The solar smelled of parchment and old incense, a place steeped in dust and duty. The scent of melted candle wax mingled with the faint musk of aged vellum, the air still and heavy with the warmth of the smoldering hearth. It was a chamber of quiet burdens, where letters were sealed, treaties signed, and a king sat alone with the weight of his crown pressing against his temples.

King Viserys I Targaryen barely glanced up as the chamber doors creaked open.

The figure in the doorway was small, hesitant. A girl, gripping the hand of a nervous maid.

Princess Aelora, now four years old, was still delicate for her age, her silver hair spilling in soft waves down her back, unbound except for a tiny braid at her temple. Her violet eyes flickered uncertainly, darting from the towering bookshelves to the polished Valyrian steel dagger resting on his desk-to the father she did not see nearly as often as she wished.

The maid lowered her head. "She wished to see you, Your Grace," she murmured. "She has been asking for you all morning."

Viserys sighed, setting his quill aside with a quiet clink of metal against the inkpot. His eyes lingered on the half-written parchment before he finally turned his gaze toward the child.

He forced a small, tired smile.

"Come here, then, little one."

The maid gave Aelora's hand a gentle squeeze before retreating, leaving her alone with her father. The door closed with a dull thud behind her.

For a moment, Aelora did not move. She stood with her hands curled into the fabric of her dress, small fingers clenching and unclenching. She was not afraid of him-she did not know enough of him to fear him. But there was hesitation, the kind that came from long absences and fleeting moments of affection.

She had watched him smile so easily at Rhaenyra. She had seen him cradle Aegon, his voice warm and full of laughter.

With her, he was kind. But kindness was not the same as presence.

Still, she stepped closer.

"Are you busy?" she asked, her voice small but steady.

Viserys exhaled, leaning back in his chair.

"A king is always busy, my sweet girl." His voice was gentle, but distracted.

Aelora frowned, her small brows knitting together.

"But you were not too busy for Rhaenyra when she was little."

The words cut through the air like a dagger slipping between armor.

Viserys' gaze sharpened, his body stilling. For the first time since she had entered, he truly looked at her.

She was too young to know the weight of what she had just said, too young to understand the wound her little fingers had pressed against.

He let out a heavy breath.

"I was younger then," he admitted, rubbing a hand over his face. "Things were... different."

Aelora did not understand, but she did not push. Instead, she glanced at the large wooden model of Old Valyria spread across his desk. The sprawling city of carved towers and miniature bridges gleamed under the candlelight.

Her fingers twitched at her sides.

"Can you show me?" she asked hesitantly. "Rhaenyra says you used to teach her about the dragons."

Viserys' heart twisted in his chest.

He had told himself for years that Aelora had not needed him the way Rhaenyra once had. Alicent was always there. The castle was full of nurses and handmaidens. She had been cared for, and protected.

But love-love was something else entirely.

His gaze softened.

"Come," he said, shifting in his chair. He patted the seat beside him. "Let me show you."

Aelora brightened, scrambling onto the chair. Viserys reached across the table, picking up a small wooden dragon figurine and pressing it into her hands.

"This is Balerion," he said. "The Black Dread. The largest dragon ever known to man."

Aelora studied the carving, running her tiny fingers over the carefully etched wings, and the grooves of the ridged spine.

"Did you ride him?" she asked, tilting her head up at him.

Viserys chuckled, shaking his head. "Yes, my girl. But only once. He was old by then, and he died not long after."

Aelora frowned, her small fingers tightening around the wooden dragon.

"I would have liked to see him."

Viserys watched as she carefully placed Balerion atop the model of Old Valyria, her touch reverent. His chest ached.

For so long, he had told himself that he had done his duty-that Aelora had been given everything she needed. But now, watching her eager little face, the way she sat up so straight in the chair beside him, he realized how much of her childhood he had already missed.

How much more he might miss if he let himself drift further away

His fingers brushed absently over another wooden dragon carving before pushing it toward her.

"Would you like to hear the story of how I claimed him?"

Aelora's eyes gleamed, excitement flickering across her face. She nodded eagerly, scooting closer.

And so, for the first time in what felt like forever, King Viserys sat with his daughter and told her a tale of dragons.

---------

(Aelora, Age 5 - A Moment with Alicent)

The sept was quiet, save for the soft murmur of prayers and the faint crackling of candle flames. The scent of incense hung heavy in the air, thick and cloying, curling around the marble pillars like unseen fingers. Golden light filtered through the stained glass, casting shimmering hues of red, green, and gold across the polished floor.

