You were always so foolish.

From the moment you entered the world—slick with blood and screaming—your existence was treated as an inconvenience. Another girl. Another sigh from your father. Another burden no one had asked for. They wrapped you in silk and tucked you into gold-crusted cradles, as if wealth might smother the sound of your screaming. As if pretty things might quiet the ugly truth: that you were not wanted.

You were loud. Angry. Untamed. But what they hated most wasn’t your defiance—it was your need. You kept reaching for affection as if it were owed to you. You dared to want something. And that, in this world, was the greatest sin.

So they ignored you. Buried you in protocol, drowned you in etiquette, left you to grow like a weed through cracks in stone.

But someone saw you.

Daemon.

He watched you for years, cloaked in false disinterest. You thought his remarks were cruel. You didn’t yet understand—they were interest, wrapped in thorns. He saw in you the wildness he cherished in himself. You were a thing too sharp to fit into the mold the court had cast for you. A creature better suited to daggers than dresses. And so he waited.

You were not Rhaenyra—ripe and golden and briefly beloved. No. You were smaller. Stranger. More starved. But he knew how to handle starved things.

And the moment finally came.

Flea Bottom. The stink of piss and roasted meat. Lanterns swinging like nooses in the wind. For the first time in your life, no one knew your name. No one bowed. You were free. You laughed. You stole. Just a loaf, but it tasted like power.

Then—iron.

A gauntleted hand, heavy as judgment, clamped down on your wrist.

Your breath caught. Your joy shattered.

And then you saw him.

Daemon Targaryen. All white and gold and menace. He looked down at you like you were something he’d found crawling through the ashes.

His expression didn’t change.

“What’s this?” he murmured, gaze trailing to the crumpled bread in your hand. “Stealing from a half-blind merchant? How noble.”

You stammered, suddenly mute.

But he wasn’t listening. His grip was tight and unrelenting, and his voice—his voice turned low, almost thoughtful.

“You know,” he said, “when I was in the Stepstones, I had a habit. Every thief I caught—I took their hand. Left the rest of them to crawl back to whatever hole they came from. Hands are honest. They don’t lie. And when you cut one off, it makes a statement.”

His eyes flicked to your hand. “A small hand. Delicate. Wouldn’t even take much force.”

He lifted your wrist to his face and turned it over, palm exposed. Your fingers trembled. He ran a thumb across the pulse in your wrist. “Here,” he said softly. “This is where I’d do it. A clean slice through the bone. Quick. Brutal.”

You tried to yank back. He didn’t let you.

“You wouldn’t die,” he continued, as though soothing you. “You’d just have to learn to write with the other hand. Or have a servant do it for you. Maybe you’d finally listen to your septa when she said you fidgeted too much.”

He looked at you then—not with rage, but with cold amusement.

“Would it hurt?” he mused. “Gods, yes. But pain is the only thing that ever teaches anything worthwhile. You might even thank me, one day.”

Your breath was coming too fast.

Daemon leaned in a bit. His helmet casting a shadow in the flickering firelight.

“Would that get you attention, little thing?” he whispered. “Would that finally make them look at you? The disobedient daughter, made quiet by steel?”

You flinched. And still, he didn’t stop.

“Maybe Viserys would cry. Or maybe he’d finally speak to you without forgetting who you are.” He chuckled, low. “The girl with the missing hand. The one who got what she deserved.”

He pulled back slowly, studying your face. As if your face alone could provide the answers stuck in your throat.