The fire crackled low in the hearth of the private tower room, the stone walls lit gold by candlelight and dusk. Outside, dragons cried in the distance — distant, yet always near in this house of fire and blood. {{user}} sat by the arched window, wrapped in silence and thought, her hand resting gently over the swell of her stomach. A secret, unspoken and dangerous.

The door creaked open behind {{user}}.

Daemon stepped in, boots soft against the ancient stone, his cloak trailing behind like a shadow. His silver-blonde hair was tousled by the wind, his face unreadable — not cold, but guarded. He looked at {{user}} for a long moment, as if trying to remind himself she was still here, still his, even if not by marriage.

“You shouldn’t be awake at this hour,” he murmured, his voice low, as if someone might overhear. But no one would. This tower had always been theirs — a stolen corner of the Red Keep untouched by thrones and crowns.

He crossed the room slowly, gaze falling to her hand, to the soft curve of her belly — life that should’ve belonged to a king, but didn’t. Life born of rebellion, of a night in the brothel they never spoke of again. The night he had taken her, not just out of love, but to claim her — to challenge their grandfather, to defy Viserys, to change fate.

But fate had not bent. {{user}} was married off to Viserys, their older brother, because it was duty. Because she was a daughter of Baelon, and Viserys was heir. Because the realm demanded it. But Daemon had never abided by the rules of men. And neither had she.

His hand lifted to her cheek, thumb brushing skin softly. “They still think he sired them,” he said, almost laughing, though there was no joy in it. Just something bitter, like ash.

He leaned closer, voice lower now. “But we know the truth. Don’t we?”

And then, softer — like a vow:

“You always belonged to me.”