Tea for Targaryens: Extras

The first snow of the season blanketed the little town, its soft white glow visible from the frosted windows of Harry’s café. Outside, the world was hushed, wrapped in a blanket of cold. Inside, however, the café was alive with warmth and the scents of cinnamon, roasted coffee, and freshly baked bread.

Harry stood in the kitchen, sleeves rolled to his elbows, flour dusting his hands and apron as he chopped a vibrant orange pumpkin with methodical precision. The counter around him was a chaotic collage of ingredients: dried fruits, bowls of spices, jars of honey, and stacks of fresh produce.

Winter had quietly crept up on Harry, its arrival unnoticed until the first snowflake fell, drifting lazily from the pale sky. It was then that the realization hit him—winter meant Christmas, and Christmas meant celebration. It was the perfect opportunity to bring everyone together, even if just for one day.

Without a proper calendar to mark the occasion, Harry decided that the day would come twenty-five days after the first snow. That meant today was the day, and he’d spent the past twenty four days preparing for it. He had carefully gathered everything he would need: festive decorations, a mountain of supplies, and, most importantly, the perfect Christmas tree.

He had hoped to find a suitable tree within King’s Landing, but after searching for a conifer tree, he was disappointed to find that most of the trees were birch. Not wanting to settle for anything less than perfect, Harry had chopped a tree from his pocket dimension—a lush, full pine tree that gleamed with the promise of holiday cheer. It was precisely the type of tree he had envisioned, its branches strong and fragrant.

With a contented sigh, he set about decorating the tree. Strings of twinkling lights were draped over the branches, casting a warm glow in the dim room. He hung baubles of red and gold, along with sparkling silver tinsel, giving the tree an elegant, yet festive look. Delicate ribbons were tied into bows, and small charms, each with its own story, were carefully placed. Finally, the tree topper—a star made of enchanted crystal that shimmered with soft, ethereal light—was positioned at the peak. As an afterthought, Harry transfigures a cup into a golden dragon ornament, placing it near a stag.

As the last decoration was in place, Harry stepped back to admire the tree. It was everything he had imagined—perfect, just in time for the celebration.

He’d been preparing ever since he was done with the decoration, losing himself in the comforting rhythm of kneading dough, chopping ingredients, and imagining the smiles he’d see when the feast was laid out.

The sound of heavy boots on the café’s wooden floor pulled him from his thoughts.

Daemon swaggered in, his silver hair catching the warm light from the hearth. As always, his hand rested on the hilt of Dark Sister, though there was no danger here save for the occasional spat over who had claimed the best seat. With his usual dramatic flair, he flopped onto the beanbag chair, that he declared was his spot alone, nestled in the library nook, stretching out like a cat who owned the place.

Ignoring the clatter of pots and pans in the kitchen, Daemon plucked a book from the shelf and cracked it open. His violet eyes scanned the pages, but the rhythmic chopping sounds persisted, growing louder with each passing moment.

Finally, a loud clang made him snap the book shut.

“What in the seven hells are you doing back there?” he called, his voice carrying.

Harry didn’t answer, too focused on his work. Daemon sighed, dragging himself to his feet. He leaned against the kitchen doorway, arms crossed as he watched Harry at the counter, buried in food.

“What in the seven hells are you doing?” he drawled.

Harry looked up, his green eyes bright despite the chaos around him. A pile of chopped pumpkin lay on the counter, surrounded by a rainbow of fruits, fresh and dried.

“Preparing,” Harry replied curtly, as if that explained everything. He returned to his chopping, ignoring Daemon’s scrutiny.

“Preparing for what?” Daemon pressed, stepping further inside.

Harry sighed, his patience fraying. “Instead of standing there asking stupid questions, how about you make yourself useful? Storage room. There’s another pumpkin. Bring it here.”

Daemon raised an eyebrow, but a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “You’re awfully bossy for someone who hasn’t offered me coffee yet.”

Harry pointed to the door with his knife. “Pumpkin. Now.”

Grinning to himself, Daemon sauntered off, making a show of dragging himself to the storage room, muttering about how he was clearly being underpaid (he believes he gets paid in coffee) for this nonsense.

The café came alive slowly, like the rising warmth of a hearth fire. Laenor was the next to appear, descending the stairs with Ser Qarl close behind. Both wore relaxed smiles, their bond evident in the easy way they moved together.

