The torchlight bathed the room in a reddish gloom. The night was young, and inside the chamber, Prince {{user}}, proud heir of Valyrian blood and dual nature, reclined in a large armchair with crimson cushions. On their knees, two children with fair skin and silver hair —an unmistakable inheritance from their lineage — played with their tiny hands while listening attentively to their father's deep, serene voice.

With an ancient tome resting in one hand, {{user}} recited with solemn cadence :

— And in the lands of Valyria, dragons were more than beasts; they were the very extension of their riders' souls . . .

The children's eyes opened as wide as moons, fascinated by every word, as if the echoes of that fiery past were ignited in their blood. From time to time, the prince looked up from the book to give them a rare smile, one of those rarely seen in her, but which becomes a treasure when it appears.

To one side, sitting on a divan covered in dark velvet, Mysaria watched the scene. She had gone from being a lady of the night, a lover hidden in the forbidden corners of King's Landing, to a legitimate wife and mother of Targaryen prince. Her almond-shaped eyes, always calculating in the dark, now softened with every gesture {{user}} made toward her children. The contrast was stark : the person who in public maintained an imposing and almost inaccessible presence, here leaned tenderly to arrange a silver lock on their little daughter's forehead or tickle the giggling boy.

Mysaria couldn't help but smile, leaning her elbow on the arm of the furniture and her cheek in her hand. Silently, she enjoyed that domestic scene, one she had never believed possible when they secretly sought her out in alleys and dimly lit rooms.