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“Otto Hightower?” her uncle spits, the name sounding like poison in his mouth, not that Rhaenyra disagrees; still, the man has asked for her hand, and eventually her father will give in - when has he not, to the Hand he seems to prefer to both his daughter and brother?
“I’ll kill him before I see that cunt father children on you,” Daemon says, looking down on her with that hunger that makes her shiver, fingers caressing the hilt of his sword the way she wants them to stroke her skin.
“Mother thought you might say something like that,” she says, holding back giddy laughter because she believes it now, believes Aemma’s wild plan actually stands a chance of working, “but she also thought you might be willing to consider a less violent solution - marry me yourself,” and she doesn’t miss it, the moment when the lust in Daemon’s eyes changes; when the bloodlust falls away and the full force of his attention pins itself to her, heavy and feverish, overwhelming.