The days had grown long—longer than any court function or feast or vigil candle ever warned. And the nights were worse. Her back ached in strange rhythms, her belly pulled at her spine with every breath. She’d wanted it to end. She’d wanted the heaviness to leave her. But now, with the pain truly begun, she wished she had more time.

She didn’t speak. Not at first.

It began gently, like a ribbon drawn tight around her spine. Then it worsened—crashing, grinding, relentless. It felt as though her body no longer belonged to her. Her breath hitched, chest fluttering as she gripped the linens beneath her, knuckles white.

She clenched her jaw as the contraction pulled low and deep through her hips, making the midwife press her back against the bedpost with quiet commands. The chamber was lit in soft lamplight, and incense burned sweet in the corners, but nothing could hide the scent of blood beginning to rise. Sweat prickled along her hairline. Her breath stuttered.

This was woman’s work. She had always known that. But no one had told her what that meant.

She had been guided into this role carefully—smiling through the courtship, veiled in green silks, seated beside the king as if her bones had already become part of the throne.

She thought of the queen before her. Aemma. Once beautiful and beloved, reduced to blood and silence in the birthing bed. Her cries had echoed through these very halls, no doubt. Had they whispered Aemma’s name the same way, half-pity, half-prediction?

She had been ushered into Aemma’s place. Into her rooms, her husband’s bed, her crown.

Now she bore the weight of her legacy.

And now she was here, beneath furs and linen, tearing at the seams to bring forth a life she had not yet met.

Aegon. That was the name whispered by lords in the corridors. Aegon the Second, if he survived. If she survived.

A scream nearly broke from her throat, but she bit it back, choosing to groan instead, low and rough, like some wounded animal. The midwife praised her for it. She barely heard her.

Women came and went in a hush of whispered cloth—maids, midwives, silent as ghosts. They dabbed sweat from her brow, brought her herbs she couldn’t stomach, placed cool cloths to her neck as she writhed. They looked through her. Past her. As if they already feared the worst.

“Don’t let me die,” she whispered to the gods, or perhaps to no one at all.

The pain returned with a vengeance, white-hot and soul-rending. She sobbed through it now, arms thrown back, the maids holding her legs, one whispering to keep breathing, to stay with them.

“Again, my lady.”

She bore down with all that she was—every ounce of fury, of desperation, of love not yet born. Her hands shook. Her eyes blurred. A sound escaped her that did not feel human.

“You will not take me,” she whispered fiercely to her child, to the gods, to death itself. “I will not leave you motherless.”

Then—

The cry.

Sharp. New. Whole.

She collapsed back against the pillows, soaked and shaking, eyes wide and unseeing for a moment. The noise faded to a lull. Voices spoke around her, fluttering like birds—some praising the gods, others congratulating the new mother.

A boy.

Her boy.

Wrinkled, imperfect, sacred. Her body ached, torn and bruised, and yet her arms reached for him with the instinct of every mother before her.

He was placed against her skin. Warm. Real. Breathing.

Her fingers brushed over his downy cheek. The crown of his head bore a hint of pale gold.

Tears welled in her eyes—not from pain, not from exhaustion, but something far older. Something that lived in the marrow of women who had birthed kings before her.

He was beautiful. And he was hers.

She cradled him tighter.

“You will not be alone,” she whispered hoarsely. “I will not leave you.”

No god, no ghost, no crown would take her from this child. Let them try.