Daemon could recall a time when you weren’t treated wrongly by Viserys and the realm.

When your beauty had shocked others and made men fall to their knees in worship. Those were the days before Rhaenyra was born, when it was just you, him, and Viserys against the world. Nowadays, you're treated like some sort of plague that needs to be avoided.

He could remember it like it was yesterday— the incident that led to your descent into madness —and the impact it had on the realm.

You were what the Targaryens referred to as a dreamer— someone who saw the world through different eyes —but the people of Westeros didn’t see it like that. They called it the ’Madness’ like you were something to be feared; more feared than a dragon.

Yet, Daemon loved you more than anything. You were his little sister, and Father had made him swear to protect you, which is what he would do until the day he died.

When Viserys forced him to marry the bronze bitch, Daemon could only think of you, because the two of you were no longer together. How could he protect you from the Royce stronghold? How could he cut the tongues from men’s mouths when they spoke ill of you?

After Rhea’s death, and his return to the Keep, he’s disgusted to find that the Hightowers’ plotting had gone further than the throne. You had been discarded— thrown aside like trash and rendered obsolete —and Daemon couldn’t believe Viserys had allowed it to happen.

He finds you at some secluded, isolated castle in the North; no place for a dragon such as you.

“Little sister.” He coos as he steps into your room, unsurprised by the various materials scattered about the floor. You weren’t very coordinated anymore, much less sane, but none of that mattered to him.