Dragonstone was beautiful.

Daella had been once, many years ago, but could hardly remember it. She'd never seen it from the sky, with bright green valleys stretching between cliffs behind the castle. It glowed, it felt alive. She could feel her dragon calling to her, the caves singing a sweet song that carried up to her and told her, this is the day, this is the first day of the rest of your life.

She and Rhaenyra had kept talking as they neared the Dragonmount within the caves. Rhaenyra had admitted how betrayed she felt because of what Alicent had done. She confirmed only what Daella had already suspected– the two had been close. Sisters, friends, perhaps more. Something neither understood but simply felt for the other.

What was that worth now? Daella told her that there was no sense in relying on people, they always disappointed. Syrax was a constant, dragons were never traitors. Daella would soon know this, when her Silverwing finally came to her.

Still, Daella did wonder what it would be like to have that. To feel a sort of romantic love. She wondered if that would ever be possible with Ser Gwayne, who no longer visited King's Landing so often. Daemon had left him injured after the tourney, and he'd been sent back to Oldtown at once. She wished, she hoped he could return soon... perhaps with a dragon, she would have the confidence to speak to him. She wished she had been able to take Laenor's advice at the tourney.

"Syrax and I will wait here," said Rhaenyra, dismounting and helping Daella slide off, Dragonkeepers nearing to urge Syrax towards some water. "So as to not disturb the other dragons. We'll be near enough if you need help. Do you know what you need to do?"

Daella nodded, peering off the dragonmount into the darkness below. "Yes. And I need to do this alone." I need my Silverwing to see I am here for her and only her, that I have opened my heart to our bond.

Rhaenyra smiled. "I will explore the castle and see what Uncle Daemon might've left behind. The Dragonkeepers will have meat for you if you need to coax her. I believe in you, sister." As she was escorted away, a Dragonkeeper neared Daella, bowing to her and beckoning her nearer to the edge. The slab of stone dropped suddenly, leaving nothing to be seen. Her own breathing seemed to echo so far down.

"Silverwing issa nyke jaelagon naejot brōzagon," said Daella to the Dragonkeeper, breathing heavily though she tried to calm herself. "Kostilus... dohaeragon nyke." (T: It is Silverwing I wish to call. Please... help me.)

Humbly, the man bowed again, bald head shining in the faint ray of sunshine. "Naejot māzis, Silverwing," he called, extending his hand out into the open. His eyes were closed, trusting the dragon would hear. Daella's heart hammered in her chest, watching and waiting for her dragon to make himself known.

She listened for any movement, however faint. When there came nothing within the first few minutes, the Dragonkeeper called for Silverwing again– he tried to explain to Daella that sometimes the dragons nested very deep into the caves, and it took them longer to emerge. He called louder. Then, he left and returned with a horn from which blew a low song. Silverwing still did not come.

Anxious and growing steadily more upset, Daella called out on her own, "Silverwing, Silverwing, naejot māzis, māzigon naejot nyke." (T: Silverwing, Silverwing, come forward, come to me.) But the dragon did not make herself known. The shadow of the sun had begun to move along the stone– the dragon had to be in the deepest of sleeps or choosing to ignore her.

"Leave me," she told the Dragonkeeper. "Leave me, I want to do this by myself. She will come to me, she will come." Though hesitant, he stepped away. He doubts me, they always do. They know I could not claim any in the pit, that Dreamfyre would not let me near and that Syrax went to Rhaenyra immediately. They know no egg hatched to me, they think me a dud. But I will show them, I will show them.

Still, alone, blowing the horn or calling or even singing, the dragon did not come to her. Daella was becoming frustrated. She was hungry and tired, they'd left so suddenly she hadn't a bite to eat. Her arms were starting to ache after beating the sparring sword so hard into everything she saw. Would that she had the sword now. "Silverwing," she begged. "Silverwing, Silverwing."

