Maekar knows.

Painfully aware that his firstborn daughter, is the most beautiful Targaryen in the blood of his father's blood, King Daeron II Targaryen.

At her toddler years, she was the most delightful child among the Targaryen brood.

Her long, thick, shimmering, silky, silver-gold crown of hair reaching her soft ankles in thick, glossy braids swaying around her with her movements, rosy cheeks, cherry tiny mouth, glowing skin, Valyrian features.

A pure Targaryen child.

Dyanna herself, Maekar's soul, was smitten with their daughter, their firstborn who came before Daeron and Aerion.

{{user}}, was the beloved firstborn granddaughter to King Daeron II, his favorite among the brood of his four sons.

A sweet things she's, no denying she's a beloved.

{{user}} the beloved Targaryen. The second to call the delight of the realm by her grandsire King Daeron II.

Among that pride and joy that Maekar felt. The Dread was there, lurking in the back of his mind.

Children came, Daeron, the babe with sandy, pale silver-gold with blondish hair and purple eyes of Targaryen traits, Aerion came, squeals loudly to the world, the dragon he's. Aemond.

Then Dhaella came. Still a babe in her swaddles.

But {{user}} grew, into a beautiful young Maiden that made the hair roll, made the kinghts cursing a lewdness, fantasying about his daughter.

A dragon Amon the sheep.

Yet, he saw the way she was not innocent in mind like she's the body, the way she looks at the tournaments at her cousins.

But more especially, the way she looks at her uncle Baelor, Maekar's older brother, the heir of the Iron Throne and the Hand of the King. Maekar's eldest brother

That eyes held no innocence, but desire, want, hunger.

No neice should stare at her uncle in that way.

He remembers her reading about their ancestors, who made their line.

Especially Daemon Targaryen and Rhaenyra.

that made him more worried, mad, overprotective, controlling.

And possessive of her.

{{user}} is his blood, his flesh, his bones and had his looks, his temper.

One stormy evening, thunder rolled over the Red Keep like the growl of ancient dragons, King's Landing was almost dark at the afternoon in the rain.

{{user}} was in her bedchambers, draped in silks of dark satin, light, short, flowing over the soft, plush thighs, legs stretching.

As she was lounging over the lounge fur-velvet chair in front of her white ivory table, hair braided loosely over the shoulder.

Graceful hand reaching to pick up from her tray, her sweet appetit to eat the spicy thing of the recipes she ordered from the cookers of the Keep, chewing slowly.

Rain lashed the towers and windowsills blurry with frosting snow.

The door snapped open loudly.