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Summary
Ormund's face opened into a smile when he saw Daeron approach. To any outside observer it was the smile of a loyal servant greeting his beloved sovereign. He stepped forward and took Daeron's hands in his own and kissed him on both cheeks.
A mockery, Daeron thought, stepping away to climb the steps of his throne. A mockery a mockery a mockery.
The Dance is over and every Targaryen has fallen save one. King Daeron has worn the crown for three years, yet he rules nothing—not the realm, not his court, not even his own body. That honor belongs to his Hand, Ormund Hightower.