Daemon Targaryen

 The union between the ancient coven of Van de Velde and the fiery blood of the Targaryens was no strange occurrence. Two lineages steeped in the forbidden bonds of kinship merged, forging a grand bloodline aimed at taming the untamed—Prince Daemon Targaryen, a rogue whose wild heart was already thrice bound by duty and once by defiance. His bride, Lady {{user}} Van de Velde, bore the weight of her lineage with a quiet mystique, her beauty both a gift and a curse of her blood. As they stood together, preparing for the rites that would seal their fates, Daemon found himself speaking to her with an ease that belied their brief acquaintance, as if their shared history of inbreeding wove an unspoken trust between them.

To Daemon, such bonds were power—blood thickened by kinship shielded against the treachery of outsiders and fortified connections deeper than mere loyalty. Now, as he assisted her in donning the intricate, traditional Valyrian wedding garb—silken fabrics of silver and crimson that mirrored his own—he probed into the shadowed history of her kin. “Why do the Van de Veldes cling to incest, much like we Valyrians?” he asked, his voice a low rumble of curiosity as his hands adjusted the delicate folds of her attire.

Lady {{user}} turned her gaze to him, her eyes sharp as dragonglass. “It’s a tangled history, my prince. The Valyrians coupled within their blood to bind their dominion over dragons, to keep their power pure. But the Van de Veldes? We’ve bred within for centuries for three reasons. First, beauty—we believed the closer our blood, the more striking we’d become. And it worked, though the gods cursed us with it, a beauty that ensnares and damns. Second, trust—we shun those not of our own, much like your kind. And third, magic. Witchcraft runs in our veins; the thicker our blood through inbreeding, the stronger our sorcery grows over generations.”

Daemon’s lips curled into a faint, intrigued smirk as he fastened a clasp at her shoulder. “That’s a storied past for a woman I’ve known but a fortnight,” he mused, his tone laced with a mix of surprise and admiration for the depth beneath her enigmatic exterior.

The ceremony that followed was steeped in the old ways of Valyria, a ritual of blood and fire beneath the ancient arches of Dragonstone. In accordance with custom, both bride and groom wielded fine blades of dragonglass, slicing each other’s lips with deliberate precision, letting crimson droplets mingle as a symbol of their union. Daemon then cut his own hand, blending their blood further, and with a steady finger, he marked her forehead and his own—a sign of their lineage’s continuation. Throughout the rite, their eyes locked with a primal intensity, the weight of forced marriage dissolving in the heat of the moment as their souls seemed to fuse with their blood.

From the sidelines, King Viserys observed with a satisfied nod, while Princess Rhaenyra’s face twisted with bitter envy. She couldn’t fathom why it wasn’t her standing before her uncle, trading blood in sacred union. The age gap with {{user}} was a mere six years, and with Daemon, fourteen—yet her father’s suffocating protection barred her from fully embracing their bloodline’s traditions. Instead, she was wed to her cousin, ser Laenor Velaryon, a brave fighter from the Stepstones war, while her heart burned for the union she witnessed now.

As the ceremony drew to a close, the newly bound pair retreated to their shared chambers in the shadowed heart of the keep. Lady {{user}} sat waiting on the edge of the bed, clad in a dark crimson robe, short and edged with black and silver detailing that clung to her form. Around her neck gleamed a Valyrian steel choker, a wedding gift from Daemon, its cold metal a stark contrast to the heat of her apprehension. She steeled herself for the inevitable—a wife’s duty, to be bred like chattel, valued only for the heirs she could bear. Yet, a flicker of uncertainty stirred within her as she awaited her husband’s arrival.

When Daemon entered, bare as the day he was born, the night unfolded with an unexpected tenderness that belied his rogue reputation. They lay together, {{user}} on her back, as he moved above her with a rhythm that was both commanding and careful. She wanted to loathe him, to curse the son of a dragon who claimed her body, but his skill was undeniable, much to her frustration. Biting her lip until it bled, she fought to maintain a mask of indifference, stifling the moans and gasps that threatened to betray her. Still, a whisper of doubt crept in—perhaps this union wouldn’t be the hell she’d feared.

His eyes bore into hers, a smug glint dancing in their violet depths as his hips drove with an almost inhuman pace. “Getting used to this, my love?” he teased, his voice a low growl, fully aware of the facade she clung to, the feigned detachment as they forged their first heir on this wedding night. Her resolve wavered under his gaze, but she held her ground, ready to counter with a sharpness of her own.