You stand at the high window of your chambers, the afternoon light burning the sky like molten gold. Below, the city bustles, oblivious to the ache in your belly—and the hollow house you now call home. You remember the sweet hope in Daemon’s eyes the first time you brought him a daughter, how he held your hand as if you had placed a living dragon’s egg in it. But a daughter was no son, and though you loved her with all your heart, the court’s whispered disappointment became your own.

The miscarriages came next, each one a dagger in your womb and a fresh wound in Daemon’s pride. In the quiet of the night, you listened to his footsteps leave your chamber, listened for the cries of Silk Street children sired by his reckless desire. You did not blame him—they, too, were born of desperate hope—but you blamed the gods who entrusted the dragon line to your frail body.

When the next child grew inside you, you dared to believe at last. You ate the sweet pomegranates he favored, drank the wine you knew would make him smile, and felt him return to you—if only for moments stolen at dusk, when his broad shoulders pressed against yours and his voice was soft. For a time, you slept entwined, as lovers and as brother and sister, unburdened by duty.

Then the birth came: hours of steel-hot pain, of midwives murmuring prayers to both Mother and the Stranger. Your body strained as though it were fighting two hearts at once. At last, a son—your son—was born, but he was still and silent, his skin patterned with strange ridges like a dragon’s scales. You held him, your tears mingling with the blood and sea-salt scents of childbirth, and felt the world shift on its axis. In that moment, you knew the court would see myth before mercy, portent before pity. And Daemon… your husband and your brother… Daemon knelt beside your bed, his hand trembling on the lifeless child’s tiny chest.

He loved you once. In that kiss he pressed to your forehead, you could taste that love still flickering, like a lone coal glowing in ash. But when he rose to leave, his eyes were empty of hope—and you knew that some flames, once snuffed, cannot be rekindled.