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| Author's Note: I have to admit, it's a little disheartening to check in a whole day after releasing a chapter and see only ten or so new comments,— especially when there was a time we had nearly eighty within the first few hours of posting.
But that's on me,— it's the natural consequence of a choice I believe is for the best, and I stand by it.
Regardless, I hope you enjoy the chapter.
Happy reading!
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"Daella Targaryen was not made for the world, only for love,— too soft for a crown, too gentle for a throne, and too kind for the cruelty of Men."
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- A few weeks later (75 AC):
The air was crisp with salt and sea spray as Alyssa Targaryen stood on the bustling docks of Dragonstone, watching the waves lap against the sleek hull of the ship preparing to depart.
The red-and-black banners of House Targaryen fluttered proudly from its masts, marking it as one of the swiftest,— and one of the many important,— vessels in their fleet.
She had little love for ships, truth be told, the sky was where she belonged, not the sea.
But today, she had no choice but to be near the coast, as her son, Aenys was far too young to fly with her or Baelon, and so was little Rhaenys, barely a year old.
Her family's ship would ferry them safely to King's Landing, while the rest of them took to the skies on dragonback.
And so, Alyssa adjusted the soft blanket around Aenys, her fingers brushing his silver hair,— so fine it felt like silk against her skin.
Nestled in Jocelyn's protective arms, the babe slept soundly, unaware of the world shifting around him.
He was only a few weeks old, and fragile in a way that made Alyssa both awed and anxious.
She longed to keep him close, to clutch him against her chest and soar through the skies on Meleys' back, feeling the wind whip through her hair. But she would not risk it,— not when he was this small, this vulnerable.
"You'll keep him safe, right?" Alyssa asked softly, her eyes fixed on Aenys rather than Jocelyn, though she already knew the answer. And Jocelyn Baratheon tilted her head, lips curving in that mix of amusement and quiet reassurance she did so well.
"Have you so little faith in me?" she teased, adjusting her grip on Aenys with practiced ease, and Alyssa smirked, but her gaze remained serious as she finally looked up at her good-sister and dearest friend.
"I'd trust you with my life." she said, voice steady. "But that's my son, Jocelyn,— not me."
Jocelyn's expression softened, and her dark eyes flickered down to the babe nestled against her. "Then trust me with his." she murmured. "I'll keep him close,— me and Rhaenys both."
At the sound of her name, Rhaenys,— barely anything more than a toddler,— clutched at Jocelyn's dark hair with one tiny hand, while the other wrapped protectively around Aenys' bundled form.
Alyssa marveled at how Jocelyn could hold them both without even a hint of weariness.
And Rhaenys? The little girl already had a fierce spirit, her violet eyes gleaming with the same untamed fire that lived in her father.
She looked up at Alyssa with open wonder, then glanced at Aenys, her grip tightening as if swearing to guard him with all her tiny might.
"I want to fly with them already..." Alyssa sighed, pouting in a way that was comically familiar, a reflection of her usual impatience.
Her gaze flickered toward the cliffs, where Meleys and the other dragons stirred, sensing their riders' approach.
"Not yet, though." Jocelyn murmured, running her fingers through Rhaenys' dark curls. "But soon, Alyssa, you will."
Alyssa exhaled, the pull of the sky was strong, a beckoning promise of open air and roaring winds. She belonged there,— above the clouds, above the world.
"Alright, see you all soon." And with one last lingering look at Aenys, she stepped back, nodded to Jocelyn, and turned toward the cliffs, where Meleys awaited her.
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- A few moments later:
Alyssa strode toward Meleys with a radiant smile, her heart pounding in anticipation.
It had only been a short time since she last flew with her dragon, yet it felt like an eternity.
The bond between rider and beast was not so easily ignored, nor the ache of separation easily soothed.
Meleys stirred at her approach, her great golden eyes blinking open, slitted pupils narrowing as she focused on her rider, a low, rumbling growl escaping her,— the deep vibration of it rolling through the earth, and a flicker of flame curled from her nostrils, dancing in the morning air.
Alyssa chuckled, stepping closer, her hand running over the warm, scaled neck of her dragon. Meleys' skin was hot beneath her touch, the ridges of her scales smooth yet unyielding.
