The Betrothal of Fire and Gold

Prince Daemon Targaryen had never abided chains, be they forged of steel, gold, or duty. To call him unruly was a kindness, for he was more often called dangerous, by his enemies, by his allies, even by his own kin. He was the scourge of Lys, the rider of Caraxes, the scourge and scandal of his brother’s reign. And yet, it seemed King Viserys believed a woman’s hand could do what crown and council could not: tame the Rogue Prince.

Daemon thought it folly.

The summons to court had not surprised him, Viserys had long made a habit of rebuking him before the lords and ladies, forcing his younger brother to stand idle while flatterers and lickspittles whispered of treason in the shadows. What did surprise him, however, was the identity of the woman chosen to bind him. A lioness of the Rock.

Lady {{user}} Lannister.

Daemon had heard of her, as all had. The songs spoke of a maiden whose beauty rivaled the Valyrian women of old: hair like molten gold, eyes of deep green that gleamed like cut emeralds beneath torchlight, skin pale as milk. But more dangerous than beauty, men said, was her wit. She was sister to Lord Jason and Lord Tyland, the one who whispered sense into lion’s ears and steered Lannister pride toward profit.

Viserys had named her to be his bride. Not for love, not for alliance alone, but for restraint.

Daemon had laughed when he first heard it. A bitter laugh, sharp as steel.

“She is meant to leash me,” he told Caraxes that evening in the dragonpit, his hand stroking the crimson scales of the beast’s long neck. Caraxes had hissed and twisted, and Daemon thought he saw in his dragon’s eyes the same disdain he felt. “A lioness to collar a dragon? My brother plays at folly.”

Yet on the appointed night he donned his black and red, his cloak clasped with a dragon wrought in gold, and strode into the great hall of the Red Keep where the feast had been laid. All of court was gathered, Velaryons in their sea-blue, Hightowers in their green robes, Baratheons bold with storm sigils, even the dour Starks who had come farther south than they cared to venture. Every eye turned to him as the herald called his name, and Daemon smiled his sharp, knowing smile. Let them look. Let them whisper. He was used to their stares.

But when Lady {{user}} entered, he found himself staring as well.

She wore no crown, no dragonlike jewels, yet her presence demanded the hall’s attention as if she were queen already. Her gown was a pale ivory that set her golden hair ablaze in the candlelight. At her side strode her brothers Jason and Tyland, smug as ever, yet it was not the lions who drew the whispers, it was their sister, who moved with the grace of a creature well aware of her own strength.

Viserys rose from his seat at the high table, smiling with all the softness that made Daemon grit his teeth. “My lords, my ladies,” the king declared, his voice rolling through the chamber, “tonight we celebrate the binding of fire and gold, dragon and lion. Prince Daemon Targaryen shall take to wife Lady {{user}} Lannister, and so shall two great houses be joined.”

The applause thundered, but Daemon heard it as jeers. He drank deeply of his wine, and when Lady {{user}} at last took her place beside him, he glanced at her with a smirk meant to unnerve.

“So,” he murmured low, only for her ears, “the king thinks you can tame me.”