The air in Maegor's Holdfast was thick with the mingling scents of blood and milk of the poppy-a cruel contrast as if death had been perfumed. It clung to the walls, soaked into the silken sheets, and curled in the damp strands of Queen Aemma Arryn's hair as she lay on the birthing bed, her body trembling with exhaustion.

The midwives moved like ghosts, their hands slick and shaking, their faces pale as they exchanged nervous glances above her heaving form. The candlelight flickered over their worried expressions, shadows stretching long against the stone walls.

"She is weak," one whispered, voice trembling. "She cannot bear much more."

Aemma's breaths were shallow, her fingers clawing at the sheets. Tears slipped from the corners of her eyes, yet she had no strength left to weep. She had begged him-pleaded with tired eyes and weary words-not to put her through this again.

But he had reassured her Kissed her forehead promised her this time would be different.

And now King Viserys I Targaryen stood motionless, his hands clasped so tightly that his knuckles had gone white. The walls of the chamber seemed to close in, the heavy wooden doors muffling the agonized cries that twisted his insides with guilt and dread.

Then came the whisper of robes A shadow at his side.

The Grand Maester's voice was hushed but urgent.

"The babe is breech, Your Grace. It will not come on its own."

The world tilted. Viserys felt as though he had stepped into a nightmare, one he already knew the ending to.

Aemma moaned weakly on the bed, her body arching in pain. Her lips formed his name-a broken, pleading whisper.

Viserys's throat was dry. His mind screamed against what had to be done, but his voice was hollow when he finally spoke.

"Save the child."

The screams that followed would haunt him for the rest of his days.

When it was over, the chamber was deathly silent.

Aemma lay still, her head turned toward the window. But she did not see the sky. Her lips, once warm against his, were now pale and motionless. The blood had stopped flowing because there was none left to give.

A sharp, piercing wail shattered the silence.

The midwife trembled as she lifted the newborn child, her arms slick with blood, her hands unsteady. "A girl," she whispered, as if afraid to speak too loudly in the presence of so much death. "A princess."

The babe's hair was silver as starlight, damp and curling against her forehead. Her skin was soft as morning mist, her small fingers twitching as she cried. And when her eyes fluttered open for the first time, they gleamed violet in the dim torchlight-bright as the fire that ran through her veins.

Aelora Targaryen had survived.

The newborn was placed in Viserys' arms, and for a long moment, he could not breathe.

She was so small, impossibly fragile. Aemma had died for this child.

His son-his Baelon-should have been here too. But his cries were absent, his tiny chest too weak to battle the world beyond the womb. The maesters said he would not last the night.

And yet, this girl had lived.

Viserys stared down at her, his grief so vast that he could not tell where it ended and where he began. The weight of it sank into his bones, pressing, suffocating. Aelora's small fingers curled against his chest, warm and soft, oblivious to the sorrow that surrounded her.

He should love her.

He should feel something other than this terrible, aching emptiness.

But all he could hear was Aemma's final gasp, see the way her fingers had reached for him as the light left her eyes.

The babe shifted in his arms, her tiny face scrunching as if she could sense his hesitation. Then she whimpered, a small, broken cry-and something inside him fractured.

He bowed his head, pressing his lips to her silver hair. His whisper was hoarse, almost reverent.

"Aelora."

A name Aemma had once spoken in passing. A name she had liked.

The last thing he could give her.

--

Aelora Targaryen was raised in the shadow of loss.

From the moment she took her first breath, she was both a tragedy and a miracle. The court whispered that she had stolen her mother's life, that she was born of blood and grief, that she was proof of the gods' cruelty.

She was the daughter of a dead queen. The twin of a lost prince. The sister of the Realm's Delight.

And yet-she belonged to no one.

Viserys could not bear to look at her for long. Her silver hair was too much like Aemma's, her violet eyes too much like his own. He did not neglect her, not truly-she was raised in luxury, swaddled in silks, given every comfort.

But he did not hold her the way a father should.

It was Queen Alicent Hightower a year later who took Aelora into her arms when she cried. It was Alicent who soothed her when she woke in the night, who pressed soft kisses to her brow, who held her small hands as she took her first steps.

