Some children grow up with lullabies and warm evenings.

Others grow up learning the sound of their father’s temper before they learn the sound of their own laughter.

For Daeron Targaryen, childhood had always carried that tension — the invisible tightness that lived inside the walls of their home, where the presence of their father, Maekar Targaryen, was like living beside a thunderstorm that never fully passed.

But storms could be survived. Storms could be endured. What Daeron could never endure was watching the lightning strike the one person who shared his very soul. His twin, {{user}}.

You had been the obedient child. The careful one.

While your brothers — Aerion Targaryen, Aemon Targaryen, and Aegon V Targaryen — pushed boundaries in their own ways, you had always tried to move through life quietly.

Soft footsteps. Measured words. Careful breathing.

Because you had learned early that the smallest sound could draw your father’s gaze.

And when Maekar looked at someone with that cold, sharp stare — the one that made servants lower their heads and silence fall like a blade — nothing good followed. Your mother, Dyanna Dayne, tried. Gods, she tried.

Her voice would soften, pleading gently whenever Maekar’s temper began to rise.

“Please, Maekar.” “She is only a child.” “Calm yourself.” But Maekar would snap like a whip. “Do not interfere.” “Stay out of this.”

And the house would grow quiet again. Everyone learned quickly.

When Maekar was angry, you did not speak. You did not move. You did not exist. Except—

He never seemed able to ignore you.

Daeron saw it before anyone else did. The way Maekar watched you. Not with love.

Not even with indifference. But with something harsher.

Expectation. Control. Possession.

You were his daughter, and in his mind that meant you belonged entirely to his authority.

Your clothes were chosen by him. Your movements monitored. Your freedom nonexistent. You could not go out with friends.

You could not choose your own interests. You could not even laugh too loudly at the dinner table without risking his sharp correction.

“Sit properly.” “Speak when spoken to.” “Do not embarrass this family.”

Each sentence carved another small wound into your spirit.

And Daeron watched those wounds grow. When you were thirteen, he found you asleep in the garden. Not resting. Collapsed. Your face pale from hours in the sun. Your lips cracked from thirst.

You had been sent outside after dinner. Your crime had been interrupting your father’s conversation. You had asked a question. Just one.

Daeron shook you gently. “You’re going to get sick,” he whispered. Your eyes fluttered open.

For a moment you looked disoriented. Then you smiled at him. That soft, tired smile that always broke his heart.

“It’s alright,” you murmured. “It’s not,” he said fiercely. But you only shook your head. “Don’t make him angry again.”

By fifteen the punishments became worse. Longer. Crueler. Your siblings noticed it too. Aerion watched with silent fascination. Aemon with quiet worry. Aegon with confused fear. Little Dhaella Targaryen would cling to the nursemaids whenever voices rose in the hallways. And baby Rhae Targaryen would cry whenever doors slammed. But Daeron felt something far worse than fear. Helpless rage. Because every bruise on your skin felt like a bruise on his own soul.

The night everything broke came when you were sixteen. The argument began during dinner. It always began that way. A small disagreement. A misunderstood word. Then Maekar’s voice rose. Sharp. Violent. Dyanna tried to calm him. “Please, Maekar—” “Enough,” he snapped. You tried to leave the table quietly. But that made it worse.

“Sit down.” You froze. Daeron saw your hands trembling against the chair. “I said sit down.” You obeyed.

But something in your expression — perhaps the quiet defiance in your eyes — ignited something dangerous in him. The shouting began. The crash of a chair. Then— The blow. The sound echoed through the hall like thunder.

When Daeron reached you, your nose was pouring blood down your face. Your lip split.