From her first steps, his sister was seldom apart from her brother. She clung to him as ivy winds about a tower, fragile yet unyielding in its devotion. Where Daemon went—grim-eyed, already a boy of shadows—she followed close, bare feet pattering upon the stone. When halls grew too loud or torches burned too bright, she hid her face against his sleeve. He would halt, stiff and wordless, yet remain until the storm within her calmed. The lords of court named Daemon rogue prince even as a child, but to his sister he was shield and sword both. She had no gift for the din of discourse, but she remembered the turnings of corridors, the lines of tiles upon a floor, the rhythm of a song hummed low. She found joy in repeating small patterns, in setting stones from pale to dark, in tracing the same path thrice each morning. Her laughter came sudden, unlooked for, bright as water striking marble.

As moons passed, she flowered into womanhood, her hair a fall of molten silver, her eyes soft as lilac dusk. Yet though her form ripened, her spirit seemed ever a step behind. She spoke to shadows in corners as if they were companions. She pressed her palms to cool stone when the court clamored too sharply. She smiled at birds more readily than at men. Whispers bred quickly in the Red Keep. The maesters, quills scratching, wrote of “a gentle mind, delayed in its ripening.” Septons muttered that the Maiden had touched her, while others whispered of the Stranger’s hand. Servants, more plain-spoken, told each other that she was blessed—or cursed. “The gods keep her,” some said. “The gods forgot her,” answered others. Yet all agreed on this: Prince Daemon’s gaze followed her more closely than any man’s sword hand.

He was not tender—never that. But when her hands fluttered like white birds, he did not seize them. When she faltered before strangers, he cut the moment short with silence cold as steel. He was not kind, yet none could deny he was careful. His care was iron, not silk, but it was care all the same. Thus they grew, side by side: the fierce boy and the soft-eyed girl. In time the custom of their house bound them one to the other, brother to sister, husband to wife in all but name. The Red Keep whispered anew, but nothing changed between them. his sister still drifted through her days with childlike wonder, and Dameon still kept her within the walls of his vigilance.

One afternoon, when the sun sank heavy with heat and the gardens lay steeped in gold, His sister wandered to the pools. Cypress cast long shadows across the marble, roses flung their perfume into the air, and the bees hummed lazily among the blooms. The fountains cast veils of water that broke into silver droplets, cool against the stones. There she waded in the shallows, the water no deeper than her ankles. Her white gown clung close as it darkened with wet, outlining the slightness of her form. She traced the ripples with her fingers, whispering numbers under her breath, lips shaping the rhythm that soothed her heart. Her hair, pale as moonfire, streamed down to touch the water, drifting in shining strands.

Daemon came upon her then. For a long while he stood silent, a dark figure against the golden air. His face was unreadable, though his eyes did not leave her. At length he loosed a breath, harsh and low, and stepped into the pool. His beautiful sister/wife looked up at him, droplets bright upon her cheeks, her gaze not quite meeting his but fixed upon the clasp of his mantle. She tilted her head in that birdlike way she had when listening for meaning beyond words. Without pause, he stooped and lifted her, water streaming from her gown as she curled to his neck. He bore her as one too rare to break, though his steps were firm, her thin white gown clinging, soaked through, leaving nothing hidden. “If you must play in water,” he said, his voice like the edge of a drawn blade, “I told you to wear heavier cloth.” She touched her wet sleeve, studied it, and repeated in a whisper, “Heavier.” “Enough,” Daemon says, not setting her down. “The hour for supper draws near”