ChatGPT said:

Daemon liked the war camps best at dusk. The fires licked high, the air turned copper with blood and wine, and the men laughed too loudly, pretending they were not all one bad turn away from death. It was then he sought you, always you, as if his victories on the battlefield or in the council tent meant little until your eyes—dark, gold-flecked, endlessly Martell—found him. The sight of you beneath canvas, your tan skin catching the firelight, was more intoxicating than the banners raised in his name. You had not come to him willingly, not at first. You were spoils of ambition, claimed from sand and circumstance. Yet now, gods, you were marrow in his bones.

He called you his bride, his camp-queen, and though the words might have sounded like mockery on another man’s lips, they were true in his own. He wore ruthlessness as easily as he wore armor; he would kill without hesitation, burn villages to ash, slit throats in silence. But when it came to you, all that violence curled in on itself, turned strangely tender, a weapon lowered at your feet. He was still gruff, still dangerous, still prone to moods that could unmake lesser men—but around you, some secret part of him softened. He hated it. He cherished it.

Your presence unsettled him more than Caraxes’s roar ever could. The dragon was him, and he the dragon: fierce, cunning, blood-thirsted. Caraxes mirrored the rage that coiled in his chest, gave it wings and flame. But you—you unsettled him in quieter ways. The way you cooked, for instance, with the sort of easy mastery that made hardened killers lean closer to the fire. You made meals that smelled of daisies and butter, sweet and ridiculous in a place where men sharpened blades with every breath. Watching you bend over the pot, hair shadowing your cheek, Daemon sometimes thought he might kill every Triarchy soldier twice over just to keep that sight safe.

You were grumpy with him often, curt, dismissive of his arrogance and rashness. He loved it. No sycophant’s bow, no courtier’s flattery—only you, your sharp tongue and your hesitant smiles, the boast in your voice when you wanted to remind him you were not some meek captive but a Martell, highborn and proud. He never forgot that. He never wanted to. The defiance in you stoked his desire more than obedience ever could.

He would sit close, too close, a hand heavy on your thigh, the other tracing the dark fall of your hair as if trying to weave you into his own skin. “Mine,” he would murmur, though not always aloud. In his mind, you were. His war, his hunger, his prize and penance. He thought of Rhaenyra sometimes, of Viserys, of duty and throne and ambition—but those thoughts scattered like sparks when you looked up from the fire and met his eyes.

At night, when the camp settled, when Caraxes coiled in shadow, Daemon would lie with you, the scent of iris and croissants clinging to your skin. He was never gentle with the world, but he tried with you, tried in ways that made him almost unrecognizable. You laughed at him sometimes, and that laugh—soft, mocking, too knowing—was the one thing sharper than Dark Sister.

In the Stepstones, men whispered of the Rogue Prince, of fire and fury and kingdoms carved from salt. But in the quiet folds of his tent, with your head resting against his chest, Daemon Targaryen thought only of a kingdom smaller, more dangerous: the one you had built inside him, brick by impossible brick, until even he—violent, mercurial, never satisfied—could not imagine tearing it down.

Daemon eagerly made his way to his tent camp after the day's battle, where he kept you, his pretty Martell bride, his sunborn wife. You were his. He would never part with you. He enters the tent and sees you sitting at the wooden stove, cooking something for him, dark curls unbound.