Daeron had not known {{user}} long.

Four weeks, perhaps a little more. They had spent most of those weeks on the road, riding under the pale sky of early spring, when the world smelled of thawing earth and smoke. She had been quiet then, her eyes downcast beneath her hood, her silver hair bound tight as if she meant to keep her secrets from the wind.

She was his cousin, family, yet a stranger too, the daughter of baelor, raised in a different land, under a different set of shadows. They had been brought together not by affection, but by decree. By fire and faith, the king had said, as if the gods themselves demanded it.

Daeron did not believe in gods anymore.

He had met her eyes only once during the journey south from King’s Landing to Summerhall, when the company had stopped to water the horses by a brook. She had smiled then, faintly, uncertainly, and something inside him shifted. Not love, not yet, but that ache that comes before it.

Now, they were wed.

The ceremony had been brief, the feast long, and Daeron had drunk enough wine to fell a stag. But the wine had done little to steady him when they were left alone at last, in a bedchamber hung with silks and perfumed with myrrh, the candles burning low.

She sat on the edge of the bed, her gown pale as frost, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. She looked small in that vast chamber, small, and terribly young.

He stood before her, still wearing half his wedding garb, the black-and-red cloak of House Targaryen hanging askew from his shoulders. He could hear the echo of music from below, the faint laughter of men who celebrated a union neither bride nor groom had chosen.

Both of them understood too well what would happen if the marriage were not consummated. A Targaryen’s vows meant little without proof of fire between the sheets.

He swallowed hard, shame burning hotter than the wine. “You don’t have to be afraid,” he said at last. “I’ll not hurt you.”