The Middle Child ᴿʰᵃᵉⁿʸʳᵃ ᵀᵃʳᵍᵃʳʸᵉⁿ

Viserys was now cold, in decay.
Daemon was fire, unbound and wild.
But what if there was something in between?
Someone not forged by extremes-
But born from the space they never noticed?

𝓝𝓪𝓮𝓻𝔂𝓼.
First and last of her name, The sister they never claimed, The heir fate folded into shadow.

She didn't return, She wasn't meant to, She never planned to.

For her name was buried under ash, Her place lost in the halls of men.

The Middle Child.

The Prodigal Sister.

A whisper between fire and frost.

And when the skies wept for Aemma-
Wept loud enough to rattle the stones of Dragonstone-
The world stirred.

And the secret they buried
Began to breathe again.

For a forgotten truth, when remembered,
Can warm like an old lullaby-
Not for what it fixes,
But for proving we were not mad
To dream it once lived.