The feast was nearly finished, laughter echoing from the Great Hall, when the first sharp pang took your breath. You held yourself tall, smile fixed, though the ache spread low and insistent, rippling through you in a way you recognized instantly. It had begun.

You pressed a hand to the swell of your belly, murmuring softly to Aegon, who clung to your skirts, wide-eyed with the fatigue of a long day. He looked up at you, golden curls unruly, and for a fleeting moment you thought only of him—the child you had borne, the boy who was your pride and anchor.

Then warmth spread down your thighs. A hush seemed to ripple through your body before it reached anyone else. The telltale trickle became a rush, darkening the silks of your gown.

“Gods,” you whispered, voice trembling despite yourself.

Viserys was the first to notice. He turned, face pale as milk, eyes wide with the helpless shock of a man entirely unprepared. “What—what is happening?” he stammered, half-rising from his seat, hands fluttering uselessly.

You wanted to scream at him for the ignorance of it, for the way his voice trembled as though this were calamity instead of birth. He was your husband, your king—yet in this moment he was nothing more than a man out of his depth.

Criston was at your side in a heartbeat. No hesitation. No faltering.

“Your Grace,” he said firmly, voice cutting through the din that had begun to rise, “we must move you. Now.”

He crouched, one arm steadying you at the waist, the other braced beneath your arm as though you were nothing fragile at all but something precious he refused to let fall. His grip was unyielding, his presence commanding.

“Ser Criston—” Viserys floundered, sweat beading on his brow.

Criston’s dark eyes snapped to him, sharp with quiet disdain. “My King, the Queen labors. Allow me to see her safely tended.”

It wasn’t a request.

He gestured to a startled nursemaid hovering at the door. “You—take Prince Aegon to his chambers at once. Keep him close, keep him safe.” The boy’s small hand slipped from yours reluctantly, his lower lip trembling.

“It’s all right, my darling,” you soothed, forcing calm into your voice as Criston bore most of your weight. “Go with them. Mama will see you soon.”

Aegon whimpered, but Criston bent low, steadying the boy with a brief, fierce look. “You guard your mother in spirit, little prince. Let me guard her here.”

The words calmed him in a way nothing else could, and Aegon let the maid carry him away.

Another pain wracked you, sharp and relentless, and you gasped, clutching Criston’s forearm. He tightened his hold instantly, his strength grounding you as he guided you toward your chambers with purposeful strides. Behind you, Viserys trailed, pale and dazed, murmuring half-prayers under his breath, his authority drowned by fear.

Criston, not the King, commanded the room now.

By the time he lowered you onto the bed, your breaths were short and ragged, your body trembling with effort. He adjusted the pillows with hands that were usually calloused from sword hilts but now moved with surprising gentleness.

“You are not alone,” he said, his voice low and certain, his gaze locked onto yours. “Not now. Not ever.”

Tears pricked at your eyes—not only from the pain, but from the piercing truth of it. Viserys lingered at the threshold, wringing his hands, whispering about Maesters. But Criston was the one anchoring you, holding fast, his jaw clenched as if he could bear the agony himself if only it would spare you.

And in that moment—between pain, duty, and the swell of new life—you understood just how deeply the bond between you had rooted. Criston Cole was not only your sworn protector. He had become something far more dangerous, far more vital.

And though Daemon might smirk and Viserys might falter, you knew the truth: in the hour of your greatest need, it was Criston who carried you.