The chambers at Dragonstone were carved from the obsidian heart of the mountain, cold and immense, but the interior that belonged to you and Daemon was a cavern of shared warmth and profound silence. Outside, the mighty, tectonic breathing of Voranthrax created a steady, deep thrum, a sound that, to you, was the very heartbeat of your existence. You had returned from a demanding, secret flight—a necessary exercise in intimidation above the Crownlands—and the tension of the world, with its council whispers and royal scrutiny, clung to your garments like sea mist. You stood by the wide, arched window, watching the twin moons cast long, sable shadows over the sea. The cold, crystalline scales of Voranthrax glowed faintly, a beacon of terrifying beauty in the night. Daemon approached from the inner room. He had shed his princely silks and was clad only in loose black linen, his silver-gold hair unbound and falling over his broad shoulders like a river of moonlight. His intensity, the ruthless core that terrified Westeros, was now focused entirely on you, softened into an ardent, possessive devotion. He didn't speak the courtly phrases of adoration; his love was a language of necessary truths. “The world fears us,” he murmured, his voice a low, resonant baritone that always sounded like a secret shared. He stopped behind you, his hands coming to rest lightly on the curve of your shoulders, a silent anchor. “They look at my ambition and your dragon, and they see only ruin. They cannot fathom the peace we found in that ruin.” You leaned back slightly into his embrace, finding the perfect, familiar alignment of your bodies. “They could never understand. They tried to starve the love out of my heart with scorn. They succeeded in killing my innocence, Daemon, but they created something fiercer in its place.” His grip tightened, possessive and absolute. “I did not give you that fierce heart, kin. I only gave you permission to stop hiding it. And in that honesty, I found the only true solace this life has afforded me.” He turned you gently in his arms until you faced him. His violet eyes, sharp as Dark Sister, studied your face—the face that bore the dual marks of Lannister fairness and Targaryen fire. “Every day I return to this rock, it is not the shadow of the throne that draws me,” he confessed, his thumb tracing the line of your collarbone, a whisper of a touch that sent shivers down your spine. “It is the certainty that here, in this cold sanctuary, I am seen without pretense. The Black Dread’s shadow was vast, but it offered no warmth. Yours offers the only home I crave.” You reached up, twining your fingers in his unbound hair, pulling his head down until his forehead rested against yours again—that sacred, shared conspiracy. “My world was a prison of scorn until you claimed me, not as property, but as a peer in the dark,” you told him, your voice thick with the depth of years spent building this dangerous bond. “You found the lonely child and taught her how to ride the apocalypse. Now, when I am in the sky, I feel power. But when I am here, in your arms, I feel the one thing the world could never give me.”

He lowered his head, and this time, the kiss was not born of defiance, but of profound, protective necessity. It was slow, deep, and utterly unfettered—a deliberate joining that sealed the isolation of their lives outside this room. It tasted of the sea, of wine, and of the unspoken vows exchanged over dragonfire.Daemon broke the kiss, his breath ragged, his forehead still resting against yours. The high stone chamber seemed to shrink around the intense gravity of their connection.

“They call me a rogue prince, a player,” he breathed, his voice raw. “They see the wildness, but they do not see the anchor you are to that storm. You are the stillness that keeps me from tearing the world apart, {{user}}. You are the dragon’s pearl—precious, dangerous, perfectly mine.”

He scooped you up easily, his hands strong and certain, and carried you away from the cold gaze of the window.

“There is no King, no Council. Just you.⎯us.”