# Queen Aemma's Chambers - The Red Keep, 105 AC
The afternoon sun had shifted westward by the time Daemon and Rhea made their way through the Red Keep's winding corridors toward Queen Aemma's chambers. The ancient fortress hummed with preparation for the evening's festivities—servants hurried past with armfuls of fresh linens, musicians practiced in distant halls, and the smell of roasting meat from the kitchens permeated the stone walls with promises of the feast to come.
But here, in the royal quarters, the atmosphere was different—quieter, more contemplative, marked by the sort of careful attention that surrounded women in late pregnancy when every moment carried the weight of both hope and fear.
The guards stationed outside Aemma's chambers—Ser Errik Cargyle and Ser Steffon Darklyn, both young knights who had earned their white cloaks through skill rather than politics—straightened at Daemon's approach. Their posture spoke of genuine respect rather than mere protocol, though Ser Criston's dark eyes held that particular wariness that marked all his interactions with the Rogue Prince.
"Prince Daemon, Lady Rhea," Ser Errik said with formal courtesy, his hand resting on his sword hilt with the unconscious habit of someone always prepared for trouble. "Her Grace has been expecting you. The Lady Amanda and Princess Rhaenys are already within, along with the children."
"Of course they are," Daemon replied with amusement that didn't quite hide his affection for his family's tendency to arrive early for important occasions. "Jaehaerys probably predicted we'd come looking for him after our... discussion, and brought the entire family to provide moral support."
"Or witnesses," Rhea added dryly as Ser Steffon opened the heavy oak door with practiced efficiency. "Our son has a well-developed sense of dramatic timing."
The chamber beyond was spacious and comfortable, arranged with the sort of careful attention that spoke of Aemma's personal touch despite her current physical limitations. Tall windows overlooked the gardens, their colored glass casting jeweled patterns across silk cushions and fine carpets. A great bed dominated one wall, piled high with pillows in Arryn blue and Targaryen black-and-red, while comfortable chairs were arranged near the windows to catch the afternoon light.
But it was the occupants who commanded attention.
Queen Aemma reclined among her cushions with the careful positioning of someone who had learned to find comfort where she could during the final weeks of pregnancy. At twenty-four, she remained beautiful despite the exhaustion that hollowed her cheeks and darkened the skin beneath her violet eyes. Her silver-gold hair was arranged simply, and her swollen belly pressed against silk gowns that had been let out repeatedly to accommodate her growing child.
Beside the bed sat Lady Amanda Arryn, Aemma's elder sister, whose resemblance to the Queen was striking despite fifteen years separating their births. At thirty-nine, Amanda bore the weathered dignity of someone who had spent decades managing the Vale in her nephew's name, her dark blonde hair threaded with silver and her blue eyes sharp with intelligence and concern for her sister's welfare.
Princess Rhaenys occupied a chair near the windows, her violet gaze moving between Aemma and the children with the sort of systematic attention that suggested she was conducting her own assessment of the Queen's condition and prospects. Beside her sat Lord Corlys, his weathered features bearing the expression of someone who understood that some battles were fought in birthing chambers rather than on battlefields, and who felt equally helpless in both situations.
The children—Rhaenyra, Jaehaerys, Laenor, and Laena—had claimed the carpet before the fireplace like young lords and ladies holding court, though their animated conversation about dragon flight patterns and sword techniques suggested they were considerably more interested in each other's company than in the adult proceedings around them.
"Uncle Daemon! Aunt Rhea!" Rhaenyra called out with obvious delight, scrambling to her feet with the sort of undignified enthusiasm that made Aemma smile despite her discomfort. "We've been waiting for you to arrive. Jae said you'd be here before the tournament began, though he wouldn't explain how he knew."
"Your cousin has an unsettling talent for anticipating family movements," Daemon replied with fond exasperation as he moved to kiss Aemma's cheek with genuine affection. "How do you fare, good-sister? You look... well, you look like a woman carrying her third trimester with considerably less enthusiasm than her first."
"Daemon," Rhea said with warning in her voice, though Aemma laughed—a sound that was part amusement and part exhausted relief.
