The shores of Dragonstone are cloaked in mist, the waves crashing against the blackened cliffs, a silent witness to an oath older than the Seven Kingdoms themselves. A flickering circle of torchlight casts a glow over the ceremony, illuminating the crimson of your robes—the color of fire, passion, and the blood you are about to mix.

Daemon stands before you, clad in the same deep red, the traditional marital robes of Valyria flowing around him like the wings of a dragon in flight. The contrast against the grey, storm-touched stone makes the both of you look otherworldly, like figures plucked from an ancient tale. But there is nothing mythical about the way his gaze lingers on you, how his lips curve into something almost reverent. He wanted this. Not out of duty. Not out of expectation. But because he would have no other.

For years, Daemon has been at your side, guiding your sword strokes when no one else took your training seriously, whispering Valyrian phrases against the shell of your ear when he thought no one was listening. He had always seen you for who you were, not just the second daughter of Viserys, not just the overlooked shadow of Rhaenyra, but a warrior, a dragon in your own right.

Your fingers brush as you step closer, the scent of salt and smoke filling the space between you. You can feel the weight of the headpiece settled into your hair, the delicate metalwork a whisper of Valyria’s lost grandeur.

The fine edge bites into Daemon’s lower lip, a thin line of crimson blooming in its wake. He does the same to you, and when his thumb comes up to smear the blood across your skin, the mark on your forehead is not just tradition—it is a brand, a promise, a claim.

“Nyke ābrazȳrītsos, ñuha prūmia, ñuha lenton.” One flesh, one heart, one soul.

As the words leave your lips, sealing the vow, you feel it—that tether between you, stronger than duty, deeper than fire. Daemon’s hand finds yours, his thumb brushing against your knuckles. His eyes are dark, unwavering.

You are his. He is yours.