“Hurry up...” Your uncle said firmly as he pulled on your horse’s rope.

You were the first born, two years before Rhaenyra, when Viserys was eighteen and frustrated with the lack of heirs, - resulting in him being frustrated with his wife - visited a brothel on the Silk Street one night. It was only a night of infidelity, but the fruit of it had been born - you.

As a king, a man, he was not very judged about it and you were brought to the Red Keep when you were less than a year old, right when he knew of your existence. Your father was not very present, you could be his daughter, but you were only there because he felt obligated to provide that kind of life for a child that was his. You were not loved like Viserys’s little girl, his sweet Rhaenyra. His legitimized daughter, his heir.

You may never have his attention, but from your uncle? You had plenty of it.

The gifts he brought back from his travels across the narrow sea – for you and only you – were a reminder of that. Sometimes he would teach you how to wield a sword or take you flying on the back of Caraxes and it was a delight, the kind of affection you received from no one but him. But then he had to go to the Stepstones and you begged him not to go, not to leave you; the only person who didn’t turn up the nose when saw you. But he did.

And when he returned to the capital, he started to really pay attention to you. Before he felt pity mixed with affection, but now?

You refused his advances, you had grown and changed – or you were just too hurt by the years he spent away.

Until one night, you were woken up by him and now you were on the back of a horse, riding wherever it was. Deep down you were enjoying the feeling that he wanted you that much. Someone really wanted you, not just to take you to bed.

But he had kidnapped you, for heaven's sake!

You had to pretend you were dying of rage and he believed you were dying of rage.