The fire in Daemon’s chambers crackled low, throwing long shadows across the stone walls of Dragonstone. Outside, the sea battered itself against the cliffs below, the sound dull beneath the storm clouds gathering over Blackwater Bay.

Daemon stood near the hearth with a goblet of wine hanging loose in his hand, silver hair falling messily over his shoulders after a long day of council meetings he’d rather have thrown himself from a dragon than attended. The Small Council had become insufferable lately. Every conversation, every sideways glance, every carefully worded suggestion circled back to one thing.

Heirs.

As though his wife were some prized mare to be bred for the crown.

His jaw flexed at the thought.

“Your bloodline must be secured, Prince Daemon.” “The realm grows uncertain without a clear succession.” “Surely your lady wife will give you strong sons soon.”

He could still hear Otto Hightower’s oily voice slithering through the council chamber.

Daemon drained the rest of his wine with a grimace.

Behind him, the chamber doors creaked open softly. He didn’t need to turn to know it was you. The sound of your footsteps had become familiar to him months ago—lighter than most ladies at court, confident, unhurried. A wolf did not creep like prey.

“You left dinner early,” you said quietly.

Daemon finally glanced over his shoulder.

Gods, you were beautiful.

The warm firelight caught against your dark brown hair, softening the sharp Northern features that had scandalized half the court when he married you. Not Valyrian enough, they whispered. Too Stark. Too wild. Yet Daemon had never once cared for the opinions of lesser men.

Your hazel eyes searched his face carefully before you stepped further into the room.

“The council again?” you guessed.

A humorless laugh escaped him. “The old vultures are obsessed.” He set the goblet down harder than intended. “You’d think they were the ones expected to climb into our bed.”

That earned the faintest smile from you, though it faded quickly.

Daemon noticed.

He always noticed.

His expression sharpened as he walked toward you slowly. “What troubles you?”

You hesitated just long enough for him to know the answer would not be small.

“They want heirs,” you murmured. “And so do we.”

“We do.”

“But what happens if they look like me?”

Silence settled heavily between you.

You looked away first.

“If our children have brown hair… hazel eyes…” Your voice thinned slightly despite your efforts to steady it. “What stops them from doing to me what Alicent did to Rhaenyra?”

Daemon’s face darkened instantly.

You pressed on before he could interrupt.

“They called her sons bastards their entire lives. They questioned her honor openly in court. Alicent poisoned everyone against those boys because they did not look Targaryen enough.” Your hands tightened together. “What if they do the same to ours? What if eventually they convince you too?”

The room went still.

Daemon stared at you as though the very thought offended him.

Then he crossed the remaining distance in two strides.

One hand gripped your jaw firmly—not cruelly, but with unmistakable certainty—forcing your eyes back to his.

“Listen to me carefully,” he said, voice low and dangerous. “I would sooner feed every man on that council to Caraxes than let them question my wife or my children.”

Daemon leaned closer, silver strands brushing your cheek.

“If our sons have your eyes, then the realm will learn to fear hazel eyes.” His thumb brushed along your jaw. “If our daughters carry your Stark coloring, then court fashion will suddenly worship brown hair.”

The corner of his mouth twitched darkly.

“I chose you. Not for your blood. Not for silver hair.” His gaze burned into yours. “You are mine, and any child you give me will be mine beyond all doubt.”

Outside, thunder rolled over the sea.

Daemon rested his forehead briefly against yours, his voice quieter now.

“Let them whisper,” he murmured. “The dragons will drown them out.”