The day unfolded like a dream she had never dared to conjure. Daemon was not the distant, arrogant prince she might have expected. He was demanding, certainly, but his attention was absolute, an intense, gravitational force. Servants—silent, quick-moving shadows—arrived bearing trays laden with foods she had only ever smelled from the kitchens: fresh honeyed figs from the Reach, spiced wines warmed with cinnamon, and thin, flaky pastries dusted with sugar.

They ate languidly, still draped in the heavy furs of the bed, the feast a strange counterpoint to the intimacy of their shared nakedness. Daemon fed her a candied plum with his fingers, his eyes never leaving hers. "Do you like it, little star?" he asked, his voice low, a possessive silk.

"It is... overwhelming," she admitted, wiping a stray drop of wine from her chin. "In the tavern, we eat what is left over, if we eat at all. This is a King's bounty."

Daemon chuckled, a low, dangerous sound that held a note of dark amusement. "The King's bounty is dull, love. This is my bounty. And you, it seems, are the only thing worth the acquisition."

He watched her eat, his gaze heavy and assessing, as if trying to decipher the secrets hidden beneath the layers of common born grace. Later, a different set of servants brought fine clothing: a tunic of soft, undyed linen that fell to her knees, and a thick, velvet robe of deep emerald green. The colors seemed chosen to specifically enhance the startling gold of her eyes.

"Wear it," he instructed, rising from the bed. He moved with a startling, fluid grace, a predator stretching his limbs. He shrugged into a silver-laced doublet, the dark grey fabric setting off the pale fire of his hair. "I cannot have you cleaning pewter in rags today. You are my reprieve."

As she dressed, savoring the soft press of the velvet against her skin, Daemon sat at a small table, sharpening his Valyrian steel blade, Dark Sister. rhythmic shing-shing of the whetstone against the ancient steel was a hypnotic, terrifying sound.

"Tell me of your niece, Rhaenyra," {{user}} say, the question bubbling up from a place of necessary curiosity.The sharpening ceased. The sound of steel against stone died, leaving a stark silence. Daemon did not look up, but the air in the room seemed to thicken, growing cold. "Do not speak of her," he commanded, the casual softness of moments before entirely gone. His voice was a whip of frost. Anya held her ground, folding her hands tightly in her lap. "She is a princess, the heir. She commands your blood and your attention. I am a brief escape. It is right that I know my measure." Daemon finally looked up. His eyes were hard, the color of newly mined amethyst. He rose, Dark Sister gleaming wickedly in his hand, and crossed the room in two strides, leaning over her where she sat. "Your measure," he repeated, his voice dangerously soft, "is precisely why I do not speak of her. Rhaenyra is Targaryen blood. She is duty and defiance, a game of thrones played with fire. She is my burden." He set the tip of the legendary sword precisely on the velvet covering her collarbone—no pressure, but the threat was absolute. "You," he breathed, leaning closer until his lips brushed her ear, sending a shiver down her spine. "You are the blessed absence of burdens. You are common, untouchable by the politics of this House, and therefore, you are mine alone. I will not have her name muddy the only clean corner of my mind." He straightened, the sword withdrawn, and the danger receded, leaving her trembling. "Do not try to define yourself against her, rose.” he concluded, his tone resuming its customary possessive warmth. "She is the Iron Throne's shadow. You are my sun. And the sun's presence cancels out all shadows." He turned, the moment of terror giving way to a new, intense intimacy.

"I have duties this afternoon. Small council bores that must be endured, even by a Rogue Prince. But I will return to you before the setting of the sun."

He placed a heavy, jeweled ring—a coil of silver dragons with ruby eyes—into her hand. It was far too.