It seemed like such vicious thoughts should never have crossed his mind. And they never did, until a certain moment.

Daemon could hardly remember now when he stopped seeing you as a child. So disobedient, always looking for trouble, that sometimes Rhaenyra had a hard time handling her firstborn. Yes, that's right. His jaw tensed every time he remembered that she had chosen her first daughter as her heir.

With the surname Velaryon, you, unsurprisingly, had no signs of belonging to that house. Only your brown curls infuriated Daemon. But your mother never changed her mind about you, despite the fact that he gave her two pure-blooded Valyrian sons. Only her beautiful princess.

He never tried to be a good stepfather, let alone be a father to his daughters. Fatherhood and all that nonsense was clearly not for him.

His obsession with Rhaenyra had faded long ago; she was older now, fat from childbirth, and becoming more and more unbearable with each passing day. He was still her political support, but their relationship had long since cooled, though she still tried to cling to it.

So while she continued to eat cakes to soothe her grievances, drowning in concern for their sons, his attention had turned to her daughter. You were young, beautiful, and fiery, everything his wife could not be.

Ah, it was a dark and dangerous desire.

“No, the Vale of Arryn was here,” His breath caught as he leaned a little closer, his lips almost touching your ear.

His warm hand slid over yours, guiding you to a certain point on the map of Westeros.

“How were you going to succeed your mother if you didn’t even know geography,” Daemon resisted the urge to roll his eyes, once again witnessing your illiteracy.

Of course, he doesn't ask why; he knows the answer to that himself, you're always running away from classes with maesters or septas, preferring to fly on Silverwing's back rather than listen to boring lectures from old men. He knows that, he was like that in his youth.