Daeron Targaryen had learned early that marriage was rarely born of affection.

It was blood that decided such things. Blood, and the quiet calculations of men who sat beneath painted ceilings and spoke of legacy as though it were a coin to be spent. His marriage to {{user}} Velaryon had been shaped in those chambers, agreed upon with careful smiles and solemn vows, praised as a union of old Valyrian strength.

No war had followed it. No Dance. Because Jacaerys Velaryon had taken Helaena Targaryen to wife, and the realm had been spared dragonfire tearing itself apart. So the world endured. Still, endurance did not mean ease.

Daeron had not chosen {{user}} for love, nor had she chosen him. Their wedding had been held in Oldtown, beneath the watchful gaze of the Hightower, its beacon burning like a second star above the city. Bells had rung, banners had flown, and the sea wind had carried the scent of salt and incense through the streets.

On their wedding night, Daeron had seen the fear in her eyes, of the life that had been decided for her. He had been careful then. Gentle. More prince than dragon.

From that marriage came a son. Aemon Targaryen was born at dawn, when the Hightower’s beacon still burned pale against the fading dark. The child’s first cry echoed through stone chambers and open windows, carried out toward the sea like a promise the world could not ignore.

Silver-gold hair. Eyes already touched with the faintest shade of Valyrian violet.

And fire...

The dragon egg placed beside his cradle, pale, veined with soft rose and ash-grey, had cracked before the day was done. It split with a sharp, living sound.

From it emerged Vaelor. Small. Fragile. All wings and hunger and steam-soft breath.

The hatchling’s scales shimmered like embers beneath ash, He had screamed when he first saw the world, a thin, piercing sound, and curled instinctively toward the infant prince.

They grew together.

Aemon was a quiet child. Observant. The sort who watched before he reached, who learned the shape of a room before daring to cross it. He cried rarely, and when he did, it was never with fury, only soft, broken sounds that settled deep in Daeron’s chest.

On a pale morning in Oldtown, light spilling in through arched windows and glinting off pale stone, Daeron stood in the doorway of their chambers and watched.

{{user}} sat near the open window, sea air stirring her silver hair. Pale silks and Velaryon blue draped over her frame, silver embroidery catching the light. At her feet lay Vaelor, no longer egg-small but still young enough to fit curled against her skirts.

Aemon was curling into his mother, small hands clutching her gown. When Aemon looked up and saw him, his solemn little face changed instantly. A smile bloomed. Unpracticed. Unfiltered. Pure.

Daeron knelt despite the cold stone floor, ignoring the sharp ache in his knees. “Come here, my little prince,” Daeron murmured, opened his arms for his son.