The gardens of the Red Keep were quiet, bathed in golden light, the air warm with the smell of sun-soaked roses and old stone. Rhaenyra walked slowly, her hand brushing against low branches heavy with blooms. At her side, Daemon strolled with lazy grace, boots crunching against fallen leaves. Ahead of them, {{user}} skipped, gleeful, a crown of crushed daisies slipping sideways on their silver hair.

Rhaenyra’s hand had found Daemon’s on the way. Their fingers laced without thought.

The child’s hair glinted silver in the sun. A mark the realm had clung to—proof, they called it. No whispered doubts, no sideways glances—not like it had been for Jace or Luke or little Joffrey, and still was in hushed tones. Rhaenyra loved them each as fiercely as any mother should, but she knew the way the realm counted dragons.

And {{user}} was the child they wanted.

Hers and Daemon’s. Born of fire and blood and want long denied.

{{user}} came running back, arms full of yellows flowers. “For you,” they announced proudly, thrusting a messy bouquet at Daemon.

He took it with exaggerated seriousness. “These are war spoils, are they ?”

“They’re peace spoils,” the six-year-old corrected. “Because we’re walking, not fighting.”

Rhaenyra laughed, low and warm. “Smart little thing.”

Smarter than either of us were, at that age, Daemon thought. He reached to ruffle their silken hair, but {{user}} ducked away with a grin and grabbed Rhaenyra’s skirts instead.

“Mother, can we see the dragons later ?”

“If you behave,” she said. “Even Caraxes will be happy if you bring him flowers.”

They walked on, the three of them—prince, princess, and child—all sun-drenched silver.

Daemon looked at Rhaenyra, her fingers curled gently around their child’s.

And for a moment, it didn’t matter what the realm said.

For a moment, it was just them.