At last, when the sun moved completely away from the ledge, she started to stomp her foot hard into the stone, watching small rocks and dust flicker down. "Māzigon naejot nyke!" she shouted out. "Iksan iā dārilaros hen Targārien Lentor. Ñuha kepa kipagon Balerion se zȳhon kepa kipagon Vhagar, nyke gūrogon ao! Gaomagon daor sagon naejot nyke, iksan tolī jemome pendagon!" (T: Come to me! I am a Princess of House Targaryen, my father rode Balerion and his father rode Vhagar, I am worthy of you! Do not ignore me, I am more than you think!)

The dragon chose to disregard all this. She slammed her feet down harder, then sat herself down on the ledge, beating her fists into the stone. It burned, it ached, but the hurt felt good, even as her knuckles finished running themselves raw and burst, blood dripping down her fingertips and off the ledge. That was when she started to sob angrily, for this could not be happening, she could not be ignored again.

If the dragons here did not want her, then no one wanted her. Her mother was dead, Laena would leave soon now that Corlys felt slighted, Alicent was to be her stepmother, and Daella had no one. What was life worth, then? At that point, she should seek to join her mother as soon as possible. She ought to throw herself off this ledge and be done with it.

The intrusion of this thought angered her more– why did all these things get to make her feel this unloved? This useless? It wasn't fair, she was more than that. She started to mutter to herself, "This is ridiculous, this cannot be true, I am a Targaryen, I am a dragon, and I have nothing to call my own, I am owed this, I deserve this, I will be a dragonrider, I will not give those who shun me a chance to laugh at my pyre and tell me I was never cut out for this, I will have a bloody dragon if it kills me! At least then I will die a warrior."

She got to her feet, looking around the ledge for a place to climb off. She found a jagged staircase, barely-wide-enough steps winding down to the caves. She started to step down, intent on finding Silverwing and demanding that she take her. She had been Alysanne's dragon, how could she not want her great-granddaughter Daella, named for her sweetest daughter and her most gentle granddaughter?

As her feet hit the flat and cool cave bottom, she heard the first rumble. Good, someone is coming. She made for it, passing beneath the ledge. It was dark ahead, her eyes still adjusting. She felt like a cat roaming through the castle at night, squinting and trying her hardest to make out any shapes. Looking up, she could hardly see it– a layer of cloudy dust seemed to linger overhead, obscuring her view of anyone who might be looking for her.

The cloud broke suddenly, a ball of fire shooting at the ceiling and illuminating the path ahead. She could see scales, shining for a moment then vanishing when the fire went out. "Rytsas," she called, moving faster. She might've done well bringing it some food now, but none of this was planned. (T: Hello.)

After another few steps, a second burst of fire returned. The dragon was easier to see now, great leathery wings spread out and scarred underbelly exposed with its head tilted up. For a moment, it was bright as the sun– not serene like a morning sky. It was not Silverwing who had come to find her.

As the fire went out, its head turned down to her. Its snout alone was taller than Daella, the massive horns sticking out behind its eyes and cheeks so great they could impale her in a second if she fell on them. "Vermithor," she said in wonder.

She couldn't remember meeting Silverwing, though her father said that Queen Alysanne had taken her and Rhaenyra into the skies on her during one of her last flights, right before her death. The dragon had left for Dragonstone as soon as that had happened, but had left behind many stories of her beauty.

Vermithor, however, Daella did remember. She had been five when her great-grandsire died, old enough to recall seeing the old beast on the day she tried to claim Syrax. Her grandfather had passed soon after, and Vermithor had left for Dragonstone. She hadn't gone back to the Dragonpit for some time after that.

He loomed over her now, curious and sneering. He must have felt her anger– he was called the Bronze Fury, a name that had always interested her as a child. He had seen battle in a way many other dragons hadn't. A part of her understood him in this moment, a survivor of awful things and many losses. He knew her anger and her pain all at once, perhaps this was why he had come to her.

