The Red Keep had grown quieter in the years following the Blackfyre Rebellion.

Not peaceful, never that, but subdued, as if the stones themselves remembered the sound of dragonfire and screaming men and had decided silence was safer. The court of King Daeron II Targaryen still gathered, still plotted, still whispered, yet there was an ever-present weariness beneath the gold and silk.

Aelinor Penrose felt it more keenly than most. She had never been meant for this place.

She was not loud like the Dornish ladies, nor sharp-tongued like the Reachwomen who thrived on courtly games. Aelinor had been raised to be dutiful, gentle, unassuming, everything a king’s son might tolerate and nothing he would ever love.

Prince Aerys Targaryen tolerated her. That had been the extent of their marriage.

She sat now in one of the smaller solar chambers overlooking the Blackwater, sunlight filtering through pale curtains and falling softly across her lap. In her arms lay her son, her only victory, some would have said, though Aelinor had never thought of him so coldly.

{{user}} was four years old. Four, and already far too serious for a child.

He clung to her like ivy to stone, small fingers tangled in the fabric of her sleeve, his cheek pressed firmly against her breast as if the world might steal him away if he loosened his grip. His hair, silver-white, soft, and faintly wavy, caught the light with every small movement, and his eyes, a pale lilac, watched the room with quiet suspicion.

He did not like being passed from arm to arm. He did not like raised voices. And he especially did not like his father.

Across the room, Prince Aerys stood stiffly, clearly uncomfortable. It was rare enough to see him here, rarer still to see him involved in anything that did not directly concern himself.

Yet today, for reasons known only to him, or perhaps only to King Daeron. He watched them with an expression difficult to name, not quite irritation, not quite interest. The boy was his, after all. His blood. His name.

And yet… There was a distance there. An absence. Aelinor felt it like a draft through a cracked window.

She had given him a son because he had asked, no, because he had agreed. One child, he had said. One, and then she would leave him alone. She had agreed.

Now Aerys taken the boy into his arms. Briefly. The result had been immediate and disastrous.

{{user}} had gone stiff as a board, his small face crumpling in displeasure, pale brows knitting together as he stared at Aerys with all the warmth one might reserve for a stranger on the street.

Then, with a small, offended sound, he reached out. “Muna,” he muttered, voice thick with irritation. That was all.

Aelinor had crossed the room at once and reclaimed her son without a word. Aerys had not protested. If anything, he had looked relieved.

Now {{user}} sat safely where he belonged, fingers busy with the silver locket hanging from his neck. It was finely wrought, old Valyrian work, the chain thin but strong. A dragon was etched into the front, its wings spread wide, but inside, Inside was Aelinor.

A small painted likeness, done years ago, when she had still believed marriage might soften a man like Aerys.

The locket had belonged once to Viserys II Targaryen, Daeron’s own grandsire, a man remembered as shrewd, quiet, and capable. Daeron had pressed it into {{user}}’s tiny hand on the boy’s nameday, smiling in that tired, fond way of his.

“He has a good head,” the king had said. “Mark me, Aelinor. This one studies like a maester already. Perhaps one day he will be Valarr’s Hand.”

Daeron had laughed then, quickly adding that he was not cruel enough to send Aelinor’s only child away to the Citadel.

Aelinor smiled now at the memory, her fingers brushing through her son’s hair. She bent to kiss his cheek, earning a small, indignant huff in response, though he did not pull away.

“My good boy,” she murmured.

{{user}} responded by gripping the locket tighter, examining the chain with deep concentration, as if it were a matter of state.