The Queen’s Bedchamber – Maegor’s Holdfast

Midnight under a waning moon

Rain taps at the tall, narrow windows—soft but relentless, like fingers seeking entry. Within, the Queen’s chamber glows with firelight. The hearth burns high, shadows dancing over velvet drapes, gilded columns, and the basin of water steaming beside the bed. Yet despite the warmth, she shivers.

The bedsheets are twisted. Her shift clings to her belly, soaked in sweat and effort. Marren, her midwife and oldest friend, kneels at the foot of the bed, her apron damp with blood, her voice low and unwavering.

“You’re doing beautifully, Your Grace. Another push.”

But the Queen—once a handmaiden, now crowned, now beloved—gasps and shakes her head. Her braid has unraveled, silver-blonde strands plastered to her cheeks. “I can’t.”

“You can,” comes the voice at her side—not a command, but a vow.

Daemon Targaryen is seated on the edge of the bed, sleeves rolled to his elbows, his hand curled tightly around hers. Sweat beads his brow too, though not from exertion. His other hand rests protectively on her thigh, grounding her, steadying her.

“Look at me,” he says. “Just breathe. We’ve come this far.”

She does.

And she pushes.

And from deep within her, the sound of new life—wet, gasping, wailing.

“A boy,” Marren breathes, lifting him with practiced hands. “He’s strong. Like his father.”

Daemon lets out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. His lips brush the Queen’s temple. “You did it.”

But then—another ripple of pain.

Marren’s eyes flick down, her hands still busy.

“There’s more.”

The Queen stiffens. “What?”

Daemon’s gaze snaps to Marren.

“You carry two,” the midwife confirms. “A second babe. She’s coming.”

Terror, then disbelief flickers in the Queen’s face—but Daemon is already moving. He cups her face between his hands, kisses her damp brow. “We knew this could happen. You’re not alone. I’m here.”

She nods once—barely. Her legs tremble.

The room shifts again—heat rising, breath catching, time suspended.

“Now,” Marren urges. “One more.”

The Queen bears down with a raw cry, teeth bared, and Daemon holds her like something sacred is breaking between them.

Then—another wail, thinner this time, but no less fierce.

“A girl,” Marren says, near tears herself. “Two Targaryens, born in the same hour.”

The Queen sobs openly now—joy, exhaustion, awe. Her hands shake as Daemon takes the boy—Aerion—swaddled in soft crimson linen, and cradles him to his chest. Then the girl—Visenya—is placed into the Queen’s arms, her skin flushed and perfect, already reaching with tiny fingers.

No one speaks for a long while.

Only the sound of the fire crackling. The storm outside easing. Two newborns breathing.

Daemon sits beside her, one babe in each arm now, his cheek resting against the Queen’s. His eyes glint with something unspoken.

“They’ll believe they’re Viserys’,” she whispers, hoarse.

Daemon nods. “Let them.”

She glances toward the door, where no guards stand, only Marren—faithful, quiet, already preparing tea, as if this were any other birth. She would never speak of what she knows.

The Queen looks at Daemon again, eyes glassy. “I don’t regret it.”

He smiles—not the smirk of a rogue, but something softer. Earnest. Vulnerable. “Neither do I.”

He presses his lips to her knuckles, then to Aerion’s forehead, then to Visenya’s tiny crown of silver-fine hair.

When Viserys enters the room at dawn, he will find his Queen sleeping peacefully, the twins resting between her and Daemon, who will have slipped back into the shadows, seen but not seen.

The King will name them his.

The court will rejoice.

Only three souls will carry the truth like fire tucked in their chest.

And none will ever let it burn them.