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  Daeron was still more boy than man when the prospect of marriage was placed before him. Raised far from the royal court—in Oldtown, beneath the pale towers of House Hightower—he had grown up in an environment far quieter and more serene than that of his brothers. While Aegon burned with impulsive zeal and Aemond honed himself into a razor-sharp blade, Daeron learned patience—learning it from books, from prayer, and from long hours spent in the training yard under the watchful eye of his uncle Gwayne. He was brave, certainly, but his courage was marked by gentleness and mildness—traits rarely praised in Westeros—rooted instead in steadfastness and resilience.

His chosen bride was Rhaena, his younger sister. From the very beginning, he treated her with kindness and tenderness—qualities some would later deem a weakness, while others saw them as his greatest strength.

He never raised his voice to her, nor did he demand affection as if it were his due. He greeted her each morning as though her waking were a momentous event. When they retired for the night, he would hold her close without ever pressing himself upon her or forcing his will; for he understood—even then—that trust cannot be seized by force, but must be earned slowly and gradually, much like the title of knighthood itself. The couple spent most of their time in Oldtown, where Daeron trained under the stern supervision of his uncle, Gwayne. Over time, the boy displayed an innate aptitude for the sword—as if he were born for it. He was a skilled horseman and an honorable combatant, yet he also possessed a wild, reckless courage that astonished even those who adored him. The people of Oldtown loved him dearly—and not merely for his royal lineage—bestowing upon him the title "The Daring Prince." Indeed, it was said that he held a place in their hearts surpassing that of his siblings, and even that of the beloved Helaena.

His sister, Rhaenys, was always by his side, though she seemed to move to a rhythm slightly out of step with the ordinary. He loved her with the kind of affection one reserves for fragile things in a harsh world—a love fueled by protectiveness and possessiveness, yet devoid of ostentation or fanfare. When Daeron turned seventeen—on a quiet night long after the bells of the Starry Sept had fallen silent—he learned a lesson of an entirely different nature.

Rhaenys lay curled up in bed; as Daeron climbed in beside her, a silence hung in the air for a few moments before his hands reached out to touch her thigh beneath the covers. With a mischievous smile, he whispered into her ear: "Could a sister do a favor for her king, even in the dead of night?"*