The Red Keep had known many sounds through its long life, steel ringing on steel, the shouts of kings, the prayers of queens, but few were as piercing as the cry of a six-year-old who did not wish to let her father go.

Prince Baelor Targaryen, called Breakspear by those who knew his worth, stood in the solar with one leg half-captured by a small, furious creature with dark hair and tear-streaked cheeks. {{user}}, his eldest child, had wrapped herself around him with the desperation of a drowning sailor clutching driftwood.

“No,” she declared, her voice hoarse from crying. “Papa is not going. Papa stays.”

Baelor did not move.

He could have, of course. He had broken Dornish lines and faced Blackfyre banners without flinching. But this, this was far more difficult.

He rested a broad, gentle hand on her head.

“My heart,” he said softly, the cadence of his voice calm and steady, as it always was, “I must go. Just for a little while.”

She answered by clinging harder, her small fingers digging into the leather of his riding trousers like talons. It was not dignity that bound her to him now, nor reason, it was pure feeling, raw and unfiltered, and Baelor felt it strike him deeper than any blade.

Behind them, Jena Dondarrion knelt, trying, unsuccessfully, to pry their daughter loose.

“She has been like this since dawn,” Jena said, half-amused, half-exhausted. “She screamed when Maekar entered the room. She screamed louder when she heard the word rebellion.”

“That is because rebellion takes fathers away,” {{user}} snapped, without letting go. “And uncles don’t count.”

From the doorway came a low chuckle. King Daeron II Targaryen, thin and thoughtful as ever, stood watching the scene with an expression caught somewhere between fondness and worry. He bent slightly, leaning on his cane.

“She has your spirit,” the king said to Baelor. “And perhaps a bit too much of your stubbornness.”

Baelor inclined his head. “Then the fault is mine, Your Grace.”

Daeron crouched, slowly, carefully, and held out a hand to his granddaughter. “Little one,” he said gently, “your father goes so that you may sleep safely. So that no man with a black dragon may ever tell you what throne you are allowed to look upon.”

She sniffed, red-eyed. “I don’t care about thrones. I care about Papa.”

Baelor felt something tighten in his chest. For a fleeting, treacherous moment, he wondered whether all his vows, to crown, to realm, to peace, were worth this.

Then Valarr toddled in, dragging a wooden sword behind him, solemn and quiet, while little Matarys followed, unbothered, chewing on something that might once have been a ribbon.

They did not cry. They did not cling. Only {{user}} did.

Baelor knelt at last, lowering himself so they were eye to eye. He cupped her face in his hands, wiping tears with his thumbs.

“You are my strength,” he told her. “But I must be strong for all the realm, too. I Promise I will come back.”