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The scream came knifing through the stone of the Keep, thin and ragged and so full of terror it seemed to catch on the mortar. It climbed the stairwells and slipped under doorframes, set the fine glass in the windows to shivering in their lead. It did not sound like any cry she had known before, though she had heard plenty: queens snapping orders in fury, ladies shrieking at spilled wine or torn silk, the long, low keening of women in the birthing beds of the lower city. Those were sounds that belonged to life at court, to the business of blood and vanity. This was something else.
For an instant it emptied Eli’s mind of language; there was only that sound, raw and breaking, as if someone were being dragged to the edge of the world.
Cersei.
Eli did not remember moving her feet. One heartbeat she was in the corridor outside the royal chambers, hands folded properly, back straight, practicing the stillness expected of a handmaiden. The next, she was pushing open the heavy door to the birthing room without waiting for permission.
Heat hit her first, thick and sour with sweat and herbs and fear. The air was crowded with bodies: midwives bustling like crows, a maester muttering, a septa whispering prayers that sounded more like chiding than comfort. Candles burned too bright, smoke stinging Eli’s eyes. And on the bed, every cover kicked away, hair plastered to her face, lay her queen.
Cersei looked small. The thought unsettled Eli. Cersei was not small; she was a storm in a woman’s shape, gold and wildfire and a spine made of iron. Yet now she lay on her back, legs forced apart, hands gripping the sheets so tightly her knuckles had gone white. A physician from the city pressed at her thigh with careless fingers. Another woman pushed her knee further up, forcing her body open.
“Breathe, Your Grace,” the maester intoned, as if she were being lazy and difficult.
Cersei’s body arched with another contraction, a guttural sound ripped from her throat. Her eyes squeezed shut, a tear sliding down her temple into her hair. No one noticed, no one cared to. Eli’s stomach lurched. It felt wrong. The hands, so many, on her queen’s body. The complete disregard for the way Cersei flinched from every rough touch. No one is with her, Eli thought, horror and fury braiding together inside her.
“Again, Your Grace. You must push harder,” the maester said.
“I am…” Cersei tried, voice broken on a sob, then swallowed the rest against another wave of pain.
Eli saw it then: the wild panic behind Cersei’s clenched lids, the way her chest heaved too fast, too shallow. This was not merely pain, this was fear that hollowed a person out from the inside. She’s thinking of her mother, Eli realized suddenly. Of dying here, of leaving the child behind. Of failing.
Eli had heard the story in murmured bits and pieces, a mother lost to childbirth, a young girl left behind with a father hardened further by grief. Eli had pieced it together over months of watching Cersei move through the world like someone who had learned very early that no one would save her but herself.
Cersei cried out again, high and broken, the sound fraying at the edges. The man at her legs adjusted his grip, fingers digging in; she jerked away, panting.
“Hold still, Your Grace,” he snapped. Something inside Eli snapped with it.
“That’s enough,” Eli said.
The words were out of her mouth before she had truly formed them. The room turned toward her, a ripple of shocked silence. She had not spoken loudly, but the conviction in her voice cut through the noise. Cersei’s eyes flew open, wild and glassy. They found Eli through the haze, latched on like a drowning woman grasping a rope.
“Who is this girl?” the physician demanded, affronted. “The queen has no need of -”
“She has need of less of you,” Eli said, stepping closer. Her heart thundered, but her feet did not falter. “All of you - back.”
A midwife scoffed. “We know our work, girl. You don’t tell -”
“You’re frightening her,” Eli said, and to her own ears her voice sounded strangely calm. “You’re crowding her, tugging at her, talking at her as if she were disobedient stock. You will crush her with your ignorance and your noise.”
She did not have the authority she was reaching for. She had no name that weighed heavy in men’s minds, no sigil they feared. She had only the way Cersei was looking at her now, eyes wide and desperate, as if Eli were the first real thing in the room. It was enough.
