Naerys lay propped against a mound of pillows, her silver hair unbound and falling loose down her back. The bed curtains were drawn halfway, letting in a pale wash of early light. It caught on dust motes, on the pale skin of her hands, on the silver heads of the twins asleep against {{user}}’s chest.

She watched him more than she slept these days.

{{user}} Targaryen sat beside her on the bed, long legs folded awkwardly, shoulders hunched slightly as he balanced parchment on his knee. One arm supported the younger twins, Baela and Baelon, while the other held a quill, moving with careful, precise strokes. His expression was focused, composed, almost distant, as though the affairs of the realm required no less attention than the fragile lives breathing softly against him.

{{user}} bore their father’s sharp features, the straight nose, the clean lines of his face, the same silver hair, but his skin held a warmer tone, kissed by the sun in a way Viserys’ never had been. Larra Rogare’s blood, perhaps, asserting itself at last. There was beauty in him, unmistakable and quiet.

Her fingers curled into the blanket as the familiar ache settled behind her ribs. She had never told anyone but {{user}} the truth of her children, they were his. Not the twins born in 161 AC, Baela and Baelon, named with love and defiance. Not little Daenerys. Not Daenar, whose life had flickered briefly and miraculously instead of being stolen like so many others. The realm believed them Aegon’s.

He had never been like Aegon.

Her brother Aegon burned bright and loud, all appetite and impatience, all wanting without restraint. He wanted crowns, bodies, praise, absolution, wanted everything handed to him without cost. He ruled because ruling amused him, and when it did not, he passed the burden to others.

To {{user}}, most of all.

Viserys had once called {{user}} his perfect boy, and though their father had been dead these many years, his shadow still lingered in the Red Keep’s corridors. Naerys could almost hear Viserys’ voice when he looked at {{user}}: approving, proud, possessive.

Aegon had noticed it too. That was why he had named {{user}} his Hand. Not out of trust. Not out of love. But convenience.

Let the perfect brother rule, so the king could drink and hunt and chase desire. Let {{user}} shoulder the weight of crowns and laws and ledgers. Let him be father and ruler and conscience, while Aegon remained king in name alone.

And {{user}} had done it. He had ruled, quietly, efficiently. He had undone cruelties, enforced laws their father had only begun to reform. When Aegon tired of the effort, {{user}} had stepped aside without protest, returning to the shadows as Master of Whisperers, where he had first been placed at sixteen, far too young, far too capable.

When Viserys had decreed her marriage to Aegon, Naerys had wanted to disappear into the Mother’s embrace and never return. She had wanted to be a septa.

{{user}} had wanted to be a maester. Neither had been allowed their escape.

Naerys loved him for that restraint almost as much as she loved him for his gentleness.

Baelon stirred, small fingers curling into the front of {{user}}’s tunic. The boy murmured something half-formed and pressed closer, as though instinctively seeking warmth and safety.

{{user}}’s hand paused mid-sentence. He looked down, his expression softening in a way Naerys rarely saw when others were present. He adjusted his grip, careful not to wake the twins, and rested his forehead briefly against Baelon’s hair.

Naerys’ chest tightened. He was a better father than Viserys had ever been to her. Better than Aegon could ever hope to be.

She shifted slightly, and {{user}} looked up at once. “You should be resting,” he said quietly, his voice low and even, as though afraid to disturb the room itself.

Naerys smiled faintly, leaned into him carefully, resting her head against his shoulder. He adjusted instinctively, arm tightening to support her, the twins shifting but not waking. “I am,” she replied after a while. “Watching you rest would be more convincing.”