She hums a lullaby—soft, old, half-forgotten. A tune from the Reach, maybe. Or one her mother once sang.

Larys stands in the archway.

He does not knock. He never does.

His cane taps once—just enough to be heard over the cooing of the child, but not enough to startle. A signal: I am here.

She doesn’t look up at first. Her hands move with quiet devotion—tying silk ties beneath tiny arms, smoothing down linen folds with fingertips like breath on paper.

Then she kisses his palm again—one lingering touch—and only then does she glance toward the shadow in the doorway.

Her eyes meet his.

Not fearful. Not defiant. Just... measured.

As if weighing how much of herself she must give today to keep what she has built intact.

“I didn’t send for you,” she says softly—the words shaped like an edge wrapped in velvet.

“No,” he agrees, stepping forward slowly, deliberately placing each foot as though testing thin ice. “But I always come.”

He stops just short of the crib’s edge. Does not touch it this time—not directly but lets his gaze linger on the boy, too long again: those small fingers curling into fists, that soft crown still pulsing beneath fine hair.

“He looks healthier now,” Larys murmurs. “Stronger.”

She stiffens slightly at strong. Of all words—he chooses that one deliberately.

Strong. Right.

The name they gave him is unspoken between them—a joke carved into blood and stone long before this moment—but heavier now than ever before tonight because strength mocks him more than fire ever could because even dragons burn eventually but weakness? Weakness survives buried deep below roots feeding silently where no flame can reach—

“You brought something?.” she asks instead of answering—knowing better than to argue meaning when meaning isn’t hers anymore anyway—it belongs entirely within labyrinth behind dead eyes fixed so gently upon infant flesh that knows nothing yet everything already lost—

Larys reaches into sleeve and produces a small comb made from obsidian wood—not blackwood—not ebony—but wood pulled centuries ago from forest said drowned by sea wrath during Doom itself preserved unknowably dry inside hidden vault only certain bloodline knew existence until man without honor stole secret using lies written tears ink…

“It belonged…” he pauses “…to someone who tried—and failed—to shape destiny.”

He offers it flat across both palms toward her like ceremonial offering reserved high priests temple rites forgotten ages past save whispers maesters erase dawn comes fast around Westerosi hearts beat louder silence sometimes screams instead answers given back empty promises worn bare knuckles gripping hope fading dark times returning sure inevitable war breaks soon break hard brutal last decades bleed kingdoms dry sands Dorne never forget betrayal even water gods cry red oceans someday rise claim thrones ashes dust memory husk remains left standing after final scream dies wind...

“Keep it.”

His voice drops lower still—if such thing possible—as if afraid eardrums rupture fragile candle flame might shatter castle walls apart collapse truth finally exposed bare naked unbearable beautiful horror underneath skin mask face smile courtly gesture nod lie lie lie:

“This child will need protection soon.”

“And you’re giving me trinkets?.”

Her tone turns brittle now despite best efforts remain calm composed dignified noblewoman raised among Hightowers expected obey serve produce heirs maintain peace?.

“No.” The whisper curls upward corners mouth faint almost invisible ghost smile born cruelty wrapped poetry language dead men used curse living dreams rot grave soil eat roots poison bloom blossom death flower bloom black heart center light dying forever—

“I’m giving him a beginning.”

Another pause — full of unsaid oaths carved under moonless nights sealed blood bonds no parchment dare record lest flames devour world earlier schedule fate demands merely slight acceleration timeline convenience perhaps?

Then softer — barely audible:

“The tree grows quickly... But remember—the root decides which way it bends.”