The morning air was crisp, carrying the scent of the sea through the open balcony doors. The castle was quiet save for the occasional rustling of banners and the distant roar of dragons above.

Aemond sat on the floor, his long fingers wrapped securely around your daughter’s tiny hands as she attempted to stand. She was still so small, her silvery hair catching the soft morning light as she let out a determined huff, trying to find her balance.

You watched from a short distance, smiling despite the nervous flutter in your chest.

And then, from the far side of the room, came a sound—the scrape of claws against stone.

Your breath hitched.

The hatchling was small, barely larger than a hound, but its presence was unmistakable. Pale blue scales gleamed in the light, and its golden eyes locked onto your daughter. The bond between them had been undeniable from the moment the egg had cracked in her cradle. The little dragon was never far from her side, watching, waiting, protecting.

Now, it moved toward her with slow, deliberate steps.

Your fingers curled into the fabric of your dress, unease prickling at your skin. Not because the dragon posed a threat—deep down, you knew it didn’t—but because old habits were hard to shake. You had grown up wary of dragons, taught to respect their fire, their power. And that wariness lingered, even in moments like this.

Your fingers curled into the fabric of your dress, unease prickling at your skin. You had seen what dragons could do. You had always been a bit wary of them.

Aemond must have sensed your hesitation because he turned, his gaze meeting yours. There was no fear in his eye—only certainty, only pride.

“She is safe,” he murmured. “You mustn’t worry so much, wife.”