You hold your son in your arms, rocking him beneath the shade of a weirwood, while your fingers trace his hair with fear and fascination. You can no longer hide it beneath hoods or shadows: the child was born with the purest Targaryen silver, a shine that betrays a truth you and Baelor swore to bury.

They are family. Their love is supposed to be a transgression, even by the standards of the house. He the Prince of Dragonstone, the perfect heir, the Hand of the King.

You hear his footsteps before you see him. Baelor walks with the martial confidence that defines him, but today his stride falters. He stops a few paces away, watching you. For months now, you have kept a frigid distance, a choreography of courtesy before the court to keep curious eyes from settling on you.

“He’s grown,” Baelor says. His voice is deep, but you catch the crack of emotion he tries to hide as he looks at his son, only a few months old.