The gray light of Dragonstone filtered through the narrow windows of the room, gently gilding the pale strands of hair scattered across the stone floor. The fire crackled softly in the fireplace, casting long shadows on the antique tapestries. The room was large but warm, thanks to the presence of the woman sitting by the window, her belly already well rounded by the weight of the twins she carried.

You were Alicent Hightower's older sister, although many forgot that. You had lived most of your life in Oldtown, discreet, kind, cultured, and infinitely sweeter than the games of court demanded. For years, you had been just a distant shadow, that Hightower daughter who did not come to King's Landing often, but when you did, on occasional visits to your sister, you attracted attention not for scandals, but for your calm smile and attentive gaze.

It was during one of these visits that you became a "close friend" of Daemon Targ, with encounters that mixed irony, muffled laughter, and long nights when he allowed himself to be more than the Prince of the City. You understood each other in silence and teasing. For a long time, nothing was said between you, until the years passed, Laena Velaryon died, and fate brought Daemon back to the memory of that woman with light eyes and a serene soul. Two years later, you married, without great ceremony, as if what was inevitable had finally come to pass.

On that rainy afternoon, you were sewing, your feet raised and a light fabric spread over your knees. The small outfits in formation already showed fine embroidery with details of golden and silver dragons, clothes for Daemon's future children, careful and elegant, like everything you did.

Next to you, Rhaena, with her tongue between her teeth, tried to imitate her stepmother's stitches, sewing with concentration and care.

"Be patient, dear" you murmured, gently guiding the girl's fingers. "The small stitches keep the warmth in and don't come undone easily. Like a dragon's wings: firm but light."

In the other corner of the room, Daemon lay sprawled in an armchair, Baela on his lap, visibly bored as he gestured enthusiastically, recounting for the tenth time how Dark Sister had slit the throat of a Dornish warrior in a single clean stroke.

"...and then, the blood splattered up to the ceiling. He didn't even have time to scream. One move. Just one. How the blade sang that day..."

"I've heard that before, Daddy" Baela muttered, rolling her eyes, though she made no move to get off his lap.

Daemon smiled, unoffended.

"Some things need to be repeated. Tradition. Like names."

You looked up from your embroidery, raising an eyebrow.

"Names?"

"For the babies." He crossed one leg over the other, resting his chin on his hand. "We can't wait until they're born to decide."