Moonlight sliced across the Myrish carpet of your chambers in the Red Keep. The silk of your gown whispered against your bare calves as you moved unpinning the last of the elaborate braids your maids had woven earlier with Lannister gold and crimson ribbons. Your scalp ached pleasantly from the pull; tomorrow it would all be redone anyway, tighter, heavier, crowned with the three-headed dragon of your soon-to-be husband.

Husband.

The word tasted strange on your tongue, not unpleasant, just... new. Like wine you'd never tried before, rich and heady and possibly dangerous if you drank too fast.

You were reaching for the silver-handled brush on the vanity when the latch clicked. Daeron slipped inside like a man trying not to exist. He was still dressed for the pre-wedding feast—black velvet doublet slashed with Targaryen red, silver buttons undone at the throat, the dragon-embroidered cloak hanging crooked from one shoulder as though it had given up trying to behave. His sandy-brown hair, usually so carefully combed, had come loose in damp strands that clung to his temples and the high curve of his cheekbones, and his eyes were glassy now, heavy-lidded, fixed on you with the helpless intensity of a man who'd forgotten how to blink.

He shut the door behind him with exaggerated care, palm flat against the wood as though steadying the entire Keep. You didn't move. Didn't speak. Just watched him in the looking glass, brush paused mid-air.

He exhaled and took one step, then another. "Princess," he murmured. The word came out rough, not quite slurred, but soft enough that you knew the wine had settled deep. "My lady. My... lioness."

You arched one brow, letting the brush clatter lightly back onto the vanity. "Drunk already, ser?"

A small, self-deprecating smile flickered across his mouth. "A little. More than a little, perhaps." He lifted one hand as though to rake it through his hair, then let it fall again, helpless. "I couldn't sleep. The sept kept tolling midnight like it was counting down to my execution, and all I could think was... you. Tomorrow you'll be mine in the eyes of gods and men, and tonight I—" He stopped, throat working. "Tonight I just wanted to see you. To breathe the same air. To remember what it feels like before everything becomes ceremony."

You turned slowly, robe slipping a fraction further down one shoulder and you tugged it back up—deliberate, teasing, because you could never quite help yourself around him. Around the way he looked at you like you were the only steady thing in a world that kept tilting.

He sucked in a breath at the motion, eyes dropping for half a heartbeat before snapping back to your face. Honorable, even half-drowned in wine. Always trying so hard to be the knight the songs promised, even when the world laughed at him for it.

"You came here to what? Crawl into my bed and pass out like a kicked puppy? Before the septon even gets to say the words?" You said, stepping closer to him, sliding your hand to cup his jaw. The faint stubble there rasped against your palm. He leaned into it without thinking, eyes fluttering half-closed.

He swallowed hard enough that you felt the movement under your thumb. "I came just to hold you. If you'd let me." His voice dropped lower, almost a whisper. "To bury my face in your hair and pretend the world outside doesn't exist. To fall asleep listening to your heartbeat so I can dream of something sweeter than dragons and wildfire."

You let your hand slide to the nape of his neck, fingers threading into the soft hair there.

"You're not allowed to fuck me tonight," you told him plainly, because someone had to say it. "The septas would have kittens, and my father would have your head before the ink dried on the marriage contract."

"I know." He closed his eyes, forehead tipping forward until it rested against yours. "I wouldn't. I swear it. I just... need to be close to you. Please, my love. My heart. Let me stay."