"No, he's right," the Queen replied with the sort of honest directness that had always marked her conversations with family. "I look like precisely what I am—a woman who is heartily tired of being pregnant and would very much like to meet this child so I can stop feeling like an overripe melon balanced precariously on a chair."
She shifted slightly, wincing as the babe moved within her. "Though I confess the comparison to my first pregnancy is... unfair. With Rhaenyra, everything was new and exciting. Every movement felt like a miracle, every day brought fresh wonder. This time..." Her voice trailed off, violet eyes growing distant with memories that brought pain rather than joy.
Lady Amanda's hand found her sister's with the practiced ease of someone who had been providing such comfort for months. "This time you carry the weight of loss alongside hope," she said softly, her voice carrying the sort of gentle understanding that came from loving someone through repeated tragedy. "The babes who came before, the ones who never drew breath... they haunt you even as you pray this child will be different."
The chamber fell quiet except for the distant sounds of the Red Keep's daily bustle and the children's soft conversation by the fireplace. Everyone present understood exactly what Amanda was referencing—the three pregnancies between Rhaenyra's birth and this current child, each ending in stillbirth or death within hours of delivery, each taking something irreplaceable from Aemma's spirit even as she maintained the public composure expected of queens.
"Five pregnancies in eleven years," Aemma said quietly, her voice carrying the sort of exhaustion that went far deeper than mere physical tiredness. "Rhaenyra, born healthy and strong, a miracle that made me believe I could give Viserys all the children he desired. Then... nothing but loss and grief and the sort of hollow emptiness that comes from carrying life only to watch it slip away before you've had time to truly know it."
Her hands moved protectively over her swollen belly, cradling the child within with fierce determination. "This one moves differently. Stronger, more active, demanding attention with every kick and shift. The maesters say such vigor suggests health, survival, perhaps even the son Viserys has been hoping for with such desperate intensity."
"And what do you say?" Princess Rhaenys asked with gentle directness, her violet gaze holding Aemma's with the sort of understanding that came from sharing Targaryen blood and the particular burdens it imposed on women.
Aemma was quiet for a long moment, her expression cycling through hope, fear, resignation, and something that might have been defiance against fate itself. When she spoke, her voice carried the weight of decisions made in darkness and solitude, choices that would reshape her future regardless of who approved or disapproved.
"I say this is my last pregnancy," she replied with quiet finality that brooked no argument. "Regardless of whether this child lives or dies, whether it's the son Viserys desperately wants or another daughter to join Rhaenyra. I have told my husband as much, and he has... accepted my decision, though not without considerable struggle and disappointment."
The words settled over the chamber like a shroud, heavy with implications that went far beyond personal preference or medical caution. For a queen to declare she would bear no more children, especially when her husband desired male heirs with the intensity that characterized Viserys's approach to succession, was to make a statement about priorities and self-preservation that could have profound political consequences.
"Good," Lady Amanda said with fierce approval, her hand tightening on her sister's with protective warmth. "You have given enough, suffered enough, endured enough for duty and dynasty. If Viserys cannot understand that his wife's life matters more than his collection of hypothetical heirs, then perhaps he needs reminding that kings who lose their queens to childbirth rarely find themselves improved by the loss."
"Amanda," Aemma protested weakly, though her expression suggested she appreciated the sentiment even if she couldn't entirely endorse its delivery.
"No," Amanda continued with the sort of passionate conviction that had made her legendary among the Vale's lords for her refusal to compromise on matters of principle. "You are my sister, Aemma. I watched you grow from a laughing girl into a thoughtful woman, saw you become queen and mother and all the things our house expected of you. But before all that, you were—are—a person who deserves to live beyond childbearing years."
Her blue eyes blazed with determination that would have made lesser men reconsider their life choices. "If this child survives, praise the Seven and celebrate the miracle. If not..." She swallowed hard against emotion that threatened to crack her composure. "If not, then at least you won't be asked to try again, to risk your life and sanity on one more desperate gamble for sons who may never come."
