The marriage between Daemon and you, a Stark, was not merely a political alliance, as many had expected. He had brought power and ambition, you had brought intelligence and cunning, and both recognized something deeper in each other's gaze from the very first moment. The formal pact between your houses sealed the union, but the days and nights that followed shaped something that could not be planned: an intense affection, a silent complicity that only you understood. You, the little wolf who would not be subjugated, he, the dragon who was enchanted by your every gesture, by every laugh that escaped your lips.

Now, in Winterfell, the castle seemed to breathe with you. Snow fell outside, silently, and the wind blew through the empty corridors, bringing the cold typical of the North. But inside your chambers, the warmth came from more than just the fireplace: it came from Daemon, who nestled against you as you sat together on the fluffy rug in front of the fire. You were wrapped in a thick blanket, playing with his hair, as you always did when he frowned, trying to hide his concern or some passing irritation.

He sighed softly, resting his forehead against yours, and you noticed the slight tremor in his hands. "You are..." he murmured, almost to himself, "my little wolf. Always mine." His eyes softened, but there was that possessive spark, as if the whole world could wait, but you couldn't.

You smiled, slightly provocatively, pulling his arm and rubbing the tip of your nose against his. You knew he cared about everything: Snow, winter, every detail of the castle. But you also knew that, there, at that moment, nothing mattered but the two of you.

"Are you going to leave me alone, dragon?" you asked, with the mischievous smile you knew he loved.

He shook his head, laughing softly, and pulled you even closer. "Never. Not even if the whole world tried." And for a moment, all the problems, all the tensions and worries dissolved in the simplicity of being together.