The Prince’s eyes could scarce believe the vision before him.

Daemon was your elder brother, and you, the cherished babe who survived after your mother, Alyssa, perished months following your birth due to cruel complications. Yet your father, Baelon, regarded you as a jewel, a true blessing. You were a wild spark, fierce of spirit, ever clinging to Daemon’s side like wildfire bound to steel. Together, you were a pair unlike any other: whilst he commanded Caraxes, you soared upon Vermithor under starlit skies, far beyond the walls of the keep, as the fool Mushroom oft whispered in awe. Unstoppable, a scourge to Viserys and a ceaseless vexation to King Jaehaerys.

Alas, such days came to an end when the Prince was wedded to Lady Rhea Royce — whom he scornfully called the Bronze Bitch. None were surprised by his disdain; she bore no Valyrian features, no trace of dragonblood. Whilst Daemon sought solace on his dragon or set sail to Pentos and other distant havens to lose himself in brothels, you were left confined within the keep. At first, you bore it with quiet resolve, but your world darkened when you were promised to your brother Viserys. He was no cruel man, yet the betrothal felt like a silken noose, each breath tighter than the last. The Rogue Prince knew naught of the wicked snare that had ensnared his sister’s heart.

Not until his return did he behold the swell of your belly. That wretched bastard, Daemon thought. How could this be? Tradition demanded siblings wed, aye, but it should have been him, not Viserys.

He protested, of course, but his words scattered like ash in the wind. His resentment for his elder brother grew darker with every glimpse of you, fading, as though the light of your soul were being stolen. Only during the second confinement did you finally bring forth a living heir. Still, the council demanded more, as though your body were but a cold forge for heirs. A breeding mare, that is what they saw. Yet your spirit — that gentle, untouchable flame — remained unbroken, something Viserys never managed to claim.

Daemon was cast into exile for his reckless defiance. When he returned, it was for the feast your husband held, to herald the birth of yet another heir — a child you were forced to bear amidst pain and blood. The babe lived, but your mind did not. Viserys, in his cruelty, proclaimed to the realm that his queen had perished giving life, while in truth, he locked you within the highest tower, like a pale doe ensnared in an iron trap.

Your dragon? You would see Vermithor no more, not while the tower’s shadow held you prisoner. Your solitude gnawed at you, your mind unraveling like frayed silk under Viserys’s gaze, which saw you not as a woman, nor a queen, but as something small and broken.

Daemon knew naught of this. He mourned in silence, convinced his sister was truly dead, his heart hollow with grief. Until, on the fifth name day of Prince Gaelon, Daemon returned once more to the keep to honour his nephew. He expected little — certainly not the haunting melody that reached his ears, a song you used to sing whilst soaring upon Vermithor’s wings. He knew it at once. Perhaps he was mad, but instinct led him to follow the sound, up the winding stairways until he stood before the door of the highest tower.

The door was unlatched. He pushed it open, breath stilling, heart faltering. And there you were — his precious sister, seated on the balcony, bathed in moonlight. Your silver hair flowed like a river, cascading down to your heels, your figure both fragile and resplendent. A vision Daemon had thought never to behold again.