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The squires work to strap your eldest’s armor onto Baelor. They duck around each other, having to pretend to be deaf as the future queen’s consort yells at her husband with such force that the cups on the table seem to clatter. Baelor is wise enough to know that remaining silent is the best choice for now, standing still as the buckles of armor are fastened.
“I cannot believe you are even entertaining such a thought! I am mere moments, days at most, from giving birth, and you want to go and play knight?!” Your rage goes unheard by no one, as you support yourself on one of the posts of the large bed, as you shake with anger (and a bit of pain). The ache in your back has been worsening the whole night, but with your babe to be born soon, the maester said it is to be expected, instructing you to take a hot bath and relax as much as possible. But rest is impossible when, apparently, your husband is a royal idiot.
Nyssa, your handmaiden, enters, winding her hands, no doubt having heard your yelling from outside the door. You take a deep breath and flash her a calming smile, turning your back to your husband. Still unable to believe he is going to do this.
“I’ll need a gown, suitable for outside. Could you prepare me one, a cloak as well?” Head and voice still low, she nods, eyes cast down to the rug.
“Do you require anything else, my lady?”
“Make sure that the carriage is ready and then meet me at my son’s rooms, please. I will change there.” She curtsies and hurries out as Baelor finds his voice, although hesitant.
“My love, you should stay in the castle, the babe-“ You shoot him a cold look, one that would probably mean beheading it it were directed towards anyone else.
“If you are going to be idiotic and take part in the trial, I am going to be stubborn and watch you take part in that trial.” One hand on your hip and one on your belly, the babe gives a vigorous kick against your hand.
“And it seems our babe agrees with me.” You toss your hair over your back and venture out to your son’s chambers, where Nyssa is hopefully waiting. You need assistance with your gown, and you certainly are not going to accept help from your husband right now. He’ll need the time to get ready for the Trial.
***
You watch with bated breath as the horses charge, hooves pounding the earth. You hold your breath as the forces slam together, lances breaking, men falling off horses, others riding away for another pass. Squeezing Valarr’s forearm tightly, you see your husband kick his horse forward, your breath catching as you lose sight of him in the chaos.
As you watch with bated breath for a glimpse of your husband. The hold you have on Valarr tightens and gives you a gentle look.
“Father will be alright. He is aiming for the Kingsguard, they are sworn not to harm him.” Your smile is more of a grimace when you try to thank him, trying to will the brimming tears away. Even if you were angry with him for his decision, you know it was the noble and right thing to do. But things go wrong in tourneys, and you wish to keep your husband on this plain as long as possible, until you are both old and grey. Shaking, still fighting tears, your hand brushes on your stomach, a desperate gesture to soothe the babe inside as another wave of pain rolls through you.
Digging a few sugared dates out of your hidden pocket, you pop them into your mouth, hoping the food will chase the pain away, as it has done in the past hours. But now, the pain only builds. You manage to hide most of your wincing in worry for your husband as he battles, but as the crowd cheers for Aerion landing another hit, you cannot keep still anymore. You stand, taking a few staggering steps just to see your husband land on the ground, your heart stuttering with worry.
But it is quickly chased away by another wave of pain, and Valarr rises too, coming to your side, brows furrowed in worry.
“Mother?” He asks gently, glancing back at the field to see his father on his feet again.
“Father is standing, he is fighting well. Do not fear for him.” He mistakes your pain for unease about the fight, worry for your husband. You try to breathe evenly, willing your lungs to work properly.
"The babe, Valarr. The babe is coming. Now.” You whisper, squeezing his arm for support, tighter and tighter. Valarr's eyes widen as he gestures a few guards closer, trying to be as discreet as possible, glancing around at the curious Lords and Ladies.
They drop their gazes when they meet the prince’s eyes, but still peek at what is happening from under their brows.
“What is it?” The guards are glancing around for any danger, anything that might threaten the young prince and the heavily pregnant future queen.