On a cushioned bench near the altar, Aelora sat beside Queen Alicent, her small hands neatly folded in her lap, just as she had been taught.

"Again," Alicent instructed gently, reaching out to smooth a stray lock of silver hair from Aelora's face.

Aelora sighed-not out of defiance, but in that way children do when they do not understand the purpose of a lesson yet know they cannot refuse it.

Still, she did as she was told.

"Mother, show me mercy. Father, grant me wisdom. Warrior, give me courage..."

She recited the words carefully as if turning them over in her mind as if trying to understand why they mattered.

Alicent watched her closely, her expression warm but measured, something unreadable flickering in the depths of her deep green eyes.

Expectation.

Aelora peeked up at her.

"Did Rhaenyra do this when she was little?"

For the briefest moment, something passed over Alicent's face-too quick for Aelora to name it, but not quick enough for her to miss it.

Then, it was gone.

"No," Alicent said simply. Her tone was light, but there was something firm beneath it. "Rhaenyra was always her father's daughter."

Aelora tilted her head, considering this.

"And whose daughter am I?"

The question hung between them, unexpected and disarming.

Alicent blinked-just once, but it was enough. She smoothed the fabric of her skirts, taking a slow breath before answering.

"You are a princess," she said, her voice gentle, careful. "A lady of House Targaryen. And that means you must learn what it is to be dutiful, to be graceful, to be good."

Aelora sat very still.

She thought of Rhaenyra, with her laugh like Dragonfire, her sharp tongue, and her defiance that burned as brightly as the torches lining the throne room.

"I don't think Rhaenyra likes being good."

Alicent let out a quiet, breathy laugh, shaking her head.

"No," she said, and there was something almost wistful in it. "She does not."

Aelora hesitated for only a moment before reaching for Alicent's hand, her small fingers curling into her palm.

She did not know why she asked, only that the question bloomed in her chest, soft and fragile and longing.

"But you like it when I'm good."

Alicent stilled.

And then, slowly, her expression softened entirely.

She turned Aelora's hand over in her own, her fingers tightening gently but firmly around the small, seeking grasp.

"Yes, my love," she whispered, leaning down to press a kiss to Aelora's forehead, her lips warm against her cool skin.

"I do."

---

(Aelora, Age 6 - A Rare Moment with Viserys)

The royal gardens were bathed in golden light, the afternoon sun filtering through the trees, dappling the stone paths with shifting patterns of shadow and warmth. The scent of blooming roses and freshly turned earth lingered in the air, carried on the lazy autumn breeze.

Aelora hurried after her father, her small feet pattering against the ground, the hem of her gown brushing the grass as she struggled to keep up with his longer strides.

"You're rather quick for such small legs," Viserys mused, glancing down at her with amusement in his tired eyes.

Aelora grinned, pride swelling in her chest. "I can be fast when I want to be."

Viserys let out a breath that was almost a chuckle. "That is good. A dragon must know how to move swiftly."

They reached a secluded alcove within the garden, where an ornate wooden chest sat upon a carved stone table. The Targaryen sigil was etched into the lid, the edges worn smooth with age.

Aelora slowed, her brows knitting together as she eyed it curiously.

"What's that?" she asked, glancing up at him.

Viserys gestured her forward, lifting the lid with careful hands.

Inside, nestled in velvet as dark as a dragon's wings, was a Valyrian steel dagger.

Aelora sucked in a breath, her violet eyes widening as she leaned closer. "A dagger?"

Viserys chuckled at her excitement. "Not just any dagger." He tilted it slightly so the light caught the rippling folds of Valyrian steel, the gleaming edge reflecting her awed face. "This once belonged to your great-grandfather, Jaehaerys."

Aelora hesitated for only a moment before reaching out, her small fingers brushing over the cool metal. The hilt was inlaid with dragonbone, polished smooth, fitting strangely but perfectly against her palm.

It felt heavy.

Not in weight-but in something else entirely.

Viserys watched her carefully, his expression unreadable. "It is not a toy, Aelora."

She nodded solemnly. "I will be careful."

His gaze softened, though his voice remained steady. "I do not expect you to wield it in battle." His hand came to rest lightly on her small shoulder, a warmth she rarely felt from him lingering there. "But you are a Targaryen. And it is important you understand the weight of our history."

Aelora ran her fingertip along the edge, marveling at the way the light flickered off the blade.

Then, after a long moment, she spoke without thinking.

"You gave Rhaenyra a necklace."

The words hung in the air, quiet but deliberate.

Viserys stilled.

