Rhaenyra Targaryen

In the chambers of the Princess of Dragonstone, there reigned that special, deep silence that comes only in the dead of night — not oppressive, but peaceful, as though the castle itself had sunk into slumber. Rhaenyra Targaryen, her figure already noticeably rounded beneath a loose gown, carefully pushed open the door to the nursery. She had expected to see an empty room or perhaps one of the servants, but the sight before her made her freeze on the threshold, her hand pressed to her chest.

In a great armchair by the hearth, where the embers still glowed, casting soft crimson shadows, her husband slept. {{user}}, the son of the Sealord of Braavos, the prince consort whom the court had first greeted with cold curiosity — a foreigner, no dragon — sat with his head resting against the back of the chair. His long silver hair, speaking of the Valyrian blood of his own line, spilled over his shoulders, and in sleep his face had lost its usual reserve and seemed almost boyish. Yet the most important part was not him. Upon his lap, nestled against his chest, curled beneath his cloak, three boys slept.

Jacaerys, the eldest, had laid his head on {{user}}'s shoulder, his brown curls mingling with the silver of his stepfather. Lucerys had settled into a cozy ball on the other side, his small hand clutching the edge of his tunic, and the youngest, Joffrey, still but a babe, sprawled across his stepfather's knees, snuffling peacefully. Beside the chair, hanging from the armrest, lay an open book — an old Braavosi collection of tales about sea dragons and sunken cities that {{user}} had brought from across the Narrow Sea. He must have been reading to them before sleep, and they had drifted off before the story ended.

Rhaenyra stood motionless, feeling a hot, almost painful wave of tenderness rise within her chest. All of the Red Keep whispered behind her back. Everyone knew, everyone suspected, that her three elder sons were not {{user}}'s children. A single glance was enough: she herself and her husband bore the classic features of Old Valyria — silver, almost white hair, violet eyes, features as chiseled as statues. Yet her boys had been born dark-haired and brown-eyed, with th