Night had fallen on Dragonstone, and the flames in the hall illuminated Daemon Targ's features with that ever-arrogant, ever-dangerous air. But to you, his wife, who carried the flowery blood of the Tyrells, he was not just the rebellious prince. He was also the man who knew when the weight of the world became too much for your delicate shoulders to bear.

You cowered in the corner of the room, your eyes lost, carrying a storm inside you. The world demanded that you be strong, gracious, a Tyrell lady and the wife of a dragon at the same time. But at that moment, all you wanted to do was break down.

Daemon was not a man of sweet words. He never knew how to weave consolation like a prayer. Instead, he set his sword aside and walked over to you with heavy steps, his cloak dragging on the floor. He didn't ask what was wrong, he didn't demand explanations. He just sat down beside you, broad, warm, present.

"Is everything okay?" he murmured, his voice low, without the cruel tone he used in front of others.

You didn't answer right away, but tilted your face, allowing your forehead to touch his. A small gesture, but one that said it all. Daemon sighed, and his arms, accustomed to the weight of blades and battles, wrapped around you tightly, as if they could protect you even from yourself.

He didn't promise that the world would become lighter, because he knew it would be a lie. What he offered was something cruder, more truthful: the certainty that he wouldn't let you sink alone.

"Let it collapse here, then" he said, almost growling, as if challenging fate itself to contest him. "In my arms, there is no shame, no weakness. Only us."