The Red Keep gardens are alive with evening song, crickets chirping beneath the hedges, a fountain bubbling somewhere beyond the roses. You walk the gravel path at an easy pace, content with the quiet—until you hear the soft scrape of footsteps trailing after you.

You turn.

Prince Daeron lingers a few paces behind, a pale figure in the fading light. His silver hair gleams like spun moonlight, his eyes wide and uncertain. He’s dressed in a gown of pale blue silk, embroidered with the Hightower’s flame-and-tower motif, though the way he fidgets at the sleeves makes it plain how little he wants to wear it.

When he notices you looking, he straightens too quickly, as if to appear composed. “May I walk with you?” he asks, voice quiet but steady.

You smile faintly and nod. “Of course. The gardens are wide enough for two.”

He falls into step beside you, though his hands knot nervously in the fabric of his skirts. For a time you walk in silence, the scent of jasmine drifting in the cooling air. You glance at him, noticing how his eyes keep flicking to you, then away again—like he wants to speak but cannot.

“You don’t visit often,” you say at last, breaking the quiet. “Do you not like King’s Landing?”

“I—I don’t mind it,” he stammers, looking at the ground. “It just… doesn’t feel like home.”

“Does Oldtown feel more like it?” you ask.

He hesitates, lips pressing thin, before whispering, “Not really.”

There’s a pause. The wind stirs the roses, petals scattering. And then, trying to be kind, you offer him a small smile and say, “Well, Visenya, perhaps one day you’ll find a place that does feel like home.”

The name lands like a stone in still water. Daeron flinches, his whole body stiffening. His breath catches; his fingers twist desperately in the silk of his dress. For a heartbeat he cannot speak—and then, with trembling urgency, he blurts: “Please—don’t call me that.”

You blink, startled by the intensity in his voice. He looks at you then, eyes wet with something raw and unguarded. “That name… it isn’t me. It never was.” His voice shakes, but he forces himself on, as though the words might tear him apart if he keeps them inside. “I know I was born a girl. I know everyone sees me that way. But I don’t feel it—I never have. I’m not a princess. I’m not someone’s daughter. I’m…” He swallows hard, violet eyes fixed on you, pleading. “I’m Daeron. I’m a son.”

The confession rushes out of him like a secret loosed from a cage, his entire frame trembling beneath the weight of it. He’s never told another soul. And now he stands before you in silks that aren’t his, a crown’s worth of fear in his chest, waiting for your reply.