An arranged union of gold and fire… and the slow, searing birth of desire.

For Daemon?. A widower and a father of two daughters

Casterly Rock glowed like molten gold beneath the dusk — a mountain-fortress carved by gods with hands of fire. Its banners rippled in the wind: crimson, fierce, crowned with the golden lion that prowled over the West.

In the highest hall, lit by braziers and lion-headed torches, stood you — the only daughter of Lord Casterly, the titled Princess of the West, the Lioness wrapped in silk as bright as dawn.

Your hair was a fall of sun-gold. Your eyes, molten amber touched with dangerous warmth. Your gown shimmered like the veins of gold running through the Rock itself.

And before you stood Daemon Targaryen — the Rogue Prince, the dragon draped in black and blood-red, a firestorm in human form. His silver hair gleamed like moonlight against obsidian armor, and his amethyst eyes held a glint you couldn’t decipher.

Your marriage had been signed with cold ink and colder politics. A union of West and Dragonstone. A bargain struck between lions and dragons.

But the way Daemon watched you as you approached… there was nothing political about it.

“Lady Lannister,” he murmured, voice low, velvet over steel. “My lioness.”

The title curled around you like smoke. You lifted your chin — regal, unafraid. “My prince.”