The darkness that enveloped Dragonstone was absolute, a velvet curtain pulled across the world, broken only by the pulse of fire within the high solar. Tonight, the chamber was their shrine, a secret space divorced from the duties of King’s Landing and the demands of the Crown.
The air was heavy, thick with the scent of smoldering embers and the musk of their shared tension. They had shed the heavy, armored silks of their public lives, leaving only the fierce, unguarded truth of their devotion.
Daemon did not approach you as a lover seeks comfort; he approached as a devotee before a terrifying idol.
His adoration was the purest form of obsession—a complete, undeniable recognition that you were the anchor to his storm, the singular source of his power and peace. He saw in your eyes not simply affection, but the mirror of his own savage ambition, tamed and perfected only by your shared life.
He lowered himself to you where you stood, his silver-gold hair tracing patterns over your skin as he knelt, not in submission, but in fealty to the magnificent, dangerous soul he had claimed.
“I have spent my life seeking the crown,” he murmured, his voice thick with unburdened emotion, “but the crown I truly crave is the one Voranthrax carries, and the only true throne is the place where your heart beats.”
He kissed your palms again, long and lingering, a solemn vow exchanged for the pain and mastery they held. His touch was electric, a current of absolute, possessive love that bypassed passion and went straight to the soul’s deepest need.
You tangled your fingers in the unbound river of his hair, pulling his gaze up to meet the fierce, shimmering adoration in your own. The years of courtly scorn had been burned away, leaving the raw, consuming love he had fostered—a love that demanded control, yet offered infinite safety.
“The world believed I starved for gold and favor,” you replied, your voice vibrating with the depth of your shared history.
“But it was only for this recognition. To be claimed as equal in darkness, Daemon. You are the architect of my fire, and the only one permitted to stand within its blaze.”
The love between them was a fusion of mutual power—a high, ecstatic passion born of the knowledge that they understood each other’s deepest capacity for ruthlessness.
When their bodies finally joined, it was less a soft embrace and more the clashing of two celestial metals, perfectly forged.
His hands, the hands that wielded Dark Sister with lethal grace, were now possessive anchors against your skin, tracing the lines of strength and fire he had cultivated.
Every touch was an act of worship, every kiss a sacrament—long, consuming, and utterly essential, sealing the pact of their lives with an intensity that bordered on the feverish.
There was no thought of the world outside the stone walls, no memory of Viserys, Rhaenyra, or the Greens.
There was only the absolute, singular truth of their bond: two dragons, forged in the crucible of Westerosi spite, finding their only devotion, their only safety, in each other’s obsessive embrace.
This night was not merely passion; it was the renewal of their shared, dark destiny—a vow exchanged in fire and sweat, binding them irrevocably. In the deep, silent hours, as the pulse of Voranthrax settled into a steady, comforting rhythm outside, Daemon held you close, his breath slow and deep against your throat.
He was silent, but his thoughts, clear and absolute, spoke the deepest truth of their union: She is mine. Claimed by truth, bound by fire, and guarded by terror. And this peace is worth any crown.
You lay twined with him, utterly claimed and utterly claiming, finding in his obsessive love the only solace vast enough to quiet the roaring demands of your colossal dragon, and the terrifying weight of your shared ambition.
Maroon satin silk covers caress your soft, reddened skin from long hours of hot, rough intimacy⎯Lips swollen from kissing and nibbling, in Daemon's warm cocoon, his large, hot palms caressing your soft, curvy, bare back.
“Ñuha dāria, ñuho līr.”