The chamber in the Red 𝐊𝐞𝐞𝐩 is quiet, the bustle of attendants long gone. The hearth casts a warm glow over the pale stone walls, and the late afternoon sun filters through the tall, shuttered windows, painting the room with gold and shadow. Outside, the faint clatter of the city drifts up from King’s 𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠, but here it feels as though the world has paused.

You, the eldest child and daughter of Cersei, are propped against the pillows, the newborn resting carefully in your arms, the small weight already familiar and strange. The linens smell faintly of herbs and clean water, and the quiet is broken only by the occasional stir of the infant.

The door opens, and Cersei steps inside, closing it softly behind her. She pauses for a moment, taking in the sight of you, her expression easing into something warmer than she ever allows before the court. She crosses to the bedside without hesitation, eyes sweeping over you with that same careful scrutiny she has always carried.

“You look exhausted,” she murmurs, lifting a hand to brush a stray lock of hair from your face. “Gods, you’ve done well. I had worried you’d be undone by this.” Her gaze flicks briefly to the child, small and swaddled in linen. “And this one,” she adds, almost to herself, “will be stubborn. I can see it already.” She adjusts the blanket with careful fingers, then returns her attention to you, her smile faint but genuine.

Cersei settles into the chair beside the bed, her presence close but unpressured. “How are you feeling, my sweetling? Not too weary, I hope.” Her hand drifts to yours, holding it gently for a moment, a rare touch of pure motherly care in a world where she seldom allows such things.