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Chapter Text

There are no maps where Seirazi is born. 

There are no books, nor written word she understands at first. They have tapestries. They have rugs, well worn by time and fabrics sewn with intricate patterns of their ancestors, of battles won and lost, and histories she does not know. They have stories, told around a fire, traded from mouth to mouth of dangers lurking in the grassy sea, in the bone mountains to the east, the slave cities to the west, or the red waste to the south. But there are no maps to chart the place of her second birth. 

Only stars. 

(And even they are new and unknown to her.)

The Lhazar are people who plot their next step only to follow the path of the migrating herds. They split off from the cities a long, long time ago. When Old Ghis was still standing, overflowing with the blood of young slaves. After the dragons took flight, after the Harpy had its head bitten off, they fled high into the mountains—where even the dragons would not follow to chain them next. 

Every story Seirazi is told around the fire about their beginning comes with an air of warning. There are no Lhazareen heroes who rise up through their chains. There are no moments of greatness in Ghis. There was simply before and after, and the before comes with a warning to each child that sits around the fire, who listens to their elder speak. From chains they fled to chains they will return should they be caught again. That is the path of the Lhazareen. 

The only way is forward. 

Seirazi holds the lesson close as she sleeps in a cot of lambswool. Guarded by the family sheepdog, and tucked up close to her elder sisters and brother. She’s lucky to be born to a loving family. A father who adores her, five older sisters who take turns weaving plaits into her hair, dressing her in their old beaded clothes, and a brother who makes it his solemn duty to follow her around like her sworn shield. Some of them are half-siblings. Some of them aren’t related by blood. The Lhazar raise their children communally—they are all one flock . Seirazi is never short on companionship. 

When she looks to her mother, dressed in ceremonial robes, surrounded by other wise women who look to her for guidance, she sees someone of great importance. Saikhan of the Asa-Raan carries the title of Godswife and Maegi. Both terms unfamiliar to her daughter, but words that inspire immense respect from her kinsmen. Seirazi toddles in her mother’s footsteps, puzzling over the words they speak during each clan meeting. She listens with rapt detail to the lessons her mother imparts to the people seeking her help. It’s Lhazareen custom to never turn anyone away. 

“Take this for the nausea,” says her Uuma , as her mother passes a young woman a tea that smells strongly of fresh mountain herbs. She motions for her to remove her shoes as she sits, and Saikhan massages the woman’s joints with practiced hands. “Come to me when your joints swell. This pregnancy will not be an easy one.” 

The woman presses a hand to her stomach, eyes wide. “Will the child live?” 

“So long as you care for your health,” she says, moving to massage the other ankle. Seirazi watches on the sidelines, reminded of physiotherapy from her first life. Her mother seems to have a great deal of familiarity with the placement of tendons. Her touch is careful yet firm. “The first birth is always the hardest. Your body is labouring for two hearts now.” 

A thought strikes Seirazi like lightning as the pregnant woman sips her tea. She blurts out in English. “ She’s preeclamptic. ” 

Her mother turns to her. Familiar with her occasional bouts of another language. They know it’s not baby talk, have known she wasn’t normal from the moment she was born and didn’t cry. Looking out at the world with too-old eyes and a soul that’s known the taste of death before. But they aren’t distressed by it. If anything, they see her oddness as a blessing. 

(The root of their people’s name—Lhazarus—means: Shepherd be my help . Seirazi doesn’t know how to feel about its similarity to the Latin Earth word. How the two thread over. Or even why.)

(But she is not the first of her kind.) 

“Did you say something, lamb?” 

Seirazi remembers her schooling. She’d nursed women with the same affliction in hospitals and at home. It was her life’s calling before. It calls to her once again. 

Seirazi translates as best she can. “Her blood is… it’s pushing on her veins.” 

“Is it now?” her Uuma asks, and her smile is warm and proud. She’s never once snubbed Seirazi’s comments. Welcomes them, actually. “Do you wish to help? Come, stand beside me. Tell me more of your thoughts, and I’ll show you we care for our kin.” 

And she does. It’s an apprenticeship that Seirazi takes to very seriously. In another life a child her size would be in elementary school learning their ABC’s, but Seirazi aids in her first delivery before she loses her baby teeth, holding the hand of the woman in labour, and delivering fresh towels. She spends her second childhood memorizing local herbs and their applications. It’s not easy, giving up carefully designed pills and chemicals in favor of raw materials, but her clan has a great understanding of traditional medicine. They’d have to—when the difference means life or death. 

She takes to her schooling so seriously that nickname her 'baahskn maegi' which roughly translates to 'little sage' from her pudgy little scowl. 

(It's not her fault this new face of hers is overwhelmingly cute.)

(Unfortunately, the Lhazar don't carry mirrors, so it’s not like she knows what she looks like, apart from the black hair, brown skin, and almond-shaped eyes shared by the rest of her kin.)

But it's a peaceful second life on the planes.  

Her Abaa carries her on his back when winter pushes their flock to migrate southward, and her young legs tire from travelling. Her head rests on his shoulder, and she sees endless rolling grass hills as far as the eye can see. They go from ankle-high to taller than her father’s head. Easy to be lost in if separated from the herd. 

But her Abaa is a smart man, he sticks to the grasses tread by the feet before him—the hundreds of cloven hooves that give their clan their livelihood. Seirazi has never seen sheep quite like the one her family keeps, but there are so many of them, and their wool is so soft and woven into everything they have. Their important life-giving properties are understood by her before she even hears of the lamb god, the Great Shepherd . To her, the reverence makes sense. Like much of of steppe life, actually. It’s simple. Sensible. Who wouldn’t devote themselves wholeheartedly to the thing that gives them life?

As she sighs and snuggles closer to her Abaa , a part of her in conflict with this new life wears away. As though this was a place she was always meant to be. Plucked from the crowded metal cities and vicious online echo chambers. This place—these people, this peace out on the planes—her soul is at rest here. 

'This can be home,' she thinks. She can move forward. She doesn’t need to look back. 

“ Jijig ,” her father says, stopping to readjust his hold on her. He turns and waves a long piece of grass in front of her face. Calling her his joy again. ” Jijig , do you know what this is?“ 

They play guessing games with everything . It's the fastest way to expand her language, and the clan is more than happy to oblige. She knows the Lhazareen word for grass. The basic one, anyway. Living so close to the Dothraki sea, there are more than twenty different words for it. But her Abaa is testing her. 

She screws her face up in thought. There are some words that don’t translate well between lives. But language is almost as important as herbs and remedies. She must learn it all. 

“Whipgrass?” 

“Close. But listen...” He brings the blade to his lips, and blows. It gives a trill, like a bird, and Seirazi's eyes light up in childish glee. “It's whistlegrass . Tweet tweet!” 

She loves it. She loves listening to her Abaa fiddle with the blade as they migrate south with the rest of their caravan. No trucks to carry their things, but the tall, stocky sheep they shepherd, what they can fit on thin tentlike wagons, or whatever they can carry by hand. She loves his songs and his stories and the little trills he makes to her to entertain her during the long migration south. 

It's love that decides little Seirazi is important enough to bring with them on the journey. There are other Lhazareen unable to make the migration with the herd, and she watches with too-old eyes as clansmen make their goodbyes in the few permanent cities that the Lhazar keep. It’s a retirement that splits families. They do not expect to meet again. 

But the only way is forward. 

The Lhazar are nothing without their sheep. They are one flock, united together, on the high steppes and the everlasting grassy planes. Splitting off from the herd is death. It is meeting with the things that prowl the Dothraki Sea at night. It's Harpies and slave chains and Dragonfire. 

She just wished those midnight tales were farther behind them. 

The first time Seirazi meets with death again, it brushes past with the quietest of whispers. She doesn’t hear it coming late at night. 

Their camp is surrounded by tall grass in all directions. The sheep group in large circles at night. Their lambs and ewes in the centre, while the rams face outward, horns at the ready. Her clansmen do the same, propping up temporary tents with the children in the middle, the women sleeping around them, and the men surrounding. The Lhazar aren’t warriors by nature. They carry wooden spears and thin blades more suited to cutting wool than flesh. The only meat they need is from the flock. The only weapon they truly excel at is the bow and arrow, but it's useless in the pitch-dark. 

So when Seirazi wakes in the middle of the night and needs to pee—and all the other activities one truly misses a toilet for on the steppe—it’s her older brother and the family sheepdog that take her out to the edge of the encampment, where she can squat in the grass and do her business, that death finds her. 

“Hurry it up, will you?” Sarnai whispers, glancing around as the sheepdog bristles. “It’s too quiet out here.” 

But death finds him first. 

