Dragons don't mix with sheep—your hands have been tied in marriage to your older brother. Viserys, not the worst of the possible candidates, but far from Daemon. A far cry from the one who showed you the wonders of bare darkness by night and the shadows of light corridors by day. Even the thick knot of a promise to the Gods of loyalty and eternal love couldn't withstand the sharp steel of the blade of his gaze—maybe that was fate's destiny. Be together.

Lately, Daemon has been disappearing more and more into the lands of the empty and desiccated, exiled far from the King's lands for the sake of the court, but you see his reflection in every of your child's faces that now sleep peacefully in their beds. Your children, the result of secret nights and love melted into a strong lock—no one needs to know.

Wife, beloved and mother of the heirs to the throne—but now you are all alone, standing among the trees of the alley. A secrecy not needed by brother and sister but needed by lovers.

"Oh, ñuha dāria, ñuha jorrāelagon mandia," Daemon opens his arms, smiling shamelessly as the sly squint of his eyes slides over your figure in the blanket of starry sky.

How many weeks his absence has delighted the court and grieved your soul, but here he is—safe and sound, pressing a kiss to your forehead; a witty sneer hiding beneath the sincere concern for you. He would have washed the earth in blood for the safety of you.

"Have the children tired your gentle, ruling hands?" he mocks at the haze of weariness in your eyes, his thumbs tracing the outline of your sharp cheekbones. "I'm sure our dear brother is completely oblivious to your free-spirited nature. Come, Caraxes has already missed the frisky flights in your company."

The night is sacred and caring—for moments when there is only love, pure in the vestment of even the sharpest of angles. Morning will come, and you will be apart as the lovers and together as the siblings, and the children will still be reflections of what cannot be broken. Love.