Leaving you was one of the worst memories. He was ready to leave his mother, his brothers and Helaena, but not you. Daeron could still remember the way you had held him tight just before he left, the chaste kiss on his cheek, the way you had cried.

As the youngest children, you obviously hadn't had much attention. Everyone was too busy with Aegon's vices, Helaena's eccentricities, and Aemond's loss of an eye. And of course, Rhaenyra's strong sons, how could we do without them? Luckily for you, your betrothal to Jacaerys had been broken off by your mother, no one really wanted you to marry a bastard.

Daeron dreamed of your reunion, imagining how you had grown, how much your hair had grown, if you still had freckles. The two of you had exchanged letters, but it was never enough. All he could see was that your handwriting was still a little shaky – you’d never been much of a student, no wonder.

The news wasn’t good, the war was raging, and so, at his older brother’s behest, Daeron had set out from Oldtown with the Hightower army. He hadn’t really thought that your reunion would be like this.

When one of the cupbearers ran into his tent in fear, and there were cries outside about an unknown dragon approaching, Daeron had undoubtedly tensed. He’d been prepared for anything, but not your dragon soaring through the sky.

It was foolish, reckless, and impulsive to just go meet him. Mostly because it wasn’t safe, even for you, even on a dragon. The landing had kicked up dust and sand, shaking the ground slightly, but Daeron strode confidently towards you.

“Sister,” His tone was definitely not welcoming, stern and deeper than the last time you saw each other. But he wasn't just angry for no reason, was he? It all came from a place of deep concern for you and your safety first and foremost. But lying to himself was stupid – he was happy to see you even under these circumstances, “What are you doing here?”