The chamber still smelled of blood and milk.

The birthing bed was raised slightly, flanked by high-backed chairs and thick velvet drapes meant to warm the drafty stone. The fire in the hearth popped and cracked, perfuming the room with a mix of birchwood and myrrh. Tapestries stirred faintly in the breeze from the open window—beyond it, the gardens of Maegor’s Holdfast shimmered in morning dew, the sun just high enough to cast gold onto the stone floors.

She lay propped on pillows, a sheen of sweat still cooling along her collarbone. Her linen nightdress clung damply to her skin. The babe—her son—lay swaddled against her breast, his tiny mouth half-latched, already drowsing again despite the soft fuss he had made when the door opened.

Marren, her midwife, stood at the bedside like a soldier guarding a standard. A stout woman with thick forearms and the braided grays of experience, she had birthed seven children of her own. Only five had lived, and she had spoken of them with both pride and the weathered realism of someone who’d buried two babes in the frost. She had not left her side once, not even to sleep. When the Queen demanded the child be brought for inspection, Marren had shaken her head and declared, “She stays abed. I’ll not have her tearing at the seams for politics.”

So the court had come to her.

The doors opened wider.

Laenor entered first, eager and flushed, with a joy that seemed unshakable. He had doted on her through the labor—bringing wine-soaked cloths for her lips, whispering praise when she screamed through the final push. Now he hovered at her elbow, one hand brushing her arm, the other poised in case the child so much as shifted. “There he is,” Laenor beamed, “the new little prince.”

Viserys followed, already smiling. A fur-lined cloak dragged behind him, rich with embroidery, and his breath came with a slight wheeze from the climb. But there was no mistaking the pride in his face—the kind of pride that softened the sharp lines of his age. Behind him, slower and colder, came Alicent.

Her green gown shimmered like damp moss, stiff with pearls and polished buttons. Her eyes scanned the bed, then the babe, then back again. Her mouth barely moved.

Viserys approached first, brushing a kiss to her brow before gazing down at the infant tucked to her chest.

“A strong grip,” he murmured as the baby’s fingers curled around his ringed pinky. “Look at that. A proper dragon already.”

She said nothing. There was little strength left in her, and even less patience.

His gaze drifted up—then paused.

The boy’s hair was damp still from a bath, soft and dark as rich earth.

Viserys stilled for just a breath.

But then his smile only deepened. “Brown hair,” he mused. “Well, so has Rhaenys, and Laenor’s blood runs true through her. It’s no matter. He’s handsome. A fine boy.”

He turned to the others in the room. “We’ll have bells rung by nightfall. Let the kitchens prepare a feast! The realm has a new prince! My first grandson!” His voice rang with joy that nearly lifted the chamber’s heaviness.

Laenor laughed, brushing a kiss to her temple, his arm sliding behind her shoulders. “What did I say?” he murmured into her hair. “Perfect.”

But across the bed, Alicent remained silent.

Her eyes, pale and sharp, flicked from the child to the midwife to the proud father at her side. Her lips twitched, then flattened again. If she held any joy for the Queen’s firstborn, it was kept well hidden beneath the layers of emerald silk and brittle dignity.

“I’ll fetch the maestor,” she said softly, but the words were for no one in particular. She offered no congratulations. Not to her. Not to the babe.

Only the faintest flicker of disapproval passed over her face as she turned toward the door.

She looked at the boy again, and this time, her gaze lingered—long enough for the message to chill the warm chamber.

Then she was gone.

The fire crackled.

Marren muttered something under her breath and reached to adjust the baby’s blanket with practiced hands. Laenor began whispering to the child, words soft and nonsense-sweet.