"Easy there, girl." Alyssa murmured, her voice both soothing and affectionate. "Are you as happy to see me as I am to see you?"
Meleys let out a sound,— half purr, half growl,— a rumbling vibration that only creatures as vast and mighty as dragons could produce. "I'll take that as a yes."
Alyssa grinned, her hand lingering against Meleys' side before she hoisted herself onto the dragon's back. The moment she settled into the familiar curve of the saddle, a rush of exhilaration surged through her veins, the kind of intoxicating freedom only dragonriders knew.
Beneath her, Meleys tensed, her crimson wings flexing, sunlight glinting off her scales like polished rubies, while beside her, Baelon swung into Vhagar's saddle with practiced ease, a competitive grin splitting his face as he met her gaze.
"A race, then, my love?" he called over the wind, and Alyssa laughed, the sound bright, wild, and unrestrained. "I'll leave you in the dust, husband."
"Sovës, Meleys!" With a thunderous beat of wings, Meleys launched into the sky, a blur of red slicing through the morning air.
The force of her ascent stole Alyssa's breath, the wind whipping at her hair, the cold bite of the high-altitude air sharp against her skin, but she only leaned forward, pressing into the movement, urging Meleys higher and faster.
Baelon was right behind her, Vhagar's massive wings carving through the sky, casting a shadow over the sea below.
Though ancient and battle-worn, Vhagar was still one of the mightiest creatures in the world, her power undiminished even by age.
Further back, Aemon flew steadily on Caraxes, the lean red wyrm weaving through the air with practiced ease. His dragon was smaller than Vhagar and Meleys, but no less formidable, keeping effortless pace beside Silverwing, whose silvery scales shimmered under the rising sun.
Queen Alysanne sat astride her she-dragon with regal poise, her silver hair unbound, whipping around her shoulders like a living crown. Unlike Alyssa and Baelon, she and Aemon did not race. They glided above the sea with effortless grace, watching over the waters from their high vantage point like rulers surveying their domain.
Below them, the Narrow Sea stretched into infinity, its waves cresting in white foam, breaking apart like shattered glass beneath the dragons' passage.
The wind howled in Alyssa's ears, but it was a beloved sound, a song she had known all her life.
The sky was hers, and she was born to rule it.
And then, on the horizon,— King's Landing.
The city appeared faster than she had noticed, the distance between Dragonstone and the capital nothing before dragon's wings. She had flown so fast, so fiercely, that she had barely registered Driftmark passing beneath her, her focus split between the race and the thoughts of her son.
Now, the great city sprawled below them, its twisting streets alive with movement, the Red Keep's towers jutting from the cliffs like jagged spears of stone.
As the dragons descended, one after the other, their vast shadows swept over the capital like an eclipse, casting the streets below into momentary darkness. The people lifted their faces, their awe palpable even from the skies.
The Targaryens had arrived.
Not as queen and princes, but as gods, astride their mighty beasts.
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- At the same time:
The entrance to the Red Keep loomed tall, its great stone walls bathed in the golden glow of the afternoon sun. The bustling courtyard was alive with movement,— servants hurrying about, guards standing vigilant at their posts,— but amidst the flurry of activity, Daella Targaryen stood alone.
She shifted on her feet, fingers twisting the fabric of her lilac gown.
A gentle breeze lifted strands of her pale silver hair, brushing them across her face, but she barely noticed,— her heart pounded in her chest, its rhythm uneven, unsteady.
They were coming. Her mother, her brothers and her dear sister.
And later as well, her good-sister Jocelyn would arrive with little Rhaenys and the babe, Aenys, as the letter she had received had foretold.
She swallowed hard. Would they see her first and foremost? Would her mother's or sister's embrace be waiting for her, or would they be too preoccupied with Alyssa, after the birth of her nephew? Would her brothers greet her with those warm, easy smiles she cherished?
She wasn't sure, but then, the sound of great wings beating against the sky sent a ripple through the courtyard, and a hush fell over the gathered attendants. Heads tilted upward, and even the guards, ever-disciplined, allowed their gazes to lift to the heavens.
Four dragons emerged from the sky, their dark silhouettes stark against the afternoon light, their shadows stretched over the courtyard like shifting omens, their approach marked by the distant rush of wind and the heavy, deliberate strokes of their wings.