He knew what she was asking, even if she had not said it aloud. Am I your daughter the same way she is?

His shoulders rose and fell in a slow breath, his hand drifting absently over his knee. When he finally spoke, his voice was softer than before. "You are different, my girl."

Aelora's fingers curled a little tighter around the hilt.

"But that does not mean I do not love you."

She studied him for a long moment, her young mind turning the words over like a puzzle.

He had not said yes.

He had not said no.

Aelora wasn't sure which answer would have been worse.

But she smiled anyway.

---

(Aelora, Age 7 - A Moment with Rhaenyra)

The evening air was thick with salt and smoke, the scent of the city below rising with the wind as it tangled through Rhaenyra's silver-blonde hair. She stood on the terrace, poised yet restless, her hands braced against the carved stone railing as she gazed out over King's Landing.

Aelora lingered just beyond the threshold, hesitating.

Rhaenyra's voice was cool, edged with something Aelora could not quite name.

"You were late to the lesson with Grand Maester Mellos today."

Aelora shifted her weight, the hem of her gown brushing against the stone floor.

"I was with stepmother."

At that, Rhaenyra did turn-abruptly.

Her violet eyes flickered with something sharp and unreadable, her mouth pressing into a thin line.

"Of course you were."

Aelora frowned. "Why do you always sound angry when I talk about her?"

Rhaenyra let out a slow breath, rubbing her temples. "You wouldn't understand."

That only made Aelora's frustration grow.

"Then explain it to me."

For a moment, Rhaenyra only studied her, as if weighing whether it was worth the effort. Then, with a sigh, she lowered herself to Aelora's level, her hands settling on the little girl's shoulders-gentle, but firm.

Her grip was warm. Steady.

And yet, Aelora could feel the storm beneath it.

"Alicent is not your mother," Rhaenyra said softly, but there was steel beneath her voice.

Aelora's brows knit together, lips parting as if to protest, but Rhaenyra pressed on.

"She may care for you. She may love you in her own way. But she is not ours." Her fingers curled slightly against the fabric of Aelora's gown. "She does not belong to us the way Mother did."

Aelora bit her lip.

She thought of Alicent's soft touch, the warmth of her voice when she whispered sweet endearments, the way she smoothed her hair after long lessons and praised her for being good.

She thought of the nights when Viserys barely looked at her, when Rhaenyra was off riding Syrax when Alicent was the only one who held her when she cried.

"But she does love me."

Rhaenyra's expression wavered, something flickering-something that looked almost like pain.

Then, with the same practiced care Alicent often showed, she reached forward, brushing a stray strand of silver hair from Aelora's face.

The touch was soft. Familiar.

It made something inside Aelora twist.

Rhaenyra hesitated, then sighed. "Maybe she does."

For a moment, the silence stretched between them, broken only by the wind curling between the pillars of the terrace.

Then, Rhaenyra's hands slipped from Aelora's shoulders, and when she spoke again, her voice was quieter.

"But one day, you will have to decide where your loyalties lie."

Aelora's brow furrowed. "Why?"

Rhaenyra smiled, but it was not a happy smile.

It was the kind of smile that came before a storm, the kind that carried knowledge too heavy for a child to bear.

"Because love is not always enough."

And though Aelora did not yet understand, something deep inside her already knew it was true.

----------------

(Aelora, Age 8 - A Moment with Aegon and Helaena)

The nursery buzzed with warmth and movement, the soft glow of candlelight flickering against the stone walls as the late afternoon sun spilled in through the arched windows. The air smelled faintly of lavender and milk, the remnants of a half-eaten honey cake forgotten on a nearby tray.

Laughter filled the chamber, high and unrestrained, as Prince Aegon-still a chubby little thing at four years old-ran in wild, clumsy circles around the room. His short legs pumped furiously, his arms flailing as he shrieked with delight.

Aelora watched from the floor, cross-legged beside the tiny, babbling form of Helaena, who sat with a chewed wooden dragon clutched in her fists, humming contentedly as she rocked back and forth.

Aegon's silver hair flew wildly behind him, sticking to his flushed cheeks as he sprinted past them for what must have been the tenth time.

Aelora smirked. "You're going to trip."

Aegon ignored her, determined to prove that he was both fast and invincible.

But, as if the gods themselves had taken amusement in Aelora's warning, his foot caught on the edge of a thick rug-and with a dramatic yelp, he toppled forward, landing hard on his stomach.

Silence.

Then, a long, sniffling wail.

Aelora pressed a hand to her mouth, barely containing a laugh as she pushed herself onto her knees and crawled