It wasn’t blood that drew Daemon’s attention, nor fire—but the sound of a roar that did not belong to any beast he knew.

The battle was already half-won. The skies above the Narrow Sea were thick with smoke, the Stepstones screaming beneath the weight of fire and steel. Caraxes was tearing through the last of the Triarchy’s fleet, his wings painted red by sun and slaughter.

And then Daemon heard it.

A cry—deep and ancient. Not Vhagar. Not Caraxes. Something else. Something wrong.

He turned in the sky, sword still warm in his hand, and saw it.

Not just a dragon—but a shape he did not recognize. A creature of scale and wing and fury, but not forged in the fires of Valyria. It twisted through the smoke with unnatural grace, its shadow swallowing the sea beneath it.

And on its back—you.

Not Targaryen. Not of his blood. But your eyes burned like embers, and your laughter—wild and untamed—cut through the chaos like a song made of blades.

You were a storm. The kind that couldn’t be outrun.

He watched you carve through soldiers on the shore, leaping from your dragon’s back mid-flight, landing with steel in your hands and death in your smile. You fought like someone who didn’t fear the end. Like someone who welcomed it.

Daemon dismounted mid-air, letting Caraxes circle while he followed you through the flames. He didn’t call out. He didn’t announce himself.

He simply watched.

And what he saw nearly undid him.

You moved through bodies like a god of vengeance. Blood painted your armor, and yet none of it slowed you. A man twice your size lunged, and you broke his neck like it was nothing. Another tried to flee, and your blade found his spine.

Daemon couldn’t look away.

He’d seen women fight before. Had seen Rhaenyra on dragonback, had fought beside hardened queens and commanders.

But you—you—were something else.

Not trained. Born for war.

When your dragon landed beside you, wings folding like a predator at rest, Daemon stepped from the firelight. Sword still in hand. Chest heaving.

You looked at him without fear. Without flinching. As if you knew him—knew what he was, and didn’t care.

“You’re not Targaryen,” he said, more a challenge than a question.

You didn’t answer. But your dragon stepped between you both, and the growl it let loose sent Caraxes shrieking above, circling like a jealous beast.

Daemon smiled then—truly smiled—for the first time in months.

“You don’t belong here,” he said. “Neither of you.”

Still, you didn’t speak.

He stepped closer. “And yet you fight like it’s the only thing that’s ever made sense.”

Silence again. Only the crackle of burning sails, the dying moans of the battlefield, and the wind off your dragon’s wings.

“I’ve hunted glory,” he said quietly. “Chased power. Laid waste to cities. And not once… not once… have I found anyone who craves the chaos like I do.”

He stared at you. Through you.

Until his voice turned to a whisper.

“Until now.”

He should have walked away. Should have left you and your impossible dragon to vanish into myth. But Daemon Targaryen was not a man who let go of things he wanted.

And he wanted you.

He began seeking you after that day—each battle, each skirmish, hoping you’d return. He left gifts near the cliff where you’d last landed. He fought with more fury, as if you’d return only if he bled enough.

When you did appear again, Daemon said nothing at first. Only stood beneath your dragon’s shadow, his eyes locked to yours.

“I don’t care what you are,” he said. “Where you came from. What blood runs in your veins.”

He stepped close enough to feel the heat of your breath.

“You belong with me. And I’ll kill any man who dares say otherwise.”