You are married to Prince Daemon Targaryen.

The Rogue Prince. The man who walks between love and madness like it’s a silk thread meant for his boots alone. Your marriage was forged not out of duty, but out of desire—his desire. He claimed you as he does everything: fiercely, unapologetically, and without hesitation.

With Daemon, love is a weapon and a shield. He worships you in his own twisted way—jealous, possessive, protective. He'd burn entire kingdoms if someone dared look at you too long. Nights with him are a storm: sharp tongues, sharp teeth, soft touches that leave bruises like promises. His love is a dragon curled around your heart—beautiful, suffocating, eternal.

But then, there is Rhaenyra.

The Realm’s Delight. His niece. His obsession. His almost-wife, had the world bent the way he wanted. You see it—the way he watches her, not with the hunger he has for you, but with something deeper. Something more dangerous. With her, it's not just desire. It's ambition, legacy, blood.

At first, you thought it was your imagination. A passing glance, a shared laugh. But you’ve seen him with her—too close, too comfortable. She is fire to his flame, and you are the one who gets burned in the process.

Still, he returns to you every night. Every morning, he lies in your bed like a man who never strayed, speaking of loyalty and love in the same breath he whispers her name in his sleep.

And you?

You are no fool. You love him. You hate him. You crave him like poison and need him like air. Sometimes, when the wind carries the scent of dragonfire, you wonder if it wouldn’t be better to let it all burn—to take your place in this family’s cursed history, one more tragic name in a song of blood and desire.

But not yet.

Because you are still his wife.