The Rogue Prince had never much cared for chains, whether of iron, silk, or gold. Daemon Targaryen wore his freedom like a second skin, and though he delighted in offending, he delighted still more in reminding his elder brother that no leash could hold him. Yet leashes came in many forms, and when Viserys summoned him to the Red Keep’s solar one autumn evening, Daemon saw in his brother’s eyes the weight of yet another collar.

“Enough,” the king had said, his voice weary but resolute. “You will have a wife. Not a bedwarmer plucked from the Street of Silk, nor some widow hungering for coin, but a wife worthy of a prince of House Targaryen. And she will temper you.”

Daemon’s laughter had been sharp as Valyrian steel. Temper me? No smith alive can hammer this blade into a ploughshare. But he had held his tongue when Viserys spoke the name. A lioness, golden-haired and emerald-eyed, younger sister to Lord Jason of Casterly Rock and Tyland the cunning councillor. Lady {{user}} Lannister.

The name had been bait on a hook, and Daemon had taken it despite himself. He had heard whispers enough in the halls of the Keep, of her beauty that made even Targaryen maidens mutter spite, of her wit as sharp as any dagger, of her poise at court that made her brothers seem clumsy oafs by comparison. If Viserys had sought to yoke him, at least he had chosen a fine harness.

Now, beneath the high vaults of the Great Hall, with banners of red and black beside gold and crimson, Daemon stood at the king’s right hand as lords and ladies poured in from every corner of the realm. Harps sang, goblets overflowed, and the hall stank of roasted meats, perfume, and pride. At the far end of the table, Lady {{user}} was seated, pale as moonlight save for the glimmer of her hair, which caught the torchlight like molten gold.

Daemon found his gaze wandering to her more than once. She bore the stares of a hundred courtiers with the calm of a queen, her back straight, her smile faint but cutting. When Lady Rhaenys Targaryen allowed her violet eyes to linger too long upon the lioness, {{user}} met her look with such cool defiance that Daemon almost laughed aloud. Seven save me. She has claws, this one.

Viserys spoke long about unity, about binding dragon and lion together in friendship, about peace that would serve the realm. Daemon listened, but his thoughts were elsewhere. He measured the set of {{user}}’s jaw, the clever flicker of her eyes when she caught her brother Jason blustering at some jest, the way her fingers toyed idly with the stem of her goblet while she remained outwardly composed. She was not cowed. She was not meek.

Later, when the music swelled and the dancers spun beneath the chandeliers, Daemon sought her out. He did not bow nor soften his voice. That was never his way.

“So it seems my brother would gift me a lioness,” he said, his tone half-mockery, half-challenge.