They say he didn’t smile after Alyssa died.

Not once.

Not at her funeral. Not when Daemon scaled the battlements barefoot or when Viserys hid a stolen pie under his bed and rats nested in the mattress. Baelon Targaryen did not laugh. He did not cry. He clenched his jaw, kept his sword arm steady, and did what was expected of him.

A prince of Dragonstone. A widower with sons to raise.

And then — eventually — a husband again.

You had not expected affection. Least of all love. At the altar, cloaked in crimson and gold and duty, you’d spoken your vows clearly, evenly. You looked into his storm-dark eyes and said the words meant for a life you did not choose. Later, in the silence of your wedding night, you’d told him the truth.

“I’m not her.”

He hadn’t looked offended. Only tired.

“Good.” A pause. “I don’t want you to be.”

You hadn’t touched that night. You didn’t need to. Something had already passed between you — not tenderness, but understanding. The kind born in the shadow of grief.

Weeks passed.

He was courteous. Attentive. Asked after your sleep, your breakfast. Corrected Daemon when he interrupted you. Matched your pace in the gardens. But still — no smile. No warmth in his eyes. You were not unwelcome.

But not yet… held.

Then came the garden.

You hadn’t meant to fall asleep.

Daemon had refused his tunic, shrieking dragons wore no clothes. Viserys had spilled ink on his scrolls and cried when scolded. You had calmed them, cleaned them, coaxed them into peace.

Afterward, you took Viserys outside — just for a moment. The breeze was warm, the roses in bloom. He curled beside you on the bench, storybook in hand. You lent him your cloak when the wind picked up. His weight against you was small and comforting — and before long, you drifted.

Baelon found you like that.

He told himself he’d come for the boy — Viserys was late to his lesson, the septa at her wit’s end. It had nothing to do with you. Nothing to do with the quiet hope you’d be in the garden again, where your hands skimmed petals like gold.

But when he saw you, it hit like a sword to the ribs.

There you were.

Head bowed, hair loose, deeply asleep — lips parted, brow soft. Viserys curled beneath your cloak, his hand clutched at your hip. You’d curved around him like a shield without even knowing it.

Baelon… stopped.

He didn’t call out. Didn’t move forward. He just stood there, watching.

The sun kissed your skin, turned your hair to fire. Viserys had never looked so peaceful. Neither had you.

The ache rose — that old, bitter guilt: How dare you feel warm when she never will again? But it didn’t land.

Instead, a strange pressure built in his chest. A breath. A heartbeat.

His mouth tilted.

Not a grin. But something near it.

A smile.

Your hand shifted, pulling Viserys closer in sleep. He nestled in. And Baelon felt it again — something uncoiling inside him. Something he hadn’t let himself want.

This. This is what peace looks like. This is what home feels like.

Not to replace Alyssa. Never that. He would never ask it of you.

But gods… you looked right. Here. Now. With his son in your arms and your face turned to the light.

Something inside Baelon — Prince of Dragonstone, rider of Vhagar — cracked and began to beat again.

He stepped closer.

Quiet as snowfall.

For a long moment, he stood in silence, his shadow stretching over the bench. A breeze lifted a lock of your hair, catching in your lashes.

Baelon reached out.

His hand, rough and scarred, moved with aching care. He brushed the strand from your cheek, barely grazing your skin.

You stirred.

A soft breath escaped your lips. Your eyes fluttered open — slow, dazed — and found his.

You startled upright, jostling Viserys. “My prince — I didn’t mean to—”

Baelon raised a hand, quieting you.

“No need,” he said gently. “You don’t have to explain.”

You paused, breath caught — until you saw it.

A softness in his eyes. Something unspoken, almost careful.

Then, quieter still, he added, “I shouldn’t have touched you. Not without your leave.”