A/N: Hello everyone! As with my previous stories, I wanted to make a note about a few things. One, you can expect the usual Game of Thrones/House of the Dragon themes of abuse, miscarriage, traumatic childbirth, underage marriage, violence, incest, etc. Two, it will be depressing in many aspects and have a great deal of angst. Three, I am basing this off of the show– House of the Dragon. And four, as with my past fics, the main point is NOT necessarily the love story, it is about the growth of the character! This story especially has no true love interest, rather, focuses the majority of the time on the OC's journey and her role in the Dance.

A special note about this OC– she is very very unlike others I have written full-length fics for. You are probably going to feel frustrated with the way she thinks and annoyed with the way she acts. While you may find moments where you pity her, you will probably think her delusional most of the time. This is the intended purpose, this is how I want her to be. I've planned exactly how I want her to be for so many reasons related to the Dance and other characters so bear with me, I still hope to make the story interesting.

If you're still intrigued, go right ahead. For reference, the OC's face claims are Ida Marie Nielsen (younger version) and Sara Gadon (older version). Right now, imagine Ida Marie Nielsen, who played Margrethe in the show Vikings. If you look up gifs from this role, you'll see the image I have of her. When it's time for the time skip and faceclaim change, I'll let you know :)

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The Red Keep, King's Landing, 112 AC

Golden light had returned to bathe them in its heat.

Sunlight was never far, tickling them each morning as they shared this moment– a moment none could take from them. It was a special time, where only the two of them mattered. A gentle breeze was always preferred, rippling in the faint yellow light that greeted them with a new day. It caressed their faces, one mirroring the other save for her lack of deep under eyes.

Thin, delicate fingers drifted over the woman's cheeks, a sheer cream to soothe the burn she felt. Her skin was hot to the touch, but it did not burn the girl as she caressed her mother's beautiful face. Her face– this was the face she would have when she grew older, for all knew that she was the spitting image of her mother and grandmother. Their beauty was singular, with a gentle grace that few knew how to appreciate. But the girl knew, she knew what true beauty was. It was her mother, with her soft words and her constant smiles.

Her mother leaned back in her seat, sighing in relief. The girl returned to the hoop she'd been working over, wondering what else she could add. She'd depicted a blue dragon emerging from a lake within a forest clearing, wings merging with the tops of the trees and streams of water. Her mother regarded it with a smile of admiration, fanning her face and beaming as warmly as the sun at her daughter's talent.

It was the girl's favorite thing. Every day was spent doting on her mother however she could. She distracted her from her pain and excited her with some new project. She loved their time together, where none other understood their appreciation for art, color, and tranquility. But not all understood this, clearly, for a voice in the doorway called in to disrupt them, "The Princess has returned, my Queen. She'll be here shortly."

The girl glanced sideways at the knight– her favorite, Ser Harrold Westerling, who used to let her follow him around when she was little. "Thank you, Ser Harrold," said her mother tiredly, reaching out to her daughter and using her as support to sit up. The girl wished she wouldn't strain herself so– there was no need. "That Rhaenyra, out flying again."

She pursed her lips without response, staring down at the blue dragon that flew in ways she couldn't. If she had a dragon, she would be out there, too, but in the far earlier hours of the morning, so she could be in the sky then return in time to break her fast with her mother. Ignoring the burn of jealousy, she took the fan from her mother and tried to cool her face. "You remain flushed as ever, Mother," she told her. She knelt, fanning as she placed her mother's slippers on her feet, then widened the collar of her cloak to allow some air on her neck.

The Queen smiled, how her smile was always beautiful. "And you, my dearest, dote on me as you always have." She ran her knuckles over her daughter's face. "How I wish I had your skin, it is so fresh." She leaned over, pressing their foreheads together as if to take some of her cool.

The girl giggled, then dipped down to press her face over her mother's swollen belly. "Leave her be, little dragon, your fire may emerge when you see the sun for the first time, not before. You sit inside all day like I do, you ought to be cool." She ran her hands around, as if to hug the babe within. "I imagine my little brother or sister will be as hot-headed as Uncle Daemon, that is why they do not give you peace."

Her mother made a face, not entirely eager for this. "I should not hope for a child like your uncle. I'll never rest again, to be sure!"