"Dohaerās, Vermithor," she told him, extending her hand. She could feel it, that strange thing Rhaenyra had been saying. This warmth in her heart, this call, this tug that moved her hand without her thinking about it. She knew it deep inside her. Wanting him, knowing he wanted her. There was no fear anymore, no disappointment that it wasn't Silverwing. It was a satisfaction she'd never had, a sensation of being truly seen that she could hardly remember before. Vermithor was looking right at her, and his flames were no longer needed now that she was before him.

He lowered his large head, still sneering. His eyes flickered closed, acknowledging her. Slowly, he moved his jaws to her, letting her hand meet the scales between his nostrils. With a grin, she leaned forward, until her forehead was pressed to him. He still smelled of fire, and his body was warm– it felt like being hugged by her great-grandsire again, like being hugged by her mother.

_

Her father was not pleased to know she arrived on Vermithor's back.

The Dragonkeepers had saddled him for her once she was ready to depart. Rhaenyra had been overjoyed to hear of her sister's success, though surprised it was Vermithor who would be returning to King's Landing with them and not Silverwing.

The word 'menace' was flung around in the castle once word spread of Daella returning with the Bronze Fury beneath her. She wasn't sure if it was said about her or the dragon, perhaps both. Let them think her a menace— nothing about those people could irk her now that she felt so mighty.

Up in the clouds, her anger could exist. Vermithor seemed to enjoy it, seemed to feed off it. If she was furious, they'd fly far out into the Blackwater. By the time they needed to turn around, Daella wasn't upset anymore. Her dragon did not judge her, and it rendered her untouchable in the Red Keep— her dragon was now the most fearsome in the Dragonpit, and none would levy insults knowing that it was Vermithor who would share her rage.

Ignoring Alicent was easier than it had ever been. Daella saw through her, finding her own motivations for the day. Her father's scolds did not bother her, and each morn she woke eager to watch the knights, to improve her hold on a sword, to fly out with her magnificent beast.

The weeks leading up to the wedding, Daella was the happiest she'd been since her mother's passing. She spoke to Rhaenyra more often now, the two eager for mischief as they sent servants down the wrong path to Alicent and purposely gave input about decorations and food that they knew Alicent wouldn't like. Daella couldn't remember being so close to Rhaenyra ever, not even when they were little girls.

Then, it seemed something happened. It was subtle at first, something Rhaenyra told her happened but Daella hadn't understood. The way the bond between a dragon and a rider grew as time went on. The longer Daella spent with Vermithor, the more she noticed differences in herself. First, it started with her appetite. She used to enjoy trying all sorts of food with her mother, but that desire to eat regularly had vanished after her mother's death.

Vermithor was hungry all the time, however. Now, Daella was, too. She hungered for the things she didn't entertain much in prior years– meat, hot and juicy and sometimes slightly bloody meat. She ate that, she ate steaming hot vegetables with it, whose rich flavors soothed the thirst within her. Whenever she ate well, she was told by the Dragonkeepers that Vermithor had been particularly greedy with the goats they offered.

That was when the more obvious changes began, the ones she thought would never come, the ones that had happened very quickly to her sister. Though Daella had her maiden's blood since thirteen, she'd not seen her body change the way Rhaenyra's had. Her sister's curves had developed quickly, and by fifteen she'd looked to have a woman's body. Daella thought it would never happen to her.

But there came mornings where her breasts began to ache, and grow. Her hips began to widen, making her better suited for the dresses that had once belonged to her mother, dresses she kept because she could not bear to part with them. Her hair was growing thicker and fuller, dropping below the backs of her thighs even in a braid. Her face thinned, revealing the high cheekbones her mother had had– those which Rhaenyra never inherited. Her sister's bosom remained bigger than hers, but Daella was quickly looking like a young woman to rival her sister– the sort of looks her uncle Daemon had openly said made Rhaenyra the most beautiful maiden in the Seven Kingdoms.

