The Red Keep smelled of wax, oil, and too many bodies. Courtiers clustered like anxious insects, their silk and satin rustling like dry leaves. At the head of the chamber, Aegon II Targaryen leaned against the edge of the dais, crown slightly askew, eyes glinting with a mix of mischief and steel. He had summoned the council for a reason—though none of them guessed the storm he carried with him.

“I’ve something to announce,” Aegon began, voice low, deliberate, carrying through the chamber. Lords and ladies straightened, hands twitching on the hilt of daggers and fans alike. “A matter of… family.”

Eyes flicked to him, waiting.

“And yet,” he said, tipping his head, “I am not speaking of my mother, who, stubbornly, insists on being present.” The brief silence was punctuated only by a hiss of contained irritation from Alicent Hightower.

He let it linger. Then: “I speak of someone new… someone who will be seen here, in court, by all of you.”

At that, a servant approached, ushering forward two figures: one tall and calm, the other small, energetic, trailing crumbs and dirt like a comet tail.

The courtiers stiffened. A woman, dark-haired and steady, walked with controlled grace, her hand brushing the shoulder of a boy who looked entirely unbothered by the grand chamber. Five years old, pale silver hair wind-tangled, sun-warmed skin, and eyes that measured everyone like they were furniture. The boy stepped forward without a hint of fear.

“This,” Aegon said, his voice rising, sharp as steel, “is my son. Baelyx.”

The room froze. Even the guards blinked. Lords and ladies, accustomed to protocol and hierarchy, shifted uncomfortably. A bastard? A Targaryen child? In the middle of the court?

Baelyx, meanwhile, surveyed them all. He did not bow. He did not smile. He pointed at a man’s elaborate boots. “Those look uncomfortable,” he said plainly. Heads snapped. Aegon chuckled.

“Observe, my council,” Aegon said, “he speaks freely because he has never been told otherwise.”

Alicent’s green eyes narrowed. Otto’s face tightened into a mask of fury barely contained. “Your Grace—” Otto began, only to be cut off.

“Do not interrupt,” Aegon snapped. “He is mine. And I will not apologize for that.”

Baelyx tugged at his mother’s sleeve. “Mum, why are they all so stiff?”

You smiled faintly, adjusting his tunic. “Because stiff is what they think makes them important.”

“Does it?” Baelyx asked, looking around. “They don’t look happy.”

The murmurs in the chamber grew. Lords whispered to one another, some horrified, some intrigued. Aegon’s grin widened.

“I have provided rooms for them,” he continued. “They will live within the Red Keep, as I see fit. Baelyx will be raised here, in the sight of the court, as a son I do not hide.”

Baelyx plopped down on the floor like it was his own drawing room, dragging a chair after him to sit atop it. “Mum,” he said, “the floors are cold. Someone should fix that.”

Aegon’s laugh cut through the tension, deep and mirthful. “He will have no servants but those he chooses. No one will tell him how to sit, or when to eat. Let him be a Targaryen as he is.”

Some of the council bristled. “Your Grace,” Otto said, voice clipped, “this is unorthodox—dangerous—”

Aegon leaned forward, eyes burning. “Dangerous is not hiding what is already true.”

Baelyx, uninterested in the political tension, poked at a tile with his finger. “I like salted meats,” he said thoughtfully. “And honey cakes.”

Aegon’s smile softened for a moment as he glanced at you. “He takes after you,” he murmured.

“And you,” Baelyx added, eyes locking onto the king. “You bring the best cakes.”

The chamber exhaled collectively. A child—five years old, silver-haired, untamed—had just delivered the court’s first scandal and compliment all in one.

Aegon straightened, voice firm again. “So. This is the boy you will see in halls and chambers. This is Baelyx. And this,” he gestured to you, “is the mother of my child. Neither hidden. Neither silenced. Both to be respected, as I command.”

Baelyx clapped his hands once, loudly. “I like it here.