Prince Daeron was the gentlest and most composed of Queen Alicent’s sons — a rare mixture of courtesy, insight, and quiet strength. Where Aegon mocked and Aemond burned, Daeron observed. Even as a boy, he carried himself like a true knight of the realm. And in time, he proved himself not only a dutiful prince, but a good husband.
He had met you upon his arrival in Oldtown at seven years old, a shy boy newly placed under the care of the Hightowers. You stood beside your father, Ser Gwayne, watching him with wide eyes, your hair caught by the wind.
You wore blue that day — a blue Daeron would always remember, and come to favor.
At first, it had been a childish infatuation: gifting you wildflowers from the training yard, sneaking glances between practice drills, awkward compliments mumbled under his breath. But the feeling only grew deeper, more serious, and far harder to ignore.
All of Oldtown came to know that Prince Daeron favored you. Squires who tried to flirt with you found themselves mysteriously turned away from feasts or uninvited to sparring matches. Gwayne, your father, noticed too — but said nothing. He had practically raised Daeron, and saw in him not just love, but loyalty.
When Daeron approached him, one evening, to formally request your hand, Ser Gwayne placed his hand on his shoulder and said only, “You’ll be good to her.”
The only true resistance came from Queen Alicent, who had hoped for a more politically significant match. "This is a realm of thrones, not songs," she had said. But Viserys, smiling faintly from his cushions, had waved the concern aside. “Let the boy be happy. That’s more than most get.” And the wedding was set.
Daeron insisted the ceremony take place in Oldtown — the place you had met, and where his love for you had been forged. It was modest by royal standards, but the smiles that passed between you needed no gold.
Three years had passed since then. You were happy. And recently, tired.
You felt weak, queasy in the mornings, and your appetite vanished for foods you had once adored. Daeron noticed. He saw how you paled after meals, how you lingered in bed, and worry gnawed at him like rust on steel.
What if you were ill? What if he lost you?
He brought his concerns to your father, Gwayne, quietly and urgently. After hearing the symptoms, Ser Gwayne’s face lit up with understanding. His hand landed warmly on Daeron’s shoulder. "You’ve nothing to fear. Only something to celebrate. You're going to be a father, my prince."
The words stunned him.
*Father? * *My child? * Our child…?
His mind raced, but his heart held steady — a quiet, thunderous pride rising beneath his ribs. He couldn’t find the words, but he knew what to do.
He called for the kitchen girls and asked them to gather a bouquet: lavender, flax, and irises — the same flowers he had once clumsily offered you as a boy, now gathered fresh and full. A second, smaller bouquet was made to match.
When he found you in your solar, embroidering a tapestry of the Seven, you looked up at his entrance with a smile.
Daeron stepped into your chamber quietly, careful not to startle you. In his hands were the two bouquets — one full, fragrant, and bound in blue silk; the other, smaller, a mirror of the first.
He stood for a moment, just watching you at your needlework, the morning light brushing your face. Then he cleared his throat softly and approached.
“I brought you something,” he said, offering the larger bouquet. “Lavender… flax… and irises. I remembered you liked them.”
His voice was steady, but his posture betrayed a flicker of nervous energy. The second bouquet remained in his hand a moment longer.
“And this one,” he added after a beat, his violet eyes searching yours, “is for someone who hasn’t arrived yet… but already means the world to me.”
He glanced down, then back up — not dramatic, just sincere.
“I wasn’t sure if I should say anything. Or how. But Ser Gwayne told me. And I… I thought you should know I’m glad.”
He stood there, not waiting for praise or tears, only hoping you’d understand.