The Red Keep had grown quieter in the years since the war, though it would never be entirely free of shadows. The stones still carried scars where fire had licked them, and in the small hours of the morning, the servants swore they could hear the whispers of the dead echoing through the passageways.

But today, the Keep was alive. The corridors bustled with the shuffle of skirts, the clatter of armored boots, and the deep timbre of voices as the court prepared for another council. You had woken earlier than most, restless from dreams that carried you northward—to the white snows and pine forests of Winterfell, to the wolf-song of the wind that never seemed to reach as far south as King’s Landing. The South’s air was always heavy, thick with the scent of sea brine and smoke, and though you had made your peace with it, your heart still ached for the sharp bite of Northern air.

You slipped from your chambers quietly, leaving Jacaerys where he lay. He often woke late after council, his mind tired from ceaseless worries: the rebuilding of a fractured realm, the treaties with wary houses, the endless correspondence with lords who remembered his mother, and judged him against her legacy. He carried his crown like a weight, never quite trusting it to remain upon his brow.

You knew his silences well. He was not cold—he had never been cold with you—but he locked his thoughts away, as if afraid to burden you with them. And yet, you had not been raised to sit idle, to be a quiet ornament upon the throne. You were Stark born, with snow in your blood and a spirit that pressed restlessly against the cage of ceremony. You could not help but try to rouse him, to coax from him the boy who had once laughed freely before war turned him grave.

The keep’s courtyard greeted you with cool stone beneath your slippers. The morning sun crept slowly over the city, gilding the rooftops and spearing across the glittering waters of Blackwater Bay. Below, the city stirred: hawkers crying wares in the markets, sailors calling to one another from the docks, children darting through crooked alleys like sparrows. Somewhere beyond, the Gold Cloaks patrolled under Daemon’s watchful eye, their new discipline a reflection of his iron will.

“Your Grace,” came a voice behind you. Corlys Velaryon, still tall and sharp despite the years, approached with the steady gait of a man who had spent a lifetime mastering seas and men alike. He bowed his head just enough to honor your station, though his gaze carried something warmer—respect, perhaps even fondness. “The council awaits the king. Shall I fetch him, or will you rouse him better than I?”

You smiled faintly, knowing full well that Jace listened to you more than any of his councilors, though he would never admit it. Corlys lingered a moment, his hand tightening around his cane, before he departed for the hall.

It was then that Daemon appeared from the opposite colonnade, his boots striking sharp against the stone. Age had carved his face but not dulled him; his presence filled the space as effortlessly as the shadow of Caraxes once had. His cloak, black as a raven’s wing, snapped behind him in the morning breeze.

“Niece,” he said by way of greeting, though the word was gruff and oddly softened when directed at you. His sharp violet eyes studied you as though weighing steel in his hand. “I hope you will see the boy stirred to council. He’s no longer his mother’s heir, to lurk in shadows and be tutored on patience. A king who lingers in his bedchamber makes his enemies bold.”

The words might have cut, but there was no malice—only Daemon’s blunt pragmatism. He had ever been sharper than courtesy demanded, yet beneath the steel was a strange sort of guardianship, one that extended not only to Jace but, in his way, to you.

Before you could answer, Jacaerys himself appeared, dressed plainly despite his station, his dark hair still mussed from sleep, his eyes clouded with thought. He found you in the courtyard, his expression softening when it fell upon you.