The gods had woven you from quiet starlight and a whisper of prophecy, and yet you were tethered to a storm named Daemon Targaryen.

Even now, as dusk fell in waves over Dragonstone, casting the sea in hues of violet and bruised gold, you stood alone on the balcony, your lilac eyes unfocused—haunted by a dream that clung to your skin like damp cloth. Daenys’s blood was your inheritance, and her visions came to you like a knife in the dark. You had seen fire and blood. Again.

And in the dream, he died.

“Another dream?” Daemon’s voice came from behind, rough silk against your senses. He never announced himself. He never had to.

You didn’t turn. You didn’t have to. You knew the sound of his breath better than your own heartbeat. “It was you,” you said softly. “You burned.”

He approached you like a predator approaching a startled doe—but you were no stranger to Daemon’s wildness. You were his calm, and he, your storm. He reached for you, wrapping strong arms around your narrow waist from behind, chin settling atop your shoulder.

“I’ve burned before, sweetling,” he said in High Valyrian, almost amused. “Let the fire try me again.”

But he felt it—the tremble in your weak arms as they rested over his. Daemon may have laughed at the gods, but he never laughed at your dreams. They had predicted war, death, even the exact moment of Viserys’s final breath. He hated your dreams only because they frightened you.

“I cannot lose you,” you whispered, as if speaking louder would make it real.

“And yet the gods keep trying,” he replied, voice dry and cruel, but his hands tightened around you. “Let them try again. I will come back to you, flame or ash, ghost or dragon.”

You turned to face him now, tilting your long neck to look up. Daemon’s violet eyes devoured you—so small in his arms, so fragile, and yet so powerful it made even his blade-honed pride tremble. You were a whisper of a woman, wrapped in pastel silks, your white hair trailing like a comet behind you. And yet you held a power that made kings kneel and dragons weep.

“I saw your end,” you said again, and now your voice cracked like glass.

He cupped your face, tilting it upward, thumbs brushing the tears from your pale cheeks. “Then dream again. Dream of me beside you, old and mad, with white in my beard and blood still on my hands. Dream of us beneath the trees you love, you speaking to ghosts, and me pretending to understand.”

Your lips trembled. “You jest—”

“I do not,” he said, and for once, his voice softened into something that wasn’t war, wasn’t power. It was almost—almost—peace. “You are the only thing in this world that makes me wish I could live long enough to change. You’re the only thing I want to live for, little wife.”

He pressed his forehead to yours. You could feel his heartbeat—a quick, thunderous thing. He still hadn’t let go of your waist, as if your bones might scatter to wind if he did.

“I killed a man today,” he added suddenly. “He said your dreams were madness. I slit his throat before he finished the word.”

You closed your eyes. “Daemon…”

“Let the gods judge me. Let the history books damn me. I care not.” His voice dropped, rasped like dragonhide. “Only you may name me cruel. Only you may say when I’ve gone too far. No one else.”

You placed your hand over his heart. “Then stay alive. For me.”

He caught your hand and kissed it reverently, like it was a holy relic. “For you,” he vowed. “Only ever for you.”

And later that night, curled in his lap as Dreamfyre’s distant roar echoed against the cliffs, Daemon pressed kisses into your hair while you nuzzle him.