Rhea, who had been listening to this exchange with the focused attention of someone cataloging important information, moved to sit on the bed's edge with careful regard for Aemma's comfort. "You've made the right choice," she said firmly, her voice carrying the authority of someone who had spent years managing complex situations that required balancing duty against self-preservation.
"The realm needs living queens more than it needs endless attempts at producing princes," Rhea continued with characteristic directness. "Viserys has Rhaenyra, who is intelligent, capable, and entirely worthy of inheriting the throne regardless of her sex. If this child lives, whether son or daughter, he'll have two heirs instead of one—an embarrassment of riches by any reasonable standard."
Her dark eyes held Aemma's violet gaze with steady support. "And if this child doesn't survive..." She paused, choosing her words with surgical care. "Then at least you'll still be here—to raise Rhaenyra, to support Viserys, to continue being the woman who holds this family together through intelligence and grace rather than simply producing heirs until your body gives out entirely."
"The maesters believe I'm being selfish," Aemma admitted with the sort of vulnerability she rarely allowed herself in political or social contexts. "They speak of duty to the realm, the importance of male succession, the necessity of providing spare heirs in case something happens to Rhaenyra. Grand Maester Mellos practically lectures me daily about the risks of limiting royal bloodlines through 'premature cessation of childbearing.'"
She laughed, though the sound held more bitterness than humor. "As if my body were some sort of dynastic asset to be managed by committee rather than a flesh-and-blood vessel that has limits and deserves respect. As if five pregnancies in eleven years were somehow insufficient service to the crown's reproductive requirements."
"The maesters," Princess Rhaenys said with cold precision that could have frozen wine in summer, "are not the ones who endure pregnancy, childbirth, and the particular agony of watching children die in their arms. They dispense advice about risks and duties while remaining safely distant from the actual consequences of their counsel."
Her violet gaze swept the chamber, taking in the assembled women with the sort of fierce solidarity that transcended house loyalties or political affiliations. "We who bear children—or choose not to—understand costs that maesters can only theorize about from their comfortable towers. Aemma's decision to end her childbearing is not selfish. It's survival. And anyone who suggests otherwise can take their opinions and—"
"Rhaenys," Lord Corlys interrupted with gentle warning, though his weathered features bore approval for his wife's passionate defense. "The children are present, my dear. Perhaps we might moderate our language slightly?"
"The children," Princess Rhaenys replied without taking her eyes off Aemma's face, "need to understand that women's choices about their own bodies are not subject to committee approval or maesters' lectures. Better they learn that lesson early than discover it through bitter experience later."
From their position by the fireplace, the children had fallen silent, their animated conversation about dragons and swords abandoned in favor of listening to adult discussions that clearly held weight beyond mere social courtesy. Rhaenyra's violet eyes were wide with understanding that went beyond her nine years, while Jaehaerys's expression bore that quality of ancient wisdom that made adults uncomfortable when they remembered he was only eight.
It was Jaehaerys who broke the contemplative silence, his young voice carrying across the chamber with the sort of matter-of-fact certainty that had been making adults uncomfortable since he learned to speak.
"Aunt Aemma is right to protect herself," he said simply, his green eyes moving between the assembled adults with systematic precision. "The maesters serve important functions, but their advice about childbearing is filtered through generations of men who have never experienced pregnancy, never felt the particular terror of carrying life that might not survive, never endured the physical and emotional cost of repeated loss."
He rose from his position on the carpet with fluid grace, moving to stand beside the bed with the sort of protective posture that suggested he considered Aemma's welfare a personal responsibility. "This child will survive," he continued with quiet conviction that carried the weight of prophecy rather than hope. "The birth will be difficult, dangerous, requiring intervention that goes beyond conventional medical practice. But both mother and child will live if the right people are present to ensure it."
The chamber fell absolutely silent at this pronouncement, every adult present recognizing the implications of such specific prediction from a child who had demonstrated unsettling accuracy about future events. Aemma's hand found Jaehaerys's smaller one, gripping it with desperate hope that warred with learned caution against believing promises that might prove false.
