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What if Prince Daemon Targaryen is seven years old when Princess Rhaenyra is born? What if they grow up together like siblings?
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Daemon stared, breathless. Something hot and unfamiliar twisted in his chest. In that instant, he was hers, just as she was his. As surely as dragons bond, as surely as fire clings to fire.
His mother was dead. His father was dead. His grandfather was old and fading. Viserys—seventeen rarely had a moment for anyone, least of all a little brother he’d long outgrown.
But here, in his arms, was someone who would need him. He would teach her how to speak High Valyrian, how to ride dragons, even though he had not found his mount yet, how to explore the secret passageways of the Red Keep, how to be a dragon, for she was of his blood and fire. “I shall keep her safe,” Daemon whispered—too quiet for anyone but Aemma to hear.
Aemma smiled, a tired knowing smile, as though she understood exactly what he was promising. As though she knew he had just sworn himself to Rhaenyra more fiercely than any lord, knight, or king ever could. -
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