The childhood curses dissolved into a mad, sick type of love—a devotion so absolute, an obsession so consuming, that it frightened the rest of the Red Keep.

It was a fierce, feral faithfulness that brooked no rivals. Daemon looked at the lords who simpered after you, and his hand would rest on the pommel of Blackfyre with a promise of execution; you looked at the maidens who sighed as he passed, and your violet-lilac eyes promised a slow, agonizing death.

It was a raw, primal hunger that required no courtly poetry, only the desperate need to possess and be possessed by the only person alive who could match your strength.

Tonight, after a brutal afternoon where your lances had shattered against each other in a private tier of the yard, you stood inside your chambers, still half-encased in your dragon-embroidered steel armor.

The heavy helmet sat on the table, allowing your thick, voluminous, ankle-length silver-gold mane to spill like a shimmering waterfall over your shoulders and back.

The heavy oak door swung open without a knock. It was Daemon.

He was flushed, his deep silver-gold hair damp with sweat, his tunic torn at the collar from where your practice blade had caught him hours before.

"You nearly took my shoulder off today, Rivers,"

Daemon murmured, his voice a low, resonant growl that vibrated through the quiet room.

He closed the distance between you with that fluid, lethal grace, his purple eyes locked onto your kohl-rimmed violet-lilac gaze.

"You slipped, Waters,"

you countered.

your lips curving into a sharp, mocking smile that did nothing to hide the rapid rise and fall of your chest against your breastplate.

"Perhaps the great warrior-king is growing soft."

"Test me, then," he whispered, stopping a mere breath away from you.

The air turned to ash and ozone.

With a sudden, desperate violence, Daemon’s hands slammed against the steel of your breastplate, pinning you against the stone wall of your chamber.

But you did not flinch; your hands flew up, your strong, calloused fingers gripping his jawline, digging into his skin with a fierce possessiveness that mirrored his own.

He didn't kiss you with gentle reverence; he bit into your lips, a bruising, ravenous collision of teeth and tongue that tasted of salt, iron, and a lifetime of shared fury.

A quiet gasp escaped you, immediately swallowed by his mouth as his arms wrapped tightly around your armored waist, crushing your vibrant, milky-white skin against his chest despite the cold metal between you.

His hands moved up to tangle desperately in the endless waves of your silver-gold hair, anchoring you to him as if he could pull your very soul into his own body.

You pulled back just an inch, your breathing ragged, your violet-lilac eyes wild with a sick, devoted worship. "If you think a crown will make me kneel to you, Daemon, you are a fool."

Daemon let out a low, breathless laugh, his forehead resting against yours, his hands sliding down to grip the edges of your steel armor with a fierce, trembling intensity. His smirk returned, bright and devastating in the dim light.

"I do not want you on your knees, my fierce dragon,"

Daemon breathed against your lips, his voice thick with a raw, undeniable hunger.

"I want you beside me on the throne. Let the realm whisper. Let them hate us. We will burn them all to ashes, and we will rule over the cinder together."