The septa bristled, jabbing a finger toward the door in a last attempt to reclaim control. “You overstep. Leave this room at once.”
Eli ignored her. She moved to the bed, to Cersei’s side, hands lifted, not touching yet. “Your Grace,” she said softly, her gaze never leaving Cersei’s. “May I come closer?”
The question cut through the chaos. No one else had asked her anything. They had pushed, commanded, tugged, but not asked. Cersei’s lips parted in a soft, shuddering breath. For a heartbeat she seemed unable to speak; then she swallowed and whispered, “Yes.” The single word freed Eli like a blade cutting a tether.
“You heard her,” Eli said, turning her head just enough to catch the maester’s eye. “Give her room. The queen has spoken.”
The maester’s mouth tightened. He began to protest, then hesitated. Cersei’s hand, still knotted in the sheets, lifted with effort, fingers clumsy with exhaustion, and made a small, impatient gesture. “Back,” she rasped, voice hoarse. “Do as she says.”
Reluctant and offended, they edged away. Not nearly far enough for Eli’s liking, but no one was pawing at her queen now. No one was forcing her limbs where they wanted them. Eli exhaled slowly, then sank to her knees beside the bed so she could bring her face level with Cersei’s.
“Look at me,” she murmured.
Cersei did. Her pupils were blown wide, her skin sheen with sweat, her hair wild around her face. She had never looked less like the untouchable lioness Eli had come to know. She looked human and breakable. Beautiful, Eli thought helplessly, heart clenching.
Another contraction rolled over Cersei, and she gasped, body curling, fingers clawing at the linens. Her breath broke into little sobs.
“It hurts,” she whispered, a confession more than a complaint. “Seven hells, it hurts. I can’t…”
“You can,” Eli said. She took Cersei’s hand, slowly, giving her the chance to pull away. Cersei didn’t; her fingers latched onto Eli’s as if they were the only solid thing in the room. Eli felt the tremor running through her, the fine bones under her skin. “But you shouldn’t have to do it like this.”
She looked down at Cersei’s position, flat on her back, legs forced up and open, spine curved in the worst possible way for bearing down.
“No wonder the child is slow to come,” Eli muttered.
“You know better?” one of the midwives snapped.
“I know enough to see when something is not working,” Eli answered, still steady. She had spent half her life in the lower city, watching women help one another through this. Old wives who knew things no maester bothered to learn. She had seen a woman squat, holding her sister’s arms and bring a child into the world in three pushes. She had watched another on her hands and knees, cursing like a sellsword, who laughed when the babe slid free. Not all births ended well, she was not naive, but she had learned one thing: a woman’s body did not want to be pinned and flattened like an insect.
She turned back to Cersei. “My queen,” she said gently. “This position is making it harder, not easier. If you will let me, I want to help you move. It will feel different, but it may give you back some strength.” Cersei’s gaze flicked past Eli to the others, suspicious even through the haze of pain.
“This is he way it is done,” she whispered, her eyes darting slightly toward the maester and Eli understood. “He is not the one doing the pushing,” Eli said softly. “You are. You know your own body. You know what feels wrong.”
That landed. Eli saw it in the way Cersei’s jaw tightened, a spark of anger flaring through the fear.
“I can’t,” Cersei began, then broke off with a cry as another contraction gripped her. Eli squeezed her hand, counting her breaths, low and steady. “Breathe with me,” Eli murmured. “In…and out. That’s it. Good. You’re not alone. I’m here.” The words came naturally. They felt like truth being poured out, not comfort invented for the moment. When the wave passed, Cersei sagged back, chest heaving. Her eyes fluttered shut.
“I am so tired,” she whispered, voice thinning to a fragile thread. “I don’t want to die.”
The room around them faded. The mutters, the shuffling feet, all of it became distant. Eli leaned in, her forehead almost touching Cersei’s. “You are not going to die,” Eli said, the certainty in her voice startling even herself. “I won’t let you. Let me help you, my queen. Please.”
