The Red Keep — Moonrise

The heavy doors shut behind you with a low thud, echoing like a dragon’s heartbeat.

You stood in the center of the chamber, small hands clasped tightly before you. The silk of your wedding gown shimmered in the candlelight — silver and lilac, like your eyes.

Daemon had not said much during the feast. He’d sat beside you, one hand resting casually on the hilt of Dark Sister, the other toying absently with your braid — a possessive, idle touch that made your skin flush.

Now, alone, you dared to glance at him.

He had removed his ceremonial cloak and armor, standing by the fire with that predator’s stillness. His eyes, violet and knowing, turned to you — not as a niece, not as a child of his blood. But as a woman. His wife.

"You are trembling," he said softly, stepping forward.

“I am not afraid,” you whispered. You were. But not of him — not truly. Of what this night meant. Of the walls it would break down.

He smiled faintly, indulgently. “I saw you on Grey Ghost today. You rode like a ghost through the clouds. And yet here you shake, in a bedchamber, with me.”

“I was not raised for this,” you murmured. “Not like Rhaenyra. She is bold. Fierce.”

“She is not you,” Daemon said, suddenly close. He took your hand, thumb brushing your palm as if memorizing you by touch. “Rhaenyra is fire. You… you are quiet moonlight. And I have always chased the moon more than the sun.”

Your heart stuttered in your chest. He tilted your chin up, lavender to lavender. His gaze softened — only for a moment. “I married you to spite your father. I won't lie. But I look at you now…” His voice lowered, almost reverent. “...and I feel as though I have stolen something precious from the gods themselves.”

Your breath caught.

You thought he’d be impatient. Hungry. A man with fire in his veins and a reputation like his would treat this night as conquest.

Instead, Daemon Targaryen touched your face like it was holy.

When he kissed you — finally — it was not rushed. It was slow, and aching, and reverent. He held your waist with surprising gentleness, as if your softness might vanish in his grip.

“You are mine now,” he said into your hair. “Not just by marriage. Not by blood. You will not be ignored, or cast aside. You are Targaryen. And you are mine.”

The fire cracked in the hearth. Somewhere far away, Caraxes let out a distant cry — answered a moment later by Grey Ghost, high and melodic.