Daella started to enjoy waking up again. She had kept one of her mother's pillows, and held it at night. She'd rise, and in her looking glass would find a face slowly becoming more and more like her mother's staring back at her. There was a day when she returned from riding Vermithor, energetic and smiling at Ser Harrold, donning a blue riding gown, where her father's face went ashen gray and she heard later that he thought it was Aemma who had been running up to them.

She started to be curious about herself, for the stares that she began to receive were different. She'd only been Rhaenyra's little sister before, but now there were words flung around that she found intriguing. A lady was heard to say that Daella had every drop of Arryn beauty, accentuated by her Valyrian features. A knight said that Daella resembled a painting of Queen Rhaenys that hung in Maegor's Holdfast. A servant boy said that Daella reminded him of the stories he heard of Visenya on top of Vhagar.

It made her smile, to see herself, to imagine anyone admiring her, wanting her. For so long, she'd been the one with crushes, with puppy eyes cast to the young knights who paid her attention. Gods, she used to think so often of Ser Gwayne months ago, and now she was realizing that others were thinking of her that way. Perhaps someone out there was thinking that they'd misjudged her when she was younger, that now she was growing into a beautiful and powerful woman that they might want to marry.

It led her to enjoy the wedding when it came. The whole month leading up to it, she was able to fly out with Laena– who had claimed Vhagar quite bravely– and feel much less shy around the knights they used to hide from. Daella walked tall and with confidence, glad for the looks that followed her and even smiling back at a few bashful boys who sought her attention. When the wedding came, she and Laena made a game of dancing with as many knights and lords as they could– all handsome and some funny.

Her father occupied with his new bride, Daella had fewer limits. She gave herself the liberty to fly to Driftmark whenever she pleased, always welcome in their halls. Laena was ecstatic and even Laenor was glad to join in their fun. She was happiest there, the three of them in the sky on their dragons and out in the town overnight while the stars twinkled overhead and other friends joined them for a laugh.

Sometimes, Laenor had sailors take them out into the water to swim in the open sea. On quieter days, he had her practice using a real sword, graduating her from her practice with sparring swords alone in her room. She liked to learn from him, for he was a much better suited tutor who had no qualms about landing her flat on her arse if she made a mistake. She learned more that way, and at least now she could defend herself from an attack. Learning to return them was next on her list. She liked her dresses too much to carry the sword with her at all times, but had begun to hide a knife beneath her skirts, should she need it.

By the first year of her father's new marriage, Daella became an older sister. She was in the Red Keep when Alicent gave birth, listening to her moans and screams for several hours before she finally presented to the King a boy he named Aegon, for the brother of his that died after his mother did.

Daella had been the first to hold Aegon after her father, curious despite knowing Alicent birthed him. He was a teeny thing, and sweet. Nothing like that Hightower whore. She'd styled herself his protector within the first week, when she noticed Alicent would much rather hand him off to the wetnurse than attend to him herself.

He fascinated her. The little breaths he took and the way his eyes searched for every sound. Rhaenyra could not be bothered with him– she didn't like him or want him around, and was only somewhat kind if Alicent was nowhere in sight. But Daella was growing to quickly adore Aegon and his little coos, hugging him whether Alicent saw or not– sometimes she liked that Alicent saw, and that it bothered her. In the end, Daella knew that this was her brother, her blood, and that it wasn't his fault his mother was a whore.

He became her little companion. Daella carried him with her on her walks, talked to him and even swaddled him to go into the skies when he was a month old (much to Alicent's horror and Viserys's joy). She liked being seen with Aegon, who attracted even more compliments and made many say that she was as gentle with babes as her mother was with the children brought for blessings each year. Aegon couldn't talk, but he liked to listen. He cried often when Alicent held him, but remained still and curious with Daella.

