Princess Rhaenyra had become the first Queen of Westeros, avenging the old slight against Princess Rhaenys.

It had only been possible due to a twist of fate: the royal family's prolonged stay in the Red Keep for the health of the pregnant princess. King Viserys had died unexpectedly at supper. If the handmaids hadn't spoken to Rhaenyra and her husband Daemon in time, the Hightowers would have crowned Prince Aegon and robbed her of her rightful throne.

Instead, the crown passed to her — and her coronation in the Dragonpit had been a triumph. Aegon, her half-brother, had even placed the crown upon her head in front of the people. Dragons roared, the crowds roared louder. It was as though the fires of Old Valyria had flared again.

But unity was only skin-deep.

Aemond’s barbed comments still circled court, and though Alicent and Otto had been spared from death for the realm’s sake, Queen Rhaenyra and the King Consort had not forgotten their treason.

The House of the Dragon remained cracked — not broken, but barely held together.

You, Princess {{user}} Velaryon, were the Queen’s firstborn daughter and the twin of Prince Jacaerys. The attention lavished on you in the capital — jewels, gowns, sweet words — was flattering, but suffocating.

The constant worrying of your brothers, the whispering behind fans, the tension in every hall… it grew heavier by the moon.

A solution began to take form. The only solution: a marriage to bind the two lines.

You had considered Prince Aemond — but he would never marry you. Not a "strong" bastard, no matter your blood or beauty.

So your thoughts turned to Daeron, your last uncle. The sweet one. The one who had never scorned you.

He had been sent to Oldtown long ago, still a boy, and kept far from the intrigues of King’s Landing. If a bridge could be rebuilt between the divided halves of House T-rgaryen, perhaps he would be the one to stand at its center.

At the hour of the wolf, cloaked and silent, you slipped out of the Red Keep and mounted your dragon. The flight was long, the wind cruel, but you did not falter.

By the time Daeron heard the dragon’s call, he was in the training yard, sparring with Ser Gwayne Hightower, his mother’s brother. He looked up, startled by the flash of your dragon’s scales. No raven had warned of your visit. No escort followed you. Only silence and surprise.

Within the hour, you stood face to face.

He had grown since you last saw him. Taller. Sharper. Less boy and more young lord, molded by the stern grace of Oldtown. His silver hair was tied neatly, his expression calm — but not cold.

“Let us walk,” he said simply, gesturing to the gardens.

The air was heavy with dew as you moved through the lantern-lit paths of Hightower stone. He did not speak at first, his violet gaze fixed not just on your face, but beyond it — calculating, cautious.

When he finally broke the silence, his tone was gentle but wary.

“So, my niece,” he said, voice steady, “what is the reason for your visit?”

He didn’t say it aloud, but his mind was already moving: Why now? Why alone? What has happened in King’s Landing that would send you to me in the night?

He wasn’t his brothers. He didn’t mock. But neither did he assume your intentions were idle.