The Dayne estate on the coast was not built of ancient, looming stone, but of pale, salt-bleached concrete, vast spans of floor-to-ceiling glass, and wrap-around balconies that hung precariously over the crashing, white-tipped black of the Atlantic. In the summer heat, the air-conditioned interior smelled of expensive sunscreen, dried lavender, and the sharp, iodine bite of the sea.

To Daeron, it was merely another gilded cage, though perhaps one with a better view of the horizon he so desperately wanted to drown in.

His mother, Dyanna, had fled the suffocating, mahogany-paneled silence of the Targaryen townhouses in the city, bringing with her the children who could be bribed or coaxed into the car. Aemon had stayed behind, buried under towering stacks of medical journals and prep-school textbooks, preferring the hum of his desk lamp to the blinding glare of the coast. But the rest had come.

For two weeks, the house was a storm of noise. There was Daella, constantly on her phone, complaining about her things; Aerion, restless and pacing the manicured lawns like a caged predator, looking for a fight or an expensive car to borrow; and little Aegon—Egg—whose knees were already scraped red from climbing the jagged sea walls. And then, there was you.

You were the daughter of Dyanna’s only sister—the sister who shared Dyanna’s laugh, her sharp-eyed intuition, and her quiet, resilient grace. In a family of loud, warring egos and silver-plated tempers, you and your mother were the only harbor.

Your mother was Dyanna's soulmate, the one she called when the weight of Maekar’s cold, demanding ambition became too heavy to bear. Naturally, you had inherited that same quiet gravity. You were the one who kept the peace, the one who moved through the chaos with a calm, unbothered rhythm, tending to the younger cousins and your own siblings when the adults retreated into their private worlds of white wine and old grievances.

On the fourth afternoon, the heat was a physical weight. The mothers had gone—slat-hats, linen trousers, and keys to the SUV jingling as they departed for the boutique galleries and coastal markets in the nearby town, leaving a rare, heavy quiet in their wake.

Daeron had stayed behind, as he always did. He lay on the long, cream-colored sofa in the sunken living room, an ice-cold glass of gin and tonic sweating onto his bare collarbone, his pale blue eyes staring blankly at the slow-turning ceiling fan.

He was twenty-eight, exhausted down to his marrow, his mind a chaotic web of nightmares he couldn’t shake and expectations he had dropped in the dirt years ago.

Through the sheer, drifting curtains of the veranda, he watched you.

You were sitting on a wide, low swing on the shaded terrace, the baby Rhae cradled against your chest. She was barely a year old, fussy from the humidity, her small, damp forehead pressed into the crook of your neck.

You wore a simple, loose dress of flowing satin silk, with spaghetti straps in bows ribbons, your hair pinned up with a silver clip, a few stray tendrils clinging to the side of your face.

Daeron didn’t move. The ice melted in his glass, Diluting the alcohol, but he couldn't tear his gaze away.

To him, women had always been loud, demanding, or deeply disappointed in him.

His sisters ignored his existence; his mother looked at him with a pity that tasted like ash. But you... you were like the cool, blue shadow under a cliffside. You moved with a gentle, deliberate certainty that he, in his trembling, booze-slicked existence, had never known.

"She won't sleep if you stare at her like that," your voice drifted through the screen door, quiet but perfectly clear over the rhythmic hum of the cicadas. "You're radiating anxiety, Daeron. Even the baby can feel it."

Daeron blinked, a lopsided, self-deprecating smile slowly touching his lips. He sat up, the linen of his shirt clinging to his back, and pushed the screen door open. The heat hit him like a physical blow, but the scent of you—something like salt-air, coconut oil, and clean skin—neutralized it.