“You’re just in time,” Harry said, sliding a knife into Laenor’s hand. “Chop those pumpkins.”

Laenor raised an eyebrow at the mountain of orange flesh on the counter. “You’re ambitious, I’ll give you that.”

Harry smirked. “You’re not paid to question my ambitions. Chop.”

Qarl chuckled, rolling up his sleeves. “What about me?”

“Mixing spices,” Harry said, pointing to a bowl of cinnamon, nutmeg, and cloves. “Follow the ratios I wrote down, and don’t skimp, and don’t get creative.”

Laenor shot Qarl a mock look of betrayal. “You get spices? I get the hard labour?”

“Stop whining and chop,” Harry said, the warmth in his voice belying his sharp words.

Laenor glanced at the counter, his brows lifting. “This is… a lot of pumpkins. Planning on feeding an army?”

Harry smirked. “Something like that.”

The bell above the café door jingled as more voices spills in. Baela and Rhaena arrived first with Aegon the younger holding their hand, on their hip held a toddler, Viserys and Visenya, their cheeks pink from the cold. Baela stomped her boots on the mat, shaking the snow off her coat, while Rhaena unwrapped the scarf from around her neck after setting down her precious cargo.

“It smells amazing in here,” Baela said, her sharp eyes scanning the café.

Harry poked his head out from the kitchen. “Get warm and wait. There’s work for you too.”

Behind them came Aegon and Aemond, bickering loudly as usual.

“I told you not to push me!” Aemond snapped, brushing snow off his coat.

“And I told you not to be so easy to push,” Aegon retorted with a grin, making no effort to hide his amusement.

Aemond shoved him, and Aegon retaliated by grabbing Aemond’s arm and dragging them both to the floor in a tangled heap.

“Get off me!” Aemond growled.

“Make me!”

Baela rolled her eyes. “Are they always like this?”

“Worse, sometimes,” Rhaena replied, though she was smiling.

The bell jingled again as Jace entered, his arm slung casually around Lucerys’s shoulders. The younger boy’s face lit up as he spotted Joffrey, who was sitting with Qarl near the spice station. 

“You made it,” Jace said, ruffling his younger brother’s hair before nodding at Harry. “Smells good in here.”

“You’re just in time to help,” Harry replied, pointing to the counter.

Jace groaned good-naturedly but joined the assembly line.

As the younger crowd settled into the café’s warmth, the sound of horses outside signalled new arrivals. The door opened to reveal Rhaenys and Corlys, their regal bearing undimmed by the years. Corlys carried a basket of Arbon Red, while Rhaenys removed her gloves and scanned the room with an amused smile.

“Harry,” Rhaenys called, “do you ever stop working?”

Harry emerged from the kitchen, grinning. “Not when there’s a feast to prepare.”

Rhaenyra entered behind them, her cheeks flushed from the cold. She greeted her sons with warm hugs, pausing to smooth Viserys’s hair and kiss Aegon the Younger’s forehead.

“It feels like home in here,” she said, looking around at the bustling room.

Daemon appeared at her side, carrying a large bowl of buttermilk. “It’s chaos, that’s what it is.” he gave her a loud smacking kiss on her lip as he passed. 

“Organized chaos,” Harry corrected, waving a wooden spoon in Daemon’s direction.

Haelena entered next with Daeron and a reluctant Alicent in tow, followed closely by Gwayne Hightower. Snowflakes clung to their cloaks, melting into tiny droplets as the café’s warmth enveloped them. Alicent swept the room with her careful gaze, her expression softening at the sight of her children already integrated into the bustling scene.

Harry barely looked up as the door jingled again. “Perfect timing! Come on in,” he called flour streaking his cheek. “You’re not getting away without helping.”

The room now brimmed with life. The steady hum of conversation mingled with the rhythmic clatter of knives on cutting boards, the bubbling of soup, and the occasional burst of laughter. Each corner of the café buzzed with activity, as Harry assigned tasks with the precision of a seasoned commander.

Aemond was stationed at the chopping counter, slicing dark chocolate into delicate shards. He moved with surprising dexterity, though his single sharp eye flicked every so often toward the growing pile of sweet-smelling pieces. Inevitably, he slipped a sliver into his mouth.

