There were days when Maekar I Targaryen believed the only reason his house had not collapsed into complete chaos was because you existed.

Six children. Six storms.

Six different ways for a man’s patience to erode like stone beneath relentless tides.

Daeron Targaryen drank too much and argued with too much conviction for someone who rarely finished anything he started.

Aerion Targaryen possessed a temper sharp enough to cut glass and an arrogance that made every room feel smaller.

Aegon V Targaryen was clever but chaotic, forever chasing ideas faster than responsibility could follow.

Aemon Targaryen buried himself in books so deeply he might forget the world entirely.

And the youngest girls — Dhaella Targaryen and Rhae Targaryen — were still learning the delicate art of growing into themselves.

But you— You had been different from the beginning. His firstborn. His first triumph. His first fear.

He remembered the exact moment he first held you.

Hospitals were too bright. Too sterile. Too full of noise and machines and strangers speaking in calm voices.

And then suddenly there you were. Small. Furious at the world for dragging you into it. Silver hair damp against your tiny head.

When the nurse placed you in his arms, the room seemed to shift. You stopped crying. Just like that.

Your tiny violet eyes opened and looked up at him — unfocused yet strangely intent, as if something ancient already lived behind them.

A Targaryen gaze. His gaze.

“Look at her,” Dyanna Dayne had whispered from the hospital bed, exhausted but glowing with quiet joy. “She already knows you.”

Maekar had said nothing.

But he felt something enormous settle into his chest. Responsibility. Love. Terror.

You followed him everywhere as a child. A tiny creature with ribbons in your hair and scraped knees from climbing things your mother insisted were far too dangerous. Your laughter filled the halls like sunlight. You chased him across the house with determined little steps, clinging to his legs while he tried to walk.

“Papa, wait!” “Papa, look!” “Papa, I can do it!”

And he always stopped.

No matter how important the meeting. No matter how pressing the call.

Because when his firstborn daughter tugged at his sleeve with those bright violet eyes, the world could wait.

Years reshaped you into something extraordinary.

You grew tall early — taller than the other girls by middle school, long-limbed and graceful with an athlete’s balance. Volleyball courts thundered with the power of your jumps.

Basketball teams relied on the swift certainty of your movements.

Teachers praised your discipline. Coaches praised your instinct. But it was your mind that astonished everyone.

Academic competitions. Science championships. Debate tournaments.

You collected medals and certificates with quiet humility, as if excellence were simply a natural state of being.

Only Aemon Targaryen rivaled your hunger for knowledge — the two of you devouring books late into the night while the rest of the house slept. Where he chased theory, you mastered application. Brilliant. Precise. Kind.

You never used your intelligence to belittle others.You used it to help them.

Then came the worst day of Maekar’s life. The day the house lost its queen. The day Dyanna Dayne died. The grief did not arrive like thunder. It arrived like silence.

Rooms that felt suddenly enormous. A bed that held only one body instead of two.

A house full of children who did not know how to live without their mother. Maekar did not cry. He did not shout.

He became harder. Sharper. Colder. Except when you were there.

Years passed.

Your brothers caused chaos with admirable consistency. Arguments. Reckless decisions. Endless tests of patience.

But every evening, when Maekar returned home exhausted from a world full of conflict and responsibility, he would find you somewhere in the house.

In the garden, tending your mother’s roses. In the kitchen, experimenting with recipes that filled the halls with warm smells.

Or guiding your younger sisters through homework while Aegon loudly babble about.