Chapter Text
The morning unfolded slowly.
Alysara woke first, as she often did, but did not rise at once. She remained beneath the covers a moment longer, her body still heavy with sleep, the quiet of the chamber unbroken around her. When she finally stirred, it was unhurried, and she stretched lightly before sitting up, settling against the pillows.
Beside her, Aerion had not yet woken fully. He lay half-buried beneath the blankets, one arm beneath his head, eyes still closed as though resisting the morning. There was something almost at odds in it, how easily sleep softened him, how it stripped away the sharper edges he wore so naturally.
“Do you have a dragon egg?” she asked, softly, the question without preamble, her voice still touched with the quiet of early morning.
Aerion did not open his eyes.
“Yes,” he answered, his voice thick with sleep, low and roughened in a way that lingered. “It was given to me when I was born. It stayed in my cradle, and I have had it since.”
Alysara studied him as he spoke, her gaze softening, not in sentiment, but in curiosity. She tried to imagine it. Something dark, perhaps, black and red, like the colors he favored, or something paler, silvered, almost lilac, echoing the cool light of his eyes.
“What does it look like?” she asked. Her hand lifted almost absently, brushing a loose strand of hair back from his forehead.
This time, his eyes opened. There was a moment, brief, but unmistakable, where he looked less guarded, younger, almost. The weight he carried seemed set aside, if only for the span of a breath.
Aerion turned his head slightly toward her.
“Would you like me to show you?” His tone was even, unforced. But beneath it there was something like eagerness, held carefully in check.
She nodded, her curiosity sharpening into something more eager. She had heard of the tradition, and Rhae had spoken of her own dragon egg, but Alysara had never seen one herself.
Aerion rose from the bed and pulled on a pair of soft breeches, dressing quickly. Alysara followed at once, her nightgown swaying with the haste of her steps, betraying more interest than she might have liked.
She had noticed the box before. It rested near the hearth, where the firelight brushed against it without fully illuminating it, dark wood catching a muted glow, gold edges dulled rather than bright. It was too finely made to be ignored, too well placed to be incidental. And yet, she had never approached it. She had assumed it held something else, a dagger, perhaps, like the gift received at their wedding. Something valuable, but not something she needed to question.
Aerion stopped just behind her, close enough that she was aware of him without turning.
“Open it,” he said.
Alysara glanced at him briefly, then back to the box. His hand came to rest lightly over hers, guiding.
“The latch is firm,” he explained. “It doesn’t yield easily.”
Her fingers shifted beneath his, finding the edge of the clasp, the metal was smooth and cool, the mechanism so precise it was nearly invisible. When she pressed, it resisted for a moment, then it gave cleanly. Alysara lifted the lid, it was heavier than she expected, the hinges moving with quiet precision. Inside, the box was lined with black velvet, deep and soft, shaped almost like a nest to hold what lay within.
She gasped softly.
The egg rested in its velvet cradle, catching the firelight in a way that felt almost otherworldly, gold at first, rich and deep, the kind of color that held warmth rather than reflected it. Then it shifted to silver, but not laid over the gold, not separate from it, simply threaded through, emerging as the light changed, as her gaze shifted over it.
She leaned closer without quite realizing she had done so.
The surface was not smooth, there were fine, precise scales overlapped in patterns too intricate to be merely ornamental. Some caught the light and held it, gold, burnished and alive, others cast it back in silver, cold and sharp, cutting through the warmth without softening it. Alysara lifted her hand, hovering just above it. She could feel something, not heat exactly, but a presence beneath the surface, contained rather than dormant, waiting, perhaps.
“May I touch it?” she asked, stopping herself before she overstepped.
Aerion watched her for a moment, then nodded.
When her fingers finally touched it, the sensation was immediate, warm, but unyielding. Her gaze remained fixed on the shell, tracing the lines where gold deepened into shadow, where silver broke through it.
“It is so…” The words left her before she had fully formed them. “It’s stunning.”
Behind her, Aerion did not answer.
Alysara’s fingers moved slightly, following the curve of a scale, tracing the subtle ridge beneath her touch. Beneath the egg, embroidered into the velvet in fine golden thread, were two words, each letter perfectly formed: albie perzys.
She read them aloud, almost wincing at the thickness of her accent, at how unpracticed it sounded.
“It means… “Aerion began.