“The babe. Mother says it is coming.” Valarr speaks in a hushed voice, and the guard's eyes widen in shock as the other, elder one dashes away. You pray it is for a maester.
“Are you sure, my lady?”
“Am I sure? This is my third child. Of course, I am sure. One does forget this pain.” You groan as another contraction hits, nails now digging into Valarr’s forearm as he slowly escorts you out of the stands, having to almost carry you down the steps.
The maester meets you at the bottom as the guards are heatedly discussing amongst themselves.
“Perhaps we borrow a carriage-“
“There is no time for carriages, the babe is coming soon.” You groan, hand dropping to your stomach, Valarr still supporting you by your elbow. Maester Yormwell glances at you and nods.
“We need to find a place for her to give birth. Secluded. Easy to guard.”
“The Lannister tent?” One of them suggests, and you shake your head vigorously.
“My child is not going to be born under Lannister red.” Glancing around, you spot a secluded tent, dark in colour.
“There.”
“M-My Lady, that is the w-whore’s tent.” One of them, seemingly the youngest, stutters, and you roll your eyes.
“The working women know how to keep their linens clean. Some of them must have given birth before, and I need someone with womanly sense with me, if, gods forbid, something goes wrong.” You groan, your knees buckling.
“But you'd best get me into a tent before I am forced to birth my child here. On the grass.” The guards hurry towards the tent, pushing their way in to prepare it for your arrival.
Valarr half-carries you some of the way, your legs growing weak with the pain as you are escorted towards the tent. The women inside stare with wide eyes as a panting princess, a young prince, and a maester enter the tent.
“My mother is giving birth,” Valarr states simply, not knowing what else to say, what else is required. A beat of silence passes before the eldest of them women claps her hands together.
"Alright. Girls. Clean linens, boiling water, plenty of it. Here, princess, let’s get you lying down.”
“Oh, thank the gods, there is someone with sense here.” Your words end with a moan, as your legs finally give out, Valarr scooping you onto his arms and laying you to rest on the bed, which the woman gestures towards.
“I require some herbs, if you have any.” One girl ducks away with the maester’s words and returns with a wooden chest in her arms.
“Good. Now, everyone out.” The women rise to leave, but you grasp the eldest’s hand.
“Not you. I need you here. To be my sister.” Her gaze warms with understanding.
“Of course, your highness.” You roll your eyes.
“I think you should call meeaugh-!” You’re cut off by a cry of pain, and she risks a smile.
“Quite hard to pronounce, my lady. My name is Helena.” You manage one in return, but it turns into a grimace, your hand flying to your stomach again.
“I feel them, they are coming.” The maester checks you, and Helena smiles.
“The babe is ready to enter the world, my lady. You must push now.” Her smile is warm, but your insides grow cold.
The images of Matarys’ birth flashing in your mind, the blood, the pain, the screaming. The fear. Your babe, limp and cold, before the maesters were able to breathe life into him. Your body so weak that you’d needed a week’s rest before you could even hold and feed him. The sunken and worried eyes of your beloved Baelor, the dutiful husband, kneeling by your bedside, night after night, refusing to eat or sleep. Muttering endless praises and assurances, drowning your skin with kisses.
Horror flashes through you. The babe is coming now?
“A-Already? I- I cannot.”
“You must, my lady.” The maester insists, jolting when he sees Valarr still in the tent.
“My prince, leave us, please.” Valarr nods, hesitantly. He was barely old enough at the time to have some memory of his brother’s birth, but not old enough to understand the full picture. He still feels uneasy as he turns to leave.
But before he can, you grasp his wrist.
“Your father. I need him. I cannot- I won’t… do this without him.” You stare up at him, showing the maester’s hand away from you.
“My lady, we cannot delay.” He is almost begging now while Valarr stares at you, your wide eyes, brimming with tears. The strong woman he knows is buried under all the terror.
“Valarr. I am frightened. I need him here with me.” The words are arduous as you force them out, breath hitching.
“The trial-“
“Please.” You whisper, a tear running down your cheek, and he glances at the maester, the urgency in his eyes as he mixes herbs into water.
