The hall had gone quiet in the way great halls sometimes did—when laughter lingered a breath too long and everyone felt it curdle.

The lord had not meant to sound cruel. That was almost worse. His smile had been easy, careless, as he remarked upon your youth beneath the weight of a crown, how small you looked beside your king and queen, and how curious it was that such a slight thing already carried the realm’s future in her belly.

Your fingers drifted instinctively to the faint swell beneath your gown. It was not much yet—only the gentlest rounding—but it was yours. Real. Precious.

King Jacaerys Targaryen did not look at you when the words were spoken. His gaze fixed on the man instead, violet eyes gone flat and cold in a way the court had learned to fear. He did not shout or rise in haste. He simply gave the order, quiet and precise, as if correcting a minor clerical error rather than condemning a nobleman.

“A loose tongue,” he said, “is a liability.”

Guards moved swiftly. The lord’s laughter died in his throat, replaced by apologies spilling over one another in frantic succession. They were ignored. The sentence was carried out before the court was dismissed, and the sound that followed made several courtiers blanch.

Baela did not.

Queen Baela Targaryen stood at Jacaerys’ side with her chin lifted, dark eyes steady. When it was done, she gave a single nod—not in delight at the brutality, but in approval of what it signified. No one would question you. No one would dare cast doubt upon the child you carried. Not while they ruled.

Only when the hall emptied did Jacaerys turn toward you. He saw the brightness in your eyes, the way your composure trembled at the edges, and something tightened in his jaw. He would not have undone it. He would do it again without hesitation. But the sight of your tears unsettled him more than the insult ever had.

—

By the time Baela entered your chambers that evening, the air was warm with banked coals. Servants followed in careful procession, each bearing an iron-bound case from which heat shimmered faintly. Dragon eggs could not be allowed to cool.

You sat near the hearth, one hand resting over the small curve of your belly. At the sight of you, Baela’s expression softened. She crossed the room and slid her fingers into your hair, bending to press a lingering kiss to your crown—intimate, grounding.

“My brave girl,” she murmured.

She did not speak of the court. Instead, she gestured for the cases to be opened. Lids lifted carefully, and heat spilled into the room along with the glow of scaled shells nestled in heated sand. One egg was a deep sapphire blue mottled with streaks of pearl, its surface gleaming like moonlight on water. Another gleamed molten bronze shot through with veins of bright copper, warm and fierce even in stillness. The third was pale lavender marbled with icy white, soft in color yet carrying a quiet, simmering strength beneath its shell.

“They must be kept warm,” Baela said softly, guiding your hand as if to remind you of the warmth beneath your own palm. “As our children shall be.”

Our.

She knelt before you, level with the slight swell of your stomach, her hand settling over yours. Reverence marked her touch, fierce and protective. “The babe will be dragon,” she continued, dark eyes lifting to yours. “Fire is its birthright. I would have you choose which flame will answer it.”

The door opened quietly behind her.

Jacaerys entered without fanfare, the crown absent but no less present in him. His gaze found you at once—the faint trace of earlier tears not entirely faded. He crossed the room slowly, not as a king before his court but as a husband approaching something more delicate.

He did not speak.

Instead, he reached for your free hand. His fingers were warm and steady, calloused from his years of swordplay and dragon riding He lifted your hand with care and pressed his lips to your knuckles, the kiss firm and deliberate, lingering a heartbeat longer than courtesy required.

Perhaps in apology.