The torches in the stone chamber burned low, their flames bending in the soft draft that slipped through the narrow windows of Dragonstone. The sea crashed somewhere far below the cliffs, steady and eternal.

The newborn in Visenya’s arms was far quieter than the storms that usually surrounded the family of the dragon.

Visenya Targaryen sat rigid at first, her silver hair falling over one shoulder, the weight of the infant unfamiliar in her armored arms. She had carried blades, kingdoms, and the ambitions of her house without hesitation.

A baby was different.

The small girl barely stirred, wrapped tightly in dark crimson cloth embroidered with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen.

Across the chamber, a boy paced impatiently.

Maegor I Targaryen was only a child, but already tall for his age and brimming with the sharp temper Visenya had carefully cultivated. He leaned against a stone pillar, arms crossed.

“Is it done yet?” he asked bluntly. “The maesters have been fussing over that thing for hours.”

Visenya’s violet eyes slowly lifted toward him.

“That thing,” she repeated coldly, “is your sister.”

Maegor snorted, unimpressed.

“She’s small.”

“She is newly born.”

“She’s weak.”

Visenya looked back down at the baby.

The girl’s tiny hand had escaped the swaddling cloth, fingers curling weakly around the edge of Visenya’s sleeve. The grip was impossibly small, yet stubborn.

For a moment Visenya did not move.

Something unfamiliar stirred in her chest—something softer than the steel she had worn her whole life.

She had raised Maegor to be hard. The world would give him nothing, so she had sharpened him like a blade from the cradle. Discipline. Strength. Fearlessness.

Love had never been the lesson.

But this child…

The baby shifted and let out a small sound, not quite a cry. More like a sleepy protest.

Visenya’s hand—hands that had once wielded the sword Dark Sister in battle beside her brother and husband Aegon I Targaryen—moved carefully to cradle the girl’s head.

“So small,” she murmured quietly.

Maegor frowned.

“Why does she look like that?”

Visenya raised a brow. “Like what?”

“Like she might break.”

Visenya studied her son for a long moment.

Then she gestured him closer.

Reluctantly, Maegor stepped forward until he stood beside the chair. His sharp eyes looked down at the newborn.

The baby yawned.

Maegor blinked, slightly startled.

“She’s ugly,” he declared after a moment.

Visenya almost smiled.

“Perhaps,” she said calmly. “But she is yours to protect.”

Maegor scowled. “I don’t need protecting.”

“Not you,” Visenya said.

Her gaze lowered again to the girl sleeping in her arms.

“Her.”

The baby stirred again, pressing closer against Visenya’s chest. Instinctively, Visenya adjusted the blanket, her movements far gentler than anyone in the Seven Kingdoms would have believed possible.

The warrior queen who had helped conquer Westeros sat quietly in the dim chamber, watching her daughter breathe.

Maegor shifted awkwardly beside her.

“What’s her name?”

Visenya was silent for a moment.

Then she answered softly.

“{{user.}}”

Maegor looked down again, still uncertain.

The baby’s tiny hand wrapped around one of his fingers.

He froze.

Visenya watched the moment with sharp, observant eyes.

Perhaps, she thought, the girl would soften more than just her.