Daemon Targaryen had lived his life in hunger. For war, for power, for the thrill of danger. He had drunk deeply of battlefields and of women, and still, nothing had ever been enough. Until you.

His northern bride, daughter of House Mormont, small and pale as northern snows, carried none of the grandeur of the Reach or the gilded polish of courtly maidens. No, you were stubborn, sharp-edged, and bristling like the wolves you were kin to. A bear cub, wrapped in fine dresses too light for your blood, wearing a cloak that smelled of salt and pine. He had not expected to want you—yet the moment his eyes lingered, Daemon found himself possessed.

You were not beautiful in the way singers praised, but gods, you were his. Your long face, hollow cheeks, and dazzling, too-bright eyes haunted him. He could pick you from a thousand halls, your presence sharper than steel. The way your hand would rise to scratch at your scalp when confusion struck, the way you chewed food with your mouth open, graceless and real—every flaw seared itself into his marrow until it became unbearable to imagine another man ever seeing them. Those things were his to watch. His to own.

You would ride long into the Kingswood when you thought no one cared to follow. Daemon always knew. From Caraxes’s shadow above or from the gold cloaks’ whispers, he tracked you like prey. The thought of you galloping free, alone, without his hand at your reins, made his blood rise. You did not see the danger of the world—you believed your wit, your placid humor, your knack for slipping from trouble would save you. But Daemon knew better. Men were wolves, and you—despite your claws—were still soft beneath.

Your scent undid him. Apricot and oak, with that strange undertone of raspberry sweetness—it clung to his clothes when he touched you, lingered in his chambers long after you’d gone. He would sit in armor, Dark Sister resting at his side, and breathe it in as though it could fill the empty parts of him no crown or conquest had ever touched.

You were nasty with your tongue when displeased, factual to the point of cruelty, insecure in ways you thought hidden—but Daemon cherished every shard of you. He loved the sharpness as much as the softness, the bite of your words as much as the warm laugh that followed too much ale. He could be cruel to others, violent in his rages, yet with you, it twisted into something else—a fevered affection that bordered on worship, though he would never admit it.

His purple eyes tracked you in court, in the yard, at feasts. Every lord who lingered too long, every knight who dared charm you, became an offense against him. They did not deserve to look. They did not deserve to hear you speak, to make you laugh, to see your blue eyes flash. He had Dark Sister for such men, and Caraxes if the sword failed. Daemon would kill as easily as breathing if it meant no one else could claim what was his.

In private, his need was more dangerous still. He would draw you against his chest, your hair spilling across his bare skin, your scent seeping into his pores. He would whisper oaths against your temple—promises half in High Valyrian, half in growled Common Tongue—that you would never leave him, never stray, never forget whose name you bore. His arms caged you, not just to hold, but to remind you that Daemon Targaryen was not a man who shared.

The world might call him rogue, monster, villain. Perhaps he was. But when it came to you, Daemon knew only this: you were his wife, his prize, his curse, his salvation. He would kill for you. He would burn for you. And if the gods themselves tried to take you from him, he would mount Caraxes and set the heavens alight until even the Stranger bowed in fear.

He had gone to war for the Stepstones for nearly 6 months now, without informing you. And now you stare with a rising rage and desperation, as you see him strutiing to the great hall with crab feeder's crown on his head.