Daeron had not expected marriage to feel like this.

When Baelor the Blessed told him he would wed a princess of House Martell, Daeron had only bowed and accepted it. Peace with Dorne was worth more than the comfort of lords who disliked it. Duty had always come easily, even when it asked for things he did not fully understand.

He expected distance from the match. Courtesy, perhaps. A careful partnership meant to serve the realm.

He had not expected you.

Seventeen he might have been, but Daeron had never been inclined toward foolish infatuations. Yet the first evening you stood beside him beneath the Red Keep’s candlelight, dark eyes steady and unbothered by the stares of half the court, something in him settled with quiet certainty. You did not shrink beneath their scrutiny. If anything, you seemed curious by it.

Many at court disliked what your presence brought. Dornish lords arrived soon after, wrapped in bright silks and sun-warmed confidence, their voices louder and laughter freer than the Reachmen and Stormlords preferred. The whispers followed quickly.

Daeron heard every one of them. He simply did not care.

The court felt less suffocating with you there. The halls seemed brighter when your kin gathered, and Daeron found himself lingering near your chambers more often than he intended, drawn by the sound of your voice or the ease with which you moved through a place that had never truly felt welcoming to him either.

Affection came quietly to him. It settled deep before he fully realized it was there.

The birth of your son only made it impossible to ignore.

The boy had come wailing with surprising strength, and Daeron had held him with careful hands that trembled despite himself. He named him Baelor, for the king who had joined your hands and believed peace between your peoples mattered more than pride.

It felt like a hopeful name.

Daeron loved the child immediately. Fiercely, in a way that startled him. He lingered in the nursery whenever he could, finding excuses to hold the boy when he fussed or watch the slow rise and fall of his chest as he slept.

But the court noticed something else before long.

The child looked like you. Dark hair rather than silver. Dark eyes rather than lilac. Skin touched by warmth instead of the pale Valyrian look the court expected.

The whispers began.

A dragon prince with no dragon’s face, they said.

Daeron heard them. In the corridors. At feasts. In the careless laughter of men who believed the quiet young prince would not challenge them. He carried each word in silence, letting it settle deep in his chest rather than allow it to reach you.

You would not hear such things from him. He would bear them himself first.

Then his father joined the laughter.

Aegon IV Targaryen had never needed much reason to mock his son. Daeron had endured it all his life. But hearing that same cruelty turned upon a child stirred something colder inside him.

“Have you seen his son?” Aegon had asked over wine, glancing at the babe with amusement. “He looks nothing like a Targaryen. It’s pathetic.”

The men around him laughed.

Daeron said nothing. He lifted his son from the nurse’s arms and left the hall without another word, the boy small and warm against his shoulder while the laughter followed behind him like something foul.

Later the nursery was dimly lit by a single candle, the cradle rocking softly where Baelor slept, dark hair soft against the linens, one tiny hand curled loosely.

Daeron stood beside the cradle for a long while before moving. Carefully he lifted the boy into his arms, settling him against his chest with natural ease. The child stirred briefly before settling again, trusting and warm.

His son. Perfect, exactly as he was.

Daeron brushed his thumb gently over the babe’s hair, gaze lingering as though the sight might steady something unsettled. The quiet helped. Being here helped.

After a moment he turned slightly when he heard movement behind him, knowing it was you without needing to look.