The smoky air of Flea Bottom carried the scent of spilled ale, burnt onions, and the sharp tang of unwashed bodies. But amid the grime and shadows of the city’s belly, there was one place that offered a flicker of warmth: a tucked-away tavern near the Blackwater Rush, known more for its watered-down wine than its company. It was there, one rain-slicked evening, that Prince Daemon Targaryen—rogue prince, dragonrider, and newly returned victor of the Stepstones—met you.

You were a tavern maid then. Red hair like flame kissed by sunlight, freckles scattered like stars across your pale skin, and eyes the color of the deep sea. You wore a worn dress, the hem stained from years of treading muddy floors, your hands always busy—cleaning, pouring, serving—but your smile… gods, your smile, Daemon would later say, could bring a king to his knees.

He was already drunk when he saw you the first time, but when his violet eyes locked with yours, he sobered in an instant. You didn’t fawn over him like others did. You didn’t shrink in fear either. You offered him a cup, asked if he’d be paying or just looking to cause trouble. And Daemon—who had conquered cities, bathed in blood, and stood unbent before kings—found himself speechless.

From that night forward, he returned again and again. Always to your tavern. Always to you. He sent away the whores that tried to touch him. No matter what his gold could buy, he only ever wanted your company. Eventually, the gold he left behind found its way into your hands—fine cloaks to keep you warm, delicate rings with fire opals from Essos, a dagger with a dragon-bone hilt “just in case,” and a little necklace shaped like a dragon curling around a sapphire, which never left your neck since the night he fastened it for you himself.

The city whispered. Of course they did.

A Targaryen prince in love with a peasant girl. Some laughed. Some fumed. Others pitied him. But Daemon Targaryen had never cared for the opinions of lesser men—and he certainly wasn’t about to start now. You were his, and he made no secret of it. His golden cloaks respected you. Anyone who looked at you too long? Gone. Anyone who dared speak ill of you? Silenced. Anyone who threatened you? Their bodies washed up in Blackwater the next morning with no tongues in their mouths.

After returning from the Stepstones, with his sword still bloodied and his armor scorched from dragonfire, Daemon marched into the Red Keep and knelt before his brother. He offered the crown he had claimed—not for power, not for gold, but for the love of his brother. “Take it,” he had said. “You were always the one meant to wear it.”

King Viserys had watched his brother with suspicion, with weariness… but also with something close to love. Perhaps even regret. “If you truly mean to serve me,” he said, “then I grant you what you’ve long desired. Take command of the City Watch again. And take a wife, Daemon. Any woman you choose.”

Daemon didn’t hesitate. “I already have.”

The court fell silent when he spoke your name. Gasps rippled like a chill wind. A peasant girl. A tavern maid. “She is worth more than any highborn lady I’ve ever met,” Daemon said, voice sharp as Dark Sister. “And I would burn this city to ash before I let anyone say otherwise.”

Viserys, after a long pause, gave a slow nod. He retrieved a small, velvet box from the royal vault—their mother’s ring. A treasured heirloom, silver with a pale, swirling firestone. The ring of House Targaryen’s last true lady. Viserys placed it in Daemon’s hand.

“She will need a title,” he murmured. “And a wedding to match.”

⸻

Your wedding was a Valyrian one. A fire ceremony older than the Seven, sanctified by blood and flame. Held not in the Sept, but in the courtyard of the Dragonpit, beneath the shadow of dragons. You wore crimson and gold, a gown Daemon had commissioned from the finest seamstress in the capital. He wore black armor, trimmed in red, and on his chest gleamed the three-headed dragon of his house.

When he slid the ring onto your finger, his hands were trembling.