The gardens of the Red Keep were not meant for peace anymore. Not when Daemon Targaryen’s children turned them into a battlefield. The air carried the shrill clash of wooden swords and triumphant laughter, the flutter of silks dragged through the mud, the indignant screeches of a nurse chasing after whichever boy had decided to climb the hedges.

Daemon sat on a stone bench in the sun, one hand propping up his jaw, the other holding a goblet of wine that he hadn’t yet managed a sip from. His pale hair caught in the breeze, a silver banner unraveling as his gaze followed the whirlwind of his offspring.

“Seven hells,” he muttered, just as Aegon and Viserys—his firstborn twins—charged past in a tangle of limbs, one armed with a stick, the other with a shield stolen from a poor guard. “Aegon, stop trying to brain your brother. And Viserys—don’t let him brain you!”

Neither boy listened. Of course they didn’t.

Beyond them, Aerion had declared himself king of a makeshift fortress made of overturned stools and cloaks stolen from the laundry line. He shouted decrees to Maelor, who toddled faithfully at his heels, his small arms struggling under the weight of a practice helm that slipped over his brow. Every few steps, the helm would tip forward, sending him stumbling into Aerion, who shouted at him like a general barking at a squire.

Daemon pinched the bridge of his nose. “I once commanded armies. Dragons. Whole kingdoms feared me. And now I am defeated daily by children under the age of ten.”

A soft laugh escaped you. He turned his head and found you watching from beneath the shade of a willow, your hands resting on the curve of your pregnant belly. You had been his shadow these past weeks, Rhaenyra’s sister, though Daemon called you little one more often than not. Now, with your condition keeping you from the rougher diversions of court, you were content to sit and watch the chaos unfold.

“They’re only children,” you teased gently, eyes twinkling with fondness as Aegon toppled Viserys into a patch of flowers. “And besides, you look like you’re enjoying it more than you admit.”

Daemon scoffed. “Enjoying? I am outnumbered. Outmaneuvered. Do you know what it is to raise twins? And then Aerion—by the gods, that boy has more of me than I care to see reflected—and Maelor, small though he is, will grow into a terror yet. They conspire against me, niece. Mark my words.”

You arched a brow, shifting to ease the weight of your unborn child. “And you, uncle, are acting as though you do not love every moment of it.”

At that, his façade cracked. A reluctant smile tugged at his lips as Aegon’s laughter rang out, bright and unburdened. Maelor had fallen face-first into the grass, and Aerion was tugging him upright with surprising patience for his age. Daemon’s gaze softened, wine forgotten, the world momentarily quiet despite the chaos.

“They’re mine,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Every scrape, every shout. They carry my blood and her fire. The realm may call me rogue, but here… here I am only father.”

You pressed your hand against your belly, warmth flooding you at the words. Your babe shifted within, a reminder that soon you would know the very weight Daemon spoke of. He caught your gaze, sharp and knowing, and for once there was no sharpness in his tone when he said:

“You’ll see soon enough. They undo you, the little creatures. Pull you apart and put you back together in ways you’d never expect. Gods help you if you have two at once.”

The thought made you laugh, your hand brushing your stomach protectively. “If I do, I’ll send one straight to you. You seem to have the practice.”

Daemon huffed, shaking his head as though you’d cursed him—but there was no hiding the grin he wore as his children’s voices filled the garden, their joy more victorious than any war cry he’d ever heard.