Something in the plea seemed to reach past Cersei’s defenses. Her lashes trembled. Then she gave a tiny nod. Eli moved quickly then, before anyone else could interfere. “We’re going to get you off your back,” she said, keeping her voice low and even. “Onto your knees, leaning forward. It will give the child more room. We’ll go slowly.”
“I can’t stand,” Cersei murmured, panic creeping in again. “My legs…”
“You don’t need to stand. Just roll to your side with me, and then we’ll help your knees under you. I will not let you fall. I swear it.”
Carefully, step by step, Eli guided her, keeping as much of the queen’s weight against her own body as she could, so no stranger’s hands need touch her more than was necessary. The movement wrung a few gasps from Cersei, but when they had her on her side, a different sound slipped out, a shaky sigh of relief.
“Better?” Eli asked. Cersei nodded weakly.
“Good. One more turn.” Eli slid an arm around her waist. “On three, we bring your knees under you. One, two, three.”
With a small, half-strangled cry, Cersei pushed with what strength she had left, and between her effort and Eli’s steady support, they got her onto her knees, leaning forward onto the piled cushions. Her back arched naturally now, hips tipped to give the child every advantage.
“Gods,” Cersei whispered, forehead pressed to the linen. “That’s…it’s easier to breathe.”
Eli’s heart flooded with relief. She moved around the bed and climbed up to kneel in front of Cersei, careful of the space between them. She opened her arms. “May I?” she asked. For a heartbeat, Cersei only stared at her, chest shuddering, as if testing if the choice was truly hers. Eventually she nodded and toppled forward into Eli’s embrace. Cersei’s weight slumped against her as if some final wall had come down. Her face pressed into Eli’s neck, breath hot and uneven against her skin, each inhale hitching with effort.
“I have you, my queen,” Eli murmured. “I won’t let anything happen to you or the babe.“
Cersei scoffed weakly. “You’re a fool,” she whispered. “You can’t promise that.”
“I can promise what I’ll do,” Eli replied softly. “I can promise I will not leave you. Not for any man’s comfort or the sake of decorum.“ There was a rustle of disapproval behind them; Eli ignored it.
Another contraction crashed through Cersei’s body, this one deeper, more urgent. She stiffened against Eli, a low groan tearing from her throat. Eli felt tears, hot and startling, soak into her shoulder. No one ever sees her cry, Eli thought, a fierce tenderness rising like a tide. No one is allowed to see her now.
“Push with the next one,” Eli murmured. “Like you’re bearing down against the world itself. I’ve got you. I will not let you fall.”
The next wave came. Cersei bore down with a raw, hoarse cry, body trembling with effort. Eli held her, taking some of the strain, letting Cersei brace against her shoulders. She murmured nonsense between words, praises, anything to fill the space with gentleness instead of commands. “That’s it. You’re doing it, my queen. I feel your strength. Gods, you’re so strong.”
Slowly, grudgingly, the maester and midwives adapted. One of them crouched behind Cersei, checking the progress with a newfound caution. There was a murmur of surprise, then of reluctant approval. “The babe is coming down faster now,” someone said.
Another contraction, another push. Eli felt every tremor, every shudder. Cersei’s cries had changed, less frantic, more focused, sharpened into a weapon instead of a plea. She leaned into Eli with each effort, forehead pressed against her shoulder. Time blurred into the rhythm of contractions and breathing, of Eli’s whispered reassurances and Cersei’s ferocious, exhausted will. Finally, there was a different note in the midwife’s voice, a sudden urgency.
“One more, Your Grace,” she called. “Just one more. The head is there.”
Cersei tensed, body coiling like a bowstring. Eli pressed her cheek against Cersei’s temple. “Last one,” she breathed. “It will be over soon. I’m here.”
