The birthing room smelled of blood, hot water, and crushed herbs, a cloying sweetness that clung to the back of Valarr’s throat. He had stood in halls slick with rain and mud, had walked fields strewn with broken men and shattered banners, yet nothing had ever rooted him so firmly to the floor as the sound of a newborn’s first cry.

It was thin at first, more breath than voice, then stronger, defiant. Alive.

Valarr did not move.

He stood just inside the threshold, one hand braced against the cold stone wall, his fingers numb, as if the chill had crept up from the floor and into his bones. But too warm. The air pressed in on him, heavy with expectation.

On the bed lay {{user}}.

She looked smaller than she had any right to, swallowed by sheets and shadows, her silver hair plastered to her temples with sweat. Yet there was a fierceness in her still, even now, something unbroken. Valarr saw Shiera Seastar in the line of her throat, Brynden Rivers in the sharp cut of her cheekbones, pale skin flushed with the aftermath of pain and life wrested from death.

In her arms was a child.

No. children.

A son, red and squalling, his tiny fists clenched as though already prepared to fight the world that had claimed him. And beside him, quieter, wrapped tighter, a daughter with eyes still sealed shut, her breathing soft and stubborn.

Twins. The word echoed in Valarr’s mind, hollow and vast.

Across the room, Kiera knelt close to the bed, her pink hair loose, her face pale but alight with something fierce and aching. She hovered near the girl-child, cooing softly, her fingers gentle as they brushed the infant’s cheek. There was no jealousy in her eyes. No bitterness.

If anything, there was relief. And that cut deeper than any blade.

For moons, whispers had followed him like carrion birds. Whispers that Brynden Rivers had cursed his line. That his first children with Kiera, stillborn, silent, stolen, had been paid for in blood and sorcery. Whispers loud enough that even a king had listened.

Is this really Brynden-level pettiness? Valarr had asked himself once, bitter and sleepless. To kill children not yet born, to punish a grandson for the sins of a realm?

Looking now at the living proof in {{user}}’s arms, he did not know what to believe...

King Daeron stood near the foot of the bed, his crown set aside, his expression thunderous and raw. A dragonlord’s anger coiled in him, old and dangerous. For a heartbeat, Valarr truly thought his king might draw steel and have Brynden Rivers dragged from whatever shadow he hid in, condemned for treason, kinslaying, or worse.

But then Daeron stepped forward. Slowly. Reverently.

“May I?” the king asked, his voice stripped bare of command.

{{user}} lifted her gaze. Her eyes, violet, star-bright despite exhaustion, found Valarr for half a heartbeat, then Daeron. She gave a single nod.

Daeron took the boy into his arms.

The squalling ceased, as if even the child sensed the weight of history holding him. The king stared down at his great-grandson, wonder softening the lines carved into his face by rule and regret.

“A strong cry,” Daeron murmured. “Good lungs. He will live. Unlike the others...”

Baelor Breakspear stood nearby, already cradling the girl-child with a knight’s careful strength. he rocked her gently, murmuring nonsense words meant only to soothe.

Valarr watched it all as though from beneath dark water.

“What should we name them?” he asked when he find his voice.