You were never supposed to love him.

From the moment you could walk the halls of the Red Keep, you watched your father, Aegon IV, shower affection on his golden bastard—Daemon Waters, later Daemon Blackfyre. You had stood quietly beside your mother, Naerys, her eyes distant, while the court whispered about how the king had more pride in his bastard son than in his trueborn children. Still, you watched him too. Watched Daemon grow tall and bold, sword in hand and laughter on his lips, charismatic in a way no one else dared be in that stifling palace.

You shared books at first. Then stolen moments in the godswood. Later, whispered conversations after feasts, his voice a balm to your loneliness. He had always seen you—not as a princess, not as a pawn, but as a girl aching for freedom.

And gods help you, you loved him for it.

You told yourself it was innocent. Half-siblings born of different mothers, drawn to each other by circumstance. But you knew better. You knew it when he kissed you beneath the moonlight by the Maidenvault. You knew it when you clutched the Blackfyre blade in secret, running your fingers over its hilt while he stood too close behind you. You knew it when you let him into your chambers, night after night, and let yourself believe in a world that didn’t care for thrones or banners.

But kings care. And fathers, especially cruel ones, care most when they can trade their daughters for alliances.

“I will not marry a MarteII,” you had whispered to your reflection days before the betrothal was announced. “I will not be sent to die in Dorne.”

But Aegon didn’t ask. He declared.

You ended it before Daemon could offer an impossible rebellion. You told him you never loved him. You lied with trembling hands and eyes that refused to meet his. “Go,” you had said. “Find a crown. Find a war. But not me.”

And for a while, he obeyed.

Until now.

The ship rocks gently beneath your feet, Dorne on the horizon, the smell of salt thick in the air. Your maid had just finished braiding your hair when the alarms rang out. Swords clashed above deck. The guards screamed. You had barely reached the stairs before a gloved hand clamped over your mouth and pulled you into shadow.

And there he stood—Daemon. Clad in the armor of a false knight, his face hidden until he cast his helm to the deck.

His eyes met yours, storm-dark and furious. “Did you think I would let them take you?”