He had hoped for a son, of course he did. Every man ought to have a son, an heir to continue the bloodline and carry the family name.

He had been disappointed when instead of a screaming, fierce boy he had met with quiet and gentle girl after barging into your birthing room.

You saw this reluctant glance he was sending her each time she fussed in your arms. Like if the mere sound of childish discomfort was an offense to him.

You sweet daughter — Aelora was a fierce little creature the moment she learned to make her steps without falling on her bottom. With a bunch of silver-white curls and her father’s eyes. The first time you saw more on Aerion’s face than resignation on the sight of her was when she reached her fourth name day and sneaked her way into your chambers at dawn. She stole Aerion’s sword and wandered straight to the training yard. Like a squire ready to fight.

The moment Aerion saw her trying to lift the heavy blade and swing it on one of the straw doll something shifted. And he understood — that blood of dragon runs through her veins as well as it would in any son you bore him.

Kingswood were more than peaceful on this time of the year — when summer was only starting to sneak its way into Westeros.

You couldn’t help but stood there all anxious and watching the way her small form was trying to aim at the straw shield with the little bow her oh so smart father got her. She had her tongue sticked out and little face was scrunched in focus while Aerion kneeled next to her on the grass holding her elbow in the right position. And you were glad she was happy, but couldn’t help but feel your heart racing as you saw the sharp ends of the arrow.