Stormlight rolled in slow sheets over King’s Landing, thunder muttering beyond the high windows of Maegor’s Holdfast. The city still bore scars from the Dance of the Dragons—blackened stone, rebuilt towers, grief folded into mortar—but inside the royal birthing chamber, warmth reigned.

The room prepared for you was vast, circular, draped in heavy silks the color of old Valyria—deep crimson and royal purple—hung to trap heat. Braziers burned low and constant. Bowls of steaming water lined a carved oak table stacked with linens softer than lambswool. A septa murmured distant prayers. A maester hovered discreetly near the hearth, chains glinting in the firelight. The carved dragonposts of the great bed loomed behind you, canopies drawn back like waiting wings.

You did not lie down.

You paced.

Another contraction seized you—low, tightening, purposeful. It stole your breath for a count of five. Six. Seven.

You exhaled through your teeth.

Across the chamber, your son wriggled in the arms of a nursemaid, silver hair wild, violet eyes fierce with importance. Two years old and already convinced the realm moved at his command.

“Mama!” Luca declared, wriggling free enough to toddle closer. “Mama bring baby.”

A soft, strained laugh left you despite the ache. “I am trying, my love.”

He planted his small feet wide, as though bracing for battle. “Bring baby now.”

From near the hearth, Jacaerys Velaryon crossed the chamber in three strides, kneeling to scoop Luca before he could barrel directly into your legs. “Gently,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the boy’s temple. His voice carried steadiness—but his hand lingered a moment too long at your hip when he rose beside you.

Another wave built.

You gripped his forearm. He did not flinch. The prince who had once flown into war now stood utterly still beneath your grasp, as though bracing himself were the only battle he could win for you.

“Breathe with me,” he said quietly.

You did.

The chamber hushed except for the storm.

Somewhere beyond the thick stone walls, dragons shifted restlessly in their pits. The air felt charged, ancient. The blood of Rhaenyra Targaryen ran through your husband—and through your child—and through the babe pressing insistently downward within you.

Luca twisted in Jace’s arms and reached for you again. “Mama bring baby,” he insisted, softer now, as though coaxing a reluctant hatchling from its shell.

“I shall,” you promised, voice lower, more breathless than before.

The maester approached carefully. “Princess, the pains are closer.”

“I know,” you replied evenly.

You did not want the bed yet. You wanted to move. To sway. To let gravity and instinct work together. The dragonposts cast long shadows across the floor, firelight rippling over carved scales.

Jace leaned closer, forehead brushing yours. “You are stronger than this city,” he murmured.

A faint smile touched your lips. “That is not difficult.”

Thunder cracked overhead, sharp and immediate. Luca gasped, then grinned, delighted by the noise.

“Dragon loud!” he announced.

“Yes,” Jace agreed, eyes never leaving you. “Dragon loud.”

Another contraction seized you—stronger, deeper. You bent into it, one hand gripping the carved post of the bed, the other clutching your husband’s sleeve. The world narrowed to breath and pressure and heat.