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When Maester Gerardys slips the little black-haired babe into Laenor’s arms, he loves the blood-covered boy as fiercely as if he had truly fathered him. Still messy from his birth, there is only curiosity in the little prince’s brown eyes. The babe stares up at his nominal father with all of a child’s trust, not crying or screaming. Just being.
On the birthing bed, Rhaenyra worries. Her silver hair is matted to her forehead with the sweat of a first labor. “Where is my babe? Is everything alright?”
The midwives are pushing her down, hushing her. “It is not over, my lady. You must pass the afterbirth.”
“Laenor, tell me what’s going on.” Rhaenyra looks at him, fright in her eyes. “Why isn’t he crying? Bring him to me.”
She reaches out with desperate arms. He follows her command and steps to her bedside. The babe looks at its mother, who smiles like the sun to see her child hale and healthy. “Let me hold him.”
Laenor moves to ignore the maester’s halting commands from behind him, but suddenly another pained expression mars her happy face. A young midwife’s apprentice taps his shoulder. “She must pass the afterbirth, my lord. Let me wash the babe so she can hold him after.”
“Laenor, don’t let - we must tell your parents ourselves.” She says. Laenor nods, in understanding.
“I will wash him myself, my love. I won’t let our son out of my sight for a moment.” Only then, with this calm promise, does Rhaenyra relent and to turn to the assistance of her caregivers to pass the afterbirth.
The apprentice brings Laenor to the fireside, where a lukewarm bowl of water waits with fresh, clean towels. He gently holds the child in one arm - so small, to fit a whole head entirely in one’s hand! - and pats the blood off with the other.
Laenor never thought to hold a son of his own. Not since he realized where his romantic inclinations lie. He had tried on occasion to make love to lady whores, both in Spice Town and in King’s Landing, but never found himself able to complete the deed. He knew his wife would seek another’s arms, had agreed to it before their marriage. They had still attempted to consummate their relationship, in increasingly embarrassing situations, until Laenor called his own bluff and bade her find another, as they had once agreed to before their marriage.
Yet he still waited with bated breath during the birth to discover if the father of his child would truly be Ser Harwin Strong, as Rhaenyra swore. Laenor has long noticed the way she shares looks with her Uncle Daemon, which is no wrong thing in their family. What would be wrong, if their son had looked Valyrian, is that Daemon is husband to Laenor’s own sister.
Consensually cuckholding him is one thing. It would be wholly another to break Laena’s heart. That he could not abide.
But there is no doubt of who fathered the now-clean child in his arms, though: Ser Harwin Strong, his wife’s sworn shield and valiant protector. Laenor will play his part, is glad to act in fatherhood, but it is a comfort to know that Harwin Strong will protect their family too.
The true father is standing guard outside the doors, alongside Qarl Correy, the nominal father’s lover. What an odd group they make, Laenor thinks, staring at the son who will have his name. But Qarl and Harwin are more in alignment than Joffrey Lonmouth and Criston Cole could ever have been. Harwin knows his place and role, and Qarl understands the nights that he spends alone while Laenor visits with his wife and sleeps at her side.
By the time the babe is clean, Rhaenyra has passed the afterbirth and her maids have draped a sea green cloak across her shoulders for modesty. One of his own, he recognizes, with some light needlepoint of two intertwined, black dragons along the hem that Rhaenyra and Rhaenys had done together in the last year.
He approaches her side and offers one arm, the babe cradled in his other elbow. Rhaenyra reaches for the child, but Laenor shakes his head. “I’d like to hold my son, to put my heir in my father’s arms.”
Rhaenyra pouts, but does not say anything further. And truth be told, she is still weak from the birth. They say that her grandmother, his mother’s aunt and half-cousin, strapped King Viserys to her chest within hours of giving birth and took him to fly. Rhaenyra will surely have enough strength for that soon enough, though Laenor will object at the prospect, but she still needs a few moments of rest before they proceed further than the hall outside.
