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On the day ELEANOR and DAEMON TARGARYEN were born, a great storm churned through the skies, dark clouds thick as smoke, swirling with the rage of gods unseen. Thunder howled above the Red Keep like the roar of a dragon, each crack of lightning illuminating the castle's towers in flashes of eerie, violet light. The storm seemed to pulse in rhythm with the anguished cries of the Queen, whose voice echoed through the chambers with each push, her body drenched in sweat as she fought to bring her children into the world.
The king stood nearby, his face pale and drawn, his eyes fixed on the queen's labored breathing, utterly unaware of the secret the gods had laid in her womb—that there were not one but two heirs waiting to emerge.
And then, just as the storm reached its crescendo, the cries of two infants pierced the air, twin sounds mingling with the furious tempest outside. Daemon was born first, wailing with a strength that defied his tiny form, and moments later, Eleanor followed, quieter but no less fierce, her violet eyes wide and unblinking, as if the storm had been summoned just for her.
As they grew, the storm that had marked their birth never truly left them. It lingered in the air between them, in the silent language only they seemed to understand. Neither could explain it, the strange feeling that washed over them like an unspoken tide whenever their eyes met—those haunting violet eyes that mirrored one another's so perfectly. Words were rarely needed; a single glance was enough to convey thoughts, feelings, even desires that no one else could comprehend.
For twins spoke in a language older than words, a language only the gods could speak.
And the Targaryens—descendants of dragons, blood of Old Valyria—were the closest things on earth to gods.