But Alysara did not need the translation. “It means bright flame.”
Only then did she turn her head, slightly, not enough to fully face him, but enough to acknowledge him.
“Kessa, kesor ikso drējī,” (“Yes, that is correct”) he said, a note of surprise in his voice. “Udrizi Valyrio ȳdrā?” (Do you speak Valyrian?”)
“Daor olvie,” (“Not much”) she answered, her cheeks flushing faintly. “I can understand and read a little, but I’m not fluent. I know enough words, but forming sentences…” She shook her head slightly. “It’s difficult.”
He reached out then, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face.
“My mother used to call us little flames when we were children,” he said. “Her Valyrian was not very good. She embroidered bright instead of little.”
Alysara nodded, her fingers lingering for a moment longer before she carefully lowered the lid, closing the box with quiet precision.
“Thank you,” she said, turning to face him fully. “Thank you for showing it to me. It’is… remarkable.”
For a moment, something in him shifted, it was very subtle, but unmistakable. The softness of the moment receded, and the sharper edge of him returned. He stepped back.
“Don’t open it without my presence,” he said, the words controlled, almost too measured.
Alysara felt the flicker of anger rise, quick and bright, but she held it.
“I would never,” she replied, her tone steady, composed.
“Skorosi iksos ao vēttan?” he asked, almost eager to speak Valyrian, the words rolling off his tongue with the ease of years of practice. (“Where did you learn?”)
She did not have all the words to answer; she had one or another, but not enough to form a full sentence.
“My father valued education. He used to say no one would want a dumb wife,” she answered, and felt something bitter on her tongue as she did. “I was taught Valyrian until I was six and ten, then…”
Then came the marriage to a man who did not value education nor intelligence, who felt deeply offended that his wife could speak and understand another language, who hated when she sang, who did not allow her to play the harp nor do anything but embroidery and endure beatings.
“I had no one to practice with, nor encouragement to continue studying,” she said instead.
Silence stretched between them, thinner now, charged with something newly uncovered.
“You did not speak it before,” he said.
Alysara’s voice softened, just slightly. “I was not asked.”
“Ziry iksos nyke?” (“Who am I?”) His question was simple, but the weight behind it was not.
Alysara did not look away. She could not recall the word for husband, no matter how much she tried, as if it had been erased from her mind.
“Dārilaros,” she said first, hesitantly. (“A prince.”) She looked up at him, thinking of how to say it accurately, how not to make mistakes in a language she had not used in years. Then she added, as if correcting herself: “Ñuha dārilaros.” (“My prince.”)
Aerion stepped closer still, until the distance between them narrowed into something unmistakably private.
“Ñuha ġēlȳn jeldan,” (“My good wife.”) he said, his voice almost a whisper. “Ao zābrī syt.” (“You are bleeding.)
Alysara took a moment to understand him, uncertain whether she had heard him correctly. Then she looked down, and saw the thin trail of blood along her leg. Heat rushed to her face, sharp with embarrassment.
“Oh, Gods,” she muttered, mortified. “I… excuse me, my husband, I’ll need… “
She did not finish. She simply turned and fled from his bedchamber into her own. Her maids were already there, a bath prepared, though no longer as warm as it had been, and she sank into it gratefully.
After her bath, once the last of her embarrassment had settled, Alysara dressed for the day and went to her shrine, knelt before it, as she always did, her hands folded, her head bowed. She no longer sought out Septa Mordane. Instead, she tried to follow what she believed was right and good without punishing herself so severely. She kept her daily dress modest and plain, and she continued her prayers, morning and night. But she no longer used the scourge nor the cilice; they remained where she had carefully hidden them since the day she arrived in King’s Landing.
Her ladies-in-waiting joined her for breakfast. Alysara had made certain it was a proper meal, served beautifully in the garden. There was tea, lemon cakes — almost always available to her — warm bread, butter and cheeses, sliced fruit, and biscuits. She knew she had neglected them, but she also knew the fault lay with her. They were pleasant, educated women, Alysara only needed to try to open herself to them.
The morning was soft with early light, the kind that settled gently over the gardens without yet carrying the weight of heat. Dew still clung to the edges of the roses, and the air held that quiet freshness that belonged only to the first hours of the day.
