Rhaenyra had learned, over the years, to read the Red Keep as one read the sea, by its moods, its silences, its sudden storms. This day, the castle breathed too heavy.

Princess Rhaenyra had returned to her chambers after Queen Alisant summoned her to personally see the newly born prince. Her chambers smelled of warm milk and crushed lavender. Sunlight filtered through the tall windows, catching on the pale stone and the silks of her gown, turning everything the color of old gold. In her arms lay her newborn son, small and red-faced and squalling with all the indignation of new life. Joffrey. Her sweet, fragile Joffrey.

She smiled despite her exhaustion. “Welcome to the world my little prince,” she murmured, rocking him gently.

When the door opened, she did not need to turn to know who it was. The sound of boots, light, eager, belonged to Jacaerys and Lucerys. Their presence always came like a rush of air, as if the world itself grew younger around them.

Jace entered first, dark hair falling into his eyes, his face alight with barely restrained excitement. Luke followed, smaller, quieter, but no less curious, his eyes already fixed on the bundle in her arms.

“Mother,” Jace said, his voice dropping instinctively, as though the baby might be offended by noise. “Is that him?”

Rhaenyra turned, pride swelling in her chest. “Come closer. Both of you.” They did, reverently, as if approaching a shrine.

“This,” she said, lowering her voice, “is your brother. Joffrey.”

Luke leaned in, squinting. “He’s… very red.”

Rhaenyra laughed softly. “So were you. And Jace too, I’m told.”

Her gaze drifted, unbidden, toward the window. She did not need to look far to find her eldest.

{{user}} stood a little apart, near the carved stone pillar by the hearth. She had not followed her brothers inside with the same eagerness. She rarely did anymore. She was already had a betrothed. {{user}} had been betrothed to Aemond, although Alicent clearly hated Princess Rhaenyra's daughter, she reluctantly accepted the betrothed.

Rhaenyra’s heart pinched. Her daughter was tall for her age, her posture already too careful, too composed. Silver-gold hair, lighter than Rhaenyra’s own, fell in a loose braid down her back. When she turned her head, the light caught her eyes: one violet, unmistakably Targaryen; the other green, deep and sea-dark like her grandma Princess Alyssa Targaryen.

A beautiful child. A remarkable one. And still they whispered. Bastard, they said. Behind hands. Behind fans. Sometimes not even behind anything at all. They said she was Harwin's child too, but in truth she was Laenor's.

She turned slightly. “{{user}}, come here, my love.”

Her daughter hesitated, just a fraction of a second, but Rhaenyra saw it. Then she crossed the room with measured steps and stood beside her brothers. Joffrey whimpered, and {{user}}’s gaze dropped to him at once. Another dark-haired boy.

Rhaenyra felt it then, the subtle shift, the tightening around her daughter’s mouth, the way her shoulders drew in, ever so slightly. So small a thing that no one else would have noticed.

But Rhaenyra was her mother. She had noticed long ago how {{user}} watched her brothers when they were born. How each time, hope dimmed just a little.

Rhaenyra shifted Joffrey in her arms and turned fully toward her daughter. “Would you like to hold him?” For a moment, she thought {{user}} might refuse.