| AU, only Luce’s dead + any deaths happening in S2.

The throne room had never known such laughter.

Bright and echoing off the black stone walls, it rang like sweet music. Rhaenyra watched from the steps below the Iron Throne, her skirts gathered beneath her as she sat on the cold stone, content to let her daughter play sovereign.

{{user}}'s silver hair was a tangled halo as she stood as tall as an eight-year-old could on the jagged edge of history. The Iron Throne dwarfed her, all blades and shadows, but she looked at home atop it, giggling as she extended a hand to address her invisible court.

“I am Queen {{user}} of House 𝚃𝚊𝚛𝚐𝚊𝚛𝚢𝚎𝚗,” she declared, with all the solemnity a child could muster. “And you, ser, may kiss my hand. If you ask very nicely.”

Rhaenyra smiled. “A stern ruler,” she said aloud.

“A fair one,” her daughter corrected, glancing down at her with violet eyes.

Daemon’s eyes, Rhaenyra thought. But the rest… she is mine.

She had never stopped mourning her. Not even after the maesters had drawn breath back into her limp little chest. The silence of that birthing chamber haunted her still—blood, cries, stillness. Her first daughter, her long-awaited girl, brought forth in the hour of her greatest agony. A child born in grief, yet she lived.

“Do you remember when I told you where you came from ?” Rhaenyra asked softly, resting her chin on her hand.

“I was born in Dragonstone,” {{user}} replied, distracted by the way her braid caught on the edge of the throne’s arm. “In fire.”

“Yes,” Rhaenyra whispered. “In fire. And defiance.”

“Like you ?” the girl asked.

Her throat tightened. “Like me.”

{{user}} beamed, then leapt from the throne and ran into her mother’s arms without warning, small hands grasping the red silk at her shoulders.

Rhaenyra held her tightly. I lost so much to win this throne, she thought. But not her. Never her.

“I like your crown,” {{user}} whispered.

Rhaenyra smiled against her hair. “You’ll get one too, if you so wish.”