There's a flash of white that leaps over Seirazi's head and suddenly it's upon him with claws and teeth. Sarnai goes from her big brother, yawning and impatiently waiting—to some dead lifeless thing clamped in the jaws of a Hrakkar . A massive white plains lion the likes of which she'd never seen before. And this, she knows at an instant, is what looking death in the eyes is like. 

White luminous terror in the darkness. Maw clamping shut. 

It drags Sarnai into the grass in an instant, and her shrieks wake the entire encampment. The herd nearly takes off right then and there, and they search the entire night for a trace of Sarnai's remains after the dog chases after him—but find only blood, fur, and Hrakkar tracks. Seirazi never strays from the centre of the flock from there on out. But death finds her again a few years later, after the seasons change and they migrate back up the Skahzadhan river. The white lion isn't the only hunter on the plains. The sheep aren't the only game to be had. 

The Dothraki on their horses strike with brutal swiftness. Her tribe is cut in two before they realize what's happening, and then again as the riders push the weaker members further onto the fringes. And it's there the women and children are pulled off their feet, thrown onto the backs of horses, and carried away. 

It's not until later that the chains come. But the intent in clear. Dothraki no not keep prisoners out of kindness. It’s for bloodsport, for conquest, for rape and enslavement. 

Seirazi falls into the first category as a Dothraki bloodrider sweeps past her during the chaos. She’s too short for his sword to cut off her head, but the hooves of his war horse trample her into the ground. 

And Seirazi dies her second death. 

⩫ 

When she wakes the camp is barren and her kin are scattered. Dothraki Jaqqa rahn —mercy men—walk amongst the bodies, cutting off the heads of the dead and dying. She thinks she sees her father among them. She sees her sisters, further off, bound and loaded up onto the backs of horses. Her mother is nowhere to be seen. 

The mercy men take notice of her reawakening and yank her to her feet. There’s not a scratch on her they can see. She’s covered in dirt and bruises but she’s alive, miraculously. They didn’t see the warhorse’s hooves crack against her head. She thinks it’s just a fluke. 

She’s taken as another spoil of war and witnesses more horrors alive than she does dead. Particularly, the rape of her sisters at the hand of the Khalasars. The Kahl joins in. His Khaleesi, a hefty, beautiful woman, drinks and toasts to the brave warriors. Her eyes ghost past Seirazi like she’s less than the dirt beneath her heels and she smiles. Her neck adorned with sparkling white Hrakkar teeth. 

It’s a joke to say there’s any mercy here. This third life is nothing but pain.  

⩫

Some of the Khalasars take a liking to her sisters. They don’t relinquish them all when they take their spoils through the Khyzai pass. Serazi remembers stories from her kin calling the region the passage of slaves. It was the place they fled through after Old Ghis fell. It’s the place she’s taken through now to be sold back to the empires that rose from the ashes. 

It’s a common exchange between the Dothraki and the Meereen masters. Once upon a time the Lhazareen and the Dothraki were one kin, fleeing Ghis together. But time and resentment had split the herd. Seriazi turns back and watches the Khaleesi with hrakkar teeth as she stands with the rest of her tribe. The sisters they keep as concubines she never sees again. 

Once they’re taken to Slaver’s Bay she’s separated from the remainder of her family. A tight metal link is put around her neck, and she’s dragged off towards where the other children are kept. 

She stays in Meereen for five miserable, delirious years. She scrubs floors until her hands bleed, she fills cups, and entertains her masters with whatever disgusting tasks they ask for. As she grows older and their interest in her childish face wanes, she attracts a larger group of men who want more pieces of her. And even though she continues to take in breath, a part of her dies every night, and dies again in the morning. 

It doesn’t matter that she finally sees maps in Meereen. It doesn’t matter that she realizes she’s in Essos. It doesn’t matter if she recognizes this place and these people when they have her in chains. She wants to die. But the slavers are very careful about keeping their property in working condition. 

But when she reaches her fourteenth year, she’s taken to an auction. Stripped bare and paraded like chattel—and catches the eye of a red priest who buys her on sight. Like an exotic spice they’ve been shopping everywhere for. Still less than human, but worth more than her fellow enslaved. Her life is resold for a tidy sum. A sack of coin that saves her from spending the rest of her life in a pleasure house. 

Then she’s loaded on a ship bound to sail west, and everything changes all over again. 

It comes in the form of a tropical storm. 

⩫

It’s an insult is what it is. 

An undeniable act of aggression. More than enough reason for war. The stepstones have always been a vulnerable point for trade. A point of contention between the East and West. There has always been risk in sending ships through. Pirates and competition and looters of all sorts. But downing a Velaryon ship—downing one of his ships—that's something Corlys can't ignore. 

He stands on the deck of his ship; Kings Landing at his back, and the Stepstones a distant sight on the horizon. The winds blow strongly from the south. It's a strong wind. A tempestuous one. The sea bites hard at the side of his ship, rocking the Sea Snake, but she's a vessel that can't be swayed, even from some tropical storm from the south. But it bodes poorly for the recovery fleet he sent for the ship that went down. With weather like this, whatever's in the drink really will be food for crabs. 

Corlys knows he's out there too. He grips the bannister. Staring out where the bastard sits, enjoying the spoils of his piracy. 

When his ships return, he's grateful they return in one piece. But they're cutting it close to missing the King's tourney. 

“We're going to miss the joust at this rate,” Laenor complains, hanging off the bannister like the boy he is. 

“I didn't raise you to stand like that, sailor,” he shoots back, and Laenor pushes himself up as the recovery ship sides up next to them. Close enough to rock the Sea Snake more. He finds his sea legs, but not like nobility. The corner of Corly's mouth twitches at his son's embarrassment. “Look sharp—the rest of the crew is looking to you to be the next captain one day. If you wanted to see the joust so badly, you should have ridden on dragonback with your mother and sister.” 

“Seasmoke isn't big enough for long sea travel...” he murmurs. 

“Better to have you here on deck,” Corlys replies. He ruffles the top of Laenor’s head as the crew draws the two ships together with ropes. The Sea Snake and The Albatross have a significant height difference between them. The former more than several heads higher than the Caravel, but she's no less formidable. His brother looks up at him from the deck below. 

“Ahoy, Admiral! I trust the winds have been kind on your travel.” 

“Kinder I expect than they've been for you,” Corlys replies. He eyes the Albatross's crew as they scurry about. Tense despite his expression. “Am I wrong to hope the sea has been forgiving for us?” 

“She has her ways,” Vaemond replies. It's then Corlys knows he isn't going to hear anything good. His brother shifts, nodding up at Laenor as the boy hangs over the side again to look down on him, before turning back to the Lord of the Tides. “You’ll be interested in what we fished out of the water though.” 

“Oh?” He notes there's nothing of note on deck. 

“Is it treasure?” Laenor asks excitedly. Corlys can't fault him for his excitement, but Vaemond doesn't smile back. 

“It's a girl,” he says, as the wind blows hard above them. “She says she has a message for you.” 

⩫

They can't fucking understand her at first. 

Of course they can't. They speak a garbled, nonsense version of English. The kind that makes her head spin and makes even less sense than the slave speech she picked up in Meereen.

Seirazi drinks and drinks and drinks so much water on the ship until her stomach hurts. Her mouth is cracked and dry, and everything still tastes like salt. Her hands tremble—all of her trembles. Is cold and weak and barely holding on. It doesn't help that she can’t understand anything these Westerosi sailors say. But when Vaemond Velaryon offers her fruit and crackers after starving out in the water for weeks on end, she doesn't look a gift horse in the eye. 

“ Thither âr êow oðtêon? ” Someone asks from the other end of the room. 

They gave her a cot and a bed to her own, but she hates the swaying of the ship. She hates everything about the water after being fished out of it. She shifts in discomfort as the speaker tries again.  

“ Fremian êower beneah benugon bêga benemnan? "

It sounds like English but it's not English. It's medieval and wrong, even if the accents are right, and she dislikes the sound of it all. 

Seirazi lowers her cup, looking straight into the eyes of a man who should be made of words and paper. His head is a mane of white dreads. Same as his brother, who’s marked for death. The hrakkar has its eyes on her again.

“Cor-lys Vel-ar-ee-on,” she enunciates, slowly but perfectly, so he knows she knows who he is. He straightens, attention caught. Then she says in English. “Of all the worlds I had to be fucking reborn in, it had to be yours.” 

He cocks his head to the side. “ Lettan? "

It sounds like 'pardon ,’ so she keeps going. Complaining is the only thing that makes her feel somewhat better. And the fact that he cant understand her makes him a prime target. Nobody ever let her talk in Meereen. Her chest feels as though it'll burst from all the words she'd been forced to swallow.

