He knew it was foolish—unstrategic, as Rhaenyra would say.

Hostages were meant to be untouched. Unharmed. Leveraged like gold.

But Daemon Targaryen had never been one to play by the rules. Not when he was a prince. Not when he was a kinslayer. And not now, when his grief crackled under his skin like live flame.

His wife had miscarried.

And he blamed the Greens.

He blamed you.

—

The door creaked open.

And there you were.

Curled on the edge of the bed like a frightened doe, trying to disappear into the headboard as though it could save you.

The candlelight glimmered against the silk of your gown. The shadows danced across your tear-streaked cheeks. You looked at him like he was a monster.

Daemon smiled.

A slow, dangerous curve of lips that never quite touched his eyes.

“Don’t look so scared, niece,” he murmured, stepping into the chamber with the easy, confident gait of a man who feared nothing—and owned everything. “You haven’t even heard what I want from you.”

He watched you try to shrink further.

Good.

Let your fear bloom. Let it tremble in your breath. He liked it. Liked seeing what power did when worn like a second skin.

His voice dipped low, silken and cruel.

“Your drunken king is the reason my wife’s womb lies empty.”

His eyes roamed you like a wolf appraising a lamb, slow and consuming.

“So tell me, how do you plan to make it up to me?”

You barely had time to answer.

His hand was already on your leg.

Skimming slowly up your thigh, possessive and burning, like he was claiming territory.

You gasped, body stiffening under his touch, and he chuckled—low and amused.

“So soft,” he whispered, brushing his fingers along the edge of your gown. “So untouched. The Greens kept you behind glass, didn’t they? Like a pretty little thing in a tower.”

He leaned closer, voice against your ear.

“But you’re mine now.”

And there was nothing diplomatic about it.

Not anymore.