“I will bring him.” He promises and pulls his hand from your hold. It is hard, tearing himself away from you, but he is glad to be out, away from the maester’s pleading, from Helena’s coaxing.
***
The way to the tourney grounds feels shorter, only a few steps long. Valarr takes in the carnage before he finally spots Baelor, fighting side by side with Ser Lyonel against Maekar. Without thinking, he starts making his way through the battle, ducking past battling people and over bodies littering the ground, ignoring the calls and shouts from the stands.
“The young prince!”
“He should not be down there.” But he cares little, your plea ringing in his head.
Valarr hears Aerion scream, his cousin clearly in pain, as he battles the giant knight, and sees Maekar’s blows gather strength.
“My boy! My boy!” His desperation is evident in his voice, struggling against the strength of two men, who push him back. Valarr is closer now, able to see the snapped antlers of Ser Lyonel’s helm, the intricate pattern of his father’s cloak.
When Maekar raises his mace for a hit, Valarr springs into action, tackling his uncle out of his way, knocking him off balance. His uncle hadn’t seen him coming, his mace aiming for Baelor, but now, he is face-first in the mud as Baelor and Ser Lyonel stare at the young prince in stunned silence, even as the fight rages on around them.
“Valarr-“ Baelor’s voice is breathless and surprised as he stares at his heir in the middle of the fight, devoid of armor and armed with only a dagger.
“Mother, she is giving birth.” The words burst out of him in desperation, the young prince panting as Maekar pushes himself up, enraged, shaking mud off his helmet.
“Boy! You cannot intervene, it is against the god’s will, the laws are absolute, it is-“ The horn blows, signaling the end of the Trial. Ser Duncan is standing, Aerion splayed on the ground, and Maekar’s shoulders fall. The gods have given their judgment. The area is still, the air somehow fresher, lighter now. The people start to cheer, although it is stunted at the stands, the Lords and Ladies have been loud supporters of the prince, sure of his victory.
But Valarr cannot feel any of it, desperation flowering heavy in his veins, tears pooling into his eyes as they meet his father’s.
“The babe is coming.” He repeats, grasping his father by his shoulder, trying to tug him along.
“What?” Baelor shakes his head, his head trying to understand. He was just battling. How can the babe be coming? He pulls the helmet off, throwing it to the ground, blinking hard.
“Mother is asking for you, she won’t push, the maester worries for their health. The babe is coming! We must go.” Valarr all but begs, voice bordering on desperate, glancing around. Baelor goes white as freshly washed sheets as he begins to realize the severity and the reality of the moment. The babe is coming, and you might be in danger.
Valarr manages to catch the reins of two horses, slapping a pair into his father’s palm. He hoists himself up onto the other smaller one, and the elder prince follows him, slower, stiffer, and tired from the fight. And before he can right himself in the saddle, foreign under him, Valarr’s voice booms over everything.
“Open the gates!” The people don’t think to question him as they ride out, the horse's hooves squelching in the mud, splashing it around. They leave behind the bustle of people, the shouts of the arena.
“Where the fuck is the Maester?”
“My horse!”
“What in the gods' name is going on?”
***
Valarr pushes his horse harder. It is tired from the Trial, but luckily, the road is not long, only a few moments, especially on horseback. Baelor is stunned when Valarr pulls his horse to a stop in front of a dark, unassuming tent, a few familiar Targaryen guards guarding the door. But when he hears your stunted cry inside, he doesn't think or hesitate, he ducks in without a word. Valarr remains outside, starting to pace back and forth in front of the tent. The young prince is shaking, but whether it is nerves or fear or dropping adrenaline, he doesn’t know.
Helena blinks as the crown prince storms in, but the man is not the collected image of royalty he has always seemed to be. For he is a worried husband now, frenzied in his panic.
“My love.” Baelor breathes, falling to his knees next to your bed, tears in his eyes, squeezing your hand tightly.
“You came.” You breathe, relieved, slumping down onto the pillows, Helena’s hand on your shoulders, tightening as she helps you sit upright.