The maidservants open the double doors of the princess’s chamber and he escorts his little family to see the gaggle of courtiers waiting for news of the first child born in the next generation.
On either side of the doors, both Qarl and Harwin straighten and step forward. Laenor ignores them both, though Harwin shares a lingering glance with the new mother. The hallway outside the birthing chamber is crowded with Rhaenyra’s ladies, Velaryon cousins, and others sworn to House Velaryon, but only one couple’s opinion matters to solidify this arrangement as truth.
“Look Mother, he has your hair!” Laenor says, holding out his son for the inspection of the newly-made grandparents. “He is already robust. I am sure my son will make a fine King of Westeros one day.”
As Laenor makes the loud pronouncement, designed to assure all that he recognizes this child, a pageboy peels off from the back of the crowd. Laenor is sure that Queen Alicent will soon be here to challenge this arrangement as a farce, but he will not let her. This child is of his blood, sure as anything, even if only as the child of his cousin and his wife.
Rhaenys Targaryen takes the child gingerly from her son’s arms, staring in wonder at the little boy. Rhaenyra tightens her grasp, waiting for Rhaenys’ evaluation of their son. At her side, her husband analyses the child as well. Rhaenys gazes at Laenor, who nods at his mother. “He is . . .”
“Handsome, isn’t he? Rhaenyra has given me a handsome son.” He pats Rhaenyra’s hand on his elbow, and presses a soft kiss against her sweaty forehead.
Rhaenyra smiles at him, as if with gratitude, but he’s come to know her well enough to read the fire simmering behind her eyes. “Yes, handsome. Handsome and calm. He will be a fine king, in time.”
Corlys’ lips form a thin, unreadable line. “Have you named our future king yet?”
“Jacaerys.” Laenor shares, a name that took much discussion and research before he and Rhaenyra selected it. An older Valyrian name, common in the distant lords of High Tide, but unused of late. Similar to Jaehaerys, enough to remind the smallfolk of their descent from the old king. “Prince Jacaerys Velaryon.”
“A fitting name for a king.” Corlys’ lips turn up more, a calm but cryptic smile. He leans closer to Rhaenys and takes the babe from her arms. Lucerys mewls, his fists swinging in the air. “Perhaps there’s a bit of Lord Rogar in him.”
“Is there?” Rhaenys asks. She never knew her grandfather, but her husband did, when he served as squire to his uncle Daemon Velaryon.
“Only time will tell, but Lord Baratheon had a similarly distinct nose. Sometimes I’ve thought to see it in Laenor, but never so strongly as in the face of Prince Jacaerys.”
“You think so?” Rhaenyra asks, still holding herself too stiff for anyone but her husband at her side to notice the little hitched breath she releases.
“Yes, and certainly Queen Alyssa Velaryon’s dimples.” Rhaenys says, tickling the babe on his feet until Lucerys nearly smiles. “Have you seen the portrait of her at Driftmark? Little Luke may well have inherited my grandmother’s smile.”
“I haven’t, Princess Rhaenys. You’ll have to show it to me when next we visit, and we can see how else the prince resembles his Velaryon family.”
“I would enjoy that.” Rhaenys says, his mother’s eyes falling on his face as if to ask are you happy?
"We all would. It would thrill my heart to show my son the shores of Driftmark, the lands and seas that will someday be his." Rhaenyra's gaze searches his face, and he realizes his mistake. "Until he has a brother, who will be the Lord of Driftmark when his brother ascends the Iron Throne. But until that time comes, Driftmark will be Lucerys' inheritance. And I hope our home island will always be a part of his heart."
His wife relaxes. "Once I am well enough for travel, and the prince presented in the Sept of Remembrance, perhaps we can make the journey, then."
Corlys adds, "Our family on Driftmark, as it should be."
"All except one, you mean." Rhaenys' features turn dark, and she looks down at the babe. "All but for our daughter."