The chamber smelled of blood. Not the righteous kind of sacrifice sung in sept hymns, but the raw, aching kind — sharp, metallic, lingering in the back of the throat. The kind that came with consequence.

The cries of the newborns had dwindled to soft mewling, swallowed by the low murmur of midwives tending with clean linens and salves. But no one in the room smiled. No one sang.

There was no joy here.

Viserra lay motionless against the crushed linen pillows, her skin slick with sweat, her flame-gold hair tangled around her temples. Her lips were cracked, her eyes too wide. And though the midwives offered quiet reassurances, Alicent could see it in the tremor of her daughter’s fingers — something had shattered.

She is only fifteen. Fifteen, and already emptied in every way a girl could be.

Aegon was not present. He never lingered for the aftermath. He did what was required, and only when commanded. No more, no less.

A serving girl approached and placed a swaddled bundle into Alicent’s arms. A second was settled beside Viserra with reverent care. Two babes — twins, pink and whole. A boy and a girl. Jaehaerys, Alicent thought first. The other would be named in time.

She turned gently toward the bed. “Do you want to hold him? Or her?”

Viserra blinked. Slowly. Blankly.

“They’re healthy,” Alicent offered, as if that fact alone could smooth the devastation etched across her daughter’s face. “Strong. That’s what matters.”

Still, Viserra said nothing. Not for a long moment. Then—

“Does it?” The words were barely above a breath. But they struck like a blade.

Alicent’s throat tightened. She gave the boy — her grandson — back to the midwife and sat at the edge of the bed. The fire cracked behind them, casting shadows over pale faces and hollow silence.

“You made me marry him,” Viserra said, voice low, each syllable scraped raw.

“I did,” Alicent whispered.

“I was fourteen.”

“I know.”

“I was still playing with Helaena.”

Alicent closed her eyes. The guilt had been gnawing at her for moons, but now it had teeth. “I know,” she said again. It was all she had.

She reached for Viserra’s hand. Expected resistance. Deserved it.

But the girl did not pull away.

Her fingers were cold in Alicent’s, slack and trembling — not in fear, but in disbelief. At the world. At her mother. At what had been done in the name of duty.

Viserra did not weep.

There was no grief left to wring from her. Only silence.

And in that silence, Alicent bowed her head and said the only thing left she could:

“I’m sorry.”

Not as Queen.

But as a mother who had forgotten her daughter was still a child.