"You've seen this?" she asked quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. "In your dreams or visions or whatever gift allows you to know things you shouldn't?"
"I've seen enough," Jaehaerys replied with the sort of careful honesty that characterized his most important pronouncements. "Enough to know that tomorrow or the next day, when labor begins, the choices made in those first hours will determine whether the realm celebrates or mourns. The maesters will press for decisions that prioritize the child's survival over yours. They will frame it as duty, necessity, the price of queenship and motherhood."
His green eyes blazed with determination that belonged on someone decades older. "But there will be others present—family who value your life above dynastic considerations, who understand that living queens serve the realm better than dead martyrs to succession politics. As long as those voices are heard and heeded, both you and the babe will survive whatever trials the birth brings."
Daemon, who had been listening to this exchange with the sort of focused attention that suggested tactical calculations behind his violet eyes, moved to stand beside his son with unconscious unity of purpose. "The boy speaks sense," he said with unusual seriousness. "Though I confess curiosity about what specific interventions he believes will be necessary to ensure that outcome."
"Magic," Jaehaerys replied simply. "Healing arts that go beyond conventional medicine, channeled through the Valyrian steel that carries properties the maesters don't fully understand. If complications arise that threaten either mother or child, I can stabilize the situation long enough for natural processes to complete themselves successfully."
He paused, his expression growing more serious. "But such intervention requires privacy, trust, and the absolute understanding that what occurs in the birthing chamber remains confidential. The realm doesn't need to know that their future prince or princess was saved through supernatural means—they simply need to celebrate a successful birth and living queen."
"You're proposing to use your... abilities," Lady Amanda said carefully, her blue eyes studying Jaehaerys with new respect mixed with maternal concern for her sister. "The magic you've inherited from... wherever such gifts originate. To save my sister and her child if conventional methods prove insufficient."
"If necessary," Jaehaerys confirmed without hesitation. "Though I should note that such intervention would be a last resort, used only if natural delivery threatens outcomes we cannot accept. The goal is for everything to proceed normally, with magical assistance serving as insurance rather than primary treatment."
Aemma's expression had shifted through surprise, hope, calculation, and finally settling into something that looked remarkably like relief. "You would do this?" she asked softly. "Risk revealing abilities that you've kept carefully hidden, expose yourself to questions and potential persecution from the Faith, all to ensure my survival and my child's?"
"You're family," Jaehaerys replied with the sort of simple directness that made complex motivations seem perfectly obvious. "More than that—you're someone I genuinely love and respect, someone whose survival matters not just politically but personally. If I can help, if my abilities can make the difference between life and death in that birthing chamber, then of course I'll use them regardless of potential complications."
His green eyes held hers with steady conviction. "Besides, the realm needs you alive, Aunt Aemma. Not just as queen or mother to heirs, but as the woman who brings intelligence, compassion, and genuine humanity to a position that often rewards neither. Whatever risks I take to preserve that are worth bearing."
Lord Corlys, who had been observing this exchange with the calculating attention of someone who understood both maritime navigation and political currents, leaned forward with obvious interest. "And these... abilities of yours. They're reliable? Tested? You're confident they can actually accomplish what you're promising?"
"I've healed injuries that would have been fatal without intervention," Jaehaerys replied with matter-of-fact certainty. "Accelerated recovery from wounds that should have taken weeks to mend, counteracted poisons that would have killed within hours, stabilized internal bleeding that conventional medicine couldn't address quickly enough."
He paused, considering how much detail to reveal. "The magic I carry isn't limitless—there are constraints based on my current age and development, situations that would require more power than I can safely channel. But childbirth complications, even serious ones, fall well within my demonstrated capabilities."
"Demonstrated to whom?" Princess Rhaenys asked with sharp attention that suggested she was cataloging potential allies and witnesses who could confirm such extraordinary claims.
"Mother and Father have witnessed my healing work," Jaehaerys replied, glancing toward his parents for confirmation. "Ser Gunthor has seen me stabilize injuries during training accidents that should have required maester's intervention. And there have been... other situations, carefully managed and quietly handled, where supernatural assistance proved necessary and effective."
