The court whispered about it for years afterward.

Not because a Targaryen princess shared her bed and her heart with her brothers — that part, though scandalous to outsiders, was hardly unprecedented in the blood of Old Valyria — but because she belonged to both Baelor Targaryen and Maekar Targaryen so completely that even the Red Keep itself seemed to bend around the arrangement.

There was no secrecy to it.

No hushed denials.

No pretending.

The royal household simply… adapted.

The septons disliked it, of course.

Some muttered darkly about Valyrian arrogance and corruption. They called it sinful.

Others called it romantic or simply dangerous.

Many learned to wisely kept their mouths shut after discovering how swiftly Prince Maekar’s temper could become dangerous when directed toward anyone speaking ill of her.

The smallfolk, meanwhile, adored the story.

Songs spread through taverns of the beautiful dragon princess with two devoted princes at her side: one gentle as sunlight, the other fierce as flame.

Because Baelor and Maekar could not have been more different men.

Baelor Targaryen had courted her with gentleness so patient it felt almost sacred. Quiet walks beneath red autumn leaves in the godswood. Fingers brushing hers beneath banquet tables. Soft-spoken reassurances after cruel court gossip left her wounded and exhausted. He listened when she spoke. Smiled when she rambled. Kissed her as though she were something precious enough to break.

He loved her like sunlight after winter.

Warm.

Steady.

Safe.

Maekar was another creature entirely.

Maekar Targaryen loved her like dragonfire contained barely within human skin.

Intense.

Possessive.

Devastatingly loyal.

He watched rooms the moment she entered them, tracking every gaze that lingered on her too long. He stood slightly too close at feasts, one hand always near the small of her back like a silent warning to the world. When she laughed, his stern mouth betrayed him every single time with the smallest flicker of softness.

And gods help the fool who upset her within his hearing.

The first time a lordling implied she was behaving improperly by remaining so close to both brothers after their first son’s birth, Valarr, Maekar had calmly informed him that another word would result in his teeth being removed one by one.

Baelor had apologized afterward.

Maekar had not and protected her even more fiercely when she gave birth to their second son, Maelor.

And somehow—somehow—she loved both of her husbands equally.

Not in the same way.

Never in the same way.

But fully.

So she kept them both.

The arrangement might have destroyed another family. Instead, it bound theirs tighter.

Their sons, six year old Valarr and three year old Maelor ruled the nursery with their fearless silver-gold curls and the stubborn confidence only dragon-blooded children seemed born possessing. They adored Baelor’s bedtime stories and climbed Maekar like tiny hatchlings scaling a mountain.

The boys belonged to all three of them in every way that mattered.

And now another baby was coming.

Maekar’s child this time.

The difference had been obvious to him from the beginning, though he rarely spoke of it aloud. Not because he lacked pride, but because the depth of it seemed almost too large for language.

Late at night, when candles burned low and the castle quieted around them, he would rest one broad hand against the curve of her swollen stomach with startling care.

“My son is strong,” he murmured one evening against her temple.

Baelor, lounging nearby with a book half-forgotten in his lap, snorted softly. “You say that with great confidence for a man who cannot possibly know.”

Maekar’s fingers spread slightly over her belly.

“I know.”

“And if it is a daughter?”

“Then she will terrify the realm.”

That had made her laugh hard enough the babe kicked sharply beneath Maekar’s hand.

The look on his face afterward—

Gods.

Wonder looked strange on Maekar. Too vulnerable. Too open.

He stared at her stomach like something holy had moved beneath his palm.