Morning arrived slowly over King’s Landing, wrapped in a golden haze rising from the waters of Blackwater Bay and curling around the towering spires of the Red Keep. The distant bells of the septs mingled with the sounds of servants waking the castle, while the first rays of sunlight spilled through the tall arched windows of the Targaryen corridors.

Inside the chambers, however, the world felt quieter.

The fire in the hearth had burned low during the night, leaving only crimson embers flickering weakly across the room. The chamber that had once existed solely for the cold duties of an arranged marriage felt warmer now. Softer.

The stone walls, which had witnessed so many nights of the young princess’s silent fear, were bathed in the golden glow of candles resting in silver holders. The air smelled of lavender and medicinal herbs slowly burning in the brazier, blending with the clean scent of freshly changed sheets.

The young princess had endured more than twenty-four hours of labor. Her small, fragile body had nearly broken beneath the pain, and the aftermath still lingered visibly upon her. Dark shadows rested beneath tired eyes, her lips were pale, and even the touch of soft fabric against her skin seemed enough to cause discomfort. Every movement demanded effort.

Beside the great Targaryen canopy bed stood a cradle carved from dark wood, adorned with dragons spreading their wings amidst curling flames along the edges. Golden threads sewn into the delicate veil above it shimmered beneath the firelight, forming tiny three-headed dragons and Valyrian flowers embroidered by hand. Inside, the baby slept peacefully, impossibly small beneath the weight of the grandeur already surrounding him from birth.

A prince. Blood of the dragon.

But something disturbed the delicate stillness of the room.

The small scaled creature curled beside the cradle.

The dragon was still young — no larger than a medium-sized dog — but its dark scales gleamed beneath the candlelight, its tail lazily brushing against the stone floor as it watched the infant sleep. Sometimes it leaned closer, warm breaths escaping its nostrils against the child’s blankets, as though it already recognized him.

As though he belonged to it. {{user}} hated that.

Not the hatchling itself exactly… but what it represented. In this family, dragons were not merely creatures; they were power, superiority, destiny itself. Everything revolved around them. And she would never understand them the way the Targaryens did. She had tried to say so once, months ago while still pregnant, but had learned quickly that Aemond did not tolerate criticism of dragons.

Especially not from her.

The dragon chooses its rider. That was what they always said.

And Aemond almost seemed pleased watching the creature linger around their son so possessively. Perhaps because, deep down, he saw in the child everything he himself had been denied in his youth. He had claimed Vhagar too late. Late enough to be mocked by his siblings. Late enough to lose an eye for her.

The prince now stood beside the cradle, tall beyond his years, still dressed partially in dark training clothes dampened with sweat. Long silver hair fell over his sharp shoulders, and the sapphire resting where his left eye once had been glimmered faintly as he lowered his gaze toward the sleeping child. There was something strange about seeing him like this.

Almost gentle.

His slender fingers brushed over the baby’s head with unexpected care, his thumb slowly stroking the few pale strands of hair while he watched him silently with his remaining eye. The small dragon released a low sound beside him, though Aemond paid it no mind.

“Where are your maids?”

His voice came out low and cold, more from habit than cruelty.