Daemon nodded confirmation, his expression serious despite the usual glint of mischief in his eyes. "The boy speaks truth. I've watched him close wounds that were pumping blood like fountains, seen him neutralize toxins that should have killed within minutes, witnessed recovery speeds that defy all natural explanation."
His voice grew more serious. "But more importantly, I've seen him exercise judgment about when to intervene and when to let natural processes complete themselves. He doesn't treat magic as a toy or party trick—he uses it sparingly, carefully, only when conventional alternatives prove insufficient."
"Then I accept your offer," Aemma said with quiet finality, her hand still gripping Jaehaerys's with desperate hope. "If complications arise during the birth, if the maesters start pressuring Viserys to make choices I cannot accept, I trust you to intervene in whatever ways prove necessary to ensure both my survival and my child's."
Her violet eyes swept the chamber, taking in the assembled family with the sort of fierce determination that had sustained her through years of loss and disappointment. "But I want everyone here to understand—this child is my last. Regardless of its sex, regardless of political pressure or dynastic considerations. After tomorrow or whenever labor begins, I will never again endure pregnancy, childbirth, or the particular terror of wondering whether this time will be the one that finally kills me."
"Agreed," Lady Amanda said immediately, her voice carrying the authority of someone who had just made an unbreakable vow. "And I will ensure that everyone—from Viserys to the maesters to any ambitious lord who thinks he can pressure a queen into risking her life for his political convenience—understands that this decision is final and non-negotiable."
"As will I," Princess Rhaenys added with cold precision. "The realm has been blessed with a living queen and healthy princess. If the gods see fit to grant another child, we celebrate. If not, we accept that some blessings are sufficient without demanding more."
Rhea, who had been listening to this exchange with the focused attention of someone cataloging important commitments, rose from the bed's edge with decisive energy. "Then it's settled. The women of this family will ensure Aemma's welfare takes precedence over all other considerations during the birth. Maesters' advice will be heard and considered, but final decisions rest with those who actually understand the costs involved."
She moved to stand beside Lady Amanda, their combined presence creating a barrier of protective determination around Aemma's bed. "And since the tournament begins this evening, with celebrations that will last well into the night and possibly trigger early labor through stress and excitement, Amanda and I have decided to remain here rather than attending the festivities."
"What?" Aemma protested weakly. "Rhea, Amanda, you can't miss the tournament—it's the social event of the season, opportunities to see friends and family, entertainment that only happens once in—"
"We can and will," Lady Amanda interrupted firmly. "The tournament will proceed perfectly well without our attendance, but you might not fare so well without family present if labor begins while everyone else is distracted by jousting and feasting."
Her blue eyes held her sister's with steady conviction. "I didn't travel from the Vale and abandon my responsibilities there simply to watch knights break lances while you potentially face the most dangerous night of your life alone except for maesters and servants. My place is here, beside you, ready to ensure that whatever happens, you're never without family who love you more than political considerations."
"And I agree completely," Rhea added with characteristic decisiveness. "Daemon can represent our interests at the tournament—he'll probably enjoy the attention and opportunity to remind everyone why he's legendary with a sword. But my place is here, with women who understand that some duties transcend social obligations and ceremonial necessities."
From their position near the fireplace, the children had been listening with the sort of focused attention that suggested they understood far more than their ages might indicate. Rhaenyra in particular looked torn between relief that her mother would have family support and disappointment at potentially missing time with cousins she rarely saw.
"But the tournament," she said quietly, her violet eyes moving between the adults with obvious distress. "Laenor and Laena came all this way, and we had plans to watch the jousting together, to see the knights compete, to enjoy the festivities as family..."
"And you still can," Aemma assured her daughter with gentle warmth that didn't quite hide her own relief at having family support secured. "You'll attend with your father, Uncle Daemon, Lord Corlys, and the Velaryon twins. You'll have a wonderful time watching the competitions, seeing the realm's greatest knights display their skill, enjoying all the celebration and excitement."
