The city is restless outside, but inside the quiet chambers of your temporary quarters, it feels like the world has shrunk to the two of you.

Your body trembles, water sloshing gently against the sides of the bath. You’ve sunk into it to ease your hips, the heat softening muscles that have already borne too much tension. Outside the chamber, the distant roar of Jacaerys Velaryon’s ship horns warn of the imminent departure toward the Gullet, the tides of war pulling him away from the city, from the crown, from everything.

But your voice calls him louder than the winds of battle.

He’s at your side now, sleeves rolled, hands steady as they cradle your own. His eyes, sharp with worry and longing, search yours as though memorizing every shadow and flicker of fear. The weight of responsibility—his house, the realm, his queen mother—presses against his shoulders, but here, in this room, the world narrows to your voice, your pulse, your pain.

“Stay with me,” you murmur, head resting on his shoulder, breath hitching with the rhythm of the waves beneath your body.

He doesn’t hesitate. “Always,” he says. His fingers trace the line of your jaw, brush a damp curl from your temple, and squeeze your hand as if to anchor you.

Outside, the Queen, Rhaenyra Targaryen, and her consort, Daemon Targaryen, wait in the antechamber. Your labor has drawn a hush over them. Rhaenyra’s own grief from a stillbirth just a moon past has made her sharper, more cautious, yet she understands with that familiar blend of iron and compassion. Daemon, ever blunt, has left the decision entirely to Jacaerys—here, youth and life must take precedence over duty.

A birthing chair stands ready in the corner, polished and heavy, a reminder of preparedness. The midwives murmur quietly, not rushing, not pressing, simply arranging linens, warming towels, and lighting small braziers to keep the chill from your shoulders.

You slip from the bath reluctantly, wet hair clinging to your skin, and Jacaerys wraps a towel around your shoulders. Your legs are wobbly, knees weak, and instinctively you let him guide you to a rocking chair by the hearth. One hand in his, the other pressed to your abdomen, you sway gently. The rhythm eases some tension in your back, some fear in your chest.

“I—” you start, but a contraction steals the words. You bite back a gasp, clutching the chair and leaning into him. He murmurs encouragement, brushing hair from your face and speaking low, grounding words.

“It’s all right,” he whispers. “I’m right here. Just breathe. Just breathe.”

The room smells of lavender, beeswax, and the faint tang of the sea from the bay beyond the walls. Candles flicker in small sconces, casting your shadows long across the chamber. The midwives move like shadows themselves, soft footfalls, quiet hands adjusting the blanket, offering water. They do not intrude. They wait.

A nurse brings forward the birthing chair. You glance at it, knowing it might be where this child chooses to meet the world. Your fingers tighten on Jacaerys’s, and you shake your head slightly, rocking instead, holding onto him as though your son’s first breath is tied to this moment of closeness.

He leans down to kiss your temple, murmuring, “Life fights to bloom even in the fire. We’ll meet it together.”

Outside the door, voices rise briefly—a messenger perhaps, a distant clang from the keep—but inside, the world is narrowed to your heartbeat, his hand, the warmth of the room, the life stirring within you.

You sway, press your cheek to his chest, and the first tiny waves of realization wash over you: soon, soon, this child will arrive. But not yet. Not until you are ready.

Jacaerys’s arms tighten around you, steadying, patient, devoted. “Whenever you are ready,” he says, soft as a vow. “We will be here. Together.”