"Yes, you will," said her daughter. "I will care for the babe. I'll take them to their lessons, teach them to talk and walk. You will not need to worry, Mother, I will love them as if they were my own, and you needn't ever feel so tired again."

Queen Aemma Arryn had never known her mother. All she'd had as a child were stories– memories passed on from those she managed to meet. Her uncles Baelon and Aemon, her aunt Jocelyn, they gave her anything they could manage to keep alive in her someone who had hardly gotten to meet her. Their stories of Princess Daella allowed her to cling to a small piece of history and time that she would never fully understand, that she did not really live.

She'd lost her own childhood far too quickly, eleven when she married her cousin Viserys, thirteen when she was first bedded, fifteen when she had her eldest daughter after several miscarriages. But the spirit of Daella Targaryen, the knowledge of her mother's plight, had given her comfort as she braved motherhood while still a child herself.

She couldn't imagine her girls being mothers now, not Rhaenyra with her growing woman's body nor the daughter that sat before her, a year younger than her sister yet still very much a girl. She didn't even know why her marriage had ever been approved in the first place. Would that she'd been brave enough to say she did not feel ready. She loved Viserys, truly, but she had not felt so as a girl of eleven. Perhaps not even at fifteen or sixteen, when her girls were born.

Both her daughters had a fire in them that she had not had, that her own mother had not had. She loved knowing it. They were far from timid and reserved, something that might've kept her mother alive had she been born that way, too. Her girls had minds of their own, spirits that could not be contained. She adored them more than life herself, and felt that she continued to live because their warmth fed her.

She turned away from her daughter as the door opened, welcoming in a girl in a golden dress brighter than the sun itself. "Ah, Rhaenyra," she said, greeting her firstborn. "You know I don't like you to go flying while I'm in this condition."

"You don't like me to go flying while you're in any condition," argued Rhaenyra, skirts of her dress hovering over the floor perfectly as she walked, followed by her constant companion, who greeted Aemma, "Your Grace."

"Good morrow, Alicent," said Aemma kindly to the girl in the light blue dress, drab in the colors of House Florent. The sky and its sun, the girl thought to herself. Always inseparable, those two. I know why, but no one else seems to notice.

"Did you sleep?" pressed Rhaenyra as her mother finally settled comfortably, relaxed while her other daughter fanned her face as fast as she could.

Aemma nodded. "I slept." Her daughter questioned, "How long?" The Queen gave her a significant look, "I don't need mothering, Rhaenyra."

"Well, here you are, surrounded by attendants all focused on the babe. Someone has to attend to you."

"Daella has attended to me all morning," said Aemma, nodding to her younger daughter, who smiled happily at the acknowledgement. "The two of you will lie in this bed soon enough, my girls. This discomfort is how we serve the realm."

Rhaenyra shook her head fervently. "I'd rather serve as a knight and ride to battle and glory."

Her mother laughed, "We have royal wombs, the three of us. The child bed is our battlefield. We must learn to face it with a stiff lip. Now, take a bath. You stink of dragon." She offered her that smile, that warm smile, and watched her go. Alicent was quick to follow behind her, an eagerness apparently only she could see.

Daella Targaryen was hardly like her namesake, to be sure. A spare daughter with no dragon, but certainly not one to hide what she felt. She had always been observant, perhaps because none had ever let her exist in the limelight. She thought of the things she knew, the things that weren't fair. Her fire burned and burned, she started to see the sunlight turning red, she started to wish that her peace hadn't been disturbed. A constant reminder, a constant burden, a constant shadow-caster.

"My sweet girl." Her mother's voice could soothe her so quickly. "I can sense you sour expression. What ails you?" Something always did with that girl, how she wished she had but a fraction of her serenity.

She shrugged her shoulders, attempting to calm herself. "Rhaenyra never likes her duty. She only likes dragons." And Alicent. "She does not hear what you say to her."

Queen Aemma caressed her hands. "You and Rhaenyra are still young. You each have different ideas of the world. The duty I hold, neither of you can understand. You wish to, yet you also cling to the idea of dragons more than you envision yourself serving the Realm, don't you?"

She blushed– that was true. "You will claim a dragon soon enough, my dearest," her mother assured her. "I know it. There are many in the Dragonpit and more on Dragonstone. The right opportunity simply hasn't arrived."

