Chapter Text
It is a truth universally acknowledged that every man, from the Marches to the Wall, desired a son to carry on their family name. An heir to continue their legacy and take their place in society when the time comes.
The King of Westeros was no exception.
Viserys Targaryen had dreamed of a son ever since his grandsire had named him heir. Of a prince born with Aegon's iron crown who he would place upon the throne to the bells of the Grand Sept and the roar of dragonsong.
His dreams burned bright enough to blind him to the truth: that the cost of his longing was measured in the blood of the woman he claimed to love.
His quest for an heir had seen his dear lady-wife lose five babes in twice as many years. One in the cradle, two fresh out the womb, and two before Aemma could even reach her quickening. He was no stranger to grief or loss. He understood the risks, the warnings whispered by the Maesters in candlelit chambers, but still he pressed on. Because if his efforts brought about the babe he had seen in his dreams, the boy who would unite the realm as Aegon the Conqueror once had, then Viserys could learn to live with the pain, the fear, the suffering.
Until the words that undid him fell from the Grand Maester's lips.
"Congratulations, Your Grace. You have a daughter."
For a heartbeat, the chamber was silent save for the crackle of torches and the newborn babe’s piercing wail. Viserys lifted his head from Aemma's limp hold, his face etched with horror and disbelief.
"It is a girl?"
Grand Maester Mellos grimaced, holding out the swaddled babe for the grieving King to take.
"Yes, Your Grace. It is a princess." The Grand Maester confirmed, his face a mask of forced happiness. "Had you and the queen chosen a name?"
The King did not respond. He said nothing as he stared down at the squalling babe in his arms, the child for whom he had just forfeited his wife's life, the daughter that was not the prince who was promised, nor the heir he had come to expect. This was not a son who would not sit the Iron Throne to the sound of thundering hooves, splintering shields, and the ringing of swords.
No, this girl was his greatest mistake. His second daughter.
Twelve Years Later
To have one daughter was a regrettable mistake. An ill-fated trick of the Gods, to grant a man a bargaining chip instead of an heir. A prize to be sold to the highest bidder when the time is right, that he might elevate his status and rectify his misfortune.
To have two daughters was an affront to nature.
This was a truth that Daena Targaryen had always known. Not one that had been told to her, but rather one that she had come to understand over the years.
She knew it as a babe when her father refused to visit her nursery no matter how often her wetnurse begged. She knew it as a young child when Aegon would be praised and doted upon all the while she sat in the shadows, ignored and forgotten. She knew it at seven when her sister Rhaenyra petitioned their father to take her to Dragonstone so that she might be removed from King's Landing entirely and their father had agreed without a scrap of hesitation. Not because he believed it best for his youngest daughter, but because sending her away was far easier than finding a place for her in his court, or in his heart.
It was a truth that had shaped her very being from a very young age.
Her father had no love to spare for her, and would sooner see her banished to some forgotten corner of the Realm than keep her by his side.
Rhaenyra, on the other hand, was their father's pride and joy. Even now, with three sons to his name and a shiny new wife who had proven more than capable of pumping out perfect Targaryen heirs, the King loved none more than he loved his firstborn child. His eldest daughter.
It was something Daena had never understood.
For if he loved Rhaenyra so dearly, why strip her of the very thing his love should have protected? Why take from her the crown she had been promised in the aftermath of their mother's death and gift it to a boy who was little more than a squalling babe?
To exile the daughter he loved more than anything in this world or the next, gifting her the barren lands of their ancestors as paltry compensation, it was an insult that Daena did not think she herself could have forgiven.
Granted, Rhaenyra had taken her exile with grace and poise. Had accepted her new title as Lady Paramount of the Dragon Isles and turned it into something far greater than any consolation prize their father could grant. She had raised Dragonstone from a desolate smouldering rock to the most prosperous land in Westeros. All the while being able to marry the love of her life and baring many children whom she dearly cherished. But it was nothing in comparison to being Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. At least, not if you asked Daena.
If their father seemingly held so much love for Rhaenyra, Daena simply could not fathom why he would cast her aside as if she were nought but a placeholder. As if she meant as little to him as Daena did.
Nevertheless, he had done it.
For reasons unknown, their father's actions had resulted in Rhaenyra being named Lady Paramount of the Dragon Isles and for the last five years, Daena had been her ward.
Life on Dragonstone was far better than in King's Landing. Gone were the cold, empty halls of her father's court. Here, the air was alive with the scent of sea and sulfur, and the walls were filled with roar of dragons and the laughter of Rhaenyra's many children.
Her days were spent pouring over histories of old and practicing their mother tongue under the watchful eye of Maester Gerardys, and in the evenings, she would perch upon her Uncle Daemon's knee as he told her tales of the dragonlords of old, his voice low and dangerous like the hum of Dark Sister's blade. Never did she feel as though she were an outsider looking in, a stranger in her own home, forever doomed to haunt the shadows of the halls. On Dragonstone, with the blood of her blood, Daena belonged.
And on her ninth nameday, Rhaenyra had gifted her the sky.
She would forever remember how it felt that day, nestled atop the great muddy beast she called Rodarion, the heat of her dragon's scales beneath her hands and the rush of winds that stole her breath away as the sun broke over the Narrow Sea and the shores of Dragonstone grew every smaller beneath her. For the first time in her life, Daena had felt infinite.
Safe to say, on Dragonstone, Daena Targaryen was loved. Wanted.
She did not yet know that her love could make her vulnerable. That every moment of warmth she found amongst her sister's court would be the very things her enemies would later seek to steal away from her.