“No, really. I'd say I'd rather be dead but your world's done enough in that department. I was happy once—I can't stand this world any longer. It's a nightmare. It's a crime. Tell your maker to fix this right now. Fix it and let me go home.” 

He shakes his head. " Myne brôðor saye mâl flôwan êow nêan a flêotan flêotende hêanes duguð hwælweg forð forðbie sê Stæpstðne. Wer sîn êower feccan to? ”

“Tell your god I'm done here. Tell him to stop. I want out of this story. Out of this life—this corpse,” she spits, before the fire in her bleeds out. “But even death won’t give me a door out.” 

After the ship went down, it dragged her into her fourth life. The only survivor. Some part of her still feels like it's drowning. 

Despite her complaining though, there’s no going back. She’s known this since she was a child. Since she was born into her mother’s arms. After the Dothraki, after the chains. Looking back is just a reminder of everything she lost with each life shed. Something changes every time. 

When Seirazi switches languages, her tongue sits uncomfortably in her mouth. It's not perfect, her manner of speaking, but neither was her atmosphere for learning.  “I am gladdened you are here.” 

Corlys lets out a startled laugh. When he replies, she understands it. But some of the words are still hard to grasp. Sharp, accented, and fast. “Why didn't you say you spoke a Valerian dialect?” 

“I am keeping no love for 'se tongue of my masters,” she replies. Corlys eyes flick down to the bands on her wrists; still there despite her escape from the ship. The skin is raw and broken, but far less damaged than it had been when water had been streaming in from above deck, past her shoulders. She cant remember breaking her chains when the ship went under. Seirazi flicks her eyes up to catch Corlys eye, and she speaks in resignation. “Throw me back in 'se water if you have a thought of sending me back east. ” 

His expression softens. Gingerly, he steps forward into the room, the floorboards squeaking under his heavy feet. “I'd sooner hang up my captain’s hat before I sell a girl back into slavery.”

“You would be 'se first in a long time to be saying so,” she replies, too old for her bones. “And I have not been a girl for even longer.”

Corlys holds her gaze for a long moment. She sees pity in his face, despite the composure he keeps. She's a pathetic, tiny thing at his mercy. The same expression as his brother's. Mercy is the only thing she has going for it. She loathes this helplessness. The uncertainty. The only thing she seems to be good at is getting caught and dying.    

Then Corlys shifts to a topic that gives her an edge. “Vaemond says you had a message for me.” 

“Vaemond is correct,” she replies, and he squints at how familiar she is with his name. In this world rank and address are everything. But she knows him. She knows them all. “Your kingdom is to have a crisis. Your family will be drawn in a civil war, and 'se queen about to die in childbirth. I think it was only fair to give you warning.” 

It's the second time she's surprised him in as many minutes. “How do you know?” 

“I've seen it,” she says. “The steps to your kingdom's downfall. The death of 'se Targaryen line. Scholars an age from now will call it 'se Dance of 'se Dragons. I know how it starts. I saw it happen another life ago. It was gratuously-" she trips over the word. "Documented. ” 

He scoffs. “And I'm just to take your word on it? A sailor's worth a healthy dose of superstition but I haven't sailed nine journeys ‘round the world a fool .” 

“Of course you haven't, ” she says with certainty, reaching for another cracker. “And neither will your children, if 'se future doesn't cut their lives short. Laenor. Laena.” She takes a bite. “Addam and Alyn of Hull.” 

He goes still. 

She chews slowly as he digests it. She's not sure the exact date is but neither boy has been born yet. He might know the surname though.

“Take me to Kings Landing and I may change it all, ” she promises, and this is the same thing she said to his brother. Earnest now, as she began. As intense as the seas lapping outside. 

Corlys looks at her now with no pity in his dark violet eyes. Full apprehension and steel. “Why?” 

She can feel the Hrakkar teeth around her neck. “It is 'se only way forward I can see. ”

Chapter Text

King's Landing is in full celebration as the Sea Snake docks in her harbour. They're given a warm welcome, with spirits high and teal Valeryon banners strung up along Targaryen black in greeting. 

Laenor grins at the sight of it. He's eager to see the rest of the city. It's the biggest celebration in recent memory. The last time the King and Queen threw a tourney for their last child, the celebration had turned sombre with Queen Aemma's miscarriage. But Laenor remembers the lemon cakes and the knights. This time, he'll have a front seat to the joust. The armour, the horses, the battles—it's all so exciting and new. 

But the other new thing that's caught his attention is the passenger they took aboard the Sea Snake. 

His father told her she was a slave from a shipwreck. Not one of theirs, but one from the same storm that washed their ship too close to the stepstones for pirates to take. Laenor's not sure what's wrong with her but there’s a lot that isn’t right. The first time he saw her it was when she was carried aboard. Her legs too weak to climb the ropes. Her eyes dead and mostly vacant. Her hands bound with thick metal shackles. He watched his father’s crew snap them off after it was decided they would take her to King’s Landing. 

The first time her solemn mask cracked was when her chains hit the deck, and she showed the flicker of a smile. 

Now she wears an ill-fitting dress from Laena’s ladies-in-waiting, wrapped in the thickest blanket on board. She stands near Laenor as they dock. The city breeze shifts her long black hair. Laena’s handmaidens apparently tried their best to remove as much seaweed and grit from her person, but she still looks half-drowned and sickly. On one side of her head is a tangled braid she refuses to let anyone touch. 

“ Ao’ like knights?” she asks in an oddly stilted, accented Valerian. Her voice so hoarse he almost loses it on the wind. Like she’s shouted it raw over the years—or screamed. She turns to him with a pointed look. “ Kosta’n ao …understand?” 

He does. Barely. 

Laenor’s nowhere near fluent, but he's pretty sure the Maesters would switch him if he talked like her. 

 “Wh—why do you talk like that?” 

She says 'what?' as: “ E-skoro? ” 

Laenor screws his face up. She keeps dropping letters and adding new ones where they don’t belong. ”It's Skoros. Sk-kkk-orr-oss . Who taught you how to speak Valerian?” 

She looks back out at the city. Focusing hard on her pronunciation. “...Ugly men with no manners.” 

He lets out a startled laugh. He certainly hopes his lack of manners doesn't group him in with them. 

As the Sea Snake's crew begin to unload, and his father is too far away to tell him to do anything otherwise, Laenor shifts a little closer, and answers her first question. 

“I like knights very much.” 

She picks at a thread on her blanket. “ Gaoma’on ao … like to know who win se’ fights?” 

He squints at her. There's no way she knows. 

...but his father did say there was something odd about her. There's something odd about her now. It blankets her like a shroud. It coats her tongue and her speech. Maybe she is some truth-teller from the ocean. He’s never met anyone from Essos like her. He’s barely sailed beyond the Narrow Sea or seen the great lands of Essos. There’s so much of the world he hasn’t explored—that he yearns to know, deep in his bones. The same kind of curiosity that drew his father out to sea, further and further.   

She glances over to him. “Zir won't be Daemon Targaryen.” 

Laenor balks. “But he's the kingdom's greatest warrior.”

She scoffs. “There is better—” she copies how he says the word. “Greatest warrior.” 

He can't believe his ears. The confidence this slave girl has—he isn't sure what to make of it. But he’s even more excited to see the tourney now. “You're sure?” 

She shrugs. “Look and see.” 

He does, and he will. 

“Laenor!” His father calls down the ship, in a tone that implies he’s doing something he shouldn’t be doing. “Come greet your mother, it’s time to go.” 

Laenor passes the slave girl a parting look as he heads for the stairs. It’s rare he ever has to speak his ancestor’s tongue outside of ceremonies and school. “Sorry, I have to leave now. It was a pleasure talking with you, miss… um, what’s your name?” 

“Seirazi,” she says, and a flicker of emotion as she tacks on. “Asa-Raan. It was good speaking at you too, ki’imvos .” 

He fails not to laugh at her broken speech, before joining his father. Unaware of her eyes following him down the ship with a distant expression on her face. 

“What did she say to you?” Corlys asks in Westerosi the moment his son gets within range. The hand he puts on his back draws him in, away from the upper deck, and the prying eyes of their passenger. 

He’s dead sure he did something wrong now. A lump forms in his throat as his father looks expectantly at him. “Sh-she just spoke about the tourney.” 

“Of what kind?” He presses. “You can’t wander off and speak to strangers, Laenor. They’re not as harmless as they may seem. Did she say anything else? ” 

“I-I’m sorry father, ” he stammers, the hand hard at his back. “Forgive me. All she said was that Prince Daemon was going to lose the competition.” 

The severity in his father’s face loosens up. He huffls out a breath—that’s almost in amusement. 

“Well then. I suppose that’s one sight I’m willing to see.” He pats his shoulder, and then steers him towards the docking platform off the ship. “Onward then, sailor. Our greeting party is awaiting us.” 

