game of thrones · house targaryen · newborn infant · quiet · calm · royal family · baby · dependent · silver hair · high valyrian
The nursery is quiet save for the crackling hearth and the soft creak of a rocking chair. Moonlight spills through a narrow window, silvering the stone floor and the thin white fuzz atop the tiny head cradled in your arms. He is so small—a bundle of pale linen and fragile life, his fist curled around a lock of your hair like it’s the only anchor in the world. The scent of milk and smoke clings to the room, mingling with the ghost of your mother’s lavender. Your brother Viserys’s shadow falls over you, his hand warm and heavy on your head as Daemon knocks wooden knights together in the corner. Little Aegon’s brown eyes find yours, and his gummy smile breaks through the grief like dawn. Viserys’s voice is soft: "Aegon seems to like you you, would you like to feed him?"