“Of course,” Baelor whispers, wiping your hair from your eyes, pressing a kiss to your sweaty temple, “you asked for me.” His voice is soft with promise, your fear ebbing into the background as his hand comes to rest at your lower back. No matter what happens, he is here.
“My lady. Please. Push.” The maester begs, and you shudder, grasping Baelor’s hand tighter as you feel another contraction approaching, gathering your strength.
“Push, my love,” Baelor whispers into your ear, pressing kisses to your cheek.
“I am here.”
And you finally push with a scream, your hold on his hand crushing, your whole body shaking. But he remains steadfast next to you, and the maester doesn’t even have time to think of the propriety of it all.
It is only moments later when bright cries ring over yours, the babe pulling their lungs full of air for the first time.
“A girl.” The maester breathes, handing the babe to Helena as he checks you, pressing down on your stomach, your complaint only a small whimper.
“A daughter?” Baelor stills, blinking rapidly.
“Y-Yes.” Helena eyes the prince with caution as she cleans the babe. She has heard good things about the prince; surely, he won’t be angry that the babe is a girl?
Her fears are proven futile as she mutters about the babe being cold, and the prince, wordlessly, pulls his cape free from his shoulders, the expensive fabric ripping before he hands it over. With the babe bundled up and warm, Helena brings her to you as the Maester inspects her at a glance.
“Perfectly healthy girl, my lord. My lady. I will take my leave, I believe I have duties to attend to at the trial grounds.” He bows shortly before hurrying out. Helena bows too, gathering a bundle of fabrics before making her way out, speaking with a low voice to the guards outside.
Silent, you both stare at your daughter, delighted that she is here, swaying her gently in your arms. Wrapped in his father’s cloak, the swirls of silver on it so like her hair, of pure Targaryen blonde. But as she opens her eyes, your husband’s mismatched colours meet yours, making your breath hitch.
“She has your eyes.” You laugh, but settle when you feel the tear drop to your neck and slide under your gown.
“My heart, why are you crying?” You coo, pulling his head to rest against your shoulder.
“You have given me a daughter. She looks just like you. And she is so beautiful. More beautiful than I could have ever dreamed.”
“She-“
“She might have my eyes and my father’s hair, but her nose, her cheeks, her chin? She is so like you.” He breathes, another tear falling from his eye and onto your skin.
You fall into a comfortable silence again before Baelor’s voice jolts you out of your thoughts.
“I am sorry. I should not have left your side, not to fight, not when you were so close to birth.” Temple resting against yours, his arms around you, chin on your shoulder as he watches the babe, asleep now.
“It does not matter now, my heart. You came when I needed you. When we needed you. That is all that matters.” You press a kiss to his jaw, pulling him to sit next to you, and you move your daughter into his arms. He smiles down at her. Your little girl is sleeping, and you rest your head on Baelor’s shoulder, tired but so blessed, just to have this moment, the three of you.
The flap parts, and Valarr peers in, the silvery streak of his hair glowing in the sunlight shining outside. His gaze is hesitant as he takes in the scene in front of him. His shoulders fall as he sees you sitting up.
“Are you alright?” He asks and casts a hesitant glance at his father, who nods, allowing him to approach.
“I am healthy, as is the babe.” You breathe, tapping the bed on your other side, and he slumps down on it.
You pull him into his arms, squeezing tight, and his eyes slip closed, nose burying itself into your shoulder as he gently embraces you back. A breath escapes him, feeling safe and tranquil, just like when he was a child. Baelor’s arm slides along your back and onto Valarr’s shoulder, as they tuck themselves closer to you, Baelor bringing the babe to rest against your chest, sealing your little family into a cocoon of love. This little moment with them, with no guards or lords or servants present, is priceless. Baelor’s and Valarr’s responsibilities demand so much of his time that you barely have time to be a family. You wish Matarys were here, but he was too sickly to travel to Ashford for the tourney. But he will meet his new sister soon, too.