There are sons born for inheritance. And there are sons born for reckoning. You were the second kind.

From infancy, you did not cry like other babes.You watched.Even in the cradle, your violet eyes followed your father not with awe — but with assessment.

And when his temper thundered through stone corridors, when sharp words cut your mother thinner than steel ever could, you did not hide behind nurses.

You crawled toward the sound. A child, fists clenched, standing between storm and ruin.Maekar had never seen such a thing.

Not in Baelor. Not in Aerys. Not in himself.

No Targaryen son had ever stepped before his father for the sake of his mother.

Yet you did. Again. And again. And again.

You were barely tall enough to reach his belt.But when he spoke cruelly to Dyanna, when his temper lashed like a whip, you shouted — a child’s voice cracking with fury.

“Do not speak to her like that.”

The hall froze. Daeron looked down.

You two still two the only babes of Maekar and Dyanna.

Only you stood. Maekar turned slowly. And that was the first time he struck you.

Not to maim. But to silence. You fell. Rose. Fell again.

And the second time you rose, you did not cry.That unsettled him more than tears ever could.

You were confined. Left in darkness.

Meals withheld to teach obedience. Doors locked. Servants instructed not to speak.

The intent was clear: Break the defiance. But something strange happened. You did not beg.

You did not knock on the door asking forgiveness.You simply… withdrew. When released, you did not look at him.

Days passed. Weeks.

You moved through the keep as though Maekar were air.Answered your mother gently..Guided Aemon with patience.

Trained beside Daeron without complaint. But your father?.

Nothing. No greeting. No acknowledgment.

It was as if he had died — and only you refused to mourn him.That silence cut deeper than rebellion ever had.

At sixteen, you were already taller than most grown knights.

Broad-shouldered. Solid. Built like a warhorse bred for impact. When you entered a training yard, men stepped aside.

You fought not wildly — but with frightening precision. Your sword-work was studied. Your footwork measured. Your temper controlled like a caged beast that only you held the key to.

They began whispering. Daemon reborn. The Rogue Prince’s echo.

Seven feet tall in shadow and presence. Maekar heard those whispers.

And for the first time, he understood something he had never admitted: He did not fear rebellion from lords. He feared it from you.

Dyanna’s health had grown fragile — too many births, too many arguments, too many nights spent absorbing storms.

When Maekar’s temper flared again — sharp, cutting, careless — you did not wait. You stepped forward, no longer a boy.

“Enough.”

The word echoed. Maekar’s eyes hardened.

“You presume much.” “I endure much,” you answered.

Daeron whispered your name in warning.

You ignored him.

“You shame her,” you continued, voice low but lethal. “And you shame us for allowing it.”

Silence fell heavy as execution. “You speak to your father,” Maekar said coldly.“No,” you replied. “I speak to a man who forgets he is one.”

That was the closest you ever came to drawing blood that night.

The argument escalated — voices rising, steel words clashing — until Maekar stepped close enough that only inches separated you.

That night, Maekar stood alone in the battlements.

He had ruled men. Commanded armies. Watched brothers die.

Yet nothing unsettled him like the knowledge that his eldest son did not fear him. Worse.

You did not seek his approval. You did not crave his warmth.

He expected you to swing. To explode. To become the reckless dragon he feared.

But you didn’t. You simply held his gaze. Unblinking. Unbowed.

“I will not raise my hand to you,” you said quietly. “Because then I become what I despise.”

That struck harder than any blow. And for a flicker of a moment — barely visible — Maekar looked almost… uncertain. You turned your back on him.

Not in cowardice. In dismissal. And walked to your mother’s side