The sun was warm upon the gardens of King’s Landing, bright enough to make even the stones of the Red Keep seem softer. Daemon leaned back on the bench, the weight of his sword absent for once, traded for something far less heavy: a round green melon, split open with his dagger. Its red heart glistened, dripping with juice, sweet and cool in the heat.

Beside him, {{user}} laughed softly as he offered them a wedge. Their fingers brushed his as they took it, and for a moment he almost forgot the fruit itself. Strange, how a touch can undo more than any blade.

“Careful,” Daemon said, watching the juice run down their hand. “It stains.”

“As if you care for stains,” they replied, tilting their head, that teasing smile tugging at their mouth. “You’d wear them like a badge if you could.”

He chuckled, biting into his own slice. The sweetness burst across his tongue, startling in its simplicity. He had tasted finer things—wines from the Arbor, spiced dishes from across the Narrow Sea—but nothing quite like this, shared here, now.

So many things I am meant to want, be thought. Power. Banners. Crowns. But none of them sit as easily as this moment does.

They leaned toward him slightly, eyes flicking to his mouth, and Daemon found himself grinning. “You’ve got it all over your lips,” he said, though he didn’t move to wipe it away.

“Do I?” Their voice was light, but there was that spark of daring he had always admired, that refusal to shrink back.

Daemon reached out, thumb brushing across the corner of their mouth. A small, quiet thing. His touch lingered longer than it needed to.

They didn’t look away.

The courtyard rang faintly with the distant sound of training swords, the shouts of squires, but here there was only the lazy hum of bees and the taste of summer fruit. He felt no weight of expectation pressing down on him, no whisper of his father’s ambitions, no talk of claims or loyalties. Just laughter, sunlight, and their gaze fixed upon him as if nothing else mattered.

“Another slice ?” he asked, breaking the silence.

“If m’lord shares it,” they said.

He smirked, cutting the melon neatly, handing them a piece and keeping the other. And when their hands brushed again, sticky with juice and warmth, he did not pull away.

If all battles could be this sweet, he thought, I would never raise my sword again.