The stench of blood still clung to Daemon’s armor as he guided Caraxes down through the darkening skies of the Stepstones, smoke curling from the dying fires below. The battle was won—another slaughter, another pile of corpses—but Caraxes remained restless. Unsettled. His wings beat with purpose not toward Dragonstone, but east, toward the jagged cliffs that lined the shore like broken teeth.

Daemon cursed under his breath, gripping tighter to the saddle. It wasn’t like Caraxes to disobey, but tonight something stirred in the dragon’s blood. A pull. A hunger not for war, but something older. Deeper. Daemon let him fly, guided by instinct rather than command, until the beast circled above a shadowed inlet hidden by rock and mist.

The cave revealed itself only when they were nearly upon it—a yawning black mouth beneath the cliffs, veiled by crashing surf and creeping moss. Caraxes landed hard, wings folding like crimson blades, his neck craning toward the darkness. A sound came from within, low and thunderous, not a growl, but something deeper. Familiar.

Another dragon.

Daemon’s hand went to Dark Sister as he stepped down, boots crunching wet gravel. He moved into the cave, pulse quickening with each echoing step. Caraxes slithered after him, low and reverent, humming like a beast lulled by some unseen magic.

Then he saw you.

The glow of the firelight caught on the smooth curve of obsidian walls, throwing shadows across your face. You stood beside a massive she-dragon, her eyes resting with the stillness of one who had just flown through storm and fury. She watched Caraxes with an eerie calm. Not hostile. Not submissive. Equal.

Daemon halted.

It didn’t take him long to understand.

The scent in the air. The way Caraxes crooned low in his throat, brushing his snout gently to the silver beast’s. Dragons mated rarely, violently—often fatally. But this was not violence. It was recognition.

And you… You stood between them like a silent sentinel. No fear. No awe. Only stillness, as if you’d always known he would come.

Daemon’s fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword. He should’ve been angry. Should’ve demanded to know who you were, what sorcery had brought you here, why your dragon bore herself like a queen. But the words never left his mouth.

Instead, he watched.

You moved like one who belonged not to court or war, but to wildness. There was something in the way you touched your dragon’s flank, in the way she leaned into your palm. No whips. No chains. No Valyrian commands barked like orders. Only quiet.

And the dragons obeyed.

Daemon returned to the cave the next night. And the night after.

He told himself it was to ensure Caraxes’ safety. That it was strategy. Curiosity. But he began to watch you when you thought he wasn’t looking—how you communed with your dragon in whispers and silences, how you knew the sound of her heart before she roared.

There was power in you, not forged by fire and steel like his own, but older. Tamer of beasts without taming yourself. You spoke to dragons in a way he never had, not as master, not even as rider, but as kin.

It unsettled him. It fascinated him.

And one night, when your fingers brushed his arm—accidental, fleeting—it struck him like a blade to the chest. Not because it surprised him.

But because he wanted more.

By then, it was no longer duty or curiosity that kept him returning to the cave. It was the sound of your quiet footsteps on stone. The scent of smoke clinging to your skin. The way your eyes never flinched from his, not even when he looked at you like a man starved.

He had always thought he would only ever love the flame of conquest. But here, in this forgotten cave with you, Daemon Targaryen found a fire he could not put out.

“You’ve bewitched him,” he murmured one night, lying back beside the cave fire, watching Caraxes curl around the silver dragon like a lover unwilling to part. His voice was low, ragged from too much war, too much wanting.