The chamber smells of blood and crushed herbs. The maesters are unease, they have been since your labour began. Two moons too early never bodes well for any babe.

Valarr stands at the foot of the bed, fiddling with the rings on his fingers anxiously, watching as they tend to you. They move with brisk efficiency, murmuring instructions he cannot quite hear over the pounding in his ears. He's stood by you since the first push, holding your hand when needed, even wiping your brow, more than any other prince would do for their partner. But now, with the babe born silent, he's at a loss of what to do.

Then someone presses the bundle into his arms. “Your son,” a maester says, reverent and grim all at once.

Valarr’s arms close instinctively, years of training and lineage meaning nothing compared to the sudden weight of something so small. The babe is perfect, truly perfect. Tiny fists curled like seashells, dark lashes resting against cheeks still flushed from birth. A Targaryen nose. His nose. Valarr’s throat tightens so sharply he almost laughs at it.

He waits for the cry, but it does not come. The silence stretches, thin and merciless. For a heartbeat, Valarr’s mind refuses the truth. He shifts the child slightly, as if the angle is wrong, as if breath is something that can be coaxed by adjustment alone. His thumb brushes the baby’s cheek, gentle, reverent. “Breathe,” he whispers, the plea torn and useless.