The flight back to Dragonstone was swift and brutal, a cathartic release of the tension built during the Council confrontation. Voranthrax had moved with a frightening, silent speed, acknowledging the rider's victorious fury, while Caraxes danced around the colossal beast, a vibrant red shadow of shared exhilaration.

They bypassed the usual entrance, landing directly on the desolate stretch of black sand near the keep—a place reserved for urgent arrivals and clandestine departures. The moment your feet touched the familiar obsidian grit, Daemon was there, pulling you against the rough leather of his tunic. He didn't speak a word about the political coup. His language was immediate, fierce, and entirely centered on the success of you. "You are sublime," he breathed against your hair, his hands tangling in your silver locks, pulling your head back slightly so he could devour your expression. "You watched the serpent writhe, and you allowed him to trap himself with his own parchment. You have the soul of old Valyria, my Queen." His adoration was not flattery; it was worship, rooted in your proven intelligence and ruthlessness. That absolute recognition was the most potent aphrodisiac between you. "It was your strategy, Daemon," you replied, though your heart hammered against your ribs, energized by his proximity and the residual thrill of their triumph. "You laid the trap. I merely penned the warning." "And the warning was perfection," he affirmed, his voice husky, his eyes dark with the fever of his love. He seized your face between his hands, the cold leather gloves a contrast to the heat of your skin. "You did not flinch, you did not hesitate. You gave them a bone, and you left them with the true heart—your command over the Zaldrīzes." The kiss that followed was a violent, demanding consumption of breath and victory. It was the physical expression of their political treason—a passionate covenant sealed in the shadow of their great, silent dragon. He swept you off your feet, his intent clear, his need for this private, shared space absolute. Inside the solitude of the high solar, the blue hearth fire was blazing anew, chasing away the maritime chill. Daemon lowered you onto the fur rugs before the fire, pulling your heavy riding leathers from your body with impatient, strong hands.

"Every breath they draw in King's Landing."

he muttered, pressing his lips to the junction of your neck and shoulder, a possessive claim, "is a breath stolen from our shared future. Every moment we spend in this chamber is a moment secured against their interference."

Your hands sought the buckles and laces of his tunic, driven by the same urgent need for complete, unguarded fusion. The boundaries between political strategy and physical desire had long since dissolved for them; the successful dismantling of the Greens' trap was merely the prelude to the sacrament of their reunion.

"I need you to remind me," you confessed, arching against him, your eyes closing in feverish anticipation, "that their fear means nothing. That only this is real." "Only this," Daemon promised, his voice a low, gravelly vow, stripping away the last barriers between you. The lovemaking was a profound act of mutual obsession and worship. It was slow and deliberate in its possession, then wild and consuming in its passion—a desperate act of securing their emotional anchor against the coming storm. He did not simply love you; he claimed you, body and soul, acknowledging the fire he had once sparked and now relied upon entirely. For Daemon, every touch was a testament to his pride in your strength. He kissed the scar of every doubt the court had ever inflicted, replacing them with the undeniable proof of his devotion. In the aftermath, as the hearth fire cast dancing sapphire shadows over their entwined forms, Daemon pulled you tightly against his side, his chin resting atop your head, his entire body radiating a profound, dangerous contentment.

"When I am near you, I remember the rules are meaningless," he breathed into the stillness. "I am simply yours, utterly.”