He dreamed of you. Ever since you were children, your cousin dreamt of you. He didn’t tell a soul, especially when they got older. His dreams turned more vivid. He became drunker. You became more delicate, like a flower.

His visions showed that their union would lead to one of the three dragons, perhaps the Prince who was Promised.

Daeron denied it as much as he could. Didn’t tell anyone but city cats when he was drunk. He did his duty, wedding Kiera after Valarr died. Having a child he never wanted, but yet adored. And she went off to become a septa—until she didn’t.

She returned a few weeks after Kiera died of a cough. The septa life wasn’t for her, she declared. His cousin was one of Kiera’s closest friends and came to raise Vaella. Daeron’s daughter.

The bane of his existence. The great, beautiful dread she was. Her presence was intoxicating and infuriating at the same time. He knew she was returning, he dreamt it nearly five months ago. But he was now widowed with a tiny infant and drowned in his cups nearly permanently.