The morning sun bathed the balcony in liquid gold, soft and slow across the stone floor. A breeze lifted the sheer curtains behind you, stirring them like phantom wings, and somewhere below, the low hum of the city stirred into life.

You stood in the quiet heart of it all, wrapped in a silk robe, your arms full with the small weight of your son.

His white hair—so like his father’s—shone like threads of moonlight in the daylight. Three years old and bright-eyed, with flushed cheeks and a curiosity too large for his small frame. He giggled softly at your whispered secrets as you pointed beyond the walls.

“That’s the rookery, my love. And see there? That’s where the dragons sleep, tucked in the crags like old gods.”

You told him stories like they were prayers, each word chosen with care. He listened with wide eyes, thumb tucked against his lower lip, his head resting beneath your chin. You’d been there nearly ten minutes, wrapped in quiet joy. You gave him everything—your time, your arms, your devotion. No one else was allowed to do what you could do yourself. He was your blood, your heart outside your body.

And you loved him too much to ever let the world take him unguarded. But the world had a name. And it stood behind you now. “He doesn’t need to know these stories you’re feeding him.”

The voice was low and cold, cutting across the warmth like a blade dipped in ice. You turned. Aemond stood just within the chamber’s threshold—still clad in his riding leathers, blood splattered across his tunic, streaking the white of his hair like war paint. The left side of his face, as always, was ruled by that sapphire eye—glinting now with something sharp and unreadable. You could smell the iron on him before he stepped closer. He hadn’t bothered to wash. He never did, after a hunt. Not when he came straight to you.

You tightened your hold around the boy, pulling him closer into your chest. The child didn’t flinch—but he leaned deeper into your embrace, eyes catching the gleam of red on his father’s breastplate.

“I was telling him about Vhagar,” you said, calmly. Too calmly. “And the dragons that roamed before her.”

Aemond’s jaw twitched. His violet eye held you, but it was not your words he responded to. It was the sight of you—his wife, cloaked around his son, all wrapped in softness. Too much softness.

“He’s coming with me.” It wasn’t a request.

He stepped forward, gauntleted hand already reaching. The child made a quiet sound, uncertain. You hesitated, your arms stiffening instinctively, body coiled around the boy like a shield. The blood—gods, there was so much blood. His fingers were still red from whatever beast he’d torn down. You didn’t want that staining your son. Not yet.

Not ever, if you could help it. But before you could speak, Aemond’s gaze locked with yours—and you knew. You’d seen storms in him before, seen the way control clung to his skin like armor. But this? This was different. His mouth didn’t move, but his eyes said everything. You are standing in my way. When he spoke again, his voice had dropped an octave—quiet, low, and edged like steel just unsheathed.

“You’re refusing me my own heir?”

The question hung in the air like smoke. Not a threat. Not a plea. Just the sound of a man whose restraint was fraying—who saw legacy as law, and affection as weakness. A man who did not raise his voice, because he did not need to.