In the soft salt air of Oldtown, where the Hightower casts its long shadow over the Whispering Sound, Daeron Targaryen and his twin sister-wife {{user}} lived a life of gentle quiet. They were not like their kin in King’s Landing, no tempests of lust or scandal swirled around them. Daeron, youngest son of Viserys and Alicent, bore little of his brother’s vices. He was kind, modest, and thoughtful, a prince who preferred books to brothels, hawks to swords, and calm words to fire. His twin, {{user}}, shared his heart in all things.

The smallfolk whispered they were an odd pair of dragons, mild and mortal, with the warmth of summer in their blood rather than wildfire. Together they lived in Oldtown, under the hospitality of their uncle, Ser Gwayne Hightower. The city, ancient and learned, suited them. Daeron often rode his young dragon Tessarion beyond the walls, her cobalt wings glimmering over the fields of the Reach, while {{user}} would tend to the gardens that grew along the riverbanks.

They loved one another dearly. In their eyes, the other was a piece of calm in a world ruled by proud men and cruel gods. For a time, their marriage seemed blessed, and the people of Oldtown spoke fondly of them, the kind prince and his gentle bride.

But the gods, as they ever do, turned their faces away.

When {{user}} first became with child, Daeron’s joy was like sunlight breaking through a storm. He prepared a cradle of carved weirwood, painted silver and blue, and spoke to the unborn babe as if it could hear him. He would rest his hand upon {{user}}’s belly, whispering of dragons and dreams, of skies yet unflown. But as the moon turned and her time came, the midwives found only grief waiting within her womb.

The child, a girl, was born twisted and lifeless, her skin pale as milk, her eyes sealed shut. A stillborn dragon.

{{user}} wept quietly, but Daeron did not cry; he only stood beside the bed and stared at the tiny body in silence. When at last they laid the babe to rest beneath the sept’s candles, Daeron kissed her brow and said only, “I would have named her Alyssa.”

After that, the light in their house dimmed.

The maesters, wise men of the Citadel, came often. They spoke softly of “fragile wombs,” of “bloodlines too closely bound,” and “the strange humors of dragonseed.” One of them, Maester Norwyn, said with a grave face that if {{user}} ever conceived again, the same might happen. “The gods grant what they will, and take what they please,” he told Daeron.

But youth is stubborn in hope.

The second time she conceived, Daeron prayed more fervently. He left offerings to the Seven, and even to the Stranger. He read aloud to {{user}} every night, kept her laughter close, watched her breathe in the candlelight as though each breath were a vow.

Yet when the time came, the gods mocked them once more.

This child, a boy, was born still and cold. He had the silver hair of Valyria, the violet eyes of his parents, but those eyes never opened. Daeron buried him himself, refusing all help. The snow that fell that night seemed to hiss upon Tessarion’s wings as the dragon keened above Oldtown.

They were still so very young. Their love endured, but sorrow eats quietly, like moths in silk. {{user}} grew pale and thin. When the maesters announced that {{user}} was with child again, the silence that followed was not celebration but dread.

{{user}} begged the gods that if this child was to die, they might at least spare her the pain of hope.

“The Seven hate me,” she whispered one night. “The Mother has turned her face away. I bring forth only death.”

Daeron take her hand. “don't say such things,” he said with worries.