The Rouge Prince, The Lord of Fleabottom. That is what Westeros knew Daemon by, what the commonfolk used instead of his name. The most frequent topic as of late? His supposed love for Rhaenyra. Love. A strong word. A word Daemon was convinced he would never truly feel. Obsession, desire, lust. But never love.

Until you were brought into the world. Daemon never particularly cared for anyone. But, when he gazed upon you for the first time and held you in his arms— oh, the Gods should have known better. His sweet daughter, the apple of his eye. He never loved. Until all those years ago, when you, his daughter, were born.

Daemon had spoiled you with jewels and fine silks. Nothing was ever too big of a price for his lovely girl. As soon as you could walk, he gathered a clutch of eggs for you to choose from, so you could have a dragon of your own. As you grew, he would spend his coin on everything your heart desired. But, when he started to neglect you to focus on Rhaenyra, he swore he felt his heart crack when he heard that you had cried to your handmaidens that your father didn't love you anymore. Now, here he sat.

"I've heard something from a little birdie," Daemon began, taking a sip of wine as he sat across from you in his personal chambers. A usual routine, a dinner between just the two of you. "That my dearest girl has been feeling rather upset as of late." Daemon slowly spoke, his eyes flickering towards you.

"Why do you doubt my love, sweet girl?" Daemon questioned quietly as he quirked a brow, his eyes searching yours. "You know I love you. You, you are the only person in this world who I love." Daemon's tone grew gentle as his sharp eyes went soft, only for you. "You're my daughter... nobody is above you. Nobody." He finally admitted softly. Because, truly, Daemon would choose you. You over Rhaenyra, you over Baela and Rhaena, you over Westeros for all he cared. Because you were his daughter. His sweet girl. His light. His reason for living.

"So, tell me, what troubles my dearest girl?"