"I want my Silverwing," said Daella. "She was ridden by my great-grandmother, and she is magnificent. She is meant for me, I know it. I am meant to have a dragon, I have to, I am a Targaryen."

Her mother gave her a pointed look, tapping her arm lightly. "To be a Targaryen does not mean you must always ride a dragon. I never got one. It does not make you or I any less than your father or sister, you know. Your father only had a dragon for a short while, though it was the great Balerion. And still he is the King, though he does not soar into the skies like your sister."

She wished her mother hadn't reminded her of Rhaenyra. Her anger flared again, "It isn't fair, she can be wherever she wants." With whoever she wants, too. Her mother clicked her tongue, "I pray that the Mother and Maiden ease that temper of yours, dearest. My mother was meek. Afraid of cats and gardens, the tamest of things. And yet you have all the fire Jaehaerys and Alysanne wished she'd been blessed with." She kissed the top of her head. "Please, ñuha dōna riña, be kinder to your sister. Be her keeper, the one who will lift her up when she is feeling doubt. Do not be the reaper that cuts her down when she has already fallen." (T: My sweet girl.)

It was difficult to find that in herself. There was much she could still remember of her childhood, even as a girl of fourteen, that made her think there was no reason for kindness. All the times her sister got what she didn't. Her friend available each time she called, while Daella's best friend lived on Driftmark. How their beauty was compared from birth– Rhaenyra had always stood out in ways that Daella did not. She was the Realm's Delight, but none called Daella 'Darling' or anything of the sort, especially not when Rhaenyra was developing curves and Daella remained flat in all directions.

Their septas had always preferred Rhaenyra, who did not give them trouble and behaved so she might go to Syrax from the age of six. Yet the septas grew frustrated with her, did not understand that she needed their lessons to be faster and more interesting, or it would not appeal to her. They all saw pieces of her and felt they understood the whole, but none saw her for her true worth. It was Rhaenyra that was offered a place as their father's cupbearer, it was Rhaenyra that got a dragon, it was Rhaenyra that had Alicent as a friend and more, it was Rhaenyra who was given gifts by their uncle. All of them preferred her, even Syrax had preferred her though Daella had gone to her first, though Daella had been about to stake her claim when Rhaenyra decided it should be hers first.

Alicent was another matter. During this latest pregnancy of their mother's, Rhaenyra had been spending more and more time with that girl, preferring it to being at their mother's side. It was Daella that tended to her while Rhaenyra ran about the castle, gossiping and getting into trouble. Daella had seen them, their proximity, the way they held hands when they thought nobody noticed, the way Rhaenyra flirted with her and earned a laugh.

Everything was for Rhaenyra, everyone's affections. The boys and the girls all looked at her in a way they never looked at Daella. She hated it. She wished she didn't have a sister, that she could be the one everyone looked at. It wasn't fair, it never was, why had the gods chosen her to be born second?

She hoped for another sister, for a girl she would dote on the way no one had doted on her. Or if it was a brother– which she prayed for as well, so that their mother needn't ever endure another pregnancy so painful– she would be with him as he learned to use a sword. Rhaenyra claimed to want to be a knight, but she did not show her initiative. Daella was the silent watcher, the one who had seen true knights train, who had picked up sparring swords when no one was looking. She would learn one day, she would teach her little brother and when she had a dragon, she would fly with her sword held high, ready to take the world as hers.

Her anger was abated by the arrival of the Heir's Tournament, if only because it meant she would have a special visitor. Her mother helped her select for it a dress with the colors of House Arryn, deep blue with golden trim to match the dragon she envisioned for herself– the blue-flamed Silverwing. She liked the color blue, it was the color of the sky and the color of the sea from her window in Maegor's Holdfast. The sea reminded her of her cousin, her dearest friend.

Daella's hair flowed loose like ocean waves, for she could not have it pinned– Rhaenyra already did, a braided loop made by Alicent's curious fingers. Her hair was far longer than Rhaenyra's, and might've made for a bulkier updo— in that, she did prefer to have it down. Her sister's dress was a fiery red– she often neglected to remember she was an Arryn, too. She was sure to gain several compliments, while few would even notice Daella there. She didn't even wish to go, she would rather sit with her mother again.