Alysara sat at the small table set beneath a flowering arbor, a cup of tea cradled between her hands, the steam curled faintly upward, untouched for the moment. Her ladies were scattered loosely around her, the atmosphere easy in a way it rarely was within the walls of the Red Keep.
Rosamund sat closest, carefully breaking a piece of bread in two, her movements small and unhurried. Bethany beside her had already begun to eat, though neatly, as though even here she felt some need to maintain formality. Alysara listened without interrupting their conversation, her attention seeming only half there.
After a moment, Bethany turned slightly toward her. “Did you rest well, my lady?”
Alysara inclined her head faintly. “Well enough.”
It was a simple answer, offered without elaboration.
Rosamund glanced at her then, something thoughtful in her expression, though she said nothing. Maris leaned back slightly in her chair, her posture relaxed, one hand loosely wrapped around her cup.
“It’s almost difficult to believe this is the same city,” she remarked lightly, glancing out toward the hedges. “One might forget Flea Bottom exists at all.”
Lyanna, seated across from her, traced the rim of her goblet with idle fingers.
“Only if one wishes to forget it,” she said, not looking up.
Maris smiled, unbothered. “Most people do.”
“But not you, my lady,” Lyanna said at last, lifting her gaze to Alysara. “We have heard of your charity.”
Alysara felt a cold thread of dread run up her spine. This was precisely what the princes and her husband had wished to prevent.
“Yes, I…” She took a sip of her tea, her throat suddenly too tight. “I have always given to charity. I come from a very devout family. Though I admit I was not wise in how I went about it.”
“Oh, we’re not judging, my lady,” Bethany said, her fingers absently turning the seven-pointed star at her throat. “We admire it, and we have all made small donations to the Sept as well.”
“We were discreet, of course,” Rosamund added gently, as if sensing Alysara’s unease.
“Of course,” Alysara echoed, a touch too quickly.
And yet, beneath the tension, a quiet, unexpected pride stirred. That her single, permitted act might ripple outward into five more.
“I’m very glad to hear it,” she said, more steadily now. “You are all admirable ladies.”
That seemed to ease the tightness in her chest. Encouraged, she began to ask carefully about other places in need, those less visible, less tended. The others, who had been in King’s Landing longer, and who enjoyed a little more freedom than a prince’s wife, knew exactly where to look.
So their outing had been arranged with care over several days.
Nothing about it was spontaneous; not the hour, not the route, not even the number of guards who followed at a discreet distance behind them. Permission had been granted, though not without conditions, and Alysara had accepted every one without complaint.
They went in daylight, under escort, along streets that had been quietly cleared ahead of their passing. Still, it was the market and even softened by preparation, it possessed a vitality the Red Keep never could.
The air was warm, thick with the scents of spice and roasted meat, crushed herbs and damp stone. Voices overlapped in a constant hum as merchants called out their wares, coins exchanged hands, and laughter rose unexpectedly from the crowds.
Alysara walked at the center of her small group, her pace slow, her veil drawn lightly over her braided hair and her ladies remained close, the guards never far behind.
For a time she simply observed. There were children that darted between stalls with little regard for anyone around them; vendors argued over prices, somewhere, a musician played a lively tune she did not recognize. The market remained crowded and noisy, yet she found herself no longer shrinking from it. It felt alive.
“It has been too long since I have seen anything like this,” Maris said with a smile.
“It has,” Alysara agreed softly.
Rosamund slowed near a stall where ribbons fluttered in the breeze.
“They’re beautiful,” she murmured.
At Maris’s encouragement, a pale blue ribbon was purchased and pressed into Rosamund’s hands. She accepted it with visible surprise.
“It suits you,” Bethany said.
Rosamund smiled and carefully tucked it into her sleeve.
A little farther on, Bethany lingered beside a stall displaying carved wooden combs and pins. She admired one with delicate flower carvings, though she made no move to purchase it. Before she could protest, Alysara bought it and placed it in her hands.
“My lady…”
“You liked it,” Alysara replied simply.
Bethany’s expression softened. “Thank you.”
They continued deeper into the market, where the scents of baking bread and honey drifted from the food stalls.
“If we accept everything offered, we shall never leave,” Maris remarked as a vendor enthusiastically offered pastries.
“And if we refuse everything,” Lyanna replied, “we may as well not have come.”
After a moment, Alysara nodded toward the pastries. “One.”
Maris laughed. “One?”