“Aemond!” Harry’s voice cut through the din, making the young man jolt. “That’s for the cakes!”

Caught in the act, Aemond straightened, wiping his fingers on his apron with faux innocence. “I was testing it.”

“Testing it, my foot,” Harry muttered, waving a wooden spoon in a warning. “You’re done here. Switch with Jace—go help him whip the cream.”

Aemond rolled his eye but complied, stepping aside to replace Jace at the counter where a bowl of thick cream waited. The tension between the two was palpable as they exchanged terse nods.

At the other end of the kitchen, Luke worked whipping egg whites into fluffy peaks. His cheeks turned pink when Aemond sidled next to him, their elbows brushing. Jace, sensing the awkwardness, gave a knowing smirk but said nothing, focusing on chopping the chocolates into pieces.

Corlys Velaryon, true to his sea-faring roots, took to gutting the fish with expert precision. His knife moved swiftly, each flick of his wrist clean and deliberate. “You’ve done this before,” Harry remarked, passing by with a tray of spices.

Corlys chuckled. “A lifetime ago.”

Near the fireplace, Daemon and Gwayne worked together on a less glamorous task: plucking feathers from chickens and turkeys. Daemon’s movements were quick but lazy, clearly disinterested in the monotony of the task, while Gwayne approached the job with an earnestness that bordered on endearing.

“I don’t see why we couldn’t just roast them as they are,” Daemon grumbled, holding up a half-plucked bird.

“Because then they’d still have feathers,” Harry replied dryly, passing through the room.

At the baking station, Rhaenyra and Alicent worked side by side on cookies. The tension that usually lingered between them had softened in the warmth of the café. Rhaenyra rolled out the dough with firm, even pressure, while Alicent used cutters to stamp out festive shapes—stars, bells, and trees.

“You’re putting too much flour on the board,” Alicent murmured, brushing stray strands of auburn hair from her face.

“And you’re cutting them too close together,” Rhaenyra countered with a small smile, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

Between them, a small pile of perfectly shaped cookies grew, ready for the oven.

Rhaenys stood by the stove, her hands steady as she stirred a pot of fragrant soup. Every so often, she skimmed foam from the surface, her movements deliberate and patient. “You could teach them all a thing or two about soup-making,” Harry joked as he walked by.

“It hopeless to teach this bunch,” Rhaenys replied with a soft smile, her violet eyes reflecting the firelight. “I can only hope they don’t burn things down.”

Baela and Rhaena had joined their uncle Laenor at the cutting station, the three of them tackling an enormous pile of fruits and vegetables. Baela’s knife moved with quick precision, while Rhaena was more meticulous, ensuring each slice was identical. Laenor, ever the perfectionist, occasionally paused to adjust their technique, much to Baela’s chagrin.

“Uncle, if you don’t stop hovering, I’ll chop you next,” Baela threatened, though the grin on her face betrayed her good humour.

Laenor raised his hands in surrender. “Fine, fine. Just don’t cut your fingers.”

At the kneading station, Aegon worked dough after dough, his shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows and his hair falling into his eyes. His usually lazy demeanour was replaced by surprising determination, though he occasionally threw bits of flour at whoever passed too close.

“Focus!” Harry called, catching him mid-throw.

Daeron was stationed at the butter churn, his strong arms working the handle with a steady rhythm. The churn creaked with every push and pull, but Daeron’s expression was calm, almost meditative. “This is oddly satisfying,” he admitted when Rhaenyra passed by.

“Don’t get too comfortable,” she replied with a smirk.

The kitchen buzzed with the rhythm of preparation: knives chopped, dough slapped against counters, and the aroma of spices filled the air. Amidst the chaos, Helaena sat at a small, quiet station in the corner, peeling shrimp with eerie precision.

Her pale hands moved methodically, grasping each shrimp, twisting off its head with a quiet snap, and pulling the shell away in one seamless motion. The discarded remains piled neatly to her left, while the glistening shrimp meat was arranged in an immaculate row to her right. Her expression never changed—not a single flinch, grimace, or sigh of discomfort.

Rhaena, chopping vegetables at the adjacent table, paused to glance over, her knife momentarily hovering above a carrot. “How are you… okay with that?” she asked, her voice tinged with disbelief.

