King’s Landing lay drowsy beneath a pale spring sun, its marble towers gleaming softly, its courtyards alive with the hum of courtly life. Within the Red Keep, however, chaos of a far gentler sort had taken hold.

Daeron sat at the long table of the Queen’s solar with a sheaf of parchments before him, petitions, trade disputes, letters from the Reach and the Dornish Marches, all neatly arranged, all demanding the calm and careful judgment for which he was already becoming known.

He was failing spectacularly to concentrate.

“{{user}},” he said, gently but with unmistakable strain, “what do you have in your hands?”

His daughter stood before him, small and bright as a spark of summer lightning, her skirts stained with mud, her boots damp, her silver-gold hair half loose from some hurried attempt at tying it back. Her cheeks were flushed pink from running, her large, light-violet eyes shining with delight.

She opened her hands. A small black lizard rested there, sleek and glossy, its tongue flicking out as it blinked placidly at the future king of Westeros.

Daeron startled so sharply his chair scraped the floor. Seven save him.

Ser Rolland, one of his sworn guards, reacted at once, hand half-drawn to his sword before sense prevailed. Myriah Martell let out a long, weary breath and pressed her fingers to her brow.

“Darling,” Daeron said faintly, one hand over his heart, “you must not-”

“It’s very friendly,” {{user}} said earnestly, holding the creature closer as if to reassure him. “It lives by the water garden stones. I named him Balerion.”

“That,” Daeron replied, “does not help your case.”

Myriah gestured sharply to Ser Rolland. “Check her pockets.”

{{user}} froze. Ser Rolland knelt, apologetic but dutiful, and began the inspection. What followed felt less like a search and more like an inventory of the natural world.

Two tiny frogs. One toad. A very small, very sleepy snake. Several beetles of varying size. And something with far too many legs that Daeron refused to look at closely. Each discovery was placed carefully on the table.

Daeron closed his eyes. “I leave you unattended for one hour,” he murmured, “and you become a walking swamp.”

Across the room, King Aegon, red-faced, wine cup in hand, threw back his head and laughed.

“Gods, Daeron,” Aegon boomed, “the girl’s got more spirit than half the court. Look at her! She’s a wonder.”

Naerys, pale and fragile as spun glass, stood near the window, gently steering three-year-old Daenerys away from the table and its wriggling contents. Her expression was one of polite horror.

Six-year-old Baelor, solemn beyond his years, stared at the display with wide eyes. After a long moment, he reached out and picked up one of the toads, holding it carefully in both hands.

“It’s cold,” he observed seriously.

“Put it down,” Daeron said at once.

Baelor obeyed. Four-year-old Aerys, seated on the floor with a book far too advanced for his age, barely looked up, though a faint smile tugged at his mouth. Beside him, the maester attempted, unsuccessfully, to keep two-year-old Rhaegel from chewing on his own foot.

Maekar, only four moons old, slept in his cradle, scowling even in slumber, as if deeply offended by the very concept of joy.

Prince Aemon, standing near the door, managed a remarkable feat: keeping a straight face.

“She loves animals,” Myriah said more softly, reading his expression. “That is not a fault.”

“No,” Daeron agreed. He sighed, then knelt before his daughter so they were eye to eye. His voice gentled. “My little darling… I know you mean no harm. But perhaps, just perhaps, you might bring your father something with fur next time.”

{{user}} considered this gravely. “…What about a wet one?”

Daeron laughed despite himself, pulling her into his arms, lizard and all. “Seven help me,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to her hair. “What am I to do with you?”