Laenor takes a few steps down the platform before he sees a head of familiar white hair. “Mother!” 

“You certainly took your time,” she greets, opening her arms as he leaps down the rest of the platform for an embrace. It’s a steadying hug, not too long, but welcome after the journey. Rhaenys pulls back to look at him. “How was the sailing? Your sister and I missed you on Meleys.” 

“No we didn’t,” Laena pipes up from the large carriage behind her. Her shiny white curls catching the sun as she pokes her head out the open door. “I didn’t miss you at all. We flew so high we saw a rainbow and Meleys ate an entire flock of geese.” 

“Exciting,” Corlys says as he steps off the boat after Laenor. He embraces his wife with an extra bit of fondness, and even goes so far as to kiss the rings on her fingers as he draws back, looking her in the eye. Both of his children make childishly disgusted faces. Their parents are never usually so forefront with their affections in public. “I missed you, my queen.” 

“ Corlys— ” Rhaenys looks around in worry. And a touch flustered, due to the term of affection. It’s a breach of protocol to call her that. If the wrong people were listening, they could take it up with the king and queen. But Rhaenys regains her composure well. “Rough travels, I take it?” 

“The sea is ever unwieldy,” he says, back to the ship as one odd slave girl watches the family from a distance. Rhaenys’s eyes flik over his shoulder to her, before settling back on her husband, as he steps towards the carriage. “Let us catch up in privacy. There’s much to discuss before the king’s tourney begins.” 

Laenor climbs into the carriage and sits down in the seat beside his sister. He can’t see through the dark slatted windows, but guards approach the Sea Snake’s unexpected passenger and prepare to take her to another cart, further off the ship. 

“Daemon Targaryen is going to lose ,” Laenor whispers to his sister, and Laena giggles loud and bright. 

“Who told you that?” she asks. 

“A sea spirit,” he says. “From far far away.” 

⩫

She’s packed in like chattel again. 

At this point Seirazi isn’t surprised. The chains are off but she can still feel them on her skin. Her will to live and escape has been so beaten out of her in her five years of servitude, she doesn’t fight back when she’s crammed into a cart and taken through the city. But she does sneer. That part comes easily. 

King’s Landing is… a mix of things. Something of a marvel, something of a disappointment. It’s real brick and clay tiles and colourful flags, with all the piss and shit and filth smell mucking up the streets. They pass through open puddles that splash rotten miasma into the air, and though the cart windows are shuttered to keep the inhabitants from looking out at the filthy streets, the raw poverty of lower King Landing is still apparent through the tiny flashes that pass by. 

It’s sickening. It actually makes her miss a part of Meereen. At least when she was at the bottom of the barrel, they had aqueducts and canals and sewage drains instead of throwing filth buckets into the street. Seirazi doesn't know how anyone can live like this in comfort. And she used to live surrounded by sheep shit for the first ten years of her new life. It all pales in comparison to the great gleaming pyramids of Meereen and the ever-opulent temple of Graces. 

The only thing that comes close in spectacle is the Red Keep.  

Seirazi spends most of the trip to the castle dully looking out the windows and fighting the persistent nausea she’s felt since drowning—compounded by the smell of the city. So when the doors swing open, she finds herself standing inside the main gates. The sun has crept over the sky, beckoning twilight. Casting a bright orange hue over each great red tower jutting up, up, up , into the sky. 

“ Fullfyligan lîcian ,” says a man dressed in white gleaming armour, and if Seirazi didn’t know already that this was a member of the King's guard, she would’ve thought he was her executioner. 

He turns out to be her jailor instead. 

Corlys Valeriyon and the rest of his family are a distant white-haired sight as they walk up the front steps, through the main door. Seirazi is pulled away to the side, where no one of royal blood can witness her being dragged away. She bares her teeth at the Kingsguard who puts a hand on her to move—juts an elbow back. She won’t fight them, but she won’t them touch her. There’s still some shred of resentment in her yet, that she’d be stuffed from one cage to another, even after her deal with Corlys. So as the last of the Velaryons step into the main hall, Seirazi shouts the first thing that comes to mind. 

“SNAKE!” 

The head of House Velaryon doesn’t turn around. But his wife does. And this time when her violet eyes flick back, they linger for a half second longer. 

Back in Meeren, causing a disturbance would've had her flogged severely, but its well worth it. She never was a quiet and obedient slave. 

Then Seirazi is roughly herded into the castle, via a servant route. The passageway is narrower and gives her less freedom to struggle. Four guards escort them down the hall. Two in the front, two in the back, but only one wears a white cloak. She doesn’t recognize him—names and faces blur in her mind after so many deaths and years in captivity. But he is someone with a name, presumably. They all are. 

“Where are you taking me?” she asks, though none of them make any indication that they can understand her. Even Laenor had difficulty. She begins to sweat, worrying Corlys misheard her words from before. If her offering was mistranslated. They turn down another stone corridor, lit by hanging torches and the occasional tapestry. At least without struggling, they don’t manhandle her anymore, but the fear persists. “Can someone tell me what’s happening?” 

The white cloak speaks to her right. “ Te ðengel orgilde Driftwodê hath ask sôðlic êow ûtâðýdan cunnan kept innan wægn scildburh walls. For wægn h¯ælnes of fengel, hl¯æfdige, tôêacan and lêodscipe .” 

She listens to him talk with a quickened heartbeat. “What the hell does that mean?” 

He tries again. “ You niðera und'r nerung .”   

“What??”       

He loses his patience and pushes her forward. “ Lengan reðe weg. ”   

“Pig,” she spits, jerking away from him. She hates Westerosi. She hates these stone halls. She hates the world for bringing her here, and putting her in the same place as so much misery. But she moves forward to appease the swords at her back, and when they bring her to a large wooden door she’s under no illusion that this is to be her new prison. When they shut her inside she’s not surprised to find the door locked behind her. 

Her cell isn’t entirely lacking in accommodations though. 

Seirazi inspects the medieval furniture like a cat with every hair on end. There’s a bed, a chamber pot, a water basin, and a plain wooden table with a few matching chairs. When she inspects the wooden dresser by the bed, it has a few extra sheets and a blanket, which she grabs and winds around her. 

It’s freezing in the Red Keep. 

Colder than it ought to be. It was already cold outside, but the stone ceiling, walls, and floors make everything icy to the touch. Shivering, she goes to sit on the bed, and wraps herself in as many blankets as she can as fatigue creeps deeper into her bones. But when she lays down, she has a new problem: her spine isn’t suited to a mattress anymore.

The bed is different than the mats she’s slept on for so long. Her skeleton rejects the comfort outright. 

“Hateful mattress. Hateful keep. Hateful Westeros,” she mutters, wrenching herself off the bed and dragging her blankets to the floor. There’s a rug, so she’s not sleeping on stone, but it’s not exactly comfortable. She punches her pillow into shape so the feathers don't smother her in her sleep. She sends a hateful eye up to the ceiling. “If you’re listening George, write your own story. Leave me out of it. Fucker.”  

Sleep comes in pieces. She hasn’t been a deep sleeper since she was a child, but nobody comes to take her from her cell overnight, and as she sleeps by the door, she listens for people in the hallway. For signs that someone will come to kill her. 

There are two guards outside breathing by her door. They stand at attention, with no sign of moving. As she drifts, the sound of them reausting the position of their feet draw her back awake. But it’s few and in between, and she drifts further. 

“Lamb of Lhazar,” whispers the red priest who bought her at the auction. Their pale hand reaching out to cup her chin. “What a gift the lord of Light has given us, and what a potent sacrifice you will be to drive back the dark…” 

Her eyes flutter closed. Would a living sacrifice be any worse than this?

Would the lord of Light finally make it stick? Could he be her saviour?

Or would it— 

“Over and over again,” the priest whispers in reverence. 

She jerks out of their grip. The ship is taking on water and the slaves trapped with her are screaming. Salt water pours in from above. The crack of the mast splintering against gale-force winds sound like the whip of God. Like Lightning personified. It throws the ship to one side and they tip further, everyone inside slipping. 

Sierazi jerks forward, feet in the air, held to the rod she’s chained to, and the bones in her wrists snap in sync. She screams—the ship is going down. This death won’t stick either, she’ll wake to an underwater crypt of bloated corpses, nowhere to go but up. Dying again, and again.

She can feel the red priest reaching for her in her delirium. “...Your slaughter will be most holy.” 

Underwater, she thrashes, surrounded by dead hands cold and grasping—

“WHAH!!” 

A body crashes to the floor above her. A real-life flesh and blood, bony body. 

