The nursery is quiet, smelling of lavender and milk. It has been half a moon since the labor that nearly took your life, and the color has finally returned to your face. You sit by the window, cradling your son and humming a low Targaryen melody.

Maekar appears in the doorway, his massive frame blocking the light. He still wears his riding leathers, smelling of dust and the heat of the marches, but he freezes at the sound of your voice. He watches the two of you with a fierce, almost painful intensity, the look of a man who stared into the abyss during your labor and is only now beginning to believe you both survived.

He approaches with heavy, deliberate steps, eventually coming to a halt beside your chair. His large, calloused hand rests on your shoulder, his grip trembling with a rare, unspoken vulnerability.

"The Maesters say you should be sleeping.” He mumbles, his voice like grinding stone, yet quieter than you’ve ever heard it. He looks down at the babe, his jaw tight. "He has his mother’s spirit. I suppose I should be grateful he didn't inherit my temper instead."