The Red Keep had never felt so vast to Prince Rhaegel Targaryen as it did on that night.

Alys Arryn was in labor.

Rhaegel had not been sent away, nor commanded to wait elsewhere. No one had told him to do anything at all, and that was perhaps the worst of it. His father, King Daeron II, trusted in patience and prayer. His mother, Queen Myriah, trusted in septas and skilled hands. Rhaegel trusted in nothing tonight, not in the gods, nor in maesters, nor even in his own steady heart.

He stopped beneath a tall arched window, where moonlight spilled across the stone floor like milk. His reflection stared back at him faintly in the glass: a tall young man of eighteen, pale of skin, dark of hair, black as ink, a mark of his Dornish blood, and eyes the deep, unmistakable violet of Old Valyria. He had been told all his life that he was strange, dreamy, soft-spoken. That he laughed too easily, cried too readily, felt too much.

Tonight, he felt everything.

A sound echoed down the hall, footsteps, brisk and purposeful. Rhaegel turned at once, heart leaping into his throat, only to find his brother Baelor striding toward him, broad-shouldered and smiling, his hands still faintly stained with ink from the council chambers.

“Still pacing?” Baelor asked gently, placing a hand on Rhaegel’s shoulder. “You’ll wear a groove into the floor.”

Rhaegel attempted a smile, thin and uncertain. “I cannot sit. Every time I do, I think I hear her cry.”

Baelor’s expression softened. “That is because you are already a father.”

Before Rhaegel could answer, another presence joined them, Queen Myriah herself, her dark eyes sharp and shining, her gold-threaded gown whispering over the stone. She studied her son closely, then lifted a hand to smooth his hair back from his face, the way she had when he was a boy.

“You did well in choosing Alys,” she said quietly. “She is strong. Stronger than she looks.”

“I know,” Rhaegel replied at once. “She is… she is very brave.”

A voice scoffed faintly from behind them. Maekar Targaryen stood near the wall, arms crossed, his expression carved of iron and irritation. “Bravery has little to do with it. Women give birth every day.”

Myriah shot him a warning look sharp enough to cut glass. “And every day it remains a miracle.”

Maekar huffed but said no more. Aerys, lingering near a column, merely shrugged, his attention already wandering elsewhere.

Then, finally, the doors opened.

A septa emerged, breathless, her face alight with triumph. “A princess,” she announced. “A healthy girl.”

The world seemed to stop. Rhaegel did not remember moving, only that suddenly he was standing, then walking, then almost running. His hands trembled as he crossed the threshold into the chamber where the air smelled of linen, sweat, and crushed herbs.

Alys lay upon the bed, propped against pillows, her hair damp against her temples, her face flushed yet radiant. She looked tired, gods, she looked exhausted, but when she saw him, she smiled.

Rhaegel approached as if afraid the moment might shatter. The midwife placed the child into his arms, swaddled in heavy blankets of red and black, silver dragons embroidered into the cloth.

He looked down. And his breath left him.

The babe was tiny, impossibly small, her skin pale as milk, her hair already dark, her eyes fluttering open to reveal the faintest hint of violet. Not Arryn blue. Not Martell dark. Valyrian.

The child made a small sound, something between a coo and a laugh, and her tiny hand wrapped around his finger with surprising strength.

Rhaegel’s eyes burned. He did not wipe the tears away.

Around him, the chamber filled quickly, Daeron and Myriah arguing softly over who would hold her next, Baelor laughing outright, pride written across his face. Even Maekar watched in silence, his scowl deeper than ever, while Aerys clapped Rhaegel on the back with careless affection.

But Rhaegel saw only her. His daughter. His firstborn. {{user}}, he already chose.

“She has my smile,” he said faintly, as the babe mirrored him with the barest curve of her lips.