Seirazi lashes out at the person on top of her. She elbows them in the stomach, kicks at their legs, and scrambles back, ripping her sheets and blankets away as the intruder flails on the ground. Her assassin is ill-equipped to kill her, it seems. As Seriarzi sweeps to her feet she looks for a weapon to defend herself. A knife, a hard object, but the only thing she has is a water basin and chairs. She manages to plant herself behind the table as the guards leap inside the room. 

And help a young girl up from the ground. 

“Ah,” Seriazi says, noting the servant garb and tray. Someone like her. “Shit.”  

“ Meðrian êow w¯ær? ” Asks the Whitecloak from before, one hand on his sword while he helps up the girl. 

“ I-Ic pro wîter¯æden ,”  she mumbles, touching a split lip. “ Scitte .” 

Both the servant and the gard turn their attention over to the one responsible. 

And Seirazi knows this woman’s eyes. She’s far younger than she ought to be. Her face just as sunken and hollow, but with the soft curve of baby fat still clinging to parts of her skull. Her braided hair a tousled mess over her shoulder. 

Seirazi blurts, “Talya.” 

The servant blinks. “ Aye, ic pro am Talya. ”

It’s the first Westerosi sentence she actually understands. Seirazi lifts her hands up from the chair she was about to use to bash her head in, speaking in English since it has the closest root to Westerosi. “Sorry.” 

Talya shakes her head. The white cloak beside her gives her a look, his hand still on his sword, but he doesn't gesture for the other guards to storm in and gut her. He barks an order instead that goes completely over her head, and stands at the ready in case the mad slave girl decides to attack again. 

She doesn’t, though. But she does stare the servant down. She knows this one is more than just an innocent face. 

“What are you doing here Talya? Are you here to spy on me? Send word to your lady of secrets?” She opens her arms. “Ask me anything. I’m an open fucking book.”

Her tone makes Talya flinch. But she doesn’t understand a word she says. “ H-Hwêne doth êow mîn nameth eth Talya…? ”   

Seirazi pours over every word she says, and again when she repeats herself. It’s infuriating, this language barrier. It was just as bad in Meereen, but at least this time orders aren’t being shouted at her in a foreign language with the threat of lashes. 

“ Fie! Doth frignan est môot. Make ne wagian, ” The Whitecloak barks, holding tightly onto his sword in warning. The words he says goes over her head but the intention is clear as Talya bends to pick up the tray she dropped . Attack the servant again and they’ll have her head. 

Seirazi is mildly curious to see if dismemberment would work, but less than interested in being alive as a severed head. So she stands by the wall and keeps her hands where the guards can see them. But they toil too long in her room. She wants them to leave, to have her peace back, but Talya gathers all the blankets off the floor and folds them back on the bed. Then she comes to the table with her tray. 

“ Prætt thee fill'd mid pangs un wan−hungrig? ” she asks, and her sunken eyes are huge and girlish. 

Seirazi could snap her birdlike body like a twig. They clearly don’t make the servants in the Red Keep do much physical labour like in Meereen. Talya places a slightly dented cup of grapes on the table, and a platter of bread, cheese, and meat that managed to survive the fall. Then she looks at her expectantly. 

Seirazi sighs. “Where do you want me to take them?” 

If Corlys wants her to serve in the Keep, she’ll do it. But it’ll be shit work when she can’t understand any orders they give her. She made a shit servant in Meereen too for the same reason. But she'll learn westerosi though force if she has to. 

(“I think she may be soft in the head,” Ser Willis Fell says flatly. 

Talya winces and pushes the grapes toward the poor girl. “She’s scared. If she can’t understand now, her stomach will later.”) 

It takes embarrassingly long to figure out they intend for her to eat the food Talya brought, but by the time she does, it’s late in the day. Talya dresses her in other, better-fitting clothes. Has her pull her own hair back, since Seirazi won’t let her get close, and has her sponge bath to the best of her ability. And then her guards have her taken from her room, from one cage to another, with little understanding of what they intend to do with her. 

For the first time since drowning, she feels the yawning growl of hunger as they bring her deeper into belly of the Red Keep. It’s a small kindness—and a tiny, welcome joy—that her clothes come with pockets to sneak grapes into her mouth after Talya leaves. 

(And the fruit bursts like fireworks on her tongue. Rich and full of life.) 

⩫

“Your grace, might I have your attention for a moment?” 

Viserys sighs. “The matter of the stepstones will be resolved, Lord Corlys, in all due matter of time—” 

“Actually, my concerns involve a far more personal matter, should you allow me to speak on them,” he pushes, sitting stiffly in his chair as the other members of the small council shift, waiting for the meeting to be adjourned. Princess Rhaynerya, standing at her father’s slide, sighs. Arms tired of carrying jug of wine to refill their glasses. But Corlys pays all attention to her father. “Alone, perhaps?”

Otto Hightower shoots him a suspicious look. “My lord, what matter of conversation is too sensitive for the rest of the council’s ears?” 

Corlys cuts to the chase. “There was a passenger I took aboard the sea snake. After the storm that swept the stepstones—” 

“So your interests are still upon pirates,” Lyman Beesbery scoffs. 

“I do sympathize with your frustration, Corlys, I do,” Viserys begins. “But the tourney—” 

“May result in tragedy, according to the information I’ve been made privy to,” Corlys interrupts. A dangerous thing to do to a king. 

The council falls still. 

“What manner of information?” Otto asks, tense. “And why was this not made clear sooner?” 

“The only word I have to go on comes from the mouth of a girl,” Corlys admits, and at her father’s side, Rhaenyra straightens. Attention grabbed. “A child, really. Who claims to know the results of the kingdom’s future. It troubles me to bring such ill news to your grace with little more to go on.” 

Otto narrows his eyes. The hand of the king is hardly ruffled, but his mind is always at work. It’s one thing he and the Lord Of the Tides find kinship in. “Yet you find her word substantial enough to bring it anyways.” 

“I never took you for a superstitious man, Corlys,” Viserys laughs, sitting back in his chair to diffuse tension. “Or one to hold onto the words of children so keenly. What exactly did this girl say to have you so rattled?” 

It’s not a declaration he wanted to make amid the council, in front of the king’s daughter no less. But he does abide by the king’s wishes. 

“The queen, your grace, has been prophesized to die in childbirth.” 

The only sound that’s made is Rhaenyra setting her pitcher down on the table. 

Viserys is no longer smiling. He nearly stands from his chair. “ What? ” 

“Preposterous,” Otto scoffs. 

“What matter of prophecy?” Viserys questions. The King’s good cheer awaiting the birth gone, evaporated into the air. And with it all the ease in the room. He has always been a man who put weight upon prophecies. In dealings of the future. Nobody else would immediately be so rattled. “What kind of seer?” 

The other members of the small council all begin talking at once. Corlys winces, hands fists on his knees. “You understand why I wished to speak of this in private—”

“Your Grace, you cannot take the word of some girl that the birth will go awry,” Otto says to the king. 

Viserys instead turns to Maester Mellos for relief. “The Queen has been showing every sign of a healthy pregnancy, despite her discomfort…” 

“She hasn’t had an easy day since this pregnancy took root,” Rhaenyra interrupts, drawing the men’s attention. She doesn’t wilt under their stare for her disruption, her distress too great. She looks to her father. “Father, you know this. What if it’s true?” 

“We will do everything within our power to ensure the king’s heir is born in full health,” Mellos goes on. 

“He didn’t say anything about the baby dying—he said the queen ,” snaps the Princess. 

“Rhaenyra.” Viserys raises a hand to her arm, and it’s the only thing to draw her back down. The pain on his face evident. And the small council falls silent again. Only when nobody dares speak, Viserys turns back to the one who began this trouble. “Corlys. How well can you attest to this girl’s word?” 

He swallows. “You tell me, my king. There was a message she gave me upon the ship, one that she offered me in exchange for her passage to King’s Landing, to potentially grant her audience with you. I would not agree to such if it means nothing to your ears.” 

“Well?” He prompts. “Let’s hear it.” 

He doesn’t know the severity of the words as he speaks them. “She claims.... to know of something called the Conqueror's dream. A story called the Song of Ice and Fire.” 

This time, Viserys stands. “Bring her to me. Immediately.” 

It bodes poorly for the small council. Worse still for the princess, paling lighter than the shades of her hair.

Chapter Text

She's an odd creature; this seer from beyond the sea. 

Viserys isn't sure what to make of her at first, and even less of what to make of her once they speak. But when this bony, malnourished thing is brought to the council chamber, the King doesn't intend to bend his ear even if she spoke the very words straight from the Conqueror's dream. Even if so few have been privileged to know it. No matter how impossible her knowledge may be. 

He does try to remain somewhat resolute. 

He does.

