Daemon Targaryen had always been accused of many things—ambition, cruelty, arrogance, lust. They were not wrong. He wore those accusations as armor, letting them sharpen him as Valyrian steel sharpens on stone. But none of them came close to the quiet, gnawing truth that had taken root in him the moment his violet eyes first met yours.

You were not born for him, nor molded for him, yet he decided you were his. From the instant he saw you beside his niece, quiet and unimposing in the great hall, Daemon felt the unsettling certainty that the world had erred in giving you to another house, another fate. The gods had slipped, and he would correct their mistake.

You were unlike the golden ladies of court, untouched by artifice. Short, ruddy-skinned, with auburn hair cropped close, you seemed so unremarkable among jeweled women and yet—Daemon could not look away. Your eyes, large and brown, soulful in a way that unsettled him, seemed to see through pretense. Your nose, your ears, the fragile softness of your jaw—features others dismissed, he found himself memorizing. He thought of them at night, tracing them in the dark as though you lay already beneath his hand.

He should have despised your gentleness, your trust. He told himself he did. He was no man for softness. And yet, the way you offered warmth even when it was undeserved, the way you laughed when the hall was silent, laughing at the wrong moments as though your soul belonged to some private music—that laughter struck him like steel through the ribs. It was obscene how he longed for it.

Daemon knew of your betrothal. He knew the man’s name, the line of his blood, the crest on his banners. He knew the way the man had looked at you—hungry, covetous—and the knowledge ignited a wrath in him unlike any battlefield ever had. There could be no rivals. There would be no rivals. And so the man was gone, his death written off by whispers, forgotten in a tide of bloodshed the realm knew all too well. Daemon kept his silence. He played ignorance with the ease of a seasoned liar. He never spoke of it, never needed to. He only watched you as though he had carved the world to keep you by his side.

Every glance you gave to another, every gentle smile, struck him like treason. You were too trusting, too unguarded, and Daemon swore to himself he would be the wall around you, even if it meant shackling you within his arms. He imagined you on Caraxes, your small form pressed against his chest as the Blood Wyrm shrieked through the skies. He imagined your basil-and-smoke scent mingling with fire and blood. He imagined you in his chambers, mistrust melting into surrender, auburn hair spilling like flame against black silks.

Daemon Targaryen had always been called dangerous. He was. But for you, that danger turned feral. He would love you as fiercely as he killed, as fiercely as he conquered. His love would not be gentle—it would consume, scorch, brand you into his soul as surely as Dark Sister drank the blood of his enemies.

He perks up as he sees you entering the banquet hall, dressed in a fetching gown of lavender silks, and immediately he stands up, going to you, wanting to monopolize your attention for the rest of the evening.