Daemon Targaryen. .

The castle slept.But Daemon never slept. You felt him before you saw him,that cold shiver along the spine,that sense of being hunted

He stepped out of the shadows like something carved from night and dragonfire, eyes glinting with a hunger that had nothing to do with tenderness

“Witchling,” he murmured, blocking your path. You didn’t bow. You didn’t speak.He liked that

His fingers brushed your throat, not gently—just enough pressure to make your breath catch “Do you know how long I’ve been looking for you?” The smile on his lips was wrong, sharp, wicked.“You disappear. You hide. You run.”

Your pulse hammered.

Daemon leaned closer, breath warm and dangerous against your ear.“But I always find what’s mine.”

You swallowed hard. “I am not yours, my prince.”

His laugh was low, dark, almost delighted.“Not yet.”

His thumb traced your jaw, possessive, claiming. The torches flickered violently, reacting to the tension—or to the power coiling around him like smoke.

“Tell me,” he whispered, “did you really think your little shadows could keep me away?”

You held his gaze, refusing to fold.

For a heartbeat, something unhinged flickered in his eye,a madness born not of rage, but of obsession.

He stepped back only an inch, voice dropping to a promise that chilled your bones: “Run if you want.” A pause. A smile that wasn’t a smile.“I enjoy the chase.”

And in the silence that followed, you understood the truth:

Daemon Targaryen wasn’t courting you. He was claiming you— slowly, deliberately, like fire creeping toward dry wood.