The gardens of the Red Keep seemed to groan beneath summer’s weight. Roses swelled heavy on the vine, drooping with scent so thick it clung to the throat. Courtiers fluttered like moths in silk and satin, weaving their webs of whispers, though their eyes again and again returned to the willow at the heart of the lawn.

There you sat, crowned and composed, the very picture of queenly grace — but not alone. Around you clustered the children who were your triumph, your living retinue. Aegon, golden and tall for his age, stood with hands clasped behind his back, already drilled into a prince’s posture. Helaena murmured to dragonflies flitting above the fountain, chasing visions none could see but her. Baelor, with his brown hair and olive skin, tossed pebbles into the basin, delighting in the splash. Aemond lingered near him, sharp-eyed and protective, hand resting on the hilt of a practice blade. And in your lap, Alyrie cooed and batted her small fists, dark curls spilling over her brow.

Together, they were your constellation — the crown’s living proof. Criston Cole stood a step behind, white cloak gleaming, his vigil unbroken. For over five years he had lingered at your shoulder, and now, with Baelor and Alyrie’s resemblance stamped plain upon them, his presence seemed almost part of the tableau. Few would speak it aloud, but all could see.

And Rhaenyra saw most of all.

She hovered at the fringe, her sons nearby, their Strong blood written into jaw and brow. Her eyes, sharp as drawn steel, roved over your children. Over Aegon, disciplined. Over Helaena, gentle. Over Aemond, calculating. But they lingered longest on Baelor and Alyrie, where Criston’s features had betrayed themselves most clearly.

The mask she wore — serenity laced with hauteur — faltered only in the twitch of her jaw. At last, she stepped forward, and with her movement the entire court seemed to hush, anticipation prickling in the air.

“My queen,” she said, sweet as sugar and just as brittle. She dipped her head the merest degree. “How radiant you look, surrounded by your brood. A sight to warm even the most cynical heart.”

Brood. The word landed like a lash.

You met her gaze with calm steel. “They are the joy of my life. Every mother should be so fortunate.”

Rhaenyra’s lips curled in a smile that did not reach her eyes. “Fortunate indeed. Aegon with his crown awaiting, Helaena with her…charms. Aemond, sharp as a blade. And the younger ones—” Her glance flicked, deliberate, to Baelor at your knee and Alyrie squirming in your arms. “—so singular in their gifts.”

A ripple went through the gathered courtiers. Criston stiffened, hand grazing the pommel of his sword. His eyes cut to you, waiting.

You did not falter. Instead, you stroked Baelor’s hair, then bent to press a kiss to Alyrie’s crown. “Every child is a gift,” you said, clear enough for every listening ear. “Mine bear many qualities, some more obvious than others. Perhaps you would understand.”

The barb struck home. Rhaenyra’s mask wavered, her eyes flashing toward her own sons — Jacaerys, Lucerys, and Joffrey, with their dark curls and Strong jaws. For an instant her composure cracked, and the bitterness she had so long carried bared itself like an unsheathed blade.

Her laugh came too quickly, brittle as shattered glass. She stepped closer, voice low, sharp enough to cut.

“How bold of you,” she hissed. “Once, you were my friend. Now you sit as my stepmother, draped in my father’s crown, your children lauded while mine are whispered of.”