The labor begins just before dawn.
You wake with a hand pressed against your stomach and a sharp ache wrapping around your abdomen.
For a moment, you lie still.
Listening.
The Red Keep is quiet. The fires have burned low. Beside you, Tywin is already awake.
Of course he is.
You are not entirely convinced the man actually sleeps.
Another pain comes.
Stronger.
You inhale sharply.
Tywin is sitting upright before you can speak.
“Corvina?”
You look at him.
“It is time.”
The room explodes into motion.
Servants run.
Maesters are summoned.
Midwives appear.
The castle wakes.
By sunrise your chambers are warm with firelight and activity. Basins of steaming water line the walls. Fresh linens are stacked nearby.
And you are thoroughly tired of everyone.
Particularly the maester who keeps asking how you feel.
You are in labor with twins.
How does he think you feel?
Hours pass.
The contractions grow stronger.
Closer together.
You pace when you can.
Curse when you cannot.
At one point you catch Tywin staring at a young maid who nearly drops a pitcher.
The poor girl looks ready to faint.
“Stop frightening the servants.”
“I am doing no such thing.”
“You are glaring.”
“I am observing.”
The maid flees.
You laugh despite the pain.
Another contraction arrives and immediately wipes the amusement away.
Gods.
You bend forward, gripping the edge of the bed.
A hand closes around yours.
Steady.
Strong.
Tywin.
You squeeze hard enough to leave marks.
He doesn’t comment.
The day drags on.
Afternoon fades toward evening.
The maesters grow increasingly nervous.
The midwives do not.
You decide you prefer midwives.
At least they tell the truth.
“You are progressing well.”
“That means this hurts because?”
“Because you are birthing two babies, my lady.”
Fair enough.
Another contraction crashes through you.
The room narrows.
Voices blur.
Everything becomes effort.
Breathing.
Pushing.
Waiting.
Then suddenly the head midwife smiles.
A real smile.
“I can see him.”
Your heart stumbles.
Him.
One of your sons.
The first of your boys.
Emotion wells unexpectedly in your throat.
You grip Tywin’s hand harder.
Another push.
Another.
The pressure builds until you think you cannot possibly manage more.
Then—
A cry.
Small.
Sharp.
Alive.
The room exhales.
Tears spring instantly to your eyes.
“Oh.”
The baby protests loudly as the midwives lift him.
A shock of dark hair crowns his tiny head.
Far more than any newborn ought to possess.
The nearest maid gasps.
“Look at his hair.”
You laugh weakly.
Your son.
Your beautiful son.
The child is wrapped and brought closer.
His eyes remain firmly closed.
His tiny face relaxed.
Content.
As though the entire ordeal has inconvenienced him far less than everyone else.
Tywin accepts him carefully.
The sight nearly undoes you.
The Lord of Casterly Rock holding a newborn.
Holding your newborn.
The baby yawns.
Actually yawns.
You laugh.
The midwife laughs.
Even Tywin’s mouth twitches.
“Already sleepy,” you murmur.
The child settles immediately against his father.
Warm.
Peaceful.
Perfect.
Rowan.
Then reality returns.
Because there is still another baby.
You groan.
The room chuckles.
Tywin actually looks sympathetic.
The second labor moves faster.
Thank every god in existence.
You are exhausted now.
Sweat clings to your skin.
Your arms tremble.
Yet determination keeps you moving.
The midwife nods encouragingly.
“One more, my lady.”
One more.
You can do one more.
You bear down.
The room falls silent.
A moment later the second child enters the world.
And nothing happens.
No cry.
No wail.
Nothing.
Your heart stops.
“What is wrong?”
The midwife blinks.
Then laughs.
Another joins her.
Then a third.
Confused, you push yourself upright.
The baby is perfectly healthy.
Perfectly pink.
Perfectly alert.
And glaring.
Actually glaring.
Tiny eyes narrowed.
Tiny mouth turned downward.
The expression is so familiar that it takes you exactly two seconds to recognize it.
You turn toward Tywin.
Then toward the baby