With a howl that sounded like grief, defiance and hope all twisted together, Cersei bore down. Eli felt the force of it in her own ribs, the way Cersei’s entire being focused into that single effort. The room went very still.
The tight silence broke with a thin, outraged wail. The sound washed over Eli like cool water and she felt Cersei collapse against her, her body shaking with relief and leftover fear.
“It’s a girl,” someone said, surprise coloring the words. “A healthy girl.”
Eli loosened her grip just enough for Cersei to lift her head. “Let me see her,” she whispered.
They brought the child forward, wrapped hastily in linen. For once, they did not push Eli aside. Perhaps it was the way Cersei kept her arms locked around Eli’s shoulders. Perhaps it was the knowledge that, for all their training and titles, none of them had managed what this unabashedly overstepping handmaiden had.
The babe’s cries quieted as they drew near, fading into soft, hiccupping breaths. She was small and fierce, little fists waving, tiny face scrunched with indignation at the world. A smear of vernix clung to her dark hair. Cersei looked at her child as if the whole world had shifted sideways.
“Mine,” she breathed, wonder threading through the exhaustion. “She’s mine.”
Eli felt her own eyes sting. She swallowed hard, suddenly aware of how tightly she still held the queen. She made to loosen her arms, to make space, but Cersei’s fingers dug into her back. “Stay close,” Cersei whispered, the words so soft Eli almost missed them. “Just…for a moment. While I still remember how it feels not to be alone.”
Eli’s throat closed around an ache that had nothing to do with fear, nothing to do with propriety. Slowly, she shifted herself more comfortably around Cersei, adjusting only to give her better support as the babe was nestled between them. So the first time Cersei truly held her daughter, she did so within Eli’s embrace, cocooned in the circle of her arms.
Cersei bent her head, a tear falling onto the infant’s forehead. “You will not grow up motherless,” she murmured. “I swear it.“
Eli closed her eyes, breathing in the warm, salty scent of sweat and newborn skin. She pressed her lips to Cersei’s damp hair, a touch so light it might have been imagined. Quietly, in the sanctuary of her own heart, Eli made her own vow: as long as I draw breath, you will not face this world alone.
“Her name is Myrcella,” Cersei murmured eventually. “Myrcella Baratheon.”
“Myrcella,” Eli echoed, tasting it carefully. “It suits her.”
The babe gave another little cry, face puckering. Instinctively, Eli shifted a hand to steady the tiny bundle, but stopped herself short of touching too much. This was not hers. None of this was hers. Cersei felt the hesitation and tipped her head, bringing her gaze back to Eli’s face.
“Hold her,” Cersei said quietly. “Your arms are already around us. You may as well admit you’re here.”
Eli felt her throat work. Slowly she slid one arm under the babe’s tiny body, supporting her head, feeling the astonishing, fragile weight. The child was impossibly small. Warm. Alive. Her dark eyes blinked blindly, mouth seeking. Eli had held children before, back in the lower city. Cousins, neighbors’ babes, squalling bundles passed from hand to hand during long nights. But this felt different, not because this child was royal, but because of who she belonged to.
Cersei looked down at her daughter, at the tiny mouth working in sleep, the soft fist curled beneath her cheek. “She will know you,” she said, voice quiet, worn at the edges in that way truth always was. “Not as a servant.”
Eli’s heart tightened until it hurt. “Your Grace?” she managed, and hated how thin her own voice sounded in the stillness. Cersei’s thumb came to Eli’s knuckles and stroked once, slow.
“She will know you as the woman who kept us alive,” Cersei whispered. “As the one who did not leave.”
The babe sighed, a small, milk-sweet sound, and settled deeper into the linen. Cersei watched the rise and fall of that tiny chest, the way Eli‘s hold tightened instinctively around her. The chamber was quiet now, the world beyond the walls still full of sharp things, but here, something held.
Cersei closed her eyes for a brief beat, as if letting herself believe in the weight of it. And when she opened them again, her gaze stayed on Eli.