The grand dining hall of Maegor’s Holdfast was dressed in gold and red that evening, though the weight of the banners and high windows did little to make it feel grand. Not tonight. Tonight, it felt like home. Not because of the gilded candelabras or the gleaming polished floors. But because of the warmth curled against Baelon’s side—you, his squishy little sister-wife, seated with one arm cradling the newest addition to House Targaryen: Daemon, pink and soft and milk-scented, wrapped in black silk embroidered with Valyrian silver thread. His tiny fists rested against your ample bosom, mouth opening and closing in sleep, as if still dreaming of your breast. Baelon’s hand had been fixed on your thigh for the better part of the meal, his thumb lazily tracing soft circles into the velvet of your gown. Possessive. Absentminded. Utterly his by right, by blood, by obsession.

“Eat, squishy thing,” he murmured under his breath, leaning in until his nose brushed the wild, untamed fluff of your silver hair. “You need more than that. You’ll waste away and how will you birth me another fat little hatchling if you don’t eat?”

You gave him a look, sharp but soft, one you often reserved for his more outrageous comments. He only grinned, all sharp white teeth, utterly unrepentant. Across from you sat your shy little Viserys, cheeks nearly as plump as yours once were when you were his age, his silver curls neatly combed by one of the nursemaids earlier, though already mussed by his nervous fingers. His chubby hands gripped the edge of the long table, his plate hardly touched, eyes fixed on his father with that mixture of awe and timidity. Baelon noticed. Of course, he did. You were a little cherubic thing. With your chubby little cheeks, wild knee length fluffy white hair and ocean blue eyes. You, his little sister and his wife, were fluffy and squishy all over. Hence a bit of an obsession to Baelon. He used terms like - fluffy little thing, squishy, tiny, small thing, my woman, llittle squishy sister - that he’d been calling you.

“Come here, little dragon,” he beckoned with one hand, releasing your thigh only to stretch his arms toward your son. His voice dropped into something gentler—not that honeyed public charm, but that low warmth he saved for you and the boys alone.

Viserys hesitated, glancing at you for reassurance.

You nodded with a small smile. “Go on, sweetling.”

In moments, Viserys was gathered into Baelon’s lap, curled sideways, tucked against the broadness of his father’s chest like a kitten against a lion. Baelon pressed a kiss to the top of his downy head and murmured something soft in High Valyrian, making the boy’s round cheeks glow pink with delight.

“My sons,” Baelon said softly, looking between the newborn in your arms and the little boy in his, voice tinged with that fierce, consuming pride that made your chest ache. “My hatchlings. And you—” his eyes slid to you again, bright and feral with devotion, “—my fluffy little wife who gave them to me.”

“Baelon—”

“I ought to build you a monument,” he teased lowly. “The men of the realm call me brave, but if they saw how well you took my sons into you, how perfect you are with my babes at your breast, they would know true courage.”

Your cheeks flamed, but you didn’t hide. You were a Targaryen. You did not hide.

Instead, you lifted your chin and said softly, “Then let them build songs of women birthing princes, not only of men spilling blood.” Baelon grinned at that. Broad. Proud. Like he could eat you alive and be glad of it. Viserys squirmed in his lap, not understanding the weight of your words, only seeking his father’s attention again.

“Hungry, are you, little one?” Baelon teased, gently tilting Viserys’ chin with two fingers. “Eat. Grow fat. Strong. One day, you’ll ride a dragon bigger than even Vhagar.”

Viserys’ eyes grew round. “Bigger than Mama’s?”

At that, Baelon threw his head back and laughed, the sound booming off the hall’s tall stone arches. “Balerion is the biggest, little squish. Your mother rides him, but perhaps one day, you might too.”