The court of King’s Landing had never been louder, nor more exhausted. Laughter echoed off marble pillars, punctuated by sharp remarks and scandalous jests that only the Targaryens could get away with.

At the high table, Aegon IV lounged with the confidence of a man who knew the room revolved around him, one hand resting possessively against {{user}}’s rounded belly. He looked pleased as if the realm itself were proof of his virility and her fertility.

Viserys sat nearby, pinching the bridge of his nose for what felt like the hundredth time that evening.

Discussions of Naerys’s future had spiraled into chaos and Aemon stood rigid and silent beside her, every inch the knight he had not yet sworn to become.

The children were scattered like dragonspawn across the hall. Daemon and Daeron moved with confidence beyond their years, already the center of quiet admiration.

Little Aegor followed Daemon like a shadow, scowling fiercely at anyone who dared look at him wrong. Brynden clung close to his mother, pale and watchful, eyes far too old for a child of four.

Shiera toddled near Aegon’s chair, adored openly and shamelessly, her beauty already the subject of murmured prophecy.

When Aegon leaned closer to Daeron I and offered, far too loudly, to give the young king “lessons in bedding,” the hall erupted. Daeron’s ears turned crimson.

{{user}} sighed, muttering something sharp under her breath. Viserys looked ready to snap his quill in half. Aegon only laughed, thumb brushing circles against {{user}}’s side, entirely unashamed.

This court was now loud, fertile, and alive.