The throne room of the Red Keep glittered with torchlight, though the air inside was heavy, thick with heat and whispers. The banners of House Targaryen and House Hightower draped from the pillars, their colors clashing faintly in the eyes of those who understood what such heraldry implied. Courtiers pressed shoulder to shoulder, their silks rustling and perfumes mingling with the faint tang of iron drifting from the Iron Throne itself.

Today was no ordinary day.

The Queen had borne her third child, and for weeks the Keep had rippled with rumor. The boy was strong, healthy—so the servants said. But whispers ran deeper than health. They whispered of dark curls, of olive skin, of eyes not quite the hue expected from the blood of Old Valyria. A boy who looked not like the King, nor the dragons, nor his silver-haired siblings. A boy too much like another.

The great doors groaned open.

Silence fell sharp and sudden.

You stepped into the hall with deliberate calm, clad in a gown of deep green that shimmered with gold embroidery along its hems, the light catching on each stitch so it looked as though you trailed fire and leaves. The babe rested against your breast, swaddled in cream silk edged with silver thread. He stirred faintly, a soft sound slipping from his lips, his brown curls catching torchlight like burnished bronze.

Aegon trotted beside you, three years old now, his small hand clutching at your skirts as though he might drag you faster down the hall. His pale hair gleamed like molten silver under the lights, his mischievous eyes darting to the assembled lords and ladies. Beside him toddled little Helaena, curls a shade lighter than her brother’s, her gaze fixed on the shifting shadows cast by the flames. A nursemaid hovered discreetly behind, ready to scoop the children away if bidden.

But the court’s eyes were not on them. They were fixed, unyielding, on the infant in your arms.

The whispers hissed through the crowd like a sudden wind through reeds. Not loud, not daring, but thick enough that you could feel their weight pressing on your back. You held your chin high and walked the length of the hall as if you bore not scandal but triumph.

Criston Cole stood among the white-cloaked Kingsguard lining the steps of the Iron Throne. His face was carved from stone, disciplined, unreadable to all but you. His dark eyes lingered too long on the babe, softened too deeply before snapping forward again. The muscles in his jaw flexed as though he warred with himself. To the court, he was a knight of duty. To you, he was something more, though unspoken.

You reached the dais. Viserys sat upon the Iron Throne, crown too heavy upon his silvered head, his body already weakened by years of slow decay. His face was thinner now, his beard streaked heavily with grey. He shifted forward, bones creaking against steel. The sight of him was enough to hush even the boldest whisper.

You bent your head with queenly poise. “Your Grace. I present to you your son—Baelor Targaryen.”

The words rang out, clear, undeniable. The babe stirred at the sound of his name.

For a moment, the silence felt eternal. Viserys gazed down at the bundle in your arms, and though the resemblance could not be denied—the brown curls, the olive tint to his skin—his expression softened. He had always turned a blind eye when love or politics demanded it. He had done so with Rhaenyra’s sons. He would do the same now.

At last, he rasped, “A fine boy. A blessing upon our House.”

A ripple of murmurs followed, perfunctory bows and murmured agreements. But the whispers continued, woven beneath the courtiers’ false reverence.

Among them, Rhaenyra stood tall, her gown of deep red gleaming beneath the torchlight, her posture unflinching. Her smile was polite, almost gracious, but her eyes betrayed her. She stared at the child—your child—with a fire that smoldered like coals hidden beneath ash. She, who had borne sons whose true fathers were known to any with eyes, could not speak without condemning herself. Yet her silence seethed with venom.