The blood of the dragon had always been prone to madness, but yours was something different: it was hunger. As Baelor’s youngest daughter, the realm expected you to be the very image of nobility, yet while your father carried the weight of the kingdom, you carried the dark arts to your advantage.

Your mother watched you with hawk-like eyes, suspicious of your fascination with Maekar’s eldest son. “He’s a drunk, a disappointment,” she said. But you saw in Daeron a soul tormented by his dreams, someone who needed to be guided. So, in the shadowed privacy of your chambers, you mixed his wine with more than spices a spell meant to soften the burden of his visions and open his heart to understanding.

That night, Daeron entered your private sanctuary without knocking. He wasn’t moving with his usual drunken clumsiness; there was an unusual intensity in him. His face was pale, sweat plastering silver hair to his forehead.

“What have you done?” his voice was a broken whisper, heavy with a confusion that made you study him closely. “My dreams… they’re less dark, but you’re in every one of them. Not as my cousin, but as the only calm in the storm.”

He stepped closer, stopping a few paces away. His trembling hands clenched at his sides.

“I feel like I’m tearing myself apart if I don’t understand,” Daeron said, staring at you. “I was already suffering enough with the future of the realm, and now you’ve condemned me to seek answers in you. Tell me this has a purpose.”

The spell had worked in an unexpected way. Instead of control, you had opened a door to his inner storm but also to a connection you never anticipated.