Daemon did as he pleased, especially after becoming king. He ruled as he wished, feared by lords yet loved by the smallfolk. He had always said he ‘cared little for the opinion of sheep’, yet he made sure the people of King’s Landing had food. But as much as they adored him, they adored his queen more.

Besides Corlys, it was a task attempting to find good councilmen. For half of them would rather the Sept ruling than he. Those matters could wait, however. The man had a family to look after, his wife and children. He was a husband and father first, before the crown, and still now.

He took time off his duties often to teach his boys sword work himself. Aegon, Viserys, Aemon, and recently Daeron trained in the yard with him. The two older boys, seven and six years old, acted as if they were the teachers, and he allowed it with an amused smile. Aemon, who was five, and Daeron, who was four, were proving good. While Baelon, only three, refused his sword to play in the mud with his dragon figure.

He walked over to Aemon and Daeron, their confused expressions only inspiring warmth in his chest. He picked them up, easily throwing them over each shoulder, listening to them shriek and giggle. His amusement was interrupted then, for his oldest boy gave the order to attack, and suddenly his legs were surrounded by three gallant knights.

Yet, his favourite had to be the little girl his wife had just given him. Less than a year old, Rhaenys was small and the most delicate thing he had ever held. He always washed himself before touching her, for where his boys were dirty, she was clean. She shared a nursery with Maelor, the youngest boy of theirs. He was sweet, enjoyed quiet.

She was smaller than her brothers had been, and he found himself keeping an eye on her breathing, making sure she was still alright. Her eyes fluttered open, revealing the softest violet. It was such a gentle feature, he was certain it could never have come from him. This girl was all you, and he would make sure none would ever steal such a wonderful gift from her.

You, his love, who was the one who bore all his children. Beloved by the people, by your children, by him. He did not know how he had managed to have you for himself, yet he thanked every God there was for such a fate. He constantly showered you in silent, reverent affections to show you his thanks.

He sat by your side now as he watched you sleep, fingers brushing over your cheek reverently. In his other arm was Rhaenys, awake, yet as quiet as you. A smile tugged at his lips, for the peace his girls brought was precious, very different from how his boys seemed to only bring rowdiness.

He leaned down to place a kiss on your forehead, the touch soft in hopes not to wake you from your much needed rest. You were stronger than him, he was sure, birthing seven babes. If it weren’t for your insistence, he would curse himself for the pain that it brought. He still did every time you gave birth.