Daella took an instinctive step back, her breath catching in her throat.
Dragons had always fascinated her,— awed her, frightened her. She had dreamt of claiming one of her own, perhaps Dreamfyre, of feeling the wind in her hair as she soared through the skies, but her father had forbidden it, as he did most of her family who didn't marry one another.
And now, as Meleys, Vhagar, Caraxes, and Silverwing descended upon, she felt all those emotions rise within her at once,— a tangled knot of yearning, admiration, and fear.
Meleys landed first, her crimson scales shimmering like polished rubies, golden eyes sweeping over the courtyard with sharp discernment. Alyssa dismounted swiftly, her movements efficient and practiced, though Daella noticed the slight strain in her sister's stance,— the quiet toll of recent childbirth.
Still, Alyssa moved with the confidence of a woman who had spent more time in the sky than on land.
Baelon followed, sliding down from Vhagar's broad back with the ease of a seasoned rider, his grin wide, unrestrained, still carrying the exhilaration of flight.
Then came Aemon and their mother, Queen Alysanne, their descent was slower, more measured.
Caraxes coiled his serpentine body around himself, folding into sharp angles, while Silverwing landed lightly, her pale wings folding neatly at her sides.
Daella stood rooted to the spot, then, Alyssa's gaze found hers. "Daella, it's good to see you, sister." Alyssa's voice was warm, familiar.
Daella exhaled sharply, relief rushing through her like a wave breaking upon the shore.
Her feet moved before she could think, silk pooling around her ankles as she took hurried steps forward. She wanted to throw herself into her sister's arms, to cling to her like she had when they were younger,— but she hesitated.
Would it be too much? Would Alyssa think her foolish? "Would you like a hug, dear sister?" Alyssa asked gently, and Daella's eyes widened, her fingers twitched at her sides.
She wanted to say yes, wanted to fold herself into the warmth of her family, but hesitation warred with longing inside her.
Baelon chuckled beside them. "Come now, sister, we won't bite."
Alyssa shot him a look,— fond, but chiding,— before turning back to Daella, her expression patient, understanding.
Then, the moment stretched, and at last, Daella gave a small, hesitant nod.
"I missed you both." she whispered, her voice was barely more than a breath, but the words carried weight. "I missed you all."
Alyssa and Baelon pulled her into an embrace first, their warmth enveloping her.
Then came Aemon, steady and composed, and finally, Alysanne, whose touch was gentle yet firm, as if silently reminding Daella that she was loved.
For the first time that day, Daella smiled,— truly smiled.
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- A few hours later:
The chambers of King Jaehaerys I Targaryen remained as grand as ever, a reflection of the man who ruled within them. Sunlight filtered through the high-arched windows, casting golden pools upon the polished marble floors, while dust motes drifted lazily in the light, undisturbed by time.
The air carried the familiar scents of parchment and ink, mingled with the faint trace of burning candles,— a quiet testament to the king's ceaseless governance.
Jaehaerys sat near the great hearth, his carved wooden chair more a throne in its own right than a simple seat. His long silver hair fell loosely over his shoulders, his face lined with the weight of years, yet his violet gaze remained sharp, keen as ever.
As his "guests" entered, his piercing stare settled upon them, while beside him, Queen Alysanne stood already,— a figure of quiet strength, her presence as steadying as the foundations of the Red Keep itself,— once more at his side.
Alyssa and Baelon stepped into the chamber with measured reverence, their footfalls muffled by the thick Myrish carpets beneath them. In Alyssa's arms lay her newborn son, swaddled in soft white linen, his tiny chest rising and falling in the deep, untroubled sleep of infancy.
The moment Jaehaerys' eyes fell upon the child, the rigid lines of his face softened, if only slightly. "So..." the king murmured, his voice low, measured, "This is the boy."
He leaned forward, studying the infant's sleeping face with a gaze that seemed to see beyond the present moment,— as if searching for echoes of the past, or glimpses of the future.
Alyssa dipped her head. "I named him Aenys Targaryen, father." And Jaehaerys hummed, the sound more thoughtful than pleased. "A peculiar choice." he remarked, his voice carrying something distant, unreadable.