Her hand found Rhaenyra's, squeezing with reassuring affection. "But knowing that Aunt Rhea and Aunt Amanda are here with me, that I'm not facing this night alone if complications arise, will allow me to rest easier than I have in months. Sometimes the best gift you can give someone you love is peace of mind rather than physical presence."
Jaehaerys moved to stand beside his cousin, his hand settling on her shoulder with the sort of protective gesture that suggested he understood her conflict. "And if anything happens—if labor begins, if complications arise, if Aunt Aemma needs us—someone will come fetch us immediately. The tournament grounds are less than an hour's ride from the Red Keep. We can be back before any real crisis develops."
"You promise?" Rhaenyra asked, her voice small in a way that reminded everyone present that despite her intelligence and composure, she was still a nine-year-old girl who loved her mother desperately and feared losing her with the sort of visceral terror that came from understanding exactly how dangerous childbirth could be.
"I promise," Jaehaerys confirmed with absolute conviction. "Nothing will happen to your mother, Rhaenyra. Not tonight, not during the birth, not ever if I have any power to prevent it. You have my word, and I don't give my word lightly."
The chamber fell quiet again, this time with the sort of companionable peace that came when difficult conversations reached satisfactory conclusions and family members understood their roles in whatever drama was about to unfold. Outside, the afternoon was aging toward evening, and the distant sounds of tournament preparation grew louder as King's Landing transformed itself into a celebration worthy of royal occasions.
But here, in this chamber where women gathered to protect one of their own, the real triumph had already occurred—not through martial skill or political maneuvering, but through the simple act of choosing love over duty, survival over succession, life over legacy.
"Then I suggest," Lord Corlys said with the sort of practical authority that had made him legendary as both sailor and administrator, "that those of us attending the tournament begin preparing for departure. The king will expect us to arrive with sufficient ceremony to reflect our houses' importance, and Daemon will need time to ensure his dramatic entrance doesn't accidentally incinerate any visiting dignitaries."
"I would never," Daemon protested with theatrical innocence. "Caraxes is perfectly well-behaved at formal occasions. It's the informal ones where accidents tend to happen."
"That's not as reassuring as you think it is," Rhea observed dryly. "But yes, you should all begin preparing. And remember—if anything changes here, someone will send word immediately. Until then, enjoy the celebration, watch the knights prove their valor, and let yourselves believe that sometimes happy occasions actually end happily."
As the party began preparations for departure—children gathering cloaks and saying farewells, Daemon exchanging final words with his wife, Lord Corlys reviewing security arrangements with his characteristic attention to detail—no one could have known that they were witnessing the last peaceful moments before events that would reshape the Seven Kingdoms began their inexorable unfold.
The tournament awaited, the city celebrated, and in a chamber high in the Red Keep, a queen lay surrounded by women who had chosen her welfare over social obligation. Whatever came next, at least she would face it with family who loved her more than politics, more than dynasty, more than all the ambitions that drove lesser souls.
The Dance was still years away, but its music had grown louder, its steps more intricate, and its players more committed to survival than to any notion of predetermined fate. Sometimes the most important victories were won through the simple act of refusing to accept that duty required self-destruction, that power demanded absolute sacrifice, that queens were disposable vessels rather than human beings worthy of protection and love.
Tomorrow would bring whatever it would bring. But tonight, at least, hope lived in a chamber where women gathered to defend one of their own against all the forces—political, medical, and social—that would have demanded she sacrifice herself for the convenience of men who would never face similar choices.
—
# The King's Private Chambers - The Red Keep, 105 AC
The late afternoon sun slanted through the tall windows of King Viserys's private chambers, casting long shadows across the great table that dominated the room's center. But the king paid no attention to the golden light or the way it illuminated the ancient tapestries depicting Targaryen victories—his entire focus was bent upon the intricate model before him, fingers moving with painstaking precision as he positioned tiny figures of painted stone.
