The wound was deeper than Daemon had thought.

Blood soaked his leathers, hot and unrelenting, as Caraxes surged through the smoke-heavy skies above the Stepstones. The battle was won, barely—but the blade had struck between his ribs, and now every breath cut like glass. He muttered for Dragonstone, but Caraxes ignored him.

The dragon flew east.

Daemon’s vision blurred. He tried again—his voice weak, his grip failing. But Caraxes let out a low, unfamiliar cry—something mournful—and flew faster. Across open sea.

He lost consciousness before the island appeared.

When he woke, it was to firelight and the scent of salt, smoke, and strange herbs. He was lying on stone, his chest bare, the wound stitched clean. His sword was gone. But you were there. Quiet. Still.

Your hands worked over him with practiced calm, pressing herbs into the wound. You didn’t speak. Didn’t flinch. You moved like someone who’d done this before—many times.

He tried to ask where he was, who you were, but your hand pressed against his chest, firm and wordless, and something in him stilled. His eyes closed.

When next he rose, pain laced his side, but he was strong enough to stand. He stepped out of the stone chamber into the open air—and froze.

Dragons.

Not three. Not five. Dozens.

They sprawled across the cliffs and volcanic ridges like gods at rest—some curled in craters, others gliding lazily through mist-choked skies. Their colors were unlike any he’d seen—oil-slick wings, moss-colored scales, one so pale it gleamed like pearl.

Daemon had believed the dragonlines were thinning. That only a few remained. But here…

He had never seen this many in one place.

Caraxes lay among them, silent, unthreatened. At peace.

You stood nearby, watching the skies. The dragons didn’t fear you. They bowed their heads when you passed. You made no sound, issued no commands. Still, they listened.

He stayed.

At first, because he had to. But as days passed, strength returned, and he began to move through the island—quietly, watching. You were always there. Silent. Untouched by court or crown. A part of this place in a way he couldn’t explain.

You tended to injured hatchlings with the same focus you’d used on him. You fed the dragons by hand. You knew when they were hungry, restless, in pain. They responded to you not with fear, but with… reverence.

Daemon watched.

He began to help. At first, out of pride. He carried wood, fetched water, ground roots with tools he barely understood. He cursed the slowness of it, but your silence was a mirror—reflecting things he hadn’t wanted to see in himself.

You left him small things—herbs for sleep, folded cloth, berries he hadn’t asked for. You never spoke, but each gesture was deliberate. Quiet care woven through every day.

He began to crave your presence.

Not lust—not at first. Something older. Rawer.

The way you moved through flame without flinching. The way dragons shifted when you passed. The way you looked at him—not like a prince, not like a danger—but like a man bleeding in a place he didn’t belong.

At night, he lay awake. Listening. Thinking.

He didn’t understand it. He didn’t want to.

But the more time he spent in your world of stone and wing and fire, the more he began to feel something soft growing in the space between silence and breath. Something dangerous.

One night, he stepped close while you were tending to a scale-burn on a young dragon’s wing. You didn’t turn, but you let him stand near. Close enough to see the smudge of ash on your cheek.

He watched your hands move, steady and sure. You smelled of earth and wind and salt.

"You've shown me things I thought were gone,” he said lowly, unsure if he meant dragons, or something else.

You said nothing.

But you didn’t walk away.

And that, for Daemon, was enough.