Hotd

The tourney grounds at Highgarden were a riot of color, a stark contrast to the cold, grey stone of Winterfell that Margaret still dreamed of. The air smelled of crushed grass, horse sweat, and expensive perfumes. Margaret sat in the royal box, her fingers tracing the silver embroidery of the Stark direwolf on her gown. Beside her, Princess Rhaenyra was laughing at something Queen Aemma had whispered, but Margaret felt a thousand leagues away.

Her gown was cut high to hide the slight swell of her belly, the secret she carried like a heavy stone. Since that one drunken, desperate night weeks ago, Daemon had treated her like a ghost. He lived in the Red Keep's shadows, returning to their chambers only when the candles had burned low, if he returned at all.

Below, the knights paraded. Ser Criston Cole, a handsome Dornish knight, brought his charger to a halt before Margaret. He lowered his lance, his dark eyes respectful.

"My Lady Margaret," he said, his voice carrying through the quieted crowd. "I seek the favor of the North to carry into the lists. May I have the honor of your token?"

Margaret’s heart hammered. She looked instinctively toward the far end of the field where Daemon sat atop Caraxes’ saddle, his Valyrian steel armor gleaming like dragon scales. He wasn't even looking at her; he was adjusting his gauntlet, seemingly bored.

Biting her lip, Margaret stood. She unpinned the pale blue silk scarf from her wrist—the color of a Winterfell sky—and leaned over the railing. "You have it, Ser Criston. May it bring you victory."

The crowd cheered. The knight took the silk on the tip of his lance, bowed, and rode off.

Only then did Daemon look up. His lilac eyes narrowed into slits of molten silver. The boredom vanished, replaced by a cold, predatory stillness that made the hair on Margaret's neck stand up.

The jousts were a blur of violence. Daemon didn't just win; he dismantled his opponents. When he finally faced Ser Criston in the semi-finals, it wasn't a sport—it was a slaughter. Daemon rode with a ferocity that bordered on madness, unhorsing the Dornish knight so violently that the man’s shield shattered into splinters.

Daemon didn't wait for the herald to announce his victory. He vaulted off his horse, ignored the King’s applause, and marched straight toward the Stark pavilion.

An hour later, Margaret was in their private tent, trying to steady her breathing as she read a tome on Old Valyria. The heavy canvas flap was ripped open so hard the poles groaned. Daemon stormed in, still half-clad in his black plate, smelling of adrenaline and blood.

"Shouldn’t you be sleeping?" Daemon said coldly, nursing a goblet of wine he must have snatched from a passing servant. He stood by the tent opening, silhouetted against the setting sun. "Don't want my heir a tired and whiny brat like his mother."

Margaret flinched, her hand instinctively covering her stomach. "I was merely reading, my lord. I didn't think my presence was required elsewhere, seeing as you’ve spent the last month avoiding me."

Daemon slammed the goblet onto a small wooden table, the wine slopping over the rim. He paced toward her, his shadow looming over the bed. "You gave him your favor."

"He asked politely," Margaret retorted, her Northern pride finally snapping. "You didn't. You haven't spoken a kind word to me since we wed. Why should I give my favor to a husband who treats me like a nuisance he’s forced to endure?"

Daemon grabbed the book from her lap and tossed it across the tent. He leaned down, his face inches from hers. "You are a Stark. My wife. Everything you own, from that silk on your back to the blood in your veins, belongs to the House of the Dragon. You do not give tokens to sell-swords and second sons."

"I am not a piece of furniture, Daemon!" Margaret cried, standing up to face him, despite the way her legs trembled. "I am your wife! I am carrying your child, and you look at me as if I am a stain on your floor. If you want my favor, you have to earn it."

Daemon’s eyes dropped to her belly, his expression unreadable. His hand shot out, not to strike, but to grip her waist, pulling her flush against his cold armor. "Earn it?" he hissed. "I just broke three ribs of the man who dared touch your silk. I tore through every knight on that field to prove that you belong to me."

"You did it for your pride," she whispered, her eyes filling with tears. "Not for me."

Daemon’s grip tightened. The jealousy that had been simmering in him all day finally boiled over. He hated that he cared. He hated that this soft, "spoiled" girl from the North had crawled under his skin.

"I did it because I cannot stand the thought of another man’s eyes on you," he growled, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous vibration. "I ignored you because you make me weak, Margaret. Starks are supposed to be made of ice, yet you are nothing but warmth."

He didn't wait for an answer. He crashed his lips against hers, a kiss that tasted of wine and possessiveness. It wasn't the gentle touch of a husband, but the claim of a dragon.

Margaret gasped into the kiss, her hands knotting in his silver hair. The anger was still there, but so was the desperate hunger of two people who had been lonely in the same room for months.

Daemon lifted her easily, kicking the discarded book out of the way as he pressed her back into the furs of the bed. The sounds of the festival outside—the music, the cheering, the clinking of armor—faded into nothing.

"The next time there is a tournament," Daemon murmured against the skin of her throat, his hands finding the laces of her gown, "you will give your favor to no one but your husband. Do you understand?"

"If you stay," Margaret breathed, her fingers tracing the dragon etched into his breastplate. "If you don't leave me again."

Daemon looked at her then, seeing the fierce Stark fire beneath the "daddy's girl" exterior. He leaned down, his forehead resting against hers. "I'm not going anywhere, little wolf."

That night, the Rogue Prince forgot his wars and his ambitions, finding a different kind of conquest in the arms of the wife he had tried so hard to despise. Outside, the fires of the festival burned bright, but they were nothing compared to the heat inside the tent.