But within moments of entering the room, she catches him off guard again. Her hollow black eyes appear to look right through him, and while Viserys oft preferred common Westerosi over his ancestral tongue, none of her bastard Valyrian is lost on him, as warped as it is. 

But that isn't entirely a blessing.  

The first thing she says upon seeing him is: “I hope ‘se wound on your back from the thrown causes no bother, Viserys Targaryen.” 

Thank the gods new and old he made sure to empty the small council before this meeting. 

The spot in question becomes far more apparent under his shirt. A barb in his side. Viserys straightens in his chair, frowning. “You take pleasure in shocking people, I take it?”

She shrugs. Her accent is an awkward thing. It bleeds influence from another place altogether. “Got me in ‘se door at least.”

 “And what of you now, that you’ve gotten my attention?” He asks, inspecting her carefully. “Why are you here? to threaten me? My family?”

She’s quick to tense up. “No—” 

“Then how do you know the song? ” he demands. 

Then she explains. In awkward, broken Valerian no less, but in words as understandable to him as the prophecy passed down from Jaehaerys the night of his naming of heir; when Viserys was taken down to the royal sept and sworn to secrecy. She describes the dream with near-perfect accuracy, points out the Valyrian steel dagger at his side, and speaks the words revealed only to the few who know how. The one who carries it, their heir, and all else long taken by the Seven. 

“ ....The end of the world of men is to begin with terrible winter from the distant north… absolute darkness riding upon on the winds, to destroy the world of the living… An end all of Weseros must stand united against; with Targaryn blood seated upon the throne… " 

She cocks her head once finished, watching him carefully. “You want your promised prince, yes?” 

Viserys refrains from twitching that a girl—some nobody—knowing the most intimate, close-guarded prophecy of the crown, but his face surely tightens. Nobody should know the Song. The idea of it leaking from privileged ears raises a pressing concern about the sanctity of the Royal Spept. 

Experience has him go on damage control. “What spies have you been talking to?”

She shakes her head. “Noone.” 

“That’s can’t be true—” 

“I a’sure,” she says, improperly enunciating in a bizarre fashion, “All I’ve talked to has been who brought me here. What I’ve shared has been mine alone.” 

“Then you ought to watch the words you speak,” he warns. She has him on edge; as king, he dislikes it immensely. “Most lords would take your tongue for less.” 

“They would,” she says slowly, flashing him the barest sliver of her mismatched teeth. Far from a smile, but more than a grimace. It's born of madness. And as the slave girl reaches into her dress pocket and pops a grape into her mouth, he's sure of it. “But my silence—” 

She crushes it between her teeth, tongue flicking out over the broken skin of her bottom lip to catch the juices. Savouring. Salivatory. And then her words come faster; more lively. 

“—has a way of growing back, see. You would be smart to listen to what I have to say. Few have ‘se chance to know their future in this world. Even fewer ability to change it.” 

He scoffs. “Every wise woman and fortune teller from here to Flea Bottom offers the same warning. If you think I would give them any credence I would be running a fool’s court. What kind of sucker do you take me for?” 

She lacks court training, but her silence is just long enough to insult without being overt about it. 

“I take you as a man who ‘need know ‘se full picture,” she eventually replies. Tucking her hands behind her, in a way he’s seen before countless times. Moreso in Dorne or in the company of Eastern servants. It’s a practiced process. Her Westerosi dress lacks the sleeves to properly hide her arms, however. “No wrong in listening to what I say. You’re about to make a choice that would start civil war.” 

He does not like the sound of that. Not one bit. 

So Viserys relents. He bends his ear.   

“Then tell me what dreams you've seen,” he commands. But it feels seeped in weakness. “What whispers of the future you've told the Lord of the Tides. I cannot sit idly by in celebration with prophecies of doom and death hanging over my head and the state of my future heir . Speak .” 

Her mouth thins. Viserys assumes she’s considering her answer again—he isn't sure where she even came from, and it occurs to him he hasn't even asked her name once she stepped inside. He’s forgotten his manners, but feels less important in the long run. 

Still, he feels compelled to have this seer ingratiated toward him. 

Viserys clears his throat. “What lands have you travelled from to find me here?” 

There's a flicker—and she looks far older in the eyes than she should. “A distant place from far away.” 

That leaves him with nothing. 

Then she adds. “My kin were Lhazareen.” 

That leaves him with slightly less than nothing. 

“Your son will be breech,” she tells him in exchange. She speaks with certainty, as real a thing to her as her people were. There’s a finality in both statements. “The Queen struggles through labor and you choosing to cut out ‘se baby kills her. Your son dies after.” 

He doesn't want to believe a word. 

But she knows the Song . Of the wound on his back. 

What if she’s right about this too?

“Gods be good,” he mutters. Viserys rubs a hand over his mouth to disguise the horror. He can’t fathom a life without Aemma. Doesn't want to. But the thought of killing his own son as well? His heir? It sickens him. “I-I thought… your kind had to speak in riddles. In metaphor.” 

Flatly, she replies, “I don't care for your feelings to be coy.”

It draws a startled laugh. 

“You have till ‘se joust,” she states. And though Viserys puts such stock in prophecy and myth and legend, there is something quite repelling about looking a future-teller in the eye. He wants nothing more for it to be hearsay. It would be much easier to simply throw her in the dungeons. To burn her at the stake—which he’s quite tempted to do if she's lying to him. Or worse; the reason for his future tragedy. 

The thought is written on his face as she takes another grape from her pocket, and swallows it whole. But she isn’t intimidated out of speaking out of turn. 

“Don't listen to ‘se old Maester’s suggestion.” 

There's a pit in his stomach, burrowing through his back to the spot she singled out. It gnaws at him. “Maester Mellos has faithfully served my family and keep for decades. Where does ignoring his advice leave me?”

“With a wife,” she answers. “And me with time to change your future.” 

In truth, he cannot conceive of anything more harrowing. 

Viserys does not wish to be a fool king. He may be soft from peacetime and far too willing to allow those to speak in his presence, but he does not intend to be a fool. He loves his family far too much.

He braces himself. “What’s your price?” 

They both seem prepared for this question. Though this girl seems like she’s forgotten how to smile. He’s given another toothy non-grimace in response. 

“Freedom. To never be bound or enslaved again.” 

It’s an easy deal. Slavery’s been outlawed in Westeros for over a thousand years by the Faith. Viserys waves a hand, and it is done. A small part of him that isn’t a king, but a father, pains that a child near his daughter's age has to ask for such a thing. But the king in him stays firm. “Is that all?” 

She breathes in deeply, her arms falling from the servant's pose, and she frets her chapped bottom lip; thinking. 

“....Let me see to your wife. I will not ask more unless she lives.” 

“Done,” he says quickly, and its a relief to say so. He was expecting more of a swindle, but perhaps there is some honor in this grape-eating madchild. Then a thought strikes him. “But you will not tell her a word of what you know. I will not have the Queen stress more about this birth or fear for the sake of the babe.” 

The seer schools her face again. “Allow me work and I’ll speak no more.” 

He doubts it. Her type—prophesizers—are prone to talking. But perhaps her inability to speak in anything but Valerian will give him time to make changes to security and better protect the secrecy within the castle. 

A civil war… 

Viserys cannot conceive of anything worse for his future as king. He cannot allow dissent to start now. 

“You have given me much to consider,” he replies after a long beat. He needs to see Aemma. Needs to prepare—to speak with the Maesters if they saw any of this in their star charts. Confer with a septa. Grasp at the skies and demand the gods why they thought to deal him such a fate, and leave him blind to it before this one girl drifted into his seas. How is he going to explain any of this to his wife? His kingdom? His daughter?  

The simple answer is that he won’t. There are some prophecies that are meant to stay secret, lest panic hasten their tragedy further. He will not allow such a thing to come to pass. Cannot . 

Closing his eyes, Viserys needs a drink. Perhaps several. “I thank the seven for delivering you here, seer.”

“Don’t thank too much,” she replies with another one of those wan, empty-eyed looks. It’s Madness. Pure madness. “Your suffering is by their design.” 

⩫

Grand Maester Mellos has the utmost faith in his King in all he does, but the thought of letting that girl near the Queen is a mistake. 

No matter where she may have washed up, she lacks the training. She lacks the discipline. She lacks everything a Maester dedicates their entire life to studying. He cannot—will not—allow the Queen and King’s future son to be molested by the untrained hands of some… woods witch with a tall tale. The fact that she managed to swindle herself into the King’s benevolence is a worry in itself. It causes Mellos great concern over Viserys state of mind. The Kings’s health ought to be balanced more by a talented and well-studied had. Not agitated by the sweet-speaking lies of a foreigner. More leechings to balance the humors and unburden the mind ought to do the trick. 

Kicking the girl out of the Queen’s chambers, however, should be a quick cure for Mellos’ present headache. 

