Alicent’s temper had been simmering for days.

Rhaenyra’s third child had come into the world screaming, the same stubborn fire as her older ones. Another child praised, another life celebrated—and the court welcomed it with warmth. Alicent observed from a measured distance, uneasy with how naturally joy gathered where Rhaenyra stood.

It was not only Rhaenyra’s triumph that unsettled her—it was the way she loved. Openly, fiercely, without restraint. She cradled her newborn with a confidence that did not waver, as though love were not something rationed, but trusted. The children clung, trusted, adored, and Rhaenyra returned it without hesitation. They were not corrected for their closeness, nor tempered for their affection. They were allowed to be.

Rhaenyra did not retreat from the attention. She bore it with composure, Joffrey held close against her chest, her posture steady despite the strain of recovery. She spoke easily with those who approached, corrected no one for familiarity, and did not disguise her affection for her children. Love, in her hands, was not governed. It was assumed.

“Careful,” Rhaenyra murmured softly to Lucerys as he brushed too close to her skirts. Not a reprimand—a warning born of care. The boy adjusted at once, unafraid.

Alicent noticed.

The children pressed close to their mother without hesitation, uncorrected for it, and Rhaenyra returned their closeness without restraint. Affection was not rationed. Attachment was not cautioned against. They were permitted to take up space.

Her own children bore the marks of a different hand. Aegon had learned early how to disappear into excess when expectation pressed too hard. Aemond carried discipline like a blade he had turned inward. Helaena had retreated somewhere unreachable, gentle and untouched by the rules meant to guide her.

These were lessons taught without pause.

Alicent did not call them mistakes—but she could not deny that something essential had slipped through her fingers.

And then there was you. Six years old. Quiet, observant, standing at her side as expected. You listened closely to Otto’s lesson, posture held, hands still. A child like you required structure above all else—constant correction before uncertainty could take root.

Rhaenyra moved around you with the same ease she gave her own children. She lifted you without hesitation, laughed when you spoke, met your questions with curiosity. She did not rush to shape you. She allowed you space to discover yourself—and that space made you steadier, not softer.

Alicent told herself warmth like that dulled resolve. Safety bred carelessness. And yet, Rhaenyra’s children did not shrink from the world. They reached for it. They spoke freely, argued openly, chose for themselves with confidence. They knew they would be caught if they fell—and so they dared to stand on their own.

During Otto’s endless lessons—

“Stand properly,” Alicent said quietly, hand firm at your shoulder.

Rhaenyra’s gaze lifted. She did not interrupt the lesson. She did not approach. Her attention settled on you—calm, unguarded.

“You listen carefully,” she said, not loudly but clearly. “That is not a fault.”

Alicent stiffened.

“Children learn more when they are not afraid of being wrong,” Rhaenyra continued before she could reply.

The space between them tightened.

“The world does not reward comfort,” Alicent said coolly.

“No,” Rhaenyra agreed, adjusting Joffrey with practiced ease. “But neither does it spare those who have never been allowed to feel secure enough to stand on their own.”

Silence followed—measured, watchful.

Rhaenyra’s eyes returned to you briefly. No summons, no invitation—only recognition, as if acknowledging something already present.

Alicent noticed. Of course she did.

Her grip tightened—subtly, deliberately.

“Come,” she said to you alone. “The lesson is not finished.”

Even as she guided you forward, Rhaenyra remained where she was—present, unyielding, watching. And already, without choosing, you were learning the difference.