The hearth in your solar at Dragonstone was not meant for warmth, but for contemplation. Tonight, it held a fire of genuine Valyrian steel and polished obsidian, the flames burning with a fierce, unnatural blue that mirrored the deepest shade of Daemon’s eyes. The confrontation in the throne room earlier had been a brutal exercise in maneuvering. Queen Alicent had dared to question the legitimacy of Voranthrax's rider, and you, standing beside Daemon, had answered with a single, perfectly measured threat that silenced the Greens for a fortnight. The emotional cost, however, was high; the constant warfare of court depleted even the strongest Targaryen will. You were seated on a low cushion, staring into the sapphire fire, the light catching the tiny, almost invisible scars on your hands—memories of early, terrifying attempts to bridle the gargantuan will of your dragon. Daemon knelt before you, dismissing the distance of chairs and the arrogance of thrones. He took your hands, raising them to his lips, kissing the palms—an act of reverence to the pain and power they commanded. “They are like gnats, buzzing around a diamond mountain,” Daemon whispered, his voice resonating with a fatigue that only you were permitted to witness. “My father, your King, he dreams of a peaceful reign built on soft alliances. He does not understand that peace is merely the silence before the scream.” “And we are the scream,” you finished for him, the ease of shared thought a comfort more profound than any physical embrace. You pulled your hands free, placing them on either side of his face, cupping his sharp jawline. You felt the subtle tension in his muscles, the strain of constantly maintaining the facade of the Rogue Prince, the perpetual danger. “I know the price of your acceptance, Daemon,” you told him, your voice low, rich with absolute sincerity. “You took the lonely girl who hated the sight of her Lannister coloring and made her understand that her lineage, her isolation, and her dragon were her destiny. You asked for my loyalty, and in return, you gave me purpose.” His gaze locked onto yours, and in the depths of his violet eyes, you saw not just his ambition, but the raw, aching heart of the man beneath the legend. He had spent his life seeking validation—first from his brother, then in Rhaenyra’s affection, then in petty wars. He had finally found the totality of his identity reflected in your dangerous, complicated soul. “Before you,” he confessed, his tone dropping into a profound, sacred intimacy, “I was merely a distraction. A wild dog chasing the scent of glory, never finding the true master of the hunt. I sought Rhaenyra because she was the Crown. I sought danger because it was easy. When I found you—a child, a bastard, terrified yet tethered to a living apocalypse—I saw my own reflection. A profound, necessary cruelty was required to make you strong.” He brought your hands to his chest, pressing them over the frantic, heavy beat of his heart. “But the cruel lessons ended the day I realized I could not survive without the solace of your terrible fire, {{user}},exploitation was replaced by a devotion that transcends kin and crown. It is a hunger, yes, but now it is a hunger for you—for the singular peace only your fierce presence can grant.” He rose slowly, pulling you up with him until you stood chest-to-chest. The blue firelight flickered across the intricate silver rings on his fingers and the pale column of your throat. “I speak of love in the High Valyrian way,” he murmured, his breath warm against your ear, weaving the ancient, complex magic of his tongue. “Kepa is my father. Hae is fire. Valar dohaerās—all men must serve. But there is a word for this—for the bond forged in blood and fire, for the soul that becomes the shadow of your own.” He drew back just enough for his gaze to possess yours again. “You are not my weakness, but the very steel of my will. You are the dragon’s pearl that I have guarded and claimed. You are the silence that allows me to hear my own heart beat.” He lowered his head, and this time, the kiss.