The name lingered between them, heavy with the weight of history. The first Aenys Targaryen had been a king too,— one who had ruled, struggled, and ultimately fallen beneath the weight of his crown.
Yet, Alysanne stepped forward then, her violet eyes warm, yet keen with her usual intent. She did not wish to dwell on ghosts of the past,— not when the present held something far dearer.
She extended her arms toward Alyssa, her voice gentle but insistent. "May I?"
Alyssa hesitated for but a heartbeat before carefully placing Aenys into her mother's waiting embrace. Alysanne cooed softly, her fingers gliding over the baby's round cheek with a touch as light as a whisper. Her violet eyes shimmered with something deeper than mere affection,— a quiet, boundless devotion, that had only grown stronger despite the many times she had cradled Aenys' tiny form back on Dragonstone.
Jaehaerys' eyes never left the child. "I trust you and he are healthy?" His question was directed at Alyssa, though his gaze lingered on the babe.
Baelon smirked, speaking before his wife could. "Healthy, loud, and with a grip stronger than a knight's,— if his hold on my finger is anything to judge by."
Alyssa shot her husband a sideways glance, a silent rebuke, but even she could not suppress the small, knowing smile tugging at her lips.
Jaehaerys exhaled slowly, deeply.
"Good." he said at last, his voice quieter now.
He studied Aenys for a long moment, his gaze contemplative, searching,— as though seeing something no one else could.
But if he saw anything, he did not speak of it.
The moment stretched, then passed.
And just as all things in a ruler's life must, the conversation moved forward.
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- At the end of the day:
The gardens of the Red Keep basked in soft summer evening sunlight, the scent of blooming roses and fresh earth mingling in the warm air. Gardeners moved quietly among the flowerbeds, tending to their work with practiced ease.
Beneath the shade of a great oak, Alyssa sat watching Daella, who cradled Aenys in her arms.
The baby giggled, if that was even possible for a babe so young, and his tiny hands reached for his aunt's hair, making her laugh light and unburdened. Alyssa smiled, watching her sister shifting him carefully, her touch delicate, almost reverent.
Her gaze then softened, for it was a rare thing to see Daella so at ease.
And then,— Saera arrived.
The youngest Targaryen princess strode into the gardens with her usual confidence, her steps unhurried, her eyes bright with mischief. "I heard you returned, sister." she said smoothly, her gaze flicking toward the child nestled in Daella's arms. "And I see the newest addition to our family has arrived as well."
Alyssa inclined her head, watching as Saera stepped closer, curiosity flickering behind her feigned nonchalance. Daella, however, tensed, instinctively drawing Aenys closer.
Saera tilted her head, amusement curling at the corner of her lips. "You look as if you're holding a glass doll. Are you that afraid you'll drop him?" Daella flushed, mumbling something under her breath.
"Speak up, sister, I can't hear you." Saera prodded, her smirk widening. Whether her teasing was meant in jest or cruelty, it was always difficult to tell.
"I just… I don't want to hurt him." Daella murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.
Saera rolled her eyes. "He's a baby, not a kitten. He'll be fine, now, give him here."
Before Alyssa could intervene, Saera reached out, too fast, too rough. The sudden movement startled Aenys, and he let out a sharp, piercing cry. Daella flinched, guilt flashing across her face, while Alyssa's expression darkened.
"Saera." Her voice was a blade, and Saera stiffened at the warning in her sister's tone.
"You should be more mindful of the things around you." Alyssa continued, her gaze steady and unwavering. "People, especially. Now, off you go,— you've done enough with your wit."
A flicker of something,— resentment, perhaps,— passed through Saera's violet eyes. Her jaw clenched, but she did not argue, with a frustrated huff, she turned on her heel and strode away, her departure leaving silence in its wake.
Daella rocked Aenys gently, her expression crumpling. "I,—... I didn't mean to,—..."
Alyssa sighed, her anger ebbing as she reached out to smooth her sister's hair. "I know, dear." Aenys' cries softened into quiet whimpers, his tiny hands gripping Daella's gown as she swayed him gently.
Alyssa rubbed her temple, her patience frayed but intact. "She didn't mean it, you know..." Daella murmured hesitantly.