“Away from the bed,” he barks, shooing the outsider away as she moves toward the Queen. One would think for a former slave, she would better understand the divide between servant and master. But the girl appears simple. Impertinent too. “Did you hear me? You are Not. To. Touch.“ 

She grunts something back in that garbled tongue of hers. Of Mellos’s many accomplished links upon his Maester’s chain, the copper link for mastery of language is one of the few missing. But he’s sure she says something along the lines of: 

“Iksan— with seeing hands— ao mittys. ” 

Her attitude is something to be equally desired. Mellos’s fingers twitch to rap her knuckles. Instead, he plants himself between the foreigner and his beleaguered Queen. 

“Make yourself a bother to her highness and I will have no option than to go to the Kingsgaurd. Queen Aemma is not for the likes of you to tug and pull about!” 

“Maester, please,” Aemma sighs, laying her head back on the lounge chair she’s on. She’s paler than the sheets, and two shaking fingers massage her temples. “Leave the conflict outside my chambers, would you? I lack the strength to bear it today.” 

His Queen’s condition has been more strenuous of late. Her star charts already confirm the babe’s arrival, even without the prophecy of some slave girl parroting them. What good the King thought to include her in the birthing plan continues to confound the Maester. 

“Of course your grace,” he says, dipping low before motioning to one of his attendants to fan the Queen some more. The subject of his irritation bleeds into the background as he resumes his duties. “Does the Queen desire anything to sooth her present aching? I am at your disposal.” 

After a moment of closed-eye grimacing, she rasps, “Less pillows, perhaps.” 

“At once.” Mellos clicks his tongue at one of his Queen’s attending ladies steps forward to adjust her plush seating arrangement. 

Aemma grimaces as she shifts her position, unable to find one at first. Her hand moves to support her swollen stomach during the process. Mellos makes a note—yet the foreigner shadowing his queen’s private chambers seems to do so as well. He dislikes the extra pair of eyes on them. Even the servants know their place enough not to look upon royalty so casually. 

The Grand Maester is, however, the face of duty. “Shall I fetch you more milk of the poppy, your Grace?” 

“Perhaps.” She grunts as her ladies finally pull back enough pillows for her to lay back finally, and something in her spine makes an audible pop. She lets out a ragged breath. “I-I fear I’m still feeling the last one, however.” 

“Nausea again?” 

She sighs, poorly hiding her misery. “As if it ever stopped in the first place.” 

Then the thorn in Mellos’s side decides to speak out of turn. “Ginger tindon kostagon dohaeragon ao—” She says, to the complete confusion of all those attending the Queen. “Se yknagon hen lemon ēza also issare known naejot dohaeragon ābrar lēda riña. ” 

“What nonsense are you saying now?” Mellos huffs, but the Queen’s expression shifts. 

“Ginger and Lemon, you say?” she repeats. And it’s to his distaste to realize the Queen understands everything the Seer is saying to her. “I’ve not heard of a lemon used in healing before. Is it common where you’re from?” 

Seven preserve him, the Queen is talking right to her. 

The Foreigner shrugs back at the queen. Shrugs —commonly! “ Daor, yn īlis traded olvie isse Meereen .” 

Mellos moves to immediately correct her. He sweeps to her side, speaking low and tense. “When you are addressed by the Queen you are to bow and lower your gaze.” 

“ Ehh-skoro? ” 

The Queen puffs out a little laugh. Then again when they blink and look at her. 

Her face is flushed, but she waves them off. “Forgive me, it’s nothing. Grand Maester, what are the uses of ginger root and lemon for my turned stomach?” 

He grumbles. “There may be a passage or two supporting the medicinal usage of ginger, if this is what she claims, but lemon— ” he scoffs. “They are out of season, and would take months to acquire. And by then the true cure of your ailment will be long past you.” 

Aemma sighs lightly and strums a hand over her stomach. “I suppose you’re correct in that regard.” 

The prophesizer casts a grim expression. Opening her mouth again to speak, though Mellos would much sooner shove her out the door and back toward the boat she came from. He steps back into her line of sight toward his Queen.  

“Still though,” Aemma goes on, and they turn back toward her. Never one to disregard the word of nobility. “I remember… the last great shipment of lemons from Volantis. I was but a girl when Queen Alysanne kept one in a glass container tin the hopes of preserving it long after the season changed. Something about the smell, or color, perhaps. She grew fond of it.” She snorted to herself. “This was before Dorne began attempting to grow their own, but it must’ve sat there for years . I’ll never forget the rotting stench after they cleaned it out.” 

The foreigner shoots the Queen a brazen, pitying stare and speaks again in a tongue Mellos struggles to understand. “It stayed for years?”  

The Queen replies in a lyrical high Valerian. The corners of her mouth quirked up. ( “I’m sure some may have tried before to remove it, but the thought of upsetting the Good-Queen Alysanne's special lemon must’ve felt like such sacrilege.”  

“...I do not understand your Targaryen customs.”  

The Queen laughs, fair and true. A tint of color back in her face. "Nor do I in some cases." She pauses. “I did not know they were anything other than a sour, if not delicious treat. I would delight to have more if trade permitted it.” 

"I would give you some now if they were as common as were in Meereen." 

Mellos loathes being kept out of the conversation. He captures snippets—mentions of lemons here and there, and it irks him. It irks him even more to think that this outsider has any sway with the Queen to suggest alternative methods for healing to someone he’s cared for the entirety of his career as Grand Maester.  

“Your Grace,” he cuts in, and both females blink at him. “If your nausea persists, I shall have my attendants fetch your smelling salts.” 

“Ah.” Aemma’s face falls into resignation. “I suppose the salts will do. Thank you, Maester.” 

“Of course your majesty. Anything,” he says, bowing low. Casting an eye aside as he does so, he catches the slave girl standing there ramrod straight. Once he stands, he motions sharply at her, prodding her arm. “You—assist with the Queen’s chambermaids. Her Highness is in need of fresh linens.” 

She doesn’t appear to understand a word he just said. But the shove does the trick, and it has her moving quickly away from him, as if her touched skin was lashed by whips. 

Mellos spends no time dwelling on it, glad she’s out of his preverbal hair so he may return to his assessment of the Queen, so that he may lay the King’s fears at ease despite whisperings in the inner council. Whisperings entirely brought on by the Lord of the Tides, and the distraction he miraculously pulled from the sea… Mellos is not blind to the ploy it is by the Sea Snake. The instability it brings to the throne. But he will not disobey his king. 

Just… administer aid when needed. And remove growths before they gain root and fester. 

“Ensure the girl finds her way back to her quarters,” Mellos murmurs to one of the Kingsguard. The room is full of attendants and apprentices and ladies in waiting preparing the Queen’s chambers for birthing, and one girl slipping out will not be missed amongst the movement. “And that her confinement is full and private after she arrives.” 

He dips his head in understanding. The King’s orders are to allow the foreigner access to see with the Queen under supervised approval. One which has worn out quite quickly. 

It’s when Aemma sits back up again and motions to one of the servants that things go especially sour.  

“A drink, please.” 

Because the slave girl’s eyes go wide as the servant begins to pour the queen a goblet of wine. And she lurches forward to rip the cup away before it’s delivered to the Queen’s hand. 

Splashing the contents directly into the Grand Maester’s white robes, staining the garment a dark dripping red. 

And Mellos’s headache returns tenfold. 

“OUT!” he exclaims, reaching for her again. He grasps the back of her tunic and her whole body gives a jerk, straining against him in a violent and unbecoming manner. The guards step in before harm comes to him—let alone the queen. But the girl has shown her uncouth colors. scowling, Mellos wips a shaking hand down the front of his soiled robes as the girl glares at him; and he says to the guards. “See to it she does not endanger the queen any further.” 

“ Mōzugon kessa ossēnagon se riña— ” she spits while being dragged out. She repeats it again, and again. “ Mōzugon kessa ossēnagon se riña —” 

(‘Drink will Kill the Child’)

The only one to understand it is the Queen as she watches in alarm as she’s removed from her chambers. The process is quick; once the guards show no sign of relenting, the Seer lurches away from them and hastily retreats from their presence. 

A heartbeat passes before those remaining within the Queens chambers return to their duties. But its a heartbeat of discomfort, nonetheless. 

“You believe I acted too harshly?” Mellos asks, accepting a towel to wipe the crimson from his robes. Though the stain may never come out clean. “She knows nothing of the medicine I practice, your grace. I seek only to aid you.” 

“I uderstand,” she replies, distracted as she presses a hand over her mouth. The nausea during the pregnancy is a persistent, swift, and bothersome thing. An expected suffering of the fairer sex; one to withstand only with appropriate assitance of a Maester. 