"I want to stay with you," she told her mother, caressing her arm as she breathed heavily, her labor having only begun. "We could talk about anything. The thread on the dress, how I might make you one just like it. I could make up stories about dragons and falcons, about how they turn into trees in the night and listen to those who pass through their forests."

"No, my dear," her mother said in a strained voice. "You must enjoy the tournament, it would mean so very much to your father. Go, show Laena your dress. You've been looking forward to seeing her. When you return, I'll be feeling much better."

Daella did not care about the tournament, it was but an excuse to dress her finest. She always felt so guilty asking for finery on a regular day (Rhaenyra did not mind this, however). Besides, she had not been expecting her mother's labor to begin this day. "It would mean much more to me if Father was here instead of there."

Aemma kissed her knuckles with encouragement. "Please, my dearest Daella. Do you know what would make me feel better?" She pressed their foreheads together, drinking in her daughter's cold. "If I imagine I am that falcon, who can see the tourney through your eyes. I will make my predictions now, and when you return, you will tell me if I was correct."

She did not wish to leave, but her mother's words were hard to resist. She always wanted to make her mother happy, and if this would do that, Daella would relent. "Very well. Start making your bets. May the Mother help this babe come quickly." She kissed her mother's forehead, then dipped down to kiss her belly. "Come easily, little one, I cannot wait to meet you. I love you both so very much."

In the yard, she was ushered into a carriage with others donning blue– Arryn cousins of her mother's that she'd yet to meet. They asked her many questions within, how her mother was, how her sister was, and finally how she was. Daella was glad to tell them she'd adjusted the hems of her own dress and liked to read to her mother's belly in High Valyrian to teach her little sibling words before their birth.

Out in the fields, they gathered. Knights, lords, and ladies from all corners of the realm come to watch and participate in a tourney that celebrated a son her father did not yet have, a brother she only partially wanted. Ser Ryam Redwyne of the Kingsguard found her to escort her into the royal box, where her family and all her father's most trusted advisors would join him beneath a rich crimson tarp.

She greeted them all kindly, dipping down to kiss her father's cheek, then rushing sideways to her dear cousin. Laena gave a squeal upon seeing her, the girls crashing into each other and drawn into the tightest of hugs as Laena's parents watched on with smiles on their faces. Daella pulled Laena to the first row, much to her brother Laenor's dismay. She motioned for him to come along, the three closest to where the tilts would soon begin.

"I was thinking," said Laena, the two holding hands to prevent anyone from separating them, "perhaps we could go to Dragonstone together. My mother says I have my own claim to any dragon, and I was thinking of Vhagar. You and I could claim our dragons together then fly to Driftmark. We could share a room and stay up all night planning what we'll do once we have them in our grasp."

"Oh, that would be wonderful!" Daella knew her mother would be excited to hear this. "As soon as my mother is well after the birth, we may go. We can spend the whole tourney planning this, it isn't as though the tilts will be fun after today..." She started to grin, "Did I tell you who is to participate today?"

Laena wiggled her brows, "Do not tell me, dear cousin, he has finally advanced to this!" She giggled, nudging Daella playfully. "Your gallant Ser Gwayne Hightower is a man now, then."

"Yes, he is," said Daella happily. She'd known Gwayne since his father, the Hand, brought his family to live at the Red Keep. He had younger brothers, the twins Norman and Bryndon, who were great troublemakers and often visited Oldtown. Gwayne was gone for long periods of time, but whenever he returned, he did so more handsome and even stronger than the last. She liked his red hair, those dark eyes, his crooked smile, how he was tall for a boy of seventeen and always kind to her. He greeted her each time he came, bowing and calling her 'My Princess.'

Her cheeks steadily reddened as she looked for him in the crowd. When she saw him, smiling and chatting with another young kight, Laena started to giggle. "You must speak with him after this!" encouraged Laena. "Gods, you must say something to him, you must."

"How can I?" Daella covered her cheeks to hide her blush. "He's so handsome, I can scarcely look him in the eyes when I see him. Laenor, what do you think?" She knew he was so very honest when it came to matters of boys, she often let him listen in when talking about Gwayne because he always told her his opinion.

