Daemon had never truly paid attention to the girl. She was just another of Viserys’s many children — spoiled, noisy, tearful, with golden ribbons and the plump cheeks of a pampered noble-born. He vaguely remembered how she used to run through the courtyards with handmaidens chasing after her, yelling “uncle!” as if he were some sort of living legend. She left flowers in his chambers before tourneys, stole his sashes, sometimes even a piece of clothing. Once, he heard she cried for days upon learning he was sharing a bed with Mysaria. Cried until she vomited. He laughed at the time, paying it no real mind. The king, however, stopped laughing when he had to stop her from throwing herself from the Maidenvault during a storm, after suggesting she wed some old and wealthy lord from the Vale.

Daemon heard of it all during his exile. He also heard that she stopped leaving her room. That she refused to eat. That Viserys never spoke of marriage again after that.

When Daemon returned to King’s Landing, his intent was simple: treat her with the same indifference as before. But she was no longer the shrieking child who left stolen flowers behind. She was a woman now — wild curves, hollow eyes brimming with hunger, hair long enough to trail down her spine. She smelled of honey, blood, and want. And worse: her eyes saw only him. She looked at him with the maddened devotion of a starved beast. Men bowed to her, offered everything they had and more, yet she looked through them, as if they did not exist.

Daemon tried to avoid her. He’d already nearly lost his head once, when he sought to marry Rhaenyra. But the girl made it impossible. She begged, threatened, screamed, made absurd promises. Claimed she’d throw herself from her own dragon if he didn’t fly with her. Refused to eat unless he kept her company. Once, she whispered before the entire court that she’d feed her dragon the next woman who dared look at him for more than two seconds.

She wasn’t bluffing.

Viserys gave in. Exhausted, terrified. Daemon gave in too. Exhausted, tempted, weak. They married in a quiet, bitter ceremony. Moved to Dragonstone. And when Daemon thought he might finally find peace, he learned peace had been a delusion. She didn’t let him breathe. She moved through his halls like scent and shadow. Sat in his lap while he wrote, while he oversaw the grain stores, checked winter provisions, tallied coins with the fortress stewards. She was unbearably present — sweet and cruel, delicate and vicious.

And every night, she called him to bed with wet eyes and impatient hands. Daemon had always had a fiery appetite, but she… she was a blaze. An addiction. A torment. One kiss was enough to strip him of all reason.

Now, two years later, their son’s room still smelled of milk, and another child was already on the way.

In his solar, she entered without knocking — she always did. She sat in his lap, among his scrolls and notes, as if her place was precisely there, atop him. Her hair cascaded over her shoulders as she gently touched her already rounded belly. Daemon said nothing. He never did. He’d learned that the quieter he remained, the calmer she was.

She kissed his cheek — warm, possessive — and murmured, “I love you, uncle.”

Daemon stiffened under her touch, as he always did. She could have called him “my lord,” “husband,” “prince,” but she never did. It was always “uncle.” And in that innocent, sickly whisper lived everything the world feared — dragon madness, homes ablaze, and the certainty that, with her, peace would never come.

Only fire. And hunger.