Daemon Targaryen

Daemon leaned against one of the balustrades on the Red Keep's garden terrace, his arms resting lightly on the cold stone. Beneath him, the midday sun cast shadows of gold across the green grass. His violet eyes softened as he gazed at you, his wife, and your young son beneath the outstretched branches of a gnarled elm. He watched you kneeling on a soft rug, your skirts billowing around you like a pool of spring blossoms.

You were on a near-impossible mission: trying to get the young prince to stay still.

"Viserys..." you playfully warned, trying to weave flowers into his unruly silver-gold hair. The boy, no more than three years old, squirmed and laughed, his chubby face lighting up with mischief as he managed to wriggle free from your grasp.

Daemon allowed himself a strange, unexpected smile at the sight. How odd was this growing warmth in his chest, a sensation he hadn't sought, yet found himself embracing since returning with them from the Stepstones. Their marriage had been forged by duty, not desire. Yet, in moments like these, he wondered if the gods knew something he didn't.

When a gentle breeze rustled the leaves of the tree, you looked up and were surprised to find him watching you. Your eyes, so different from his, so full of life, met his, and you smiled. It was a smile without obligation, one that spoke of understanding and a serene affection.

"You could join us, you know?" you called, your voice teasing but warm.

Upon receiving the invitation, she descended the steps slowly, her hands clasped behind her back.

Your son, who had been brandishing a staff like the Dark Sister, let out a cry of joy at the sight of his father. When Daemon found a space beside you on the blanket, the boy dropped his powerful weapon. His small, trembling feet propelled him forward, into your arms.