"He's only going to get handsomer as he grows," said Laenor matter-of-factly. "Which means the longer you wait, the harder it will be to find your voice. It is now or never, cousin. You ought to give him your favor."

"Yes!" agreed Laena. "Perhaps he will even ask for it." When that made Daella's eyes widen, Laena insisted fervently, "He has known you for years! He knows how pretty you are. None can deny you've all the Arryn beauty. You look exactly like your mother. Even my mother says Queen Aemma looked exactly like you when she was your age. Gwayne would be a fool not to see it."

She heard her father's voice behind her, "Daella, where is your sister?" She shrugged dismissively, who was she to know? Rhaenyra was always late, she liked to make an entrance. He sat himself back down, exhaling heavily. Behind him arrived Ser Otto Hightower, taking his place by the King while Alicent scurried to her seat. A marvel that Rhaenyra was not with her.

Then, it was time for the tourney to begin. Her father stood, calling, "Be welcome! I know many of you have traveled long leagues to be at these games. But I promise you, you will not be disappointed. When I look at the fine knights in these lists, I see a group without equal in our histories. And this great day has been made more auspicious–"

Rhaenyra darted across Daella to her seat, arriving just as Viserys revealed, "By news that I am happy to share: Queen Aemma has begun her labors!" They all clapped enthusiastically. Daella and Rhaenyra shared one quick look, both equally as distracted by the fact. The King concluded, "May the luck of the Seven shine upon all combatants!"

The jousting began, both Daella and Laena flinching as the first two knights rammed right into each other. On her left, Daella heard Alicent and Rhaenyra beginning to chat about the one who emerged victorious, "A mystery knight?"

"No, a Cole, of the Stormlands," said Alicent, recognizing the banner. Rhaenyra shrugged, "I've never heard of House Cole."

The next contestant, also from the Stormlands, came forward. "Princess Rhaenys Targaryen," called Lord Boremund Baratheon, "I would humbly ask for the favor of 'The Queen Who Never Was.'"

Laena tsked, watching as her mother placed her favor over the sword. "Good fortune to you, cousin," she called.

"I would gladly take it," said Boremund, "if I thought I needed it."

"Mother doesn't like it when I say this," whispered Laena as Boremund's horse trotted away, "but I do not like him."

"Nor do I!" agreed Daella enthusiastically. "I think your mother would have made an excellent Queen." She thought sex a stupid reason not to receive a throne or a crown. Even Maegor named a girl his heir for a time, why was it so terrible to everyone? Daella would make a good Queen, she would be fair and truthful. But she needed a dragon before anyone would see her holding such capabilities.

The drums began to beat. Daella leaned forward to watch, ignoring as Alicent and Rhaenyra gossiped beside her— they always talked amongst each other when she was right there and never asked what she thought. They had their own language, those two, and no one else could be part of it. She turned only when Ser Harrold Westerling knelt behind Rhaenyra after the 'mystery' knight unseated Boremund Baratheon.

"What do you know about this Ser Criston Cole, Ser Harrold?" inquired Rhaenyra. The knight replied, "I'm told Ser Criston is common-born, son of Lord Dondarrion's steward. But other than that, and the fact that he's just unhorsed both of the Baratheon lads, I really couldn't say."

The next group of contestants was brought out. "Prince Daemon of House Targaryen," said the Master of Revels, "Prince of the City, will now choose his first opponent." Daella had not seen her uncle yet; he wasn't one for greetings. He was far from her favorite person, always bothering with his questions and his unfunny jokes. He always liked Rhaenyra, but would tease Daella— he didn't seem to respect her without a dragon beneath her.

Daemon rode out, clad in a Valyrian steel helm with dragon wings between which trailed red and black feathers down his neck. He stopped in front of a man in green, causing Daella's breath to hitch. "For his first challenge," said the Master of Revels, "Prince Daemon Targaryen chooses Ser Gwayne Hightower of Oldtown, eldest son of the Hand of the King."

Rhaenyra took Alicent's hand to comfort her. Daella and Laena shared a concerned look, the former of the two glancing back at Ser Otto who was clenching his hand worriedly knowing the likely outcome. Daella tried to distract herself by wondering if her mother would have correctly predicted who Daemon would choose as his opponent. Most likely. Everyone knew Daemon despised Otto Hightower with a passion. She didn't know too much of the why, but she didn't think there was always a 'why' when it came to Daemon. Yet now Gwayne was to suffer the consequences of this dislike.

