The bells of the Red Keep tolled softly beneath a sky of hammered gold. The city burned with light that evening, every spire and rooftop awash in the last breath of the sun, yet within the royal apartments all was still. Prince Aemon Targaryen stood upon the balcony of his chambers, the wind teasing the silver strands of his hair, his hands clasped lightly behind his back. The bay below shimmered like molten steel.

Behind him, he heard the rustle of silk.

{{user}} was at her embroidery again, seated by the tall windows, her belly round beneath the pale fabric of her gown. The candlelight caught in her hair and eyes, turning her into something softer than the world deserved.

He turned at last to look at her.

In her, he saw everything that the gods had ever meant by mercy. From the first day of their union, she had met him not with fear or pretense, but with a quiet grace that disarmed every harsh word that might have taken shape in him. Their marriage had not been his choice, his father’s will had forged it, but never once had he regretted it.

He had been gentle on their wedding night; he remembered the trembling of her hands and the warmth of her tears when he had promised, no harm shall come to you by my hand. Since then, months had passed, and still he had never spoken to her in anger nor raised his voice above hers.

The Red Keep had watched their harmony with relief. King Jaehaerys himself had said that they were like still waters, deep, untroubled, unlike Alyssa and Baelon, whose tempers flared like dragonfire. Aemon often wondered at that. Fire ran through their blood.

When the maesters announced the princess’s quickening, the whole court rejoiced. The king ordered feasts, bells, and prayers to every sept in the city. The lords smiled at the thought of another dragonborn heir.

Yet for Aemon, all the clamor of the Red Keep was noise. His thoughts lay only with {{user}}, her health, the fragile, blossoming life she carried.

It was his wish, and his father’s, that she travel to Dragonstone before her birthing month. There, where the Conqueror had been born, where the mountain smoked and dragons had once nested in the caves, the child might draw its first breath beneath the watch of their ancestors.

He went with her, of course. The sea was restless on the day they arrived. The waves struck black stone and broke into silver foam, and the air carried the scent of salt and rain. Aemon watched as {{user}} disembarked, her hand in his, her steps careful on the slippery quay.

“Slowly, sister.” he murmured, steadying her. Her fingers tightened around his, small and warm.

The fortress rose above them, carved from ancient rock, its towers sharp against the grey horizon. Dragons no longer roared from the mountain, but their memory lingered in every whisper of wind.

Their chambers looked eastward, toward the smoking peak. From the balcony, they could see gulls wheeling over the dark cliffs, and when the nights were clear, the fires of the mountain glowed faintly in the distance.

Those months passed like a dream half-remembered.

Each morning, Aemon rose before dawn. He would watch {{user}} sleeping, her breath even, one hand resting on her belly as though guarding the life within.

Sometimes he would touch his sister's hair, tracing it back from her face, and think that the gods had been kind in giving him something so precious, and cruel in making it so fragile.

And that night, Aemon kneels beside the bed, his fingers gently brushing a stray lock of hair from {{user}}'s forehead. His voice is soft, barely above a whispe.

"My love," he murmurs. "The storm has quieted beyond our windows... but I see one still rages within you." His thumb traces the delicate arch of her brow. "Shall I summon lemon cakes and honeyed milk? Or would you prefer me to do something else for you, until your eyes grow heavy?"