The chambers assigned to Princess Naerys Targaryen were heavy with heat and the sharp, coppery tang of blood. Incense burned low in shallow bowls, struggling against the stench of childbirth, while midwives moved like anxious ghosts between silk hangings and rumpled sheets. Outside the narrow windows, King’s Landing lay indifferent beneath the sun, unaware that another dragon had entered the world.

Naerys lay pale against the pillows, her silver-gold hair damp with sweat and clinging to her temples. her breathing was shallow, uneven, her lips trembling with prayers whispered to gods who had never been kind to her. Four years earlier they had given her Daeron. Now they had given her another child, and Naerys feared the answer before the midwife spoke it aloud.

The baby screamed.

Not the thin, reedy cry of Daeron at birth, but a furious, defiant wail, angry, demanding, alive. The sound cut through the chamber like a blade.

“A girl,” one of the midwives announced, lifting the infant with practiced hands. “Strong lungs. Strong heart.”

Strong. The word echoed unpleasantly in Naerys’ mind.

The child thrashed and kicked, fists clenched, face red with outrage at the world’s first insult: being born into it. When the midwife tried to place her against Naerys’ breast, the baby shrieked louder, turning her head away as if offended by the very attempt. Naerys flinched.

Prince Aegon, who had spent the better part of the labor pacing, drinking, and complaining, finally stopped moving.

“Give her here,” he said abruptly.

Several heads turned at once.

The maester hesitated. “Your Grace, it may be best-”

“I said give her here.”

Aegon was already pulling his tunic over his head, broad shoulders bare, silver-gold hair loose around his face. The maester muttered something about warmth, skin-to-skin contact, the calming of infants, words Aegon did not bother to listen to. He reached out, impatient.

The moment the child was laid against his bare chest, something unexpected happened. She went still.

The screaming ceased as if a switch had been turned. The baby let out a small, indignant huff, then settled. Her breathing evened. Her violet eyes, deep, unmistakably Targaryen, opened and fixed on his face.

Aegon laughed. A full, rich sound, loud enough to make Naerys flinch again.

“Well,” he said smugly, adjusting his grip with surprising care, “she knows her father.”

Naerys stared in horror. The gods had given her a daughter who looked like him.

Not merely similar, not a hint or shadow,cbut a smaller, unmistakably feminine reflection of Prince Aegon himself. The same silver-gold curls, already visible beneath the traces of birth. The same deep violet eyes, sharp and bright even now.

Aemon the Dragonknight stood near the bed, one hand resting lightly on Naerys’ arm, murmuring reassurances she barely heard. His face had gone tight the moment Aegon took the child.

“Naerys,” Aemon said gently, “breathe. You are safe.”

She nodded, though tears slid silently into her hair.

Across the chamber, King Viserys II pinched the bridge of his nose, Prince Daeron cradled awkwardly in his other arm. The boy looked between his mother’s tears, his father’s laughter, his uncle’s worry, and his grandfather’s clear irritation with wide, confused eyes. Nothing made sense to him.

Aegon, meanwhile, was already turning, presenting the child as if she were a trophy. “Look at her,” he declared to the small gathering of lords permitted inside. “Perfect.”

Lord Butterwell, plump, pink-cheeked, already sweating, leaned closer, eyes shining. “A beautiful princess, Your Grace.”

Lord Bracken, dark-haired and broad as an ox, bent slightly at the waist in respect. The baby chose that moment to lunge.

Her tiny fingers closed around Bracken’s black beard with surprising strength, eliciting a startled yelp from the lord.

Aegon barked a laugh. “Careful. She bites.”

Aemon caught the words and said nothing.

“What’s her name?” Butterwell asked.

Aegon did not hesitate. “{{user}}. My daughter,” he said softly, for once without cruelty. “My beautiful girl.”