As expected, Daemon knocked Gwayne and his horse into the dirt. Daella squeezed Laena's hand, turning toward Alicent, who picked at her cuticles anxiously at the sight of her brother's bloody face. Their eyes met, and Daella offered Alicent a weak smile, hoping to comfort her. The girl smiled back, though she looked like she might still be sick. Sometimes, Daella wished they could be friends. But Alicent had never been quite so interested in her. All because I don't flirt with you or kiss your hand?

Daemon rode up, an immediate invitation for Rhaenyra to greet him at the edge of the railing. Daella did not bother to stand— she was not wanted nor did she want to congratulate him for his cruelty. "Nicely done, Uncle," said Rhaenyra, joined by Alicent. Daella didn't understand how Alicent could bring herself to join her after what she'd just seen, how Rhaenyra could be complimenting Daemon knowing he hurt Alicent's brother on purpose. What kind of friend was she?

"Thank you, Princess," said Daemon. "Now, I'm fairly certain I can win these games, Lady Alicent. Having your favor would all but assure it."

Alicent smiled, returning to her seat to fetch her favor. She gave her father a quick look before returning to Daemon and dropping her favor over his sword. "Good luck, my Prince."

Daella was no longer paying attention, annoyed that she had to be there in the first place, annoyed that Daemon was always so cruel to people who didn't deserve it. She hoped that Gwayne would be alright. It would be unfair for him to be permanently hurt all because Daemon hated Otto Hightower more than he hated most people as it was.

She sensed movement behind her after another tilt. She craned her neck back, brows furrowed when she saw her father leaving swiftly. Otto Hightower smiled politely, as if to tell her that everything was alright. She didn't think so. She began to leave her seat, but the Hand reached out and sat her back down.

"It is nothing to worry about, Princess," he said. "Please, enjoy the tourney. Your mother has told me you have a game to play." He always had that neutral expression about him, the one that was hard to read. She wondered if he'd been that way when he was younger, too. But perhaps he'd been more carefree then, and hadn't had to. He was a good-looking man even for his age, yet given how he rarely laughed or smiled, she wondered if he'd been a sullen youth that girls found handsome but dull.

Hesitantly, she stayed where she was, though she watched him follow behind her father after a second. Maybe this meant her sibling had been born, and her father was merely on his way to name them.

It became harder and harder to enjoy the tourney as the different knights beat into each other, rage building up. Laena no longer wanted to watch and Daella wished they could leave. They'd have much more fun walking around the castle or playing with their dolls. She knew Laena would help her get a peek into her mother's room, perhaps even be the first to hold the babe after her parents.

Laena whimpered, turning her head and burying it in Daella's shoulder as one of the knight's faces was torn apart. Blood flew everywhere, red as Rhaenyra's dress. The dead body was dragged away. "Ser Criston Cole will now tilt against Ser Daemon Targaryen, Prince of the City!" announced the Master of Revels.

"Daemon must win," said Daella to Laena, trying to distract the both of them. "My mother will predict it; she does not know Ser Criston. My Uncle has done too well this far."

"I cannot watch," whined Laena. "I wish to go." Daella felt the same, and yet she could not tear her eyes away. If she had to bear witness, she might as well do what she promised her mother she'd do. She hated tourneys. Princess Rhaenys often said this was nothing compared to a real battle. That is where Daella might not have minded the blood— at least it had a purpose. Jousting? It was ridiculous to her. A sort of game only men like Daemon could win. She hated men like that.

Daemon was knocked aside, startling her. His body dragged against the middle rail, knocking him off his horse. He stood angrily, demanding his sword. The Master of Revels spoke over the cheering crowd, "Prince Daemon Targaryen wishes to continue in a contest of arms!"

He stormed toward Ser Criston, who was armed with a mace and chain. Daella clutched her hands tightly together, unable to tear her eyes away as they dueled. This was more exciting, no horses harmed, only true skill brought to the test. Ser Criston was certainly giving the Prince some trouble. They knocked each other back and forth, and Daemon suddenly thought himself victorious, but was knocked down one last time. Ser Criston demanded he yield, and he did.

