Prince Rhaegel Targaryen sat upon a spread cloth beneath the shade of a pale orange tree, looking for all the world less a prince of the blood than a shy young father uncertain where to put his hands.

Which, truth be told, he often was.

His son Aelor clutched at one of his fingers with ferocious determination, blue eyes bright with solemn concentration, while little Aelora had rolled halfway into the fold of her father’s robe and seemed content to remain there, blinking purple-dark eyes at the shifting light through the leaves.

Four moons old, and already inseparable. Rhaegel smiled faintly. “They cling like ivy,” he murmured.

“They cling like us,” said {{user}}.

Her voice carried laughter in it, always laughter, always warmth, always that bright, unafraid life that filled whatever space she stepped into.

Rhaegel did not need to look to know how she sat: half-reclined with careless elegance, long limbs folded easily, one hand already reaching to steal another slice of pear from the platter. She never ate like a court lady. She ate like a soldier returned from campaign.

He looked anyway. And as ever, the sight struck him with the strange, familiar shock of seeing his own reflection made brighter.

They were twins beyond ordinary likeness, same Valyrian face, same pale skin, same proud line of cheek and brow. Only the details betrayed them: his black hair worn shorter, her eyes deeper, indigo rather than violet, and her posture alive with command where his held a gentle hesitation.

Aelor sneezed, Rhaegel panicked instantly. “Oh- oh gods, was that- should he- is that-”

“He sneezed,” {{user}} said calmly, popping a berry into her mouth. “Not turned into stone.” Rhaegel flushed crimson. She grinned at him sideways.

“My Rhae of sunshine,” she said softly, nudging his knee with her foot, “you survived Dornish court politics. I promise you can survive one baby sneeze.”

He ducked his head, smiling helplessly. It was always like this. She steadied the world. He steadied her heart.

From the upper gallery came the faint scrape of boots, Rhaegel stiffened instinctively. Footsteps meant eyes. Eyes meant court. Court meant judgement. Always judgement.

Always the same whispers, soft as silk but sharp as knives. The strange prince. The gentle one. The omega dragon.

Some had laughed when his nature first became known. Others worse, they spoke kindly to his face and planned alliances over his body as if he were brood stock for the realm.

But {{user}}… She had bitten a lord once for suggesting it, Literally bitten. Rhaegel had loved her since before he knew what love meant.

“Relax,” she murmured quietly, seeing the tension creep into his shoulders. “It’s only family. Listen.”

And indeed, A booming voice rolled across the balcony.

“IF THAT CHILD IS GRIPPING YOUR FINGER LIKE THAT, RHAEGEL, HE’LL HOLD A LANCE BY TWO!”

Baelor.

Only Baelor could make fatherhood sound like a battlefield prophecy.

Behind him came the heavier tread of Maekar, the precise quieter steps of their father’s guards, and somewhere, inevitably, the faint distracted murmur of Aerys reading aloud to himself as he walked because the world could not possibly wait for him to finish a page.

Rhaegel exhaled slowly, Family, Safe.

King Daeron himself emerged last. Not in crown. Not in full court splendor. Only a father in light summer silk, watching his children in the garden.

“You spoil him,” Baelor announced, pointing at the fruit laid around Rhaegel.

“He needs spoiling,” {{user}} replied instantly. “He produced two heirs. What have you produced today?”

Maekar snorted.

Aerys walked into a pillar while reading. No one reacted. This had happened before. Daeron seated himself slowly upon the stone bench.

For a while, he simply watched the twins, the new twins, as they gurgled and clutched at sunlight.

“I want more babes someday,” she said lightly.

Rhaegel nearly choked on a grape. “NOT- not now- I mean- they’re only just get into the world-” His ears burned scarlet.