Alyssa exhaled slowly. "Perhaps not." she admitted. "But Saera needs to learn to be more gentle with her family. No matter the complications of her life, she must respect you, not poke at your ways."
Daella nodded, though she said nothing more. Instead, she looked down at Aenys, running her fingers soothingly over his silvery hair.
From the corner of her eye, Alyssa noticed the way her sister's shoulders remained tense, her head slightly bowed as if waiting for reprimand, and her heart softened.
"You'll be a good aunt, Daella." she said gently, making Daella blink twice, looking up.
Alyssa smiled. "Aenys feels safe with you,— I can see it in the way he rests in your arms."
Daella's lips parted slightly, uncertainty flickering across her face, then, slowly, her expression eased, a shy smile forming.
Alyssa let the moment linger before finally rising to her feet. "Come." she said, brushing off her skirts. "Let's take Aenys inside. It's almost time for his resting sleep."
Daella stood as well, adjusting her hold on the baby with careful hands. Together, they made their way back toward the Keep, a few Targaryen household guards following at a respectful distance.
The tension Saera had left behind still clung to the air, but for now, peace had returned.
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- Meanwhile:
Saera stormed through the halls of the Red Keep, her fists clenched at her sides.
Her sister had sent her away, again. For what? For barely touching her new nephew?
For speaking the truth? She scoffed, her steps quick and sharp against the stone floor. Daella had always been the timid one, the one who shrank at the slightest confrontation. And yet, Alyssa still defended her,— always.
The thought made Saera's jaw tighten.
She then turned a corner swiftly, nearly colliding with someone. "Princess." a voice called, steady and unfazed.
Saera blinked, taking a step back. Her frustration faltered, if only for a moment, as she found herself looking up at Ser Braxton Beesbury.
The knight regarded her with a knowing expression, arms crossed over his broad chest. "You look troubled." he observed.
Saera straightened, masking her irritation behind a smirk. "And you look nosy, Ser Beesbury." The knight only chuckled. "You make it easy to notice when something vexes you, my lady."
She lifted her chin. "Nothing vexes me."
Braxton raised an eyebrow but did not press her further. "Very well." he said lightly, stepping aside. "Then I suppose you won't mind if I walk with you for a time." Saera hesitated, just briefly, before nodding.
Without another word, they fell into step together, his presence steady beside her. The anger still simmered beneath her skin, but as the conversation turned, as his words pulled her focus elsewhere, the sharp edges of her frustration dulled.
For now.
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- At the same time:
From the high balcony overlooking the gardens, Queen Alysanne watched.
She had seen everything,— the tension that simmered beneath Saera's sharp words, the unease in Daella's posture, the quiet authority with which Alyssa had dismissed their sister. It had played out as expected, each daughter true to her nature.
She did not interfere. Instead, she sipped her tea, the delicate porcelain cup warm against her fingers, her mind already turning.
Saera was strong-willed,— perhaps too much so. That fire in her spirit would either forge her into something formidable or burn her from within.
Daella, on the other hand, was soft, too soft.
Yet softness was not always a weakness; a gentle heart had its own strength, one the world too often overlooked.
And then, there was little Aenys.
Alysanne's gaze lingered on the baby cradled in Daella's arms. So small, so fragile, a son of House Targaryen, but no dragon yet.
Fragility would not protect him forever.
She set her cup down with a quiet clink against the saucer, her expression unreadable. The afternoon breeze stirred the silk of her sleeves as she continued to watch, silver hair gleaming in the sun.
Some lessons could only be learned in time.
And time had a way of shaping even the most delicate things into something unbreakable.
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- Later at night:
The chamber was quiet but for the faint crackling of the hearth, the scent of parchment and melted wax lingering in the air.
Jaehaerys sat at his writing desk, quill in hand, his brow furrowed as he scanned the documents before him. Across from him, Aemon stood with arms crossed, his expression composed but his mind elsewhere, as he looked down at the parhcment he was writting.
"The Riverlords grow restless over their border disputes." Aemon remarked, voice measured. "Lord Tully believes a firm royal decree will settle the matter."
Jaehaerys made a noncommittal sound as he dipped his quill, signing a parchment with swift precision. "If only parchment held the weight of steel." he mused, "But send the decree nonetheless. Tully will manage,— he always does."
