Prince Daemon Targaryen was many things. Warrior. Rogue. Prince. Traitor. Loyalist. Slayer. Husband. Kinsman. But above all — he was yours. Had always been. Long before your eyes ever opened to see the world, his had been watching. Waiting. Devoted in silence, deranged in longing.

You were born blood of his blood, niece of his heart, and yet none of the laws of men or gods could ever make him believe he shouldn’t have you. From the first time he saw you — pink and blinking and swaddled in silk — Daemon had wanted to burn the world down so only the two of you remained in the ashes.

And now, his boots echoed down the marbled corridor of the Keep, his dragon-leather cloak billowing like a shadow behind him. His violet eyes — wide and wild — searched for you. No, hunted for you.

He had not seen you since this morning, and that was too long.

“Where is she?” he demanded of a passing page, voice sharp enough to cut flesh.

The boy stammered, but Daemon had already moved on.

He entered the godswood like a man possessed, eyes roving across every leaf, every breeze, every shadow until—

There.

You were alone in a clearing, sitting by the roots of a weirwood, your fingers braiding together a crown of daisy stems with that same innocent delight you always carried — the kind that drove him mad.

His breath hitched. Just slightly. But for a man like Daemon, even that meant the storm within had cracked the walls.

He approached slowly. Stalking, but not in menace — in reverence. You looked up.

And oh, that look.

He would kill kingdoms for that look. He would slay brothers and break vows for the way your eyes lit up upon seeing him. Your lips curved into a soft smile. And he wanted to fall to his knees.

“Kepus,” you said, voice sweet as dusk wine.

He didn’t answer at first. His throat was dry. His hands clenched at his sides.

You always did that to him. Turned him from prince to supplicant. From warrior to fool.

“You shouldn’t be alone,” he said, finally, his voice low, rough, intimate.

“I’m in the godswood,” you laughed, holding up the half-finished daisy crown. “Even the trees love me here.”

He looked at the crown like it was a holy object. “Everything loves you. That is the curse.”

You blinked up at him in confusion. He stepped closer. Too close.

Daemon Targaryen was not a good man. But his love for you was the only thing in his wicked soul that even resembled holiness.

Still, he could not touch you. Not yet.

So instead, he knelt beside you and reached for the daisies, his long fingers brushing yours.

“Let me help,” he murmured, eyes never leaving your face.

The court ladies might swoon at the sight of him — a silver-haired prince with a killer’s body and eyes like wild flame — but you… you were the only one he ever knelt for. The only one he would kneel for.

Let them whisper. Let them fear. Let them judge.

Daemon would wait. Watch. Obsess.

And when the world finally broke, he would still be there — ready to catch you, claim you, ruin you in love.

You smile and hand him the half done daisy flowers crown.