was starting to give out, but she forced out the last bit, regardless. “As far as I am concerned, Laenor made a better consort! He never once ran away the moment things didn't go his way.”

Daemion's eyes sparked with fury as his jaw clenched tightly. "Such a damn good consort he was that he couldn't sire one heir, let alone shut up these vipers who slandered your name at every turn?”

His words cut deep, but Rhaenyra couldn't forget that it was Daemion who played a role in her forced marriage to Laenor.

"I wouldn't have needed protection if someone hadn't left me-" She paused, realizing how futile this argument was. They were stuck in a never-ending cycle of blame. Daemion must have sensed this too as he changed his approach.

“Despite carrying my child, you still refuse my offer?”
“I don't refuse anything; I only plead for a delay.”
“What for?”
"To allow our children be born," she exclaimed, feeling the throb of a headache. "Must everything be so damned difficult with you? I may have yearned for a different union in my youth, but fate has led us down this path for a reason. Look at our children now — your daughters and my sons are now betrothed to one another and care for each other deeply.”
"Ah, so you need their pure blood to add some legitimacy to your whelps—"

Her patience snapped like a taut string, and her palm connected with his cheek in a satisfying crack.

“How dare you!”

He had never before uttered a single word of insult towards her sons. Not once. Daemon respected Harwin, though he often grumbled about the boys not being his own flesh and blood.

Daemion's eyes blazed with righteous fury, barely contained in check, as crimson strain spread across his cheek. Yet Rhaenyra felt no fear, only a strange sense of detachment. Mayhap, it would be best to allow Laena to wed him first and attempt to temper his longing and rancor, soften the sharpness of his edges. Or she could try to quell his fiery spirit with the monotony of Pentosi routine, using her more placid Velaryon nature to tame him. Though she could not help but feel a a twinge of sympathy for her cousin.

"We are done, uncle. It is time you go and start actually serve our family and not just your wants. That is the command of your princess."

Something sparked in his dark purple eyes, as if to defy her, but he acquiesced. “As you wish, Your Grace.”
Rhaenyra winced at the wrong title, unable to do anything but watch as Daemon turned around and left the chamber. The door shut, reverberating like doom, and her chamber was filled with its deafening thud.