“For us to share.”
The pastry was purchased and divided between them. By the time the last piece was gone, even Lyanna wore the faintest smile. Rosamund laughed when honey clung to her fingers, and Bethany abandoned her attempts to eat neatly. For the first time that day, the noise and movement around Alysara no longer felt overwhelming.
As they wandered, she purchased several small things — a length of silver-gold silk, ribbons in various colors, embroidery supplies, gloves, candles, and a carved wooden box. She overpaid more often than not, unwilling to haggle with people who clearly needed the coin more than she did.
As they made their way back toward the waiting carriage tô make their way back to the Red Keep, Alysara found herself taking note of places she wished to visit again. Not shops, though there were several she liked, but the quieter corners of the city, but the small orphanage with weathered shutters, a charitable kitchen where the poor gathered for bread and stew, and she stored each location carefully in her mind.
By the time they finally returned to the Red Keep, their purses were lighter and their arms full.
Alysara retired to her chambers to rest before dinner, thanking her ladies for their company before they parted. Once alone, she spread her purchases across the bed and examined them one by one. For once, she had allowed herself the simple pleasure of buying things she wanted rather than things she needed. And as she began wrapping several of the items in silk, already thinking of the princesses, she realized she did not regret a single coin she had spent.
By the time Alysara was to dress for dinner, once again in the company of House Targaryen, she had each gift wrapped neatly in silk. She knew the princesses wore the finest gowns and jewels, that even little Rhae bore a ruby the size of a grape upon her small finger. Still, they were sweet girls, and Alysara thought they would not mind.
She sat before her vanity, dipping her fingers carefully into the balm before pressing it lightly to her lips. It was not bold, nor striking, only a soft pink sheen. She had seldom worn such things before, yet she found she liked it.
Dinner, once more, was a less formal affair. And when it was finished, Alysara presented the two princesses with their gifts.
“It reminded me of you both,” she said simply, watching as they unwrapped the silk.
Daella, upon closer look, bore a stronger resemblance to Prince Daeron. Her hair was a pale gold rather than silver, and in her features there was less of Prince Maekar than in Aerion or Rhae. Alysara recalled Aerion’s words, that his brother took after their mother, and felt a quiet sympathy for the girl, growing into the likeness of someone long gone.
For her, Alysara had chosen the delicate lilac gloves, near the shade of her eyes. She was older than Rhae, perhaps four and ten, though her height made it difficult to be certain — she was almost as tall as a grown woman. And though she held herself with practiced composure, there was no disguising the way her eyes lit at the sight of the gift.
She inclined her head, perfectly polite. “Thank you, my lady.” She slipped her hands into the gloves; they fit her well. “Would you care to take tea with me, someday?”
Alysara smiled and nodded. “Of course. We’re sisters now, and I have never had sisters before.”
That brought a brighter smile from them both, and beside her, Rhae clutched the ribbons in her small fist.
“Can you put them in my hair?” she asked, carefully choosing a pink and a blue. “They match my dress.”
Alysara sat with the girls while her husband remained nearer to his father and his older brother. She did not mind it; she found she quite enjoyed their company. She soon discovered they spoke Valyrian fluently, and Rhae would sometimes slip into it by mistake, or when the common word escaped her.
Before long, Rhae sprang up and ran to her father, loudly announcing that Alysara had put the ribbons in her hair. Daella did not follow, remaining close to Alysara, watching her sister with apparent indifference, though the faint curve of her mouth betrayed her.
“My brother seems…” she began, her gaze fixed on Aerion, who was being compelled by his little sister to touch the ribbons, to feel how soft they were. “He seems different.”
Alysara looked as well. He allowed it, even if there was a trace of annoyance in him, as Rhae seized his hand and pressed it to her hair, insisting he admire what had been done.
“Is that a good thing?” Alysara asked.
She feared she held little influence over him, little power, as women so often did. And yet, he was not cruel. He had returned her shrine, kept her secret, allowed her more freedom than she had known in years. He had seemed eager for her company in his bed, had shown her his dragon egg, and had been almost pleased to learn she understood Valyrian.
Daella had Daeron’s face, but her bearing was Aerion’s, so composed, assured, unyielding. Softer, perhaps, but no less certain.
“I believe so,” she said at last, and did not elaborate further.
Alysara considered it for a moment, then gathered a quiet bit of courage.
