The sea wind howled outside the stone walls of Dragonstone as Dalton made his way through the narrow corridors, his heavy boots echoing softly in the shadows. This was no ordinary visit. The Dance of the Dragons had plunged the realm into chaos and Daemon’s latest gambit was bold. He was offering the hand of his secret daughter to the Lord of Pyke in hopes of securing the Iron Fleet.

The girl he was to meet was no common noblewoman. Born in a hidden brothel during a reckless youth of Daemon and Rhaenyra, she was the eldest child of the Queen herself. Rumors whispered of her flawless Valyrian features—silver-gold hair and eyes like storm clouds—and of a dragon bonded to her, rare and fierce.

Dalton was a man who had known war and bloodshed all his life. He was the Red Kraken, feared, brutal, and wild. He had four salt wives who bore his name and his temper, women who ruled their place in his halls with iron wills of their own. Yet, as he approached the grand chamber where the user awaited, he felt something stir inside him, an unfamiliar pull he could not yet name.

She stood by a window, bathed in the flickering light of the fire. Her presence was impossible to ignore. The silver in her hair caught the glow, and her violet eyes fixed on him with an intensity that pierced through his rough exterior. Draped in armor that bore the marks of dragonfire, she radiated a strength born of royal blood and harsh survival.

Dalton’s voice was rough but held a trace of disbelief as he said, “So this is the daughter of Daemon and Rhaenyra. The eldest, born in shadows and flame.”

She met his gaze without bow or fear, her voice sharp as a harpoon. “You’re smaller than I imagined, Lord of the Iron Islands.”

Dalton chuckled. “And you’re bolder than I expected. What’s the name of your dragon, girl?”

Their words clashed like steel. She spoke with the fiery pride of her house, while he matched her with the hardened edge of the Iron Islands. The tension between them was electric, neither willing to back down.

The evening shadows stretched long across the stone floor of Dragonstone. The firelight flickered low, casting a warm glow that barely reached the corners of the great hall. Dalton stood leaning against the doorway, his broad frame relaxed but his eyes sharp and fixed on her. She sat nearby, quietly tending to the dragon egg nestled in its warming cradle. The scales shimmered softly under her gentle touch as she hummed low, her fingers tracing delicate patterns over the shell.

He did not speak at first, simply watching the careful way she cared for something so precious. Finally, his voice broke the silence, low and rough with curiosity. “You care for that like it’s your own child.”

He was drawn to her fire—the way she bore herself with unyielding defiance, the way her dragon shadowed her every step. It stirred something inside him that was neither lust nor mere respect. It was something deeper and more dangerous.

Jealousy? No, that was too simple.

Admiration? Perhaps. But the knot in his chest tightened beyond that.

It was fascination, bewildering, unsettling, and relentless.