The pendant is small, delicate, yet unmistakably 𝐓𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐲𝐞𝐧—a dragon, wrought in silver, its ruby eyes glinting in the candlelight. You watch as Alicent cradles it in her hands, tracing each intricate detail with careful fingers, her brows furrowed in quiet thought.

“Why give this to me?” she asks at last, her voice soft, uncertain.

You step closer, placing a gentle hand atop hers. “Because family is not always born in blood, sweet girl. Sometimes, it is chosen.”

Her lips part, but she does not speak. She only looks up at you, searching, as if trying to decipher whether you truly mean the words. You do. You have always meant them.

You remember when she first arrived at court—a child of only six years, clinging to the edges of her father’s cloak, her green eyes wide with quiet apprehension. Otto had brought her before the court as if she were a piece to be played in his ever-moving game, introducing her to kings and princes with the expectation of perfect obedience. Even then, you had seen how carefully she folded herself into the mold expected of her, how she never let her shoulders slump, how she learned to hold her tongue when it was safest to do so.

But you had also seen the child beneath the expectations. You had seen her grip her skirts tightly whenever her father’s voice turned sharp, had noticed how her hands trembled when she was forced to sit in still silence among courtiers who cared nothing for her thoughts. You had seen the loneliness she tried so hard to hide.

So, you had made a choice.

You had held her when she scraped her knee, brushing away tears and promising the pain would fade. You had braided her hair, murmuring stories of dragons and queens. And when she whispered fears of never being enough, of failing a father whose love felt conditional, you had simply pulled her close and assured her she already was.

She swallows, blinking rapidly, as if holding back tears. “My father says sentiment is a weakness.”