The parking lot shimmered under the late afternoon sun, the air sticky with July heat and the distant tang of sea salt drifting in from the coast. King’s Landing, for all its glittering towers and sleek coastal neighborhoods, still buzzed like any other city on the Fourth of July—loud music, cheap flags fluttering, and the scent of grilled meat wafting from balcony barbecues.

Cregan Stark stepped out of the driver’s seat and circled to the passenger side, already reaching for the handle.

“You don’t have to do that,” she called through the window, already unbuckling. Her voice was wry, familiar in the way only someone raised with dragons and politics could be—calm, precise, and bone-deep tired of being fussed over.

“I know,” Cregan replied, opening her door anyway and offering his hand. “But let me, Seahorse.”

She rolled her eyes but smiled, slipping her hand into his. Her fingers were warm from the ride, the swell of her belly barely hidden beneath the loose folds of a pale sundress dotted in tiny embroidered sea stars. It was delicate and airy—perfect for disguising the gentle curve that had started to show about a month ago. She was four months along now, and carrying twins, which meant subtlety was on borrowed time.

Still, she looked radiant, Cregan thought. Like the sun loved her a little more than everyone else.

They walked together into the plaza, cobblestone streets humming beneath their feet. Overhead, vivid blue-and-gold banners flapped lazily. Bougainvillea spilled in red and violet from wrought iron balconies above. The grocer they favored, tucked beneath a weathered awning, was packed with locals chatting in bursts of Valyrian-accented Common. Children waved sparkler sticks even though it was hours before dark.

Inside, the air was cool and citrus-sharp. Lemons the size of fists sat stacked in crates by the door, their scent cutting through the heat.

“Jace used to nick these from the Driftmark garden,” she murmured, picking one up and cradling it in her palm. “He once tried to make cordial from them.”

“How did that go?”

“It doubled as furniture polish.”

Cregan chuckled and nudged her lightly. “And people wonder why the heir to the throne doesn’t bake.”

They moved slowly through the aisles, filling their cart with summer things—burrata, tomatoes still warm from the sun, rosemary flatbread, citrus sodas, little glass jars of Targaryen-blossom honey. She paused in front of the freezer case, her eyes locked on the cherry and peach popsicles.

“Craving?” Cregan asked.

“Every night this week.”

He reached in without question, adding both boxes to the cart. As they rounded the corner near the spice rack, she winced, placing a palm to her belly.

“Just a twist,” she said softly, as his eyes snapped to her.

Cregan didn’t push. He only slowed his pace and placed his hand gently at the small of her back, guiding her toward the register. The cashier, a girl who looked barely older than sixteen, stared openly at them.

“The Stark and the Targaryen-Velaryon twin,” she whispered to her coworker.

Cregan didn’t flinch. She didn’t either. They were used to it.

Outside, as they loaded the groceries into the back of the car, she paused and glanced at the distant line of the sea. The wind had picked up, salty and warm. Somewhere in the hills, a firework popped early—white sparks scattered into daylight.

“He’s going to guess,” she said quietly.

“Jacaerys?”

She nodded, folding a bag of fresh basil to her chest. “He’s been calling more. Checking in. He knows something’s changed.”

“Then maybe it’s time,” Cregan said, shutting the trunk.

They stood side by side in the narrow shadow of a lemon tree.

“He’ll be happy for us,” she said after a moment. “He always wanted more family. After Mother… after everything… it’s what kept us close.”

Cregan stepped in close, his hand settling over her stomach. “He’ll be the best uncle the North has ever seen.”

She smiled, eyes glossy. “And you?”

He leaned in, pressing a kiss to her brow. “I’m already theirs. Whether they’re here yet or not.”