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She holds her breath at his approach, the great expanse of the throne room silent but for his footsteps and the rush of blood in her ears, her heart pounding to one rhythm: what will I do, what will I do, what will I do.
Her father had always known what to do, always known how to handle Daemon and his defiance, but she is not her father; the throne swallows her, a tiny figure perched on its edge, ramrod straight, willing herself imperious and impervious, glad that its height lets her look down on him for once, at least.
For an endless moment, he stares up at her, and she remembers the bridge at Dragonstone, remembers the drawn out moment when she gambled on his love - and then he drops to one knee, tugs the tattered crown from his shorn head, and says the sweetest words she’s ever heard from his mouth: “My Queen.”
“You give me a crown, Uncle,” she says, wondering if the truth in her words cuts him as deeply as it does her, her own sitting heavy on her head as she takes his from his hands, a poor imitation of shell and bone and bits of driftwood. “What would you have of me in return?”
He does not smile; she remembers that later, remembers his face serious as death as he says it without a trace of his typical mockery, as if they were the only people in the room, the only people in the world: “You, Rhaenyra.”