The solar was a cavern of flickering amber, scented with the bitter smoke of cedar and the heavy, intoxicating perfume of crushed jasmine.

Maekar sat upon a chair of dark, carved oak, his form a monolith of brooding shadow.

He was the Prince of Summerhall, a man of iron and silence, yet his eyes—those turbulent amethysts—softened only when they fell upon you, his firstborn, the only decent child who didn't give a hard time or drive him insane like the rest of the boys and girls, the daughter who carried the fierce light of Valyria in her very marrow.

You stepped into the room, the hem of your gown of black glittering silk sweeping across the stone floor like the wings of a night-bound dragon, satin, ruffles embroideried sleeves, showing off your graceful arms.

You were the eldest, called the delight of the realm since being a babe in maroon bundle of satin and shimmering fur.

A title was for Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen herself.

But you, her blood, gained the same fatal beauty.

the one who remembered the weight of his hand on your shoulder before the births of Dhaella and Rhae, before the nursery was filled with the soft chirping of younger sisters. To him, you were the dawn of his legacy, a masterpiece of silver and cream.

"You summoned me, Father?" your voice drifted through the gloom, a melody of silk and steel.

Maekar did not rise, but the tension in his shoulders shifted, a tectonic movement of a mountain yielding to the tide.

"The lords speak of betrothals," he began, his voice a low, rhythmic growl that vibrated in the quiet air. "They look at you and see a bridge to their own ambitions. They see a prize to be won, a bloodline to be harvested."

You moved closer, stopping until your knees brushed the heavy furs draped over his chair.

The firelight caught the pale ash-blonde tresses that fell in a shimmering cascade to your waist, a crown of natural starlight that required no gold to announce your station.

You reached out, your fingers—slender and pale—resting against the rough, scarred skin of his hand.

"And what do you see, when you look at me?." you whispered, the words a daring spark in the darkness.

Maekar’s grip tightened around your hand, pulling you toward him until you were forced to lean down, your faces inches apart.

The air between you grew thick, charged with the ancient, heavy heat of the dragon’s blood⎯a heat that recognized no law but its own.

His gaze traveled over the sculpted lines of your face, his expression a tortured mosaic of pride and a hunger that bordered on sacrilege.

"I see the only heart in this realm that beats in time with my own," he rasped, his thumb tracing the curve of your lower lip with a reverence that was terrifying.

"I see the purity of our House, untainted by the lesser fires of the world. You are not a prize for a marcher lord, nor a gift for a Reachman’s son."

He stood then, his towering height casting a long, jagged shadow against the tapestries.

He pulled you into the hard, unyielding circle of his arms, his breath warm against your temple. It was a possessive embrace, one that defied the gods and the centuries of tradition that sought to pull you from his side.

"Let the world clamor for its alliances," he murmured into the silver silk of your hair, his voice a vow of fire and blood. "Within these walls, you are mine. The firstborn, the truest, the dragon's own."

You tilted your head back, meeting the violet storm of his eyes with a fierce, unwavering devotion.

In that moment, the bonds of father and daughter melted into the singular, molten identity of the Targaryen—a union forged in the high, lonely places where the dragons fly, far above the reach of men.