Mellos is there at her side, motioning to his assistants. “Might I fetch you another glass of Dornish Red?” 

Aemma grimaces. “No—” She swallows something building in her throat, then clears it. Flashing him a tight, insincere smile as she masks her discomfort, before looking away from him toward the window. “No, I… I believe water will suffice.” 

The grand Maester thins his lips. Glancing at down at his robes once more, before bowing deep and understanding as always. “Of course. Whatever you wish, my Queen, I am at your service.” 

⩫

Despite the king hearing her out, Seirazi's freedoms are severely restricted with the Grand Maester’s personal vendetta against her. 

She can understand why. It can't be easy to be accused of being a baby killer. Let alone being part of a sequence which sets off war, but Viserys deals with the information Seirazi gave him with far too much caution. He listens, but he doesn't listen well enough. He's soft in his actions. After Seirazi's little stunt with the wine, she's essentially confined to her prison room again. There's perhaps a window of twenty minutes she's allowed to be in the same room as the Queen when servants are refreshing her bedroom, but it's nowhere near the amount of time Seirazi needs to properly diagnose the root cause of her miscarriage. 

And nobody can understand her except for the Queen—who's kept from speaking to her directly as it is. 

All she's left to do is fucking speculate in her room for hours. It's maddening. Mind numbingly maddening. Especially as the days pass and the tourney arrives. 

Seirazi's torn between breaking down her door to get to the Queen herself and jumping out the first window she sees and leaving Westeros the day before the joust begins. Security from the Kingsgaurd is insanely tight as Seirazi does her due diligence and changes sheets; watching her all the while. At the very least, making sure Aemma's birthing room is as clean as possible is something. But apart from slapping wine away from the Queen's mouth and hiding any cup that may or may not be painted with lead, Seirazi has far less power to save this baby than she ought to. With the Grand Maester's grudge against her, it's an insane uphill battle. 

Loathe she is to admit it, but Seirazi needs allies. If only to use to her advantage. She has little else when nobody can understand a word she says. 

So in the days leading up to the birth, she ingratiates herself to the woman she ankle-swept earlier. The would-be-future-spy, Talya. Though to say that they're anything close to friends is laughable. Seirazi doesn't need friends, nor want them. 

Talya does not appear to dislike her, at least. 

“Valorous morn, thee hath called f'r me?” Talya says, in proper upper-class westerosi, miming a bow to her before her tone shifts to a casual, more understandable version. “You understand?” 

Seirazi wishes she didn't. Scowling, she replies in Westerosi, though her tongue sits thick and slow in her mouth. “Vhal-ore-ous... Skoro syt—Ugh. Say good.” 

Talya sighs. They go back and forth over phrasing every time they speak. “Tis proper to use precise greetin's, m’lady, justly in company of royal blood. Aye concur t's quite the twister, but I maketh not the rules. ” 

Seirazi understands enough to know she's not getting it. Chewing over her words, she eventually repeats the phrase back to her. “Val-oorrr-ous m'rning thy grace, thee hath called...” 

They continue for as long as Talya is tasked with taking care of Seriazi's rooms. She's the only person Seirazi's able to get in contact with outside of her heavily supervised visits to the Queen's bedsheets. Nobody else makes an attempt to speak to her. She’s a tiny forgettable nobody in a castle full of self-important nobles. But she has more in common with the help then she will ever have with any of the nobility in any incarnation of her lives. 

So on the day before the joust, Seirazi has a job for the would-be future spy. 

“Talya,” she says, after their regular exchange of servant phrases, which, while annoying, Seriazi has to admit adds the first building blocks to her understanding of Westerosi. She practiced her request over and over every day until this moment. “I need thine aid.” 

She blinks at her. The line isn't from their usual routine. “How doth I help thee, m’lady?” 

Seriazi purses her lips and hammers out the next line. Westerosi is such a weird mix of old English and mixed-up fantasy bullshit. “I want see 'se queen.” 

She blinks. “Ah, but you just came from—” 

“I want see ‘se queen,” she states, motioning toward the door, where the guards are, and shaking her head. Hopefully she understands. “I see. Me.” 

Understanding clicks. She shakes her head. “I cannot…” 

“Prithee, Talya,” she urges, stepping towards her. “I beseech you.” 

“I-I cannot, I don't—” 

“Prithee. Please . Kosta’do —nothing with tied hands.” It’s more than she’s ever asked the girl and she knows it still won’t do much good. She gestures with still-healing, scarred wrists. She’s useless held at an arms length. “I want only for you to ask higher.” 

It bothers her to use her as a go-between. To still have to bend the knee to higher masters with greater power over her freedom she will ever have. But if Viserys swore she would not be a slave in Westeros, surely that has to mean something. Her request has to mean something. 

“Prithee, gao’ziry, Talya.” 

The young girl’s throat bobs. She hastily grabs the empty basket of linens she brought in, and backs up to the door. 

“I… cannot promise you anything.” 

“ Lo jaelā lyks— Agggh! Just ask,” Sierazi impores. A sinking feeling of resignation as Talya flees out the door. But the die is cast and her move is made. If Westeros fucks up her good-faith attempt at improving everyone's lives, the gods can’t look upon her with scorn for not doing enough, can they? 

⩫

The Princess makes her move at night, as time nips at her throat with every approaching second of next morn’s tourney. 

It’s easy to figure out who the seer from Essos is. She’s the only one in the castle with such distinct colors; apart from the odd delegation from Dorne. The Red Keep is flush with nobility from every corner of Westeros, all there to celebrate the birth of the king’s second child. But Rhaenyra can’t forget what she overheard in the council room, and her father has been distant with worry since he dismissed her and everyone else from the room. Since he spoke privately with the claimant to better dismiss the ruse. 

Rhaenyra may be in the waxing crescent of her girlhood, but she can recognize all the little expressions her father tries to smooth over. The King may claim nothing of substance came out of the Sea Snake’s seer, but the twitch of her father’s smile says he’s rattled. And why wouldn’t he be? Five younger siblings dead before their first winter. Rhaenyra has been a sister and an only child and a sister so many times she cannot remember a moment her family hasn’t been holding their breath in expectation, or choking on grief. 

Uncle Daemon’s attitude about the seer leaves an odd taste in her mouth as well. 

“It’s a load of horse cock,” he scoffs louder than he ought to during the very public pre-tourney feast, with all the nobles in attendance.

Her uncle’s disregard for social decorum has always been a source of excitement for the Princess, but with her mother’s seat beside her empty, Rhaenyra doesn't find as much comfort in it as usual for some reason. 

(Simple nausea again, mellos claims. Another missed supper. Rhaenyra wonders if all men are so blind to assume this is an easy pregnancy, or if its just easier for them to play the fool when it comes to women’s pain. She has never known otherwise.)

Daemon raises a goblet to his mouth, uncaring of who overhears him. And there are many who do, which is why he speaks at such a volume.  “You should know by now that prophecy is just another way for the unwashed masses to claim some sort of relevance. There’s no substance to it—a seer could claim a man wipes his ass one way and his whole house fall because of it, but he could surely wipe it another, or not at all and find just as equal success or ruin any other way. Best look at the invading army on his front lawn instead of the stink of his trousers.” 

Several other nobles quit their eavesdropping in disgust as Rhaenyra sets down her cutlery. “My salad is surely wilting over your colorful description, uncle.”

“Do you find me wrong though?”

Rhaenyra casts an eye to her father, who entertains Lords Tyland Lannister and Lyonel Strong with a long-winded joke that he puts far too much effort into. When Otto Hightower and the rest of the nobles within earshot hear the King come to the punchline, they break out in appropriate, well-timed laughter. The King’s table is alive with mirth, but for the briefest second Rhaenyra catches her father reach out to touch the armrest where her mother’s arm would be, if she abed with the same pains she’d suffered every day for nine months and ten odd years with the crown in want of a male heir. 

Her skin prickles at her father’s aborted little hand gesture, and then she turns her attention back to her uncle. 

“Suppose you’re wrong in your assessment; what do I have to lose in worrying?” 

“A grand dinner, and an easy rest,” he replies, raising a teasing silver brow at her. “A greater fool suffers twice in stressing, what the thoughtless suffer once.” 

She lets out a breath and looks away; not quite in the mood to blush and smile with the fate of her mother hanging over her head. Her reaction disappoints Daemon, and he sets his glass down unceremoniously. 

“Fine, sulk all you want, Princess. The rest of us won’t let superstition spoil the festivities come to head—but I thought you weren’t the kind to fall for such gossip. I certainly thought better of you .” 

The barb gets under her skin exactly how he wants it to, and Rhaenyra turns her attention back up at her. Schooling an innocently curious look on her face. “So you aren’