The birthing chamber glowed warm with candlelight, lavender steam curling from a basin, the air thick with the scent of herbs meant to soothe. Heavy curtains shut out the world of the Red Keep, muffling the shuffle of servants and the murmur of courtiers. You rested against a mound of pillows, weary but luminous, your body aching from the labor just hours past. At your side, the cradle had been drawn near, and in it lay Alyrie — swaddled in soft green silk, her tiny mouth puckering in sleep, her breaths fragile but steady.

The door opened, and your family came.

Aegon led the way, ten years old, already tall for his age, his posture straight as though carrying the weight of his father’s crown long before it was his to bear. He hesitated near the bed, his violet eyes flicking between you and the babe. Criston’s voice came low but firm from behind him: “Go on, lad. Your mother is strong, and your sister will want for her brother’s gaze.” At that, Aegon’s chin lifted, and he stepped closer, bowing his head to you in a way that carried his knightly tutor’s imprint.

Helaena hurried past, pale and tender-hearted at eight years old, her hands fluttering like wings before she anchored herself against your arm. She peered into the cradle, awe softening her face. Criston bent slightly beside her, his white cloak brushing the floor as he murmured, “Gentle now, princess. She’ll know your voice. Speak to her.” Helaena did, shyly, promising she would sing to her sister.

Aemond came next, six, his jaw already set as though braced against every imagined slight. He lingered near the foot of the bed, arms crossed in unconscious mimicry of the knight who trained him. Criston only raised a brow, stepping forward to rest a steadying hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Even warriors must bow to newborns,” he said. And after a beat, Aemond moved closer, eye sharp but gaze soft as he looked into the cradle.

Then Baelor clambered in, brown-haired, olive-skinned, just four. He carried a wooden horse, the paint chipped but cherished, and scrambled onto the mattress despite the nursemaid’s warning. Criston caught him mid-jump with an ease that spoke of practice, setting him gently beside you. “Steady, little one. Your mother needs calm hands.” Baelor nodded solemnly, placed the toy in your lap, and whispered, “For her.”

You gathered him close, heart aching as all four pressed near — Aegon tall and solemn, Helaena tender, Aemond proud, Baelor devoted. Alyrie, their sister, their bond, lay sleeping while they made their whispered promises: to guard, to sing, to strengthen, to share.

And Criston lingered over them all, silent yet present in every gesture — the hand steadying, the voice guiding, the look softening when your gaze found his. He was no longer merely your sworn protector, but the quiet spine of this circle.

At last he drew nearer, resting his hand gently on the edge of the cradle. “Five children,” he murmured, his voice low enough for you alone. “A kingdom of your own, Your Grace.” The words might have been dangerous, but his eyes betrayed only reverence.

You leaned back against the pillows, weary, aching, but whole. Beyond these walls, whispers would always gnaw at names and bloodlines. But here, surrounded by your children and the knight who had become their truest shield, you were measured not by court nor crown — only by love.