She told him about everything, about life and dragons, about how he was named for the Conqueror most of all. When they were alone, she told him that he would most likely be King. At first, the thought had annoyed her, but she still thought that it was better that Aegon be taught to rule from a young age, where Rhaenyra had lost many years to other hobbies. Daella didn't like how little her sister acknowledged Aegon; it wasn't fair to him. She did like how people sometimes said that Daella looked more to be his mother than Alicent.

Motherhood became a heavy thought in her mind. She started to think about it all, marriage and bedding and whelping. She had so many questions because she'd witnessed the worst of those things from her mother. So, whenever Aegon was napping, she started to pick up every book the maesters found for her on the subject– even the ones deemed a tad 'inappropriate' for a Princess. They didn't need to know she took those.

Some were fascinating in their talk of the bedding, that sacred thing that would happen when she married. Daella had always been a child full of questions, and had asked her mother many about what that was like. Aemma had been honest– it was painful at first for most girls, but could grow to be tolerable and even pleasurable. It was a very beautiful thing, to bring life into the world, however terrifying it could be.

In these books, many spoke of how exhilarating it was. Sensations the body felt in those moments were the sort that brought even a non-dragonrider to a point of flying. The maesters who wrote these more explicit books had taken testimonies from all sorts of women, highborn ladies and common whores alike, and found an overlap in many– there were good beddings and bad beddings, and if one was lucky, their partner or husband would be attentive in bed.

Daella was bathing the first time she decided to explore what they were talking about. It had been a hot day, and she'd sat in the shade of the yard while the knights– sweaty and muscular and handsome– had been training. Daella remembered the book mentioning how some men knew to use their fingers, how men in Dorne used tongues, how many had the strength to move their lady's body into more comfortable positions. It sounded so nice, to have a handsome man do those things to her.

She had slipped her fingers between her legs to explore. At first, it didn't feel like much of anything. But her thumb found a good place, and she started to feel lightheaded within minutes of her exploration. Then, she reached further down until she found where her maidenhead would break on the night of her bedding. Gathering her wits, she pushed her own fingers inside and coiled them as the book said felt pleasurable. Oh, it did.

She started to do so often, on the nights she didn't let Aegon sleep next to her. She liked to, only because he was so lonely in his rooms, and because he was so adorable with his little belly rising and falling. But on days when someone else was taking care of him, Daella had her time alone to appreciate herself in the way she hoped her future husband would. She'd muffle her own noises in her pillow, letting her hands work and work until she felt like she was floating right in that bed, stars forming in her eyes and toes curled while her legs shook. Sometimes, she pushed as many fingers in as she could, until the stretch started to become a bit unbearable.

The next time she'd gone to Driftmark, she'd told Laenor about the book. She wasn't sure what drove her to it, given she never spoke to Laenor about those sorts of things. Perhaps because Laena was two years younger and she didn't want to encourage her to do such things before her own body matured. Laenor knew much of what Daella told him about, and admitted that he understood exploring these feelings– he was becoming a man, too, and knew his own ways of pleasure. That was when he told her he was curious about it in a more similar way than she expected– they both liked to think of handsome boys when they did those things.

She considered that this meant Laenor was uniquely suited to help her with her curiosities. He had plenty of young, male friends, and now that he knew what she wanted to feel, he could help find someone who would give that to her. But she remembered the many lessons that her mother had given her about virtue. Daella felt somewhat guilty about pleasuring herself, though it didn't mean she'd lost her maidenhead. No, she had to keep to the lessons her mother gave her, and save herself for the husband she would one day have. It would not do to be like Saera Targaryen, who'd been with every boy and man she found interesting. Daella was better behaved than that. She wished she could be like Laenor, a man who could explore without any consequences.

That year, with her new dragon and new brother, Daella had learned much about herself. She knew what she wanted, and knew that when she found it, she could have it. She was Daella Targaryen, and Daella was not only Darling now, she was Daring. She would keep her maidenhead until marriage... but that marriage could come whenever she wanted it. After all, who would not want her?