The knight removed his helm, striding to where Rhaenyra and Alicent had already approached the railing, blocking Daella's view. "Gods, he's Dornish!" whispered Alicent. He was quite handsome. She could have allowed herself to imagine what it would be like to touch his soft hair, to see him smile at her, but what was the point? He was clearly paying attention to her sister.

Daella craned her neck to watch as he said, "I was hoping to ask for the Princess Rhaenyra's favor." Of course. Rhaenyra smiled, tossing it to him. "I wish you luck, Ser Criston."

"Princess," he replied, grinning tiredly. He had such a nice smile, such beautiful and dark eyes. He was almost as handsome to her as Gwayne. But he knew her not at all, he'd care for her nothing after his glimpse of Rhaenyra.

She sensed another ripple of movement behind her. Ser Otto had returned, and was now whispering in the ears of the other Small Council members, as well as the Princess Rhaenys and Lord Corlys Velaryon. What was the news? Why didn't they seem excited? Everyone began to leave in a hurry. Daella shot to her feet, rushing to Ser Otto before he could go. "What is it?" she pleaded. "Is my mother–?"

He stared at her sadly. "Come with me, Princess. Bring your sister."

They had a brother who lived a day. Their mother had been mutilated for him to be born. There would be no brother named Baelon or even a sister named Visenya. And never again would the girls see their mother.

Daella had sobbed and raged for hours in her room after being allowed a final moment with her mother as the Silent Sisters loomed over, waiting for their goodbyes. She'd flung aside every candle, torn her sheets, kicked into the door of her garderobe, broken glass on the floor. Her father's grief angered her— what a hypocrite. All of this, it wasn't right, it wasn't fair, how could things be so awful? Why did good things have to fall apart, why did beautiful and wonderful people die in such horrific ways?

She could still remember when her great-grandfather died, she remembered it hurting, but nothing had ever hurt her so deeply. To lose her mother was to lose her purpose, her comfort, her solace. Who else would speak to her and hold her hand and tickle her side and press their forehead against hers? Who would she take care of? Who would be there each time she felt so alone?

Daella couldn't stand on her own at the funeral. Laena and Laenor were her support, holding her arms on either side to steady her. Rhaenyra stood beside Daemon as they looked ahead at the pyre containing the bodies of their mother and brother, while Syrax waited on the hill behind them.

She would have wanted the honor of being the one to light the pyre, to send them to join the gods in peace. She had been her mother's caregiver this entire pregnancy, she'd talked to barely-lived Baelon for months and begged him to be born healthy. It should have been her honor. But she had no dragon and she wasn't the eldest daughter.. Caring for her mother had been her only duty. Now there was nothing.

All Queen Aemma ever wanted was for her daughters to get along. It had not truly mattered to her whether she had a son or not. She would do her duty. But what of the children she had? The daughters who felt neglected by their father, who prayed for a son without acknowledging the brilliant girls he was already blessed with?

Rhaenyra and Daella were both quite capable. Aemma had listened to Daella read large volumes to her while Rhaenyra had been out on dragonback. She'd watched Daella correct Rhaenyra's High Valyrian. She'd listened to every fight and saw the fire burning in the two of them. If only the fire would burn as one instead of in opposition. It was as if they were challenging the other to see who could make the largest spark.

She feared the day Daella would have a dragon of her own. Daella might've had an accident on dragonback in trying to best her sister. Or it might have calmed her down entirely. Viserys once theorized that her restless energy came from the egg that never hatched, from a sign that she was meant to be in the skies and could no longer tolerate being bolted to the ground. He had told Aemma that he would have taken Daella with him on Balerion if the Black Dread had survived to meet his girls. Rhaenyra always offered the 'someday' seat on Syrax's saddle to Alicent, never to Daella.

The King had wished for a son. The Queen had wished to know for certain that her daughters would not play tricks as Saera had done to the first Daella. If at four-and-ten and five-and-ten they were refusing to see eye-to-eye, how much longer before their dislike became permanent?

Jaehaerys had known that the only thing that could tear the House of the Dragon down was itself. Had Aemma birthed two sides of that flaming coin?