The council chamber smells of parchment, ink, and old stone—cool despite the brazier burning low against the walls. You have stood here before, at your father’s side or seated quietly behind him, a dark-haired princess with Robert’s temper banked behind your teeth and Cersei’s sharp composure stitched into your spine. Today, you stand alone in the center of the room.

Every eye is on you.

Robert Baratheon slouches on the Iron Throne like a man who has grown tired of wearing a crown that never fit him. His beard is threaded with gray now, his laughter lines deepened by wine and war remembered too fondly. Beside him sits the small council: Varys folded in silk and secrets, Littlefinger smirking faintly as if he already knows the ending, Pycelle blinking owlishly. And there—new to this seat, new to this den of lions—Eddard Stark, Hand of the King, watching you with quiet concern rather than calculation.

Your mother does not sit here. Cersei chose not to attend. You know better than to mistake that for absence. She is present in every held breath, every sharpened silence.

Robert clears his throat. “Well?” he says, too loudly. “Say it, girl.”

You lift your chin. You have practiced this moment alone, pacing your chambers while the Hound stood outside your door like a shadow that breathes. You have practiced speaking without trembling. You do not look at Sandor Clegane now, though you can feel him—himself stationed at the edge of the room, helm under one arm, scarred face unreadable, eyes fixed somewhere just past you as if willing himself into stone.

“I am with child,” you say.

The words land heavy, like a dropped shield.

Pycelle gasps. Varys’s eyebrows lift with genuine interest. Littlefinger’s smile sharpens. Ned Stark stiffens, his mouth tightening—not in judgment, but in instinctive calculation of honor and consequence.

Robert’s face goes slack with shock. “With—” He cuts himself off, a red flush creeping up his neck. “Gods be good. Who?”

You do not answer at once. You feel the weight of the room lean forward, hungry. This is the moment they expect a name that fits their stories. A lord. A knight. A foolish dalliance easily punished or politically repaired.

You turn instead, just enough.

Sandor moves before he can stop himself. One step. Two. The scrape of his boot against stone sounds thunderous in the silence. He drops to one knee without ceremony, without flourish. He does not bow his head.

“It’s mine,” he says.

The room erupts.

Robert surges forward in his seat, rage flaring hot and immediate. “You?” His voice booms, incredulous. “You dare—”

“Yes,” Sandor snarls, jaw tight. “I dare.”

You speak before Robert can. “He did not force me.”

That stops the room cold.

Ned Stark looks between you and the Hound, something like grim understanding settling in his eyes. He has seen what war does to people. What loyalty looks like when it is ugly and unadorned.

Robert stands now, one hand braced on the arm of the throne. “You’re telling me,” he says slowly, dangerously, “that my daughter—my firstborn—chose my dog?”

Sandor flinches at the word. You don’t.

“I chose the man who guarded my door when I couldn’t sleep,” you say. “Who stood between me and every shadow this court pretends not to see. I chose the one person who never lied to me about what this world is.”

Silence again. Thicker now.

Cersei’s absence roars.

Robert drags a hand down his face. For a moment, the king is gone, and the father is left behind—confused, furious, aching with the knowledge that his little girl has grown beyond his reach. “Gods,” he mutters. “The realm will tear you apart for this.”

Ned finally speaks. “The child,” he says carefully. “Is innocent. Whatever is decided must begin there.”

You meet his gaze, grateful.

Sandor does not look at you. He stares straight ahead, braced for death, for exile, for fire. He would accept any of it if it keeps you standing.

Robert exhales hard, a broken laugh rumbling out of him. “Seven hells,” he says. “A princess and a kingsguard bastard with a burned face.”