The first ten hours had felt almost unreal.
You had walked the halls of Casterly Rock with one hand pressed to the small of your back, pausing now and then when another tightening sensation wrapped around your belly. The maester had called them labor pains. You had called them inconveniences.
You had eaten breakfast.
You had napped.
You had even sat near an open window overlooking the sea, braiding and unbraiding a ribbon while Jaime paced far more than you did.
“You’re supposed to be the one in labor,” you had teased.
Jaime stopped mid-stride, green eyes narrowing.
“I am suffering.”
“You are not.”
“I am.”
“You aren’t even sweating.”
His expression had been so offended that you’d laughed hard enough to start another contraction.
By hour twelve, however, neither of you were laughing much.
The pains had become sharper.
Closer together.
The room had grown quieter, save for the distant crash of waves against the cliffs below Casterly Rock.
Your mother sat beside the bed, cool cloth in hand.
Your sister Elinor embroidered near the hearth, though she’d long since stopped adding stitches.
Even Rowan had appeared briefly before being firmly escorted away by the midwives.
“Out.”
“I only wished to see—”
“Out.”
His retreat had been swift.
By the time active labor truly arrived, everything changed.
The world narrowed.
Hours blurred together.
The easy conversations disappeared beneath waves of effort and exhaustion.
Jaime never left.
Not once.
He knelt beside the bed through every contraction, allowing you to crush his hand without complaint.
Well.
Mostly without complaint.
“You’ve broken three fingers.”
“I have not.”
“You absolutely have.”
“Then stop talking.”
That ended the discussion.
The final hours stretched endlessly.
You were sweating despite the cool sea breeze.
Hair stuck to your flushed cheeks.
Your entire body trembled with effort.
The midwife murmured encouragement while the maester hovered nervously nearby.
And Jaime—
Jaime looked as though he’d rather face ten armed knights than watch you endure another moment of pain.
When the midwife finally announced the baby was nearly there, relief swept through the room so powerful it nearly made you cry.
One more push.
Then another.
And suddenly—
A cry.
Loud.
Indignant.
Furious.
The room froze.
For a heartbeat nobody moved.
Then the midwife laughed.
“A girl.”
The tiny red-faced infant objected immediately to being brought into the world.
Her cries echoed off the stone walls.
You collapsed back against the pillows, exhausted beyond words.
Jaime stared.
The great lion of House Lannister simply stared.
The midwife placed the baby into his arms.
His expression changed instantly.
Wonder.
Disbelief.
Something painfully soft.
The infant was enormous for a newborn.
Round cheeks.
Thick limbs.
A substantial amount of baby.
The midwife snorted.
“Well.”
“What?” Jaime asked.
“That explains sixteen hours.”
A ripple of laughter spread through the room.
Even you managed a weak grin.
The baby continued yelling.
“You were very comfortable in there, weren’t you?” you murmured.
She answered by screaming louder.
Jaime looked down at her in amazement.
She had a shock of pale golden hair already visible beneath the dampness.
Tiny fists.
A stubborn little face scrunched with outrage.
“She looks angry.”
“She just spent sixteen hours causing trouble,” you said.
“I think she looks like a Lannister.”
The baby immediately grabbed one of Jaime’s fingers.
His breath caught.
Completely.
The room seemed to disappear around him.
You had seen Jaime hold swords.
Ride into tournaments.
Face down men twice his size.
None of it compared to this.
He looked terrified.
And hopelessly in love.
The midwife eventually transferred the baby into your waiting arms.
The weight of her settled against your chest.
Warm.
Solid.
Perfect.
Jo.
Your Jo.
You brushed a fingertip across her soft cheek.
“Johanna,” Jaime said quietly.
The name lingered in the air.
A tribute.
A memory.
His mother’s name.
Your daughter’s name.