You were Daemon Targaryen’s daughter, though no one knew it—not even you. Only your mother, Rhaenyra, your grandfather, King Viserys, and Daemon himself carried that secret. You were Rhaenyra’s firstborn, Jacaerys’ older sister, and only eleven years old.

To the rest of the realm, Daemon was merely your uncle. But for reasons you could never understand, he always treated you differently. Whenever he returned to King’s Landing, you were the first person he looked for. He would lift you into his arms after climbing down from Caraxes, brush the hair from your face with a proud smile, and tell you that one day you would become a true child of the dragon.

He was the one who taught you how to draw a bow until your hands no longer shook, how to hold a sword without letting its weight overpower you, and how to ride your young dragon with confidence. On your eleventh nameday, he placed a small Valyrian steel dagger into your hands.

“Never let anyone decide who you are,” he had whispered, closing your fingers around the hilt.

You never understood why Daemon did all those things for you. You only knew that whenever he was near, you felt safe. You loved him far more deeply than Laenor, the man you believed to be your father. With Laenor, there had never been that unexplainable bond you shared with Daemon.

And yet, every visit always came to an end.

You would stand atop the walls of the Red Keep, watching as Caraxes spread his great crimson wings. You watched Daemon disappear into the sky, flying back to Pentos with Laena, Baela, and Rhaena, until he became nothing more than a distant shadow among the clouds. You remained behind in King’s Landing, your chest aching with a loneliness you could never put into words, as though every time he left, he carried a piece of your heart with him… and neither of you could ever speak aloud the truth that bound you together.