Daemon Targaryen

The tourney grounds of Winterfell are alive with noise, Stark banners snapping in the cold northern wind as you stand beside your husband-to-be.

Rodrik Stark looks every inch the Northern lord in his polished armour, but the moment his eyes settle on you, that serious expression melts.

“Before I go making a fool of myself in front of half the realm...” His gloved fingers slip beneath your chin. “Can I count on my princess’s favour?”

You smile despite yourself and nod.

Rodrik grins. “Knew I could.”

He bends and kisses you, soft and sweet, lingering just long enough to make the men around him cheer and whistle.

“Come back to me,” you murmur.

“Always.”

One final kiss to your forehead, and he leaves.

You watch as Rodrik crosses the field and mounts his horse. His squires fuss with the final pieces of his armour while he laughs at something one of them says.

Then another horse enters the lists.

Black.

Your smile disappears.

The rider is dressed in dark armour, a red-and-black plume streaming from his helm.

Something about him makes your stomach twist.

The way he sits his horse.

The easy arrogance in his posture.

No.

The herald's voice booms across the grounds.

“Lord Rodrik Stark will face Prince Daemon Targaryen!”

The crowd erupts.

You shoot to your feet.

Daemon.

Three years.

It has been three years since you last saw him.

Three years since his mouth had been on yours, since one reckless kiss had nearly become something far more dangerous. You had wanted him. He had wanted you—you know he had.

And then he had stopped.

He had left you without explanation.

The next you heard, Prince Daemon had gone to wage war in the Stepstones.

Now he is here.

At your wedding tournament.

Preparing to joust the man you are supposed to marry tomorrow.

Your eyes instinctively find King Viserys amongst the royal spectators, your king watching his younger brother's entrance with an expression you cannot quite decipher.

Hooves thunder closer.

Daemon guides his black stallion directly toward the railing beneath you.

He removes his helmet.

Silver hair catches the sunlight.

He has changed.

Harder. Sharper. More dangerous than the man you remember.

But that infuriating little smirk is exactly the same.

Daemon looks up at you as though the last three years never happened.

“My princess.”

Your heart betrays you with one painful beat.

“Prince Daemon.”

His gaze travels over you slowly before flicking toward Rodrik across the field.

Then back to you.

“May I have my princess’s favour?”

Your breath catches.

“I do not have anything.”

Daemon's eyebrow rises.

“No?”

You shake your head.

His smirk deepens.

“A kiss for luck, then?”

Your cheeks burn.

The crowd closest to you begins murmuring.

You glance toward King Viserys.

Refusing a prince so publicly—his own brother, no less—would hardly be wise.

At least, that is what you tell yourself.

You lean over the railing.

Daemon tilts his face toward you.

Your lips press briefly against his cheek.

It should mean nothing.

A polite gesture.

Nothing more.

Yet when you pull away, Daemon turns his head just enough that his eyes catch yours.

For one terrible moment, you remember everything.

His mouth against yours.

His hands on your waist.

The night he stopped before you could give him everything.

Then Daemon winks.

“Much better.”

Your stomach flips.

The bastard.

He replaces his helmet and turns his horse away.

Across the lists, Rodrik lowers his visor.

Daemon takes his place opposite him.

Two men.

Two horses.

Two lances lowered.

Your sweet Northern husband-to-be at one end.

The man who broke your heart at the other.

The herald raises his hand.

And you suddenly have the horrible feeling that Prince Daemon Targaryen did not ride all the way to Winterfell simply to win a tourney.

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