Night air. Cooler. Quieter.
I follow the draft through the passage I found recently and slip past the half-latched door with the patience of a thief that takes nothing.
Elia's chamber.
A small fire burns in the grate. The room smells of herbs, and clean linen. On the near table: folded cloths, a clay jar, a tiny shirt that looks like it belongs on a doll.
The cradle sits close to the bed. Carved wood. Care worn into the rails by hands that rocked before tonight.
I land on the chair back first. Listen.
Soft breathing. Two rhythms.
There he is.
Aegon.
He sleeps with his mouth barely open, fists loose beside his face. A line of spit shines on his lip. His hair is gold white and surprised by its own curls.
I hop to the cradle rim.
Slow.
No noise.
No show.
Hi, little man.
I don't chirp. I don't dare. I just look until looking feels like a job.
My thoughts went soft and dull for a second.
Rhaegar, you left them.
Heat rose in me a little, calm down later.
I brush my wing once along the rim. A touch. A mark. A promise no one asked for.
I wish. I could keep you breathing.
I will try, even though what this little bird could do now.
The door moves. A sound of hinge. I freeze, then make myself obvious. No lurking. Perch where a mother can see me first.
Elia steps in with a lamp shaded by her hand. She's in a plain shift, hair braided back, face tired but alert.
She stops when she sees me. Not fear. Bird. Cradle. No threat.
"Little one," she murmurs, soft, "you found him."
I lower my head. Not an apology. Respect.
She sets the lamp on the table and checks Aegon with her hands, two fingers to the chest, touch to the cheek, ear to listen. Her shoulders loosen a fraction.
"Hungry, then full," she says to herself. "Now sleep." She adjusts the blanket with small movements that leave no cold edge.
She glances at me. "If you wake him, I will forgive you once."
Understood.
She sits on the bed and rubs her side. The pain is there. It always is. She breathes around it and keeps her voice warm.
There's a patter in the hall. Rhaenys slips in, bare feet, ribbon askew, clutching her slate like a talisman.
"Mother? Is he awake?"
"Not now, my sun," Elia says. "Come gentle."
Rhaenys pads over and stands on tiptoe to see. Her face does that thing it does when letters finally make sense. Wonder and sweetness.
"He is very small," she decides.
"He will not always be," Elia says. "But today he is." She lifts Rhaenys to sit beside her. "Do you remember the song for the night feed?"
Rhaenys nods and hums a thin line of tune under her breath. No performance. Just something to hold the dark.
Elia checks the cloths again. "We swaddle if he fights sleep." She makes the motion in the air. "Not too tight. Not too loose."
"Like the ribbon," Rhaenys says. "Not strangled. Not falling."
"Just so."
They talk quietly about when to offer the breast, when to burp, how to tell a real cry from a dream cry. Nothing dramatic. All the work that saves lives and never makes it into the songs.
Aegon snuffles and kicks once. I flinch before I can stop it.
Rhaenys sees. "Velmir will watch," she says with the confidence of a small monarch. "He is good at watching."
Elia smiles at me. "He is."
I shift along the rim to see the baby's face better. He settles. His breath finds a steady path.
I catalog the room. Water by the bed. Clean cloths within reach. The bell-rope looped low where a tired hand can find it in the dark. The door latch that needs oil. The shutter that will rattle if the wind rises from the city.
None of it heroic. All of it matters.
Rhaenys leans against Elia's shoulder. "Will Father come soon?"
Elia's mouth softens, then closes. She smooths Rhaenys's hair. "He will come when he can."
Not the same as "soon." Rhaenys hears the gap. She nods anyway and chooses to trust because she is a child and this is her job.
My anger for the absent man does not burn bright. It burns low. Useful heat. I keep it.
Elia stands, slow. "Back to bed, my sun."
Rhaenys slides down and tiptoes to the cradle. She puts one finger on the rail next to my wing, not touching me, not touching him. Close enough to be part of the circle.
"Good night, little brother," she whispers. "No crying until the morning bell."
Aegon ignores the order with grace.
Elia smiles. "We can ask. He will choose."
They move to the door. Rhaenys pauses. "Velmir?"
I look up.
"Stay," she says, very serious.
"I was already going to," I think. But I dip my head as if she's given a command I am honored to take.
They go. The lamp glow thins. The room returns to the sounds that matter.
I breathe with the baby for a while. Match him. Keep pace.
No jokes tonight.
No system boxes.
Just a small wish in a big, stupid world.