Aelora was too young to know the difference.

To her, Alicent was warmth and safety.

To Alicent, Aelora was a child untouched by the bitter games of the court-a child who did not judge, did not scheme and saw her as nothing but a mother.

But children grow.

And innocence does not last forever.

---

The corridors of Maegor's Holdfast were quiet, too quiet. The Red Keep, usually filled with murmuring courtiers and the steady shuffle of servants, had become a tomb of whispers since the queen's death. Even now, as Rhaenyra Targaryen walked through the stone halls, she could feel it-the weight of grief pressing down like an invisible hand on her chest.

She had been kept away from the birthing chamber. "It is not a place for a girl," Ser Harrold had told her when she had tried to push past the guards, her heart pounding with dread.

Now, with her father hidden away in his grief and the court still reeling, no one had told her what became of the babe.

Her mother was dead. She knew that much.

But what of the child?

Rhaenyra's fingers curled into fists as she reached the heavy wooden doors of the nursery. Two guards stood watch, their expressions carved from stone. They exchanged glances as she approached, as if uncertain whether they should allow her inside.

She lifted her chin. "Move aside."

The hesitation was brief. She was the king's daughter, the Realm's Delight, the dragon's heir. The guards stepped back, and Rhaenyra pushed open the door.

Inside, the nursery was bathed in candlelight, the air thick with the scent of milk and lavender. The fire in the hearth crackled softly, casting long shadows against the walls.

And there, nestled among silk pillows in a carved wooden cradle, lay the child.

Her sister.

Rhaenyra stepped forward cautiously, her breath catching as she peered into the cradle. The babe was so small, impossibly so, wrapped in fine embroidered blankets, her silver hair curling damply against her forehead. Her skin was pale, soft as morning mist.

Then, as if sensing her presence, the child shifted, tiny fingers twitching. Her eyelids fluttered open, revealing violet eyes so bright they gleamed in the dim light.

Aelora.

The name rang in Rhaenyra's mind, though no one had spoken it yet. She had overheard the maesters and midwives whispering. The name her father had given the child, but only after hours of silence.

The babe stared up at her, unblinking.

Rhaenyra felt something tighten in her chest.

This was the child who had cost her a mother.

This was the child who had lived-while Baelon had not.

She had not known what she would feel upon seeing her sister for the first time. Rage? Resentment? Sorrow? But looking at her now, she felt only an aching sort of stillness.

Aelora was not to blame.

The babe let out a soft whimper, her tiny face scrunching as if disturbed by Rhaenyra's thoughts. Without thinking, Rhaenyra reached out, hesitating only briefly before brushing her fingertips against the child's hand.

Aelora's fingers curled around hers instinctively, impossibly small and warm.

Rhaenyra exhaled, the tension in her shoulders loosening just slightly.

She thought of her mother-of the way Aemma had run gentle fingers through her hair when she was younger, the warmth of her voice when she called her "my little dragon."

She thought of her father-of how he had barely looked at her these past days, his face a mask of grief, his eyes hollow.

Aelora was alone in this world, in a way Rhaenyra understood too well.

And so, slowly, carefully, she knelt beside the cradle.

"You are small," she murmured, voice quiet as she studied the baby's delicate features. "Smaller than I thought you would be."

Aelora yawned, her tiny fingers still wrapped around Rhaenyra's.

A strange warmth settled in Rhaenyra's chest.

"You do not deserve this," she whispered, barely aware she had spoken the words aloud.

The babe simply breathed, unaware of the shadows lingering around her birth, unaware of the whispers in the court-that she was born of blood and sorrow, that she had stolen the queen's life, that she was a curse upon House Targaryen.

Rhaenyra would not let that be her fate.

Gently, she stroked a lock of silver hair away from Aelora's forehead.

"You have no mother," she murmured. "And soon, you will learn that our father is a weak man. But you have me."

The words felt like a promise.

Aelora shifted again, her lips parting in a tiny sigh.

Rhaenyra watched her, feeling something fierce and unshakable settle deep within her chest.

A sister was not a mother. But she could be something.

And for Aelora, that would have to be enough.

------

First chapter done! hope you like it!