The corridors of Maegor’s Holdfast were quiet that morning, save for the soft pad of slippered feet and the low murmur of servants smoothing fresh rushes over stone. Rain had passed through before dawn, leaving the air cool and bright, the scent of wet mortar and myrrh lingering beneath the high-arched ceilings.

Queen Alicent Hightower walked beside her husband, skirts rustling like whispering silk, hands folded too tightly in front of her. Viserys looked older than he had the day before—older than he had the year she married him. The gray in his beard had grown in patchwork. His back, once regal, hunched slightly now beneath the weight of both crown and time.

They had not spoken much on the way from his solar. They rarely did these days.

“She delivered before the hour of the owl,” he said at last, voice hoarse with sleep and satisfaction. “Twins. Two sons.”

Alicent offered a serene nod, though it felt as if her stomach had turned to lead. “A blessing,” she said.

“Indeed,” Viserys replied, not unkindly. “A fine legacy.”

The queen said nothing.

They arrived at the queen’s solar—the other queen, though no one dared call her that. A midwife bowed low at the door, then opened it to reveal a chamber bathed in gentle lamplight. The scent of milk and rosewater filled the air. There was a hush here, the kind that wrapped itself around a newborn’s cries and softened them to near silence.

She lay on the chaise by the hearth, propped against embroidered cushions of Targaryen red and black, her silver hair damp at the temples. Her skin had the sheen of recent labor—exhausted, flushed—but her posture was proud. Regal. Her eyes, dark-lashed and aglow, turned toward the door the moment they entered.

“Your Grace,” she said, her voice gentle but even.

“Lady,” Alicent returned. She did not say her name.

Between them, cradled in silken wraps, were two impossibly small figures. One slept with his fists curled against his cheeks, the other stirred with a faint mewl. Their hair—thick, dark gold, not quite silver—shimmered in the lamplight like molten ore.

“Baelor and Aerion,” Viserys said, stepping forward with something like reverence in his tone. “My sons.”

As if he had no others, Alicent thought. As if Aegon, Helaena, Aemond, and Daeron were candle flames to these twin torches.

The younger woman held out one of the boys—Baelor, perhaps. Alicent could not tell. Viserys took the child into his arms with a gentleness that surprised her. She had not seen him hold Aemond like that. Had not seen him this way in years.

“They are strong,” he murmured, brushing a knuckle down the child’s cheek.

Alicent felt herself smile—thin, composed, careful. “May they grow to serve the realm with honor.”

The other queen did not smile. Her eyes flicked to Alicent’s hands, still folded tight. “They will know peace,” she said softly. “They have been born into a kinder time.”

Alicent wanted to laugh. Peace? In a court that never sleeps? But she said nothing.

Viserys looked between them. “Will you hold one, Alicent?”

She blinked. “No,” she said too quickly, then softened her tone. “I would not disturb them.”

The younger woman tilted her head. “Twins are rarely disturbed for long.”

Alicent stepped back. She could feel the pressure building behind her eyes and would not—would not—weep here. She had already given the king four children. She had done her duty.

But now she stood as visitor to a newer queen, one who had given him heirs again. Targaryen sons, full-blooded and bright with prophecy.

The moment stretched. The fire cracked. Somewhere below, bells rang the hour.

“I shall leave you,” Alicent said. “Let you rest.”

Viserys looked surprised. “You will not stay?”

“No,” she said, turning to go. “There is little need.”

And with her chin high and steps silent, she left them behind.

Behind her, the soft cry of a newborn split the stillness.

And Viserys, for once, did not follow.