Helaena didn’t look up, her dreamy voice floating over the kitchen din. “They’re just shells,” she murmured, snapping another head off with an audible pop. “What lies beneath is all that matters. All things shed their forms eventually.”

Rhaena shuddered, looking away. “That’s… unsettling.”

Baela joined her sister, peering over her shoulder with a look of morbid fascination. “Unsettling? It’s terrifying. Look at her face—nothing. No reaction at all.”

Across the room, Aegon caught wind of their murmuring and leaned back in his chair to get a better view. His brows lifted as he saw Helaena effortlessly beheading another shrimp. “Seven hells,” he muttered. “Remind me to never cross her.”

Daemon sauntered into the scene, wiping his hands on a rag. “What are you all whispering about?” He followed their gazes to Helaena’s station.

She was still at work, snapping heads off shrimp without so much as a twitch. The contrast between her serene expression and the methodical destruction in her hands was unsettling, to say the least.

Daemon whistled low, crossing his arms. “Helaena,” he called out, a crooked smile forming on his lips. “Remind me to stay on your good grace.”

Helaena glanced up at him for the briefest moment, her lilac eyes calm and distant. “I would never hurt you, Kepa,” she said softly, her tone so sincere it was almost chilling.

Daemon raised a brow, his smirk faltering as he took a step back. “That’s what worries me,” he muttered under his breath, drawing laughter from Baela and Rhaena.

Meanwhile, Jace and Luke wandered over, curious about the commotion. The moment they saw Helaena twisting off another shrimp head with mechanical precision, they froze.

“Is she…” Luke started, leaning closer to Jace and Joff.

“She is,” Joffrey confirmed, dragging him back by the shoulder. “And we’re staying far away.”

Helaena didn’t seem to notice the collective unease she had inspired. She simply continued her task, her hands moving with hypnotic efficiency. For her, it was just another part of the day’s work—a small, mundane moment in the grand tapestry of their shared preparation.

But for everyone else, it was a quiet reminder: Helaena Targaryen was not to be underestimated

Far off in the quieter corner of the cafe, Ser Qarl had become the de facto babysitter, corralling the younger children in a cosy corner of the café. Aegon the Younger, Viserys, and Visenya were huddled around a small table, colouring pictures that Qarl had hastily sketched for them.

“Stay within the lines,” he instructed Aegon gently his tone was light, while trying to wrestle a crayon away from Viserys’ mouth. Visenya was an angel. 

The café buzzed with activity, a chaotic yet harmonious blend of tasks and voices. It wasn’t until Baela broke the rhythm that everyone paused.

“What exactly are we doing this for?” she asked, setting down her knife and wiping her hands on her apron.

The room quieted, all eyes turning to Harry. He paused, his hands coated in flour, and glanced around at the expectant faces.

“It’s for Christmas,” he said, his voice warm. “All of this food will be donated tomorrow to the townsfolk. The septa have prepared stations where people can come and receive it.”

“And what is Christmas?” Rhaena asked, her tone curious.

Harry hesitated, gathering his thoughts. “It’s a celebration of the birth of Jesus. But it’s also more than that—it’s a time of togetherness, of giving. Even for those who don’t celebrate it religiously, it’s a season to come together, to share joy and warmth.”

The room fell silent, the weight of his words settling over them. Even Daemon, usually quick with a sarcastic remark, seemed thoughtful.

Then, as if by unspoken agreement, everyone returned to their tasks. The air filled once again with laughter, the clatter of utensils, and the warmth of camaraderie. Together, they worked, the spirit of the season weaving its way through every corner of the little café. 

The royal family worked tirelessly through the night. What they had thought would be a few hours of preparation stretched into the early hours of dawn. Despite the ache in their arms from kneading, stirring, chopping, and packing, there was an unspoken camaraderie that kept them going. They weren’t just royalty tonight; they were labourers, united by a common purpose.

Harry moved among them like a conductor, directing the chaos with calm efficiency. The once-bustling café had become a flurry of organized activity. Towers of bread loaves cooled on racks; pies were packed into baskets, their golden crusts gleaming in the dim candlelight; jars of jam, sealed with wax and tied with ribbons, were arranged in neat rows.

“You’ve missed a spot,” Rhaenyra teased Alicent as they finished stamping out the last of the cookies.