Old Valyria rose beneath his hands like a fever dream made tangible. Spires of delicate plaster reached toward an imagined sky, their proportions perfect according to the fragmentary descriptions preserved in fire-damaged texts. Streets wound between buildings with mathematical precision, following patterns that scholars claimed reflected some deeper understanding of harmony and power. And at the city's heart, the great temple complex where dragonlords had once gathered to debate the fates of nations.
It was beautiful, obsessive, and utterly divorced from the duties that called for his attention.
Viserys knew he should be preparing for the evening's feast—donning his ceremonial robes, reviewing the seating arrangements with Otto one final time, mentally rehearsing the speeches that would welcome lords from across the Seven Kingdoms to his capital. The Master of Revels had sent three increasingly anxious messages about required approvals, and the kitchens needed final word on whether to serve the Dornish dishes that some northern lords found too spicy for their taste.
But his hands continued their delicate work with the model, because here—in this reconstruction of a dead civilization—he could lose himself in questions of architecture and proportion rather than confronting the weight of last night's conversation with Aemma.
*This will be my last pregnancy, Viserys. I have given you five children—one who lives, four who died before they could know their names. I will not risk a sixth.*
Her words had been delivered with quiet finality that brooked no argument, no negotiation, no appeals to duty or dynasty or the realm's need for male heirs. Just simple, devastating truth: his wife had reached the end of what she was willing to sacrifice for the crown's succession, and nothing he said would change that decision.
Part of him—the part that truly loved her, that remembered the laughing girl who had become his queen—felt relief. No more watching her grow heavy with child while fear carved new lines around her eyes. No more midnight vigils wondering if this would be the pregnancy that finally killed her. No more tiny coffins carried through the Sept while she wept with the sort of grief that went beyond words.
But another part—the part that had been raised to be king, trained to think in terms of legacy and succession and dynastic security—felt something close to panic. What if this child was another daughter? What if something happened to Rhaenyra before she could produce heirs of her own? What if the realm's stability required sons he would never have, because his wife's body had finally rebelled against demands that flesh and blood were never meant to bear?
The knock at his door came as both interruption and relief, pulling him from thoughts that circled like crows around carrion.
"Enter," he called, not looking up from the model where he was attempting to position a miniature dragon that was supposed to represent Balerion at rest in the Dragonpit.
"Your Grace," came the soft voice of his chamberlain, a man whose discretion had served three generations of Targaryens. "The Lady Alicent Hightower requests audience with you. She apologizes for the intrusion so close to the evening's festivities, but says she has a matter of some delicacy to discuss."
Viserys's hands stilled on the model. Alicent Hightower—Otto's daughter, who had been reading to Aemma during her confinement, who moved through court with the sort of quiet grace that made her simultaneously invisible and somehow always precisely where she needed to be.
He should refuse. Protocol demanded he prepare for the feast, and entertaining social calls from unmarried young ladies—even daughters of his Hand—bordered on impropriety that could feed exactly the sort of gossip his reign tried to avoid.
But Alicent was Rhaenyra's companion, and someone who had spent countless hours in the Queen's chambers over recent months. If she sought private audience, perhaps it concerned his wife's condition, something too delicate for public discussion.
"Send her in," Viserys said, finally setting down the miniature dragon with the sort of careful precision that suggested he was reluctant to abandon even this small piece of control over the world he was trying to build.
The door opened to admit Alicent Hightower, and Viserys found himself studying her with new attention—seeing not just Otto's dutiful daughter or Aemma's quiet companion, but a young woman poised at that particular moment between girlhood and maturity when everything seemed possible and nothing yet decided.
At eigheen, Alicent moved with grace that suggested careful training in courtly deportment, her auburn hair arranged in the complex braids favored by ladies of high station. Her gown was modest—deep green silk that complemented her coloring without drawing undue attention—and when she curtseyed, the gesture carried genuine respect rather than mere protocol.
"Your Grace," she said, her voice soft but clear. "Thank you for seeing me. I know you must have many demands on your time before the evening's celebrations."
"Too many," Viserys admitted with a rueful smile, gesturing toward the model that dominated his workspace. "Which is why I'm hiding in my chambers building imaginary cities instead of attending to the very real kingdom I actually rule."
---
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