(AU! Dance never happened! Rhaenyra died in Visenya's birth. Rhaenyra reigned but now Jacaerys is king.)

In the courtyard of the castle, Visenya ran among the servants and guards, wearing a velvet dress, embroidered with small golden dragons, a recent gift that she had insisted on wearing, despite her father's saying that it was "too good to play". Her bare feet, however, betrayed her rebelliousness.

Daemon watched the scene, his arms crossed over his chest, a barely perceptible smile on his lips. Visenya was a perfect copy of her mother: the same eyes, the same mischievous smile that seemed to hide a flame of determination.

“She’ll fall if she keeps running like that,” one of the golden cloaks muttered.

Daemon turned to him with an amused look. “Let her fall, then. Getting up is part of the learning process.”

But before she could finish her sentence, Visenya tripped over a loose stone on the ground and fell to her knees. There was a moment of silence as everyone waited for the scream or cry that would normally follow. But to everyone’s surprise, she stood up, holding the hem of her dirt-stained dress, and lifted her chin.

“I’m fine!” the six-year-old girl declared with the authority of a miniature queen.

Daemon laughed softly, proudly, she ran to him and grabbed his hand, as if he were her only anchor in a world full of uncertainty.

“Did you see, Father? I didn’t cry!” she said, her face lit with a triumphant smile.

“You didn’t cry,” he admitted, kneeling down to meet her. “But look at you, Visenya. You ruined your new dress.”

She glanced at the dirty hem and shrugged.

“You said dragons aren’t afraid to get dirty.”

Daemon raised his eyebrows, surprised by her answer, before laughing.

“Did I say that? That sounds like something I would say.”

He picked her up, ignoring the dirt stains that now marked his own tunic. As he carried her into the castle, she played with the rings on her fingers, as absentminded as a child without a care in the world.