When you were small, you trailed behind Baelon like a shadow.

He was four years older, louder, stronger—always in motion. A golden blur of dragonbone and fire-blood, never still long enough for you to catch. But you followed anyway, stubborn as weeds in stone. He called you a puppy once, scowling as you clung to the hem of his cloak. “You’re always underfoot,” he snapped. “Go play with Maegelle. You’re not a boy.”

You hadn’t understood the sting then. Not really.

But in time, you stopped following. Watched instead, quiet and careful, as Baelon grew into a sword—brash and burning and bound for glory. He spoke little to you unless prompted, but when he did, it was never cruel. Just… uncertain. Like he wasn’t sure how to speak to someone who remembered him barefoot and weeping over skinned knees.

When talk began of betrothing you to Aemon, you smiled and nodded like a proper daughter of the realm. Aemon was gentle, learned, already revered. You would not dishonor him.

But two days before the betrothal was to be announced, Queen Alysanne summoned you in private.

“My dear,” she’d said, soft but steady, “you were never meant for Aemon. That match was convenient, not right. I’ve always known—your place is beside Baelon.”

You blinked. “But he—he doesn’t even—”

“He does,” she said, with that knowing smile of hers. “He simply doesn’t know how to show it. Not yet.”

She’d been right.

Now you sit in the sun-drenched solar of your shared quarters, your embroidery forgotten in your lap, listening to the telltale crash of something shattering down the corridor.

Baelon’s voice follows it, low and exasperated: “Daemon!”

A scuffle of boots, a shriek of laughter, another distant crash.

You don’t even flinch.

From your seat near the window, you call calmly, “Should I intervene?”

Baelon barrels into the room a moment later, his brow storm-dark and hair disheveled from the chase. His tunic is rumpled. One sleeve bears a suspicious smudge of dirt. He looks like a man who’s survived battle and barely lived to tell the tale.

He groans and swipes a hand down his face. “No. I’ve lost the will to live.”

You bite back a smile. “He’s five.”

“He’s a menace,” Baelon mutters, collapsing onto the cushioned bench across from you. “He lured the septa into the garden and locked her out. When I asked why, he said, ‘She speaks too much of the Seven. I wanted quiet.’”

It’s strange, sometimes, remembering how far you’ve come. From the girl who trailed him like a shadow, to the woman he kisses before battle and comes home to in the quiet. You’re not his shadow anymore.

You’re his flame.

And gods help anyone who tries to put it out.