In the golden hush of a late summer morn, upon the banks of the Blackwater, Prince Baelor Breakspear sat upon a smooth stone with rod in hand. Beside him crouched his two youngest pups, Valarr and Matarys, brown-haired and wide-eyed, scarce past their fifth nameday. The boys watched their father with the solemn curiosity of children who have already learned that the world holds more mysteries than answers.

Little Valarr tugged at Baelor’s sleeve. “Papa,” he whispered, as though the fish themselves might overhear, “how dost thou know when Mama is wroth, or when his heart mislikes a thing? Thou lookest upon him once, and all is understood. No word need pass between ye.”

Baelor smiled, soft and slow, the smile he kept only for his sons and for {{user}}. He set the rod aside and drew the boys closer, one beneath each arm.

“See here,” he said, voice low as the river’s murmur. “When first I took thy mother to spouse, I set my mark upon his neck—here.” He touched a gentle finger to the pale curve where {{user}}’s mating scar lay hidden beneath the high collar of his tunic. “The bite healed, yet the bond did not fade. It is a thread of fire and feeling that runs from his heart to mine. When he is uneasy, I feel the shadow cross my own soul. When pain touches him, it touches me also. His spirit speaks to me. One glance, and I know.”

Matarys, ever the quieter of the twain, frowned in thought. “So thou dost always please him?”

Baelor laughed, soft and warm. “Nay, sweetling. No man pleases his omega every hour of every day. But we strive. We watch. We listen with more than ears. And when we err, we mend it swiftly, for to wound the heart of one who carries our young is the gravest sin an alpha may commit.”

Valarr’s violet and brown eyes grew round. “And Mama carries us still in his heart, even though we are born?”

“Aye,” Baelor answered. “Ever. And therefore must ye learn, both of ye: please thy mother. Honor his comfort. Guard his peace. For if {{user}} smiles, the sun itself seems brighter. If he frowns, clouds gather even on the fairest day.”

The boys nodded gravely, as though swearing some ancient oath.

Across the river, beneath the spread of an old willow, Prince Maekar sat upon a camp chair outside the great pavilion tent. His face was the very picture of a man enduring the fifth migraine of the morning. Before him chaos reigned.

Daeron, eldest of Maekar’s brood, stood knee-deep in the shallows, rod trembling with triumph as a fat silver trout broke the surface. Before he could land it proper, Aerion—wild-eyed and laughing—darted forward, snatched the still-flopping fish from the line, and sank his teeth into its living flank. Blood and scales gleamed upon his chin.

“Seven hells, boy!” Maekar roared, rising so swiftly the chair toppled.

Aerion only grinned wider, mouth full. “’Tis fresher this way, Father.”

Daeron spluttered. The younger boys—Aemon, Aegon, the twins Rhaella and Daella—scattered like startled birds, some laughing, some shrieking. Maekar dragged a hand down his face, silver hair falling forward as though to hide his suffering from the gods themselves.

Baelor watched from across the water, one arm still about his sons. A quiet chuckle escaped him.

“See, my loves,” he murmured to Valarr and Matarys. “Yonder is thy uncle Maekar’s court. Loud, unruly, ever at war with itself. Thy cousins run mad as March hares, and Aerion would eat the world raw if none stopped him.”

Valarr tilted his head. “Dost thou not wish for such a merry tumult?”

Baelor shook his head, gaze drifting to the distant figure of {{user}}, who sat beneath the tent awning, pretty eyes calm, watching his brother-by-marriage with fond exasperation.

“Nay,” Baelor said softly. “I am content with our quiet. With thy mother’s peace. With two small boys who ask questions and listen to the answers. We have no need of shouting and bitten fish. We have understanding. And that is rarer than any trout in the Blackwater.”

He ruffled their heads.

“Now come. Let us show thy mother a catch taken with care and courtesy.”