The bells of the Red Keep had not rung so joyously since the wedding feast two years past.

They rang now for a son.

Prince Valarr Targaryen, heir to Baelor Breakspear and grandson to King Daeron II the good, stood upon the outer gallery overlooking the yard where banners snapped in a bright autumn wind. Below, knights in bright enamel and polished steel assembled for the tourney thrown in honor of the newborn prince. The sun struck the red-and-black dragon standards so that they seemed aflame.

In his arms lay a little warmth and squirming life.

His boy was swaddled in cloth-of-gold lined with Myrish lace, though he seemed wholly unimpressed by finery. He had a round face, soft with milk and sleep, and a pair of indignant lungs that had already announced him to half the castle twice that morning. His hair, lay thick upon his head, through it ran a bold streak of silver-gold, unmistakable as dragonfire.

Maelor, they had named him. Valarr looked as though he might take flight himself.

He moved in restless circles across the gallery, unable to stand still, laughing under his breath, adjusting the swaddling cloth for the tenth time in as many minutes. His solemn composure, the careful, measured dignity that court and council expected of him, had vanished entirely. In its place was something bright and unguarded.

“Look at him,” he whispered, though no one stood close enough to miss the spectacle. “Seven save me, look at him.”

Maelor’s tiny fist tangled in the black silk of his doublet, refusing to release its claim.

From within the gallery chamber came the sound of soft movement.

Princess {{user}} reclined upon a cushioned chaise near the open doors, pale from labor yet luminous despite it. Her silver-gold hair spilled loosely over her shoulders, and the light lilac of her eyes, so rare, so unmistakably Valyrian, followed husband and child with an expression both tender and thoughtful.

Once, those eyes had been set upon a different future.

As a girl she had walked the gardens of the Red Keep whispering prayers beneath her breath, listening to the Septas speak of devotion, of quiet service, of a life belonging not to politics but to the Seven. She had believed, naively, that she might be permitted such a path.

But princesses did not choose silence. They chose duty. Or rather, duty chose them.

For years she had been promised to a young lord from another house, an arrangement neat and simple, meant to bind house Targaryen to another powerful house. She had accepted it without joy, yet without rebellion. It would have been bearable. Predictable.

Then fever took him. And the match dissolved like smoke. The council had whispered. king Daeron had deliberated. The line of succession required strength, unity, certainty.

And so the path had shifted. Valarr. Her elder brother. Heir to heirs. The realm’s bright hope.

The marriage had been spoken of gently, but there had been no true gentleness in it. She had bowed her head, as she always did. Duty first. Always. She had married him out of obligation. She had feared resentment, awkwardness, distance.

Instead she had found gentleness. Patience. A man who treated her not as a political instrument but as a partner in burden.

Now she watched that same dutiful prince pacing like an overexcited pageboy, nearly dizzy with fatherhood.

He crossed the chamber in three eager strides and then hesitated, suddenly cautious. “Am I holding him wrongly? Is his head-? Should I-?”

“You have asked that seven times,” she said, though her smile betrayed her fondness.

Valarr hovered near her shoulder like a brilliant, anxious moth around a flame. “I would ask it seventy if it keeps him safe.”