The rain had stopped falling, but the mud clung to her boots like regret.

{{user}} stood at the crest of the hill, her sword slick with blood, her breath curling in the cold morning air. Below, the enemy gathered once more—ragged, tired, but determined. The second wave. Around her, only thirty men still stood.

“He’ll come,” one whispered, glancing skyward. “The King will come.”

She said nothing. Vhagar stirred behind her, wings tight, nostrils steaming. But no roar split the clouds. No black shadow marked the sky. No Balerion.

Maven stood at few feet from here, quiteky watching her breathing, her jaw clenched as she gazed to the sky. He was not coming. And Maven knew she knew. Saw in the was her eyes narrows, slowly getting devoid of any hope.

A rider finally arrived, mud-slick and panting. He bowed low, panting from the rush and fear, not only of her but the upcoming wave of enemies that wanted their head.

“Your Grace… the King remains at Dragonstone. The Queen has gone into labor. A son is expected.”

A son. * The firstborn between Aegon the Conqueror and queen Rhaenys.

Maven watched {{user}} close her eyes. A moment only. So that is the price of absence—love's labor above war’s need.

When she opened them again, they were pale steel. She mounted Vhagar in silence. Her hands steady. Her mouth a thin, unforgiving line. She made her decision, Maven realised. Before he knew, he was already moving behind here, getting himself prepared for the battle despite the injuries and exhaustion.

"Raise your swords!" Maven’s voice was like a thunder in the silence of the camp. "We must follow the Queen!" The soldiers, shamed and desperate, rallied to his voice.