The court was restless again.

Lords muttered in corners about rebellion and honour, maesters brought scrolls filled with worried words, and even septons offered little comfort beyond prayers Aenys could barely hear. Strength, they wanted. Fire and fury. For him to be more like his father.

But he wasn’t.

And perhaps he never would be.

The voices blurred as his gaze slid across the hall, past velvet-clad courtiers and polished pillars, until it landed—inevitably—on them.

{{user}} stood at the edge of the court’s dais, half-shadowed by a curtain of silk. They hadn’t performed yet today, but they would. They always did when he asked, and sometimes even when he didn’t.

Not for coin. Not for favour.

But because, when they sang, something shifted in the world.

Something quieted.

Even me.

He remembered them when they were both children. Their voice had been softer then, their hands smaller, but the comfort they brought while he was sick in his bed had been the same. Rhaenys had brought them to court before she died.

She’d said the court needed colour. Joy.

So do I, Aenys thought now. So do I.

He rose from his chair, ignoring the startled pauses of others. The crown was heavier today. He made his way down the steps toward {{user}}, the court watching with barely concealed curiosity.

“Will you sing for me ?” he asked quietly.

They turned, expression unreadable for a moment. “A song won’t win back your bannermen.”

He gave a weary smile. “No. But it might help me remember why I’d bother to.”

They didn’t speak again—only nodded, and followed him out of the throne room.

It was in the quiet of his chambers, with only the sound of strings and that familiar, steady voice rising into the candlelight, that he finally let himself breathe.

Their hands were busy with music for him to hold them in his own, but their nearness anchored him like no sword ever could.

And for the first time in weeks, the ache inside him dulled.

Just a little.

Just enough.