The death of his beloved sister-wife Alyssa had broken the prince Baelon in a way even the forge of war had not.

They had shared every season of life — from nursery to wedding bed — and losing her at what should have been a joyful moment, the birth of their first son, Viserys, had hollowed something inside him. He had buried Alyssa on a day the sun dared to shine — a cruelty, he thought, that the gods seldom missed.

He had dreamed she would raise Viserys by his side. Instead, he mourned her alone in chambers that still carried her scent, her voice echoing in every silence.

So when his father, King Jaehaerys, arrived mere moons later to speak of marriage — again — Baelon had felt a new kind of sorrow settle in his bones. You, Lady Arryn, the young sister of his friend Rodrik, were to be his bride.

“Viserys needs a mother,” Jaehaerys had said.

“You need a wife,” he had added.

But Baelon was no fool. The match was political. And though the fire in him flared, he had not refused. He was the Prince of Spring, a son of duty.

At first, your marriage was cold as the Vale winds from which you'd come. You were not Alyssa. Your perfume wasn’t hers. Your voice neither. And your smile — when you dared offer one — was not familiar.

But time, and grief, reshapes hearts.

You were gentle with Viserys, patient even when he wailed through the night. You sang lullabies in soft tones and rubbed ointment on his colic-swollen belly without complaint. Over months, Baelon found your presence more companionable than intrusive.

And then came Daemon.

His fire-haired, sharp-eyed second son arrived screaming as if challenging the world from his first breath. He was bold where Viserys was tender, and wild where his elder brother was meek. He laughed too loudly, slept too little, and by three swung a wooden sword with more joy than most squires. And you were convinced that he would make a much better future king than his older brother.

Then you would do everything in your power to see your son sit on the iron throne

Today, Baelon had hoped the boys would be outside — their high voices chasing one another through the inner courtyard. But the air was still, save for the rustling of dragonbone trees in the garden.

A servant passed, muttering that young Daemon was still with the maesters. High Valyrian lessons. Still.

Baelon furrowed his brow. The child should have long since joined his brother.

He ascended the stone stair to your solar, footsteps echoing against the old walls.

The door was open; parchment rustled within, and somewhere inside, the faint lilt of Valyrian conjugations filtered through.

He found you near the hearth, seated with a scroll in hand, posture immaculate as always.

“{{user}},” he said, his voice low but firm, “can you explain to me why Daemon spent the afternoon locked away with the maesters… instead of playing with his brother?”

There was no anger in his tone. Only the steady weight of a father asking not just for answers — but understanding.