"Mother of Mercies, guide her through the dark... Warrior, grant her strength in the bloody hour..."
The muffled, rhythmic chanting of the Septas bled through the heavy, iron-bound oak doors of the Queen's bedchamber. To Queen Cersei Lannister, the pious droning sounded less like a prayer and more like the buzzing of bloated carrion flies.
If she had the strength, she would have ordered the Kingsguard stationed in the corridor to cut out their tongues. But Cersei had no strength left to give. All of it was currently being consumed by the agonizing, tearing inferno within her womb.
"Push, Your Grace! The head is crowning, you must push!" urged the head midwife, an older, stout woman from the Westerlands whose hands were slick with royal blood and sweat.
Cersei threw her head back into the silk pillows, her golden hair plastered to her face in damp, tangled strands, and released a feral, agonizing scream. Her fingers dug into the heavy Myrish velvet of the bedsheets, tearing the expensive fabric.
Why is it so much worse this time? she thought, her vision blurring at the edges with red-hot sparks of pain.
She had done this twice before. She had birthed Jeyne, her fierce, golden-haired lioness, with a stubborn, biting pain that faded as soon as she held her daughter. Then came little Myrcella, who had slipped into the world with barely a struggle, as sweet and pliable as spun sugar. Both had been manageable. Both had felt like hers.
But this child? This child felt like she was trying to give birth to a falling star. The pain was not just physical; it felt almost spiritual, a heavy, burning, oppressive weight that seemed to scorch her very bones from the inside out. The air in the royal bedchamber had grown thick and unnaturally hot. The roaring hearth at the edge of the room seemed to pale in comparison to the searing heat radiating from Cersei's own body.
She thought of Jaime. Her golden twin, her other half. He should be here, standing beside her, holding her hand. Instead, he was likely pacing the outer halls in his white enameled armor, wearing a mask of indifferent duty while his heart hammered for her.
Then, a darker thought intruded: Robert. The King. The drunken, whoring oaf she was forced to call a husband. He was likely down in the cellars or buried in the bosom of some tavern wench while she bled to secure his dynasty. The realm was holding its breath.
The Usurper's throne was precarious. Two daughters were not enough. Lord Jon Arryn and the Small Council whispered behind closed doors. Her own father, Lord Tywin Lannister, sent ravens demanding she fulfill her duty. The Iron Throne demanded a male heir.
"One more, my Queen! By the Seven, he is almost here!" the midwife cried out, her voice cracking with tension.
"Do not... tell me... what to do!" Cersei hissed through gritted teeth, tasting the metallic tang of blood where she had bitten through her own lip.
Standing a few paces away, cloaked in his heavy robes of office, Grand Maester Pycelle observed the bloody spectacle with a trembling hand. The old man wiped a bead of sweat from his wrinkled brow, his heavy chain of assorted metals clinking softly against his chest.
Pycelle was a man of the mind, but right now, his mind was consumed by political terror. The King's patience was wearing terrifyingly thin. If the Queen delivered a third girl tonight, Pycelle feared Robert Baratheon's legendary wrath might finally boil over.
The Baratheon-Lannister alliance rested entirely on the bloody sheets of this bed. Pycelle needed a boy. He silently prayed to the Crone for a prince, even as he nervously prepared a fresh dosage of the milk of the poppy, just in case the Queen's heart gave out from the sheer strain.
"Now, Your Grace! Now!"
Cersei arched her back, her spine forming a rigid bow. A raw, guttural roar ripped from her throat—not the scream of a frightened woman, but the furious roar of a cornered lioness. The unnatural heat in the room spiked so violently that the midwives gasped, feeling a wave of oppressive, suffocating pressure wash over the room.
And then, the agonizing weight vanished.
The sudden release was so absolute, so jarring, that Cersei's eyes rolled back in her head. The adrenaline that had kept her tethered to the waking world suddenly snapped. As she slumped back onto the ruined pillows, the opulent, torch-lit ceiling of the bedchamber faded into a comforting, absolute black.
She passed out.
For a moment, the bedchamber was plunged into an eerie, unnatural silence.
Usually, the birthing room was immediately filled with the sharp, indignant wails of a newborn adjusting to the cold air of the world. But there was no crying.
There was only the sound of a breath.
It was a slow, incredibly deep, and perfectly measured exhalation. Haaah... It did not sound like the panicked gasp of an infant; it sounded like the deliberate, focused breath of an ancient warrior centering his spirit.
The head midwife, her hands trembling, lifted the small, blood-slicked form from the linens. She quickly took a warm, wet cloth and wiped the fluid from the child's face and chest, waiting for the inevitable wail. It never came. The infant simply opened his eyes, staring up at the stone ceiling with a serene, profound calmness that made the experienced woman shiver.
She looked down, her eyes widening as she registered the child's anatomy. Tears of profound relief and shock welled in her eyes.