A brief pause settled between them before Aemon, after a measured breath, spoke again. "There is another matter I wished to discuss."
Jaehaerys glanced up, sharp eyes catching something in his son's tone. "Go on."
"Aenys and Rhaenys." Aemon said evenly.
"It is early yet, but their match would be a strong one, a bond to secure the future." For a moment, Jaehaerys said nothing, he simply leaned back in his chair, exhaling as he tapped his quill against the desk.
Then, with a casual flick of his wrist, he dismissed the thought. "Too soon for such considerations."
Aemon had expected this, but still, he pressed. "Their blood is as pure as any we could hope for. You wed me to Jocelyn when I was young, and it proved wise."
Jaehaerys hummed, his gaze flickering toward the distant window. "Perhaps." he admitted, "But time has a way of upending plans. Rhaenys is still a child, and Aenys…" He hesitated, as if considering something unsaid. "He will need to grow into himself first."
Aemon nodded, but before he could speak further, Jaehaerys turned the conversation with the ease of a man who had already decided its course. "Speaking of children,— how fares Jocelyn? Is she strong enough to try again?"
Aemon stilled, his fingers curled slightly against the fabric of his sleeve, the only betrayal of his thoughts. "She is well..." he said after a breath, careful to keep his tone even. "Though I do not think another child is meant for us, not right now, at least."
Jaehaerys frowned slightly, setting his quill down. "Nonsense. Rhaenys is a fine girl, but a son,—..."
"A son would not change what is." Aemon interjected, firmer now, but still respectful.
"Jocelyn has given me all that I could ask for." Something unspoken passed between them then, a flicker of understanding in the king's eyes. Perhaps he suspected the truth, or perhaps he simply knew better than to argue against a son who had never failed him. Either way, Jaehaerys merely sighed, nodding once before turning back to his work.
"Very well." he said. "But should the gods grant it, a son would be no ill thing."
Aemon gave a slight incline of his head but did not reply, and the conversation was over.
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- During the hour of the bat:
The world was dark, save for a sliver of silver light coming from the moon.
It wavered as it stretched across the chamber, moving as unseen things moved,— slow, drifting, soundless.
He did not yet understand light, nor darkness, nor the space between them, only that the blackness beyond his cradle was vast, and the silver was soft.
He stirred, his tiny body shifting against the warm enclosure that cradled him, his fingers flexed, small and uncertain, the motion aimless. They brushed fabric,— light, silken, familiar,— and curled, grasping at nothing.
The air was thick with warmth, with a scent that wrapped around him like unseen arms.
He did not know the word for it, nor that it had a name at all, only that it had been there always,— that it meant something.
Above him, beyond the wooden walls of his tiny world, she lay.
She was far from him, yet close.
She had been there before the silver light, before the darkness, before anything. He did not know who she was, only that she was the first sound, the first warmth, the first everything.
The light touched her first. It crept over her cheek, catching in the strands of her pale hair, a glow of silver and white. She did not move, not like those who loomed over him in waking hours,— loud and shifting, bending and speaking in sounds that meant nothing.
She was still, save for the slow, steady rise and fall of her breath, and her usual mismatched eyes were closed.
And he simply watched,— or rather,— he felt.
He felt the weight of her presence, the warmth that radiated from beyond the cradle's edge.
He did not know that she was his, nor that he was hers, he knew only that the warmth had been there when the world was bright and cold and too much. That the voice had soothed when everything else had been strange and frightening. That the touch,— gentle, strong, unlike the others,— had been the first thing to hold him when he had been small and trembling and full of new, aching feeling.
His fingers twitched again, reaching, though he did not know for what.
The light shimmered as she shifted, just slightly, and something stirred inside him,— a slow, heavy thing, warm and deep.
It pressed against his tiny chest, made his limbs feel slack, his breaths slow. He did not know the word for safe, did not understand the shape of the thought, only the sensation that filled the space between his ribs, that made the world feel small and quiet and whole.
His eyelids drooped, his fingers stilled, and the silver light dimmed, the warmth remained, and in the hush of the night, Aenys drifted away, watching his mother sleep so peacefully.
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|| Fire & Blood ||
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