“Perhaps if you rolled the dough thinner,” Alicent countered with a faint smirk, brushing flour from her hands.

Daemon, who had spent hours tying up parcels of roasted chicken and turkey, leaned against the counter with exaggerated exhaustion. “This better be worth it,” he grumbled, though his eyes glimmered with satisfaction as he watched Rhaenys and Baela double-check the neatly packed food hampers.

“It will be,” Harry assured him as he wiped the sweat from his brow.

By the time the first rays of dawn crept over the city, the café was transformed. The tables were laden with baskets, trays, and bundles of food, ready to be distributed to the people of King’s Landing.

The sun rose slowly over King’s Landing, bathing the city in pale winter light. The Great Sept stood as a beacon amidst the sprawl, its steps bustling with preparations. Long wooden tables had been set up in neat rows, laden with the fruits of the royal family’s labour. Food of every kind stretched across the tables: roasted turkeys, fresh produce, bundles of herbs, perfectly gutted fish, pots of soup, loaves of bread, jars of jam, and trays of cookies and pastries.

The royal family, usually so far removed from the common folk, stood behind these tables, ready to distribute the bounty they had worked tirelessly to prepare. Harry moved among them, directing the final touches, his green eyes scanning the setup like a general before a battle.

Harry moved among the royal family, directing the final touches with the precision of a seasoned commander. His green eyes swept across the setup like a general surveying his troops. “Daemon, Gwayne, you’re at the front with the chickens and turkeys,” he said, pointing a ladle at them. “Baela and Rhaena, you’re in charge of the produce. Corlys and Rhaenys, seafood. Alicent and Rhaenyra, desserts—try not to kill each other. Aemond, Jace, jams and honey. Aegon, bread station. Luke and Daeron, soup. Halaena you already know what to do. Joffrey basket duty. And…” Harry turned to Ser Qarl grinning, who was standing hopefully to the side. “Congratulations—you’re on babysitting duty.”

“Babysitting?” Qarl groaned, but his protests melted away as Viserys toddled over, clutching a wooden spoon. He carried the younger kids to the moving house park near the corner to join his boyfriend.

The line of people waiting stretched down the street, bundled in threadbare cloaks against the cold. Whispers rippled through the crowd: The Targaryens were giving out food. With their own hands.

The royal family stood in a line outside the Great Sept, their cloaks billowing slightly in the crisp morning breeze. Crowds of townsfolk had already gathered, their faces a mix of curiosity, gratitude, and disbelief.

Harry stood at the forefront, his green eyes scanning the line. “Remember,” he told the royal family, his voice firm but kind, “these are gifts, made with your own hands. Let them see that.”

At the front of the line, Daemon handed a roasted turkey to an elderly man with flair as if he was knighting him, his silver hair gleaming in the weak sunlight. 

One of them stared at the prince, awestruck. “Thank you, m’lord,” the man said, his voice cracking.

“Enjoy this,” Daemon said, his smirk curling. “If it’s dry, blame the cook. Not me.”

Beside him, Gwayne Hightower worked efficiently, handing out chickens with quiet focus.

Baela, a few stations down, leaned over to whisper to a woman accepting a basket of carrots. “If you find a feather in your chicken, don’t be mad—it’s my father’s fault.”

Rhaena, standing next to her, laughed brightly. “He swore he got them all, but you can never be too sure.”

Daemon straightened, visibly offended. “There will be no feathers! I made sure of it!” He turned to the next person in line. “If you find one, you come straight to me, and I’ll pluck it personally.”

“Right,” Baela teased, exchanging a sly grin with her sister. “Because they’ll definitely want to tell you that you missed one.”

Further along, Corlys and Rhaenys worked as a seamless team, distributing jars of jam and parcels of roasted fish. “For your family,” Corlys said to a young mother cradling a baby. “And if you need more, come find me.”

Corlys handled the seafood station with the authority of a seasoned admiral. He passed a bundle of fish to a young man, puffing out his chest. “The cleanest gutted fish in all of Westeros,” he declared. “Not a bone or a scale in sight. Perfection!”

Rhaenys, standing beside him, stirred a pot of gambas. Without missing a beat, she added, “And if you do find a bone, bring it back—I’ll have a word with him myself.”

Corlys clutched his heart dramatically. “You wound me, wife.”

Rhaenys smirked, nudging him playfully. “Just keeping you humble, dear.”

At the dessert station, Rhaenyra and Alicent worked side by side, rolling cookies into shapes before passing them to eager hands.

“These were made with honey,” Alicent explained to a young girl, handing her a bag of star-shaped cookies.

“And these,” Rhaenyra added, holding up a particularly intricate snowflake-shaped cookie, “are good luck if you eat them whole.”

“Don’t lie to the child,” Alicent scolded lightly, though a smile tugged at her lips.

“I’m not lying,” Rhaenyra said with mock indignation. “It’s… tradition.”

As a man approached for his cookie, Aegon hollered from his bread station, pointing. “Wait a minute! That’s the one I decorated!” He leaned over dramatically. “You, sir, are blessed. That cookie is the most beautiful and the most delicious one here.”

Rhaenyra rolled her eyes. “Oh, please.”

“It’s true,” Aegon insisted. “Look at it—it’s practically art.”

“Or a mess,” Aemond called from the jam station, his voice dry.

Amid the bickering, Helaena quietly slipped one of the cookies she had decorated—a perfectly frosted dragon—into the man’s basket. She said nothing, her serene expression unchanging as she returned to her task.

As she turned a corner around the dessert station, her sharp eyes caught a flash of movement. Rhaenyra stood there, hunched over the tray of lemon cakes like a guilty child. With careful precision, she pinched a piece of lemon garnish from the top of one of the cakes and popped it into her mouth, savouring the tangy sweetness with a blissful sigh.

When she noticed Helaena’s gaze on her, Rhaenyra froze, mid-chew, her lips twitching into a sheepish grin. Slowly, she brought a finger to her lips, signalling for silence.

Helaena tilted her head slightly, her expression unreadable. Then, without a word, she turned and continued walking, her calm demeanour betraying neither judgment nor amusement.

Behind her, Rhaenyra let out a quiet laugh and quickly rearranged the cakes to cover her pilfering. “You didn’t see anything,” she murmured to herself, half to the cakes, half to Helaena’s retreating figure.

At the jam and honey station, Aemond and Jace were locked in their usual rivalry.

“This is plum jam,” Aemond said to a woman in line, handing her a jar with an air of superiority. “Made with precision and care.”

Jace scoffed as he handed out a jar of blackberry jam. “What he means is, it’s delicious because I made it.”

Aemond’s brow lifted. “Your contribution was… stirring.”

“And that’s what made it perfect,” Jace countered.

Someone in the crowd chuckled. “Careful, princes or we’ll have a duel over jam next!”

“NO MORE DUELS!” hollered Harry from a distant. 

At the bread station, Aegon continued his theatrics, carrying a tray of bread loaves, he couldn’t resist adding his own flair. “You’re in luck,” he told a boy who looked no older than ten. “This bread was made by me, so it’ll be the best you’ve ever had.”

The boy’s eyes lit up, and Aegon’s siblings immediately pounced on his boast.

“Best bread?” Jace said with a laugh, leaning against a barrel. “If they wanted raw dough, maybe.”

Aemond snorted. “I wouldn’t feed his bread to a goat.”

 Handing a loaf to a young boy, he announced, “This is the best bread in the Seven Kingdoms. Made by yours truly.”

“Legendary for being burnt,” Luke muttered from the soup station beside him.

The boy giggled, and Aegon shot Luke a mock glare. “Jealousy doesn’t suit you, good brother.” Luke blushed. 

Daeron joined in, ladling soup into bowls with practised ease. “Ignore him. The soup’s what you’ll remember anyway.”

The line moved steadily, though not without murmurs from the townsfolk. Two women, bundled in worn cloaks, exchanged hushed words as they watched the royal family.

“That’s Queen Rhaenyra, isn’t it?” one said, clutching her parcel of cookies tightly. “Giving out food like a common baker. Never thought I’d see the day.”

“The Targaryens do seem… different lately,” the other replied, adjusting her scarf. “Not as mad as they used to be. Do you think it’s because of him?” She nodded toward Harry, who was directing Jace and Luke to hand out jars of jam to a group of children.

“Has to be,” the first woman said. “Ever since he opened that strange little café, things have been… better. Did you hear about the ‘Garden of the People’? That was his doing. And he made Prince Aegon plant the trees!”

The second woman’s eyes widened. “Prince Aegon? Planting trees? I’ll believe it when I see it.”

“It’s true! I have seen him weeding the garden! said it was a punishment from Harry!” the first insisted. “And that garden’s been a blessing. My son brought home a basket of apples last week, and there were herbs, too—mint and basil, I think. They even have little cards telling you what they’re good for.”

The second woman shook her head in disbelief. “That man must be some kind of god to make the Targaryens do all this.”

“Gods or not,” the first replied, “he’s the best thing that’s happened to this city in years.”

By the time the last loaf of bread was handed out, the sun was dipping low on the horizon. The royal family gathered near the emptied tables, their exhaustion palpable but their spirits high.

“That wasn’t so bad,” Daeron said, brushing crumbs from his hands

“It would’ve been better if we kept some for ourselves,” Aegon quipped, earning groans from his siblings.

Harry appeared among them, wiping his hands on his apron. “You all did good today,” he said, his tone even but warm. “The people won’t forget it.”

Aegon, ever the showman, held up his flour-covered hands. “The bread was the highlight, obviously.”

Jace groaned. “How do you fit so much ego into one body?” earning a chorus of laughter.

“Practice,” Aegon replied with a grin.

Harry leaned against the table, a rare smile on his face. “You all did well today. The people won’t forget this.”

The family’s laughter echoed through the square, carrying warmth into the cold winter air. For one day, they were not just royals—they were people, connected to their subjects through the simple, shared act of giving.

As they packed up the remaining supplies, the sounds of gratitude still echoed in their ears. For the first time in a long while, King’s Landing felt a little warmer, a little brighter, and the Targaryens—mad or not—felt just a bit closer to their people.

The warm glow of the day had faded, and the bustle of King’s Landing was giving way to the quiet of evening. The royal family had worked tirelessly to clean up the Sept's steps and pack away the remaining supplies. The once-packed wooden tables now sat bare, their surfaces wiped clean. Harry stood near the edge of the clearing, his sleeves rolled up and his hair slightly dishevelled, directing a few lingering helpers as they finished the last of the cleanup.

Rhaenyra approached him, her steps were soft yet purposeful. In her hands was a small, embroidered pouch of coin. The golden thread glimmered faintly in the low light.

“Harry,” she began, her voice firm yet laced with gratitude, “I have something for you.”

Harry looked up from tying a bundle of linens and raised a brow. “Rhaenyra?”

Without hesitation, she extended the pouch toward him. “This is for today—your efforts, the ingredients. You’ve given so much of yourself for my people.”

Harry frowned slightly, his hands instinctively moving to refuse the pouch. “No,” he said firmly, shaking his head. “I didn’t do this for coin. Today wasn’t about payment; it was about kindness, about giving back.”

Rhaenyra stepped closer, her eyes unwavering as she held out the pouch again. “And it is because of your kindness that this city feels a little lighter today. But as queen, I cannot overlook the fact that what you’ve done wasn’t just generosity. It was for the realm—for my people. And as their queen, it is my duty to ensure the crown pays its debts.”

“Rhaenyra—”

“This isn’t charity,” she interrupted, her tone softening but her resolve firm. “It is respect. Respect for the time, effort, and resources you’ve given freely. I won’t dishonour you by pretending this was simply your burden to bear.”

Harry studied her for a long moment, the weight of her words settling over him. There was no guile in her expression, only sincerity and an unspoken determination.

With a quiet sigh, he finally took the pouch, though his movements were reluctant. “You’re stubborn, you know that?” he muttered, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips.

Rhaenyra’s expression softened into a smile of her own. “I’ve been told.”

Harry weighed the pouch in his hand for a moment before meeting her gaze again. “The money will go back to the people—into the garden, the café, and anything else that can continue to make their lives better.”

“That’s all I would ask,” Rhaenyra said, her voice gentle now. She reached out, briefly touching his arm. “You’ve reminded me of what it means to serve the realm, Harry. Thank you.”

He nodded, watching her as she turned and walked back to the others, her queenly bearing unmistakable even in the quiet aftermath of the day. For a moment, Harry stood alone, the weight of the pouch in his hand a tangible reminder of the unexpected partnership he’d formed with the crown—and the lives they had touched together