“Do you enjoy reading, my princess?”
Daella nodded. “I have many books, some in the common tongue, some in Valyrian. You may borrow them, if you wish.”
Alysara smiled; the simple offer warmed her more than she expected.
“Yes, I would like that very much. Perhaps you could recommend one you enjoy, so we might speak of it after. One in Valyrian, maybe, so I may practice.”
At that, Daella lost a measure of her aloofness. She began to speak, almost eagerly, about her favorite books, naming them with quiet enthusiasm. She even offered small corrections to Alysara’s pronunciation, which Alysara accepted with care; she had so little opportunity to practice aloud.
It was in the midst of that conversation that Aerion approached.
Daella rolled her eyes at once. “What do you want, brother?”
He looked down at her with that particular, familiar coldness only siblings seemed capable of.
“Come, Alysara. It's past time we retire,” he said, firm and unyielding.
Behind him, Rhae stamped her foot against the floor.
“Father, Aerion is keeping Alysara from us!” she complained.
Alysara heard Prince Maekar’s low chuckle. “She’s his wife, dearest. She cannot entertain you forever.”
Alysara smiled as she took her leave, promising to send for the princesses for tea. Then she turned and went with her husband, at last retiring for the evening.
They had lain together that night, Aerion taking her from behind as she struggled to keep herself upright on trembling hands and knees, her hair fisted tightly in his grasp. He had drawn pleasure from her more than once, guiding her with his hand closing over hers as he showed her how to touch herself, until each release broke from her in helpless cries.
But now the chamber was quiet. The fire had burned low, shadows stretching deeper along the walls, and Alysara sat beside him, his dragon egg resting in his lap. She had asked to see it again, still caught by a fascination she could not quite name. This time, he had taken it from its box, and up close, it seemed heavier than before, dense and solid, large enough to require both hands to hold.
Yet it was not the egg that held his attention. It was on her hair, loosened after, falling unbound down her back. Near the fire, the copper strands caught the light and glowed like burnished metal, almost alive in the flicker, bright and warm against the pale softness of her white nightgown. It was not neatly arranged; his earlier handling had left it slightly disordered, wilder than she usually allowed, lacking its usual restraint.
“Zal-drī-zes,” she said, the syllables too soft, their edges blurred.
Aerion exhaled faintly through his nose.
“Listen,” he said, then repeated it slowly, in flawless High Valyrian: “Zal-drī-zes.”
Each part was clean, precise, and unmistakably fluent. The word did not soften in his mouth; it carried something harder, almost like a sound a dragon itself might make.
Alysara tried again. “Zal-drī-zes.”
She winced at it, it was too gentle, too yielding. The “r” refused her, the word slipping where it should have held. His hand lifted, not quite touching, but hovering near her jaw.
“You soften the end,” he said. “You let it fade.”
“It sounds harsh.”
“It is harsh. It’s not meant to please the ear.” His finger traced lightly along the line of her neck. “Draw the sound from the back of your throat, let it catch. And roll your tongue against the roof of your mouth.”
Alysara nodded, testing it, her own fingers resting lightly at her throat as if to feel the shape of it. She steadied herself, gathered the sound more firmly this time, and spoke again:
“Zaldrīzes.”
Aerion watched her for a moment, something unreadable passing through his expression.
“Yes,” he said at last. “That is closer.”
Alysara drew a breath and tried again, this time with more confidence, shaping the full phrase carefully: “Zaldrīzes Ānoga.”
House of the Dragon.
“Almost perfect,” Aerion said, and Alysara smiled, because from him, it was as near to praise as she was likely to receive.
“Most people thought of dragons as beasts,” he went on. “Large, dangerous, and difficult to control.”
Alysara remained seated, listening. His voice had a steadiness to it, low and pleasant, and she found herself relaxing in a way that did not come easily.
“They were never meant to be controlled.” He turned slightly, just enough to look at her. “Balerion was the greatest of them, the Black Dread.” His voice lowered, with reverence she had seldom heard from him. “He carried Aegon across the Narrow Sea, burned Harrenhal to the ground, and melted towers like wax.”
Alysara tried to imagine it. They said Balerion had been so vast that, when he flew, his shadow could swallow an entire village. She could not truly conceive of something so large, so powerful, sharing the same world she lived in. It felt closer to legend than truth and yet she knew it was neither invented nor exaggerated.
“Vhagar was older,” he continued. “By the end she was slower, but no less dangerous. She outlived riders, outlived wars. There is something admirable in that, I think. Remaining when everything around you changes. Meraxes was beautiful, they say. Faster than Vhagar, larger than most dragons that came after her. And she died because a bolt happened to find her eye.”
Alysara frowned faintly. She had known the story, as every child did, about Aegon the Conqueror and his sisters, Visenya and Rhaenys.
“That always seemed unlikely to me,” she said. “For a dragon to be killed by men.”
“It was,” he answered, something quieter and sharper threading through the word. “That is the point. Dragons were not meant to fall like that. It took chance and luck.”
Alysara studied him more closely now, sensing the weight he placed on it. “You speak of them as though you’ve known them.”
A faint smile touched his mouth, gone almost as quickly as it appeared. “I have spent half my life reading about them.”
“Which was your favorite?”
That seemed to amuse him. “Favorite?”
“Yes. Surely you have one.”
The answer came at once. “Balerion.”
“Because he was the largest?”
“Because Balerion remembered Valyria. And he died of old age, died on his own time.”
Alysara’s voice softened. “They were magnificent creatures. It’s sad the others were made to fight one another over a man-made war.”
For a moment Aerion said nothing, his hand settled more firmly over the egg. The he looked at her directly, his gaze steady. “That is what weakened my house: it was not time, nor nature. It was division, it was the dance of the dragons. Targaryen against Targaryen. They destroyed what no enemy ever could. Caraxes, Meleys, Syrax, Sunfyre, names that should have endured, but instead, they tore each other apart in the sky.”
Alysara lowered her gaze slightly. “And now there are none.”
“Now,” he said, his voice shifting, quieter, though no less certain, “there are eggs. Most believe them to be stone, dead things, remnants.”
“And you do not?”
“No.” The answer came too quickly to be questioned. “They are not gone, not truly” he continued, his gaze holding hers. “Something like that does not simply end. They used to place eggs in cradles,” he went on, slower now, his hand moving over the egg resting in his lap. “With the child. So they would grow together, so the bond would begin before memory.”
Alysara’s voice softened as her eyes drifted to the egg beneath his hand. “Yours was given to you that way.”
“Yes.”
There was a small pause lingered before she spoke again. “Will you place one in our children’s cradle?”
The question seemed to catch him off guard, his brows drew together slightly, as though it were almost too obvious to ask.
“Of course I will. It’s tradition.” He answered with quiet certainty, “If you give me a boy, I will let you choose the egg.”
Alysara smiled, though something thoughtful remained beneath it.
“I have no way of knowing if it will be a boy or a girl, my husband,” she said gently. “We are newly married, but in time, I shall give you children.”
Aerion did not seem troubled.
“You will, but you mustn’t concern yourself with it too much.” His tone steadied, certain as ever. “You’ll carry the blood of the dragon, and a dragon is never late, never wrong, it comes in its own time. Our child will come when it is ready.”
Alysara held his words quietly. She did not know how long such patience would last — his, or the court’s. But she was relieved he did not place blame upon her, that he seemed to believe his blood above all doubt, above failure. And she would not challenge that belief, not when she was not yet certain she was ready to bear what it required.
“They built a pit to house them, as though they were beasts to be displayed. And then they wondered why they grew smaller.” His voice carried a quiet bitterness now, controlled but unmistakable. “Dragons were not meant for stone ceilings, nor chains. Cage something long enough, and it forgets what it was.”
Alysara watched him, then asked, more carefully, “Is that why you believe they stopped being born?”
“They lived in Valyria without chains, without pits and they thrived.” A brief pause followed. Then, quieter, something closer to anger, something closer to grief, settled into his voice. “And they died here. The Targaryens grew smaller as well. Not in body, but in will. We stopped acting like dragonlords and became kings.”
She lifted her eyes back to him. “You are very certain of that.”
“I do not speak of things I doubt.” His tone sharpened slightly. “It was weakness, the weakness of men that cost us dragons. They should have been revered, not restrained, never chained, never forced into darkness when they themselves made light.”
He rose then, and set the egg back into its box with care.
“If you must chain a dragon,” he said, more quietly now, something almost somber beneath the words, “you do not deserve it.”