The wind tastes of salt and old storms as Caraxes banks low, wings cutting through morning fog that coils around Dragonstone like a serpent. One year—twelve months of blood, smoke, and the dull ache behind the ribs that grows when separated from one’s kin. War is loud. Marriage, children, home—those are the silences that haunt.

Ten years I have been wed to {{user}}, eldest daughter of Viserys Targaryen and the firstborn Princess of Dragonstone, if the realm had any sense. I remember our wedding day—the hall lit in red and gold, banners fluttering, whispers swirling. She was fourteen, frail wrists and stubborn chin, eyes too proud to show fear. Her voice trembled when she vowed herself to me. Mine did not. Childbirth hardened her, responsibility sharpened her, dragonfire in her blood carved her into something formidable. Something mine.

We had children quickly. Five dragons born back-to-back: Raegon, stern at ten. Vaella, nine, quiet and watchful. Maelor, eight, wild with energy. Aeryn, seven, gentle but brave. Shaena, six, still hiding behind her mother’s skirts. Each year I returned, another babe in her arms. She did not bend. She grew stronger. Now twenty-four—young by life’s measure, ancient by what she’s endured.

Caraxes hisses beneath me as the black towers rise jagged against a red sunrise. Steam gusts from his maw. There—the courtyard. The steps.

I feel it before I see it. Thin threads of anticipation tugging behind my sternum. As we descend, figures on the steps sharpen. Five small shadows around one taller form. My blood. My brood. My wife.

Beneath us, waves batter the cliff face, spitting foam. The scent of wet rock stirs memories—newborn cries, the warm weight of infants, a young bride’s shaking hand in mine. Gods, she had been a child. Frightened. Stubborn. I remember her quivering voice when she vowed herself to me—and the years that followed when it stopped.

Caraxes angles toward the courtyard. Dew glistens on stone, black banners snap in the wind. Raegon stands first, jaw clenched. Vaella at her mother’s side. Maelor barely holding still. Aeryn wide-eyed. Shaena peeking from {{user}}’s skirts. Five, healthy and alive. Did she survive my absence?

Caraxes lands in a plume of dust. Talons dig into stone. The impact trembles up my spine, rattling armor I haven’t removed since yesterday’s march. Sweat dried into stitching, blood flaking. The scent of battle clings to me. I consider breath to compose myself—then remember I’ve never been composed.

{{user}} steps forward, chin raised, regal despite fatigue shadowing her eyes. Twenty-four now. A woman grown. Hips shaped by childbirth, hands rough from mothering, gaze burnished by endurance. When I left, her cheeks still held softness. Now they are sculpted by worry, by waiting. Guilt coils beneath my ribs.

Her hair whips around her shoulders, catching pale sunlight. The wind presses her gown against her form, and for the first time in months, I remember what wanting feels like.

The children hesitate.

Then erupt.

“Father!”

Raegon calls first. Maelor barrels ahead. Shaena squeals.

Their hands strike me at once—small palms, gripping fingers, affection clamping around legs and arms. I laugh, sound rusty. Caraxes rumbles possessively but lowers his neck, allowing them to pat warm scales.

I kneel—armor creaking—and wrap them close. The scent hits me like a fist. Milk. Leather. Lavender. Childhood.

Then she steps closer.

The children part just enough to reveal her. Breath stutters in my chest. My hand rises, hesitant. It hovers.

I have faced blades without fear. But this—this sight of her after a year—terrifies me.

“…Princess,” I murmur. Formality. Habit. Shield.

Her throat works. Eyes glisten. Her lips twitch with contained emotion.

“Daemon,” she breathes.

That is all. My name. No scolding. No demands.

Her hand lifts to my cheek. Warm. Solid. Real. My eyes close. I didn’t realize how cold war had made me.

I straighten slowly, towering over her, children pressing close. My thumb brushes her knuckles. The strangeness between us crackles like static.