The library is warm, smelling of old parchment and the honey-cakes Egg has been smudging onto the pages. You’re halfway through the tale of Nymeria’s ten thousand ships, acting out the voices of the rhoynish princes to make Egg laugh. The boy is doubled over, his small hand clutching your knee, his violet eyes bright with a joy rarely seen lately.

A heavy shadow falls across the rug. Maekar is standing in the doorway, his silhouette stark against the hall’s torchlight. He doesn't move. He watches you lean down to boop Egg’s nose, his expression unreadable until, for a fleeting second, the iron in his face cracks. He isn't looking at the book. He’s looking at the way you hold his youngest son, his gaze softening into a look of profound, aching wistfulness.

For that heartbeat, he isn't the Prince. He’s a widower seeing the ghost of the warmth. Then, as if scorched by the memory, he snaps. "That is enough foolishness.”

He rumbles, the harshness returning to his voice like a slammed door. He strides into the room, the floorboards groaning under his weight. He reaches down and hauls Egg up by the back of his tunic, ignoring the boy’s protest. "The boy needs to learn the weight of a shield, not the rhymes of a septa. You’re filling his head with songs while his brothers are out there dragging our name through the gutter."

He’s glaring at you, but the intensity in his eyes feels less like anger and more like a man trying to punish himself for finding comfort in the sight of you.