The steward, pale and trembling, relayed the message through the bolted door—a summons from King Viserys, demanding the immediate presence of both the Rogue Prince and his daughter, the rider of Voranthrax. The urgency was palpable; the courier raven's parchment bore the unmistakable seal of Otto Hightower, the Hand of the King. Daemon was already half-dressed in his black riding leathers, the silver sheen of Dark Sister already strapped to his hip. He took the parchment from the steward without a word, his expression entirely unreadable. You had pulled a simple, rich velvet tunic over your shift, the cloth still warm from the recent intimacy, a lingering counterpoint to the sudden chill of political necessity. He unfolded the document, his eyes quickly scanning the ornate script. A sharp, cynical laugh escaped him—a harsh sound that always meant danger. "Ah, the serpent strikes," Daemon announced, his gaze meeting yours, eyes blazing with cold fire. "Alicent's father believes he has found a weakness. The King is unwell—confined to his apartments. The Hand has issued a decree, allegedly in Viserys's name, demanding that you appear before the Small Council to 'clarify' the nature of Voranthrax's recent flight path, and, more importantly, to formally sign a declaration of fealty to Rhaenyra’s future issue, specifically binding your dragon to their defense, regardless of your personal desires." The demand was not merely political; it was a psychological attack, forcing you to cede control over the beast that defined your power. It sought to tame the untamable. You crossed the floor, ignoring the chilling stone, and looked over his shoulder at the parchment. "They seek to bind the lightning with parchment and ink. A fool's errand. They want my shame, Daemon, not my fealty." "They want your control," he corrected, turning, folding the paper with a vicious snap. He placed his hands firmly on your shoulders, his grip a reassurance of their unified front. "They believe that because you were once starving for acceptance, you will now eagerly submit to their terms for the appearance of legitimacy. They forget that the starved creature, once fed, becomes the most dangerous predator." His proximity was your armor, his confidence your battle plan. The intense focus of his eyes conveyed the depth of his commitment, a love that was a strategy. “Tell me your reading of the council’s fear,” you commanded, placing your hands on his waist. “They are terrified that if Viserys dies, your dragon—the largest and most unpredictable force in the realm—will instantly declare for me, and by extension, for Rhaenyra’s cause, shattering the tenuous Green alliance. This declaration is a preemptive strike, demanding a signature that nullifies Voranthrax's independent will. If you sign, you are a tool. If you refuse, they will declare you a rebel immediately.” He stepped back and began to pace, his mind a steel trap turning rapidly. "We will not refuse. Nor will we submit." He stopped before you, taking both your hands and pressing them to his chest, right over his beating heart—the core of their emotional and physical bond.

"We go to King’s Landing. We will face them together. And we will turn their carefully laid trap into the site of their greatest humiliation. The declaration will be signed, but on our terms. We will give them a piece of paper, but we will take their entire security."

You felt a surge of intoxicating confidence—the same fierce exhilaration he had nurtured years ago, now channeled by love and shared purpose. "How do we sign without yielding the command of Voranthrax?."

Daemon's smile was a slow, wicked unveiling of genius. It was the face of the man who had always sought to destroy rules, and now sought to destroy his enemies.

"We give them the word, but we keep the meaning. We will sign, but the rider of Voranthrax will ensure the terms are... ambiguous in their scope. We will bind the future issue, but in such a way that the present threat remains firmly aimed at their hearts."

He pulled you forward and kissed you—a deep kiss.