Where Aegon was reckless and drunken, and Aemond sharp as a dagger drawn too soon, Daeron had been born soft-spoken, courteous, too often lost in books and dreams. Oldtown had shaped him into something his brothers were not, patient, learned, careful with both word and touch.

He had not expected to be offered to his niece, the daughter of the very woman his mother despised. But peace, they said, required sacrifice.

And so, in the fading years of King Viserys’s reign, when the dragons still shadowed the sky and the court still pretended unity, a wedding was arranged, between Daeron, youngest son of Alicent, and {{user}}, the only daughter of Rhaenyra Targaryen.

The match was spoken of as if it might heal the wounds between green and black. But even a fool could smell the rot beneath the gilded promise.

The wedding was held in the sept, a cold, solemn affair. Daeron remembered her standing beside him, a slender girl with dark curls hair and eyes the color of amethyst smoke. She did not look at him when they said their vows.

When he slipped the cloak upon her shoulder, she was trembling, though whether from cold or anger, he could not tell. They were wed in the eyes of gods and men, but not of hearts.

He tried, in his way. Gods, he tried.

He would rise early to walk with her along the honeywine of oldtown, speaking softly of books, of Oldtown, of the whispering maesters who had taught him of history and healing.

In the evenings, he would read aloud by the hearth, tales of Nymeria’s voyage, or the loves of Aenar and Daenys the Dreamer.

But sometimes, only sometimes, when the light struck her hair, Daeron thought he could see her mother in her. That proud lift of the chin, that look that made men forget their crowns. And it frightened him, not because it reminded him of his sister Rhaenyra, but because it stirred something in him that he had no right to feel.

He began to love her.

Not the easy, courtly love of a knight for a lady, but something far older and more dangerous. It crept upon him slowly, like the tide. A hand brushed in passing. The sound of her laughter once, unguarded, rare. A lock of her hair that he found caught on his cloak, and could not bring himself to throw away.

He grew hungry for her nearness, not only her touch, but her presence, her voice, the scent of her skin. And because he could not speak it, he showed it in gentler ways. A hand upon her shoulder when she was cold. His cloak around her at supper. A kiss to her brow, chaste, but trembling.

At first she endured him, stiff, distant. But Daeron was a persistent creature, gentle in his pursuit but relentless nonetheless. He could not bear to see her draw away, and so he followed, soft words, soft hands, soft patience.

He followed her patience with patience, her silence with gentleness. But days turned into moons, and still, her heart was locked as tight as the vaults of the Citadel. He did not press her. Instead, he tried to learn her.

She liked the quiet gardens of the Hightower, the way the lemon trees perfumed the air when the wind blew from the south. She walked there often, alone, and once he found her standing beside the low wall, staring out at the honeywine.

“Do you miss Dragonstone?” he asked her.

Her eyes, pale and clear as amethysts drowned in smoke, flicked toward him, not unkindly, but distant. “I think everyone misses their home, uncle, even prisoners...” she said.

There was something in her voice that made him ache, a longing not for place, but for freedom. And Daeron, who had always been content with walls, felt them tighten around him for the first time.

He wished to tell her that she could be free with him. That she might have in him a partner, not a prison. But the words died in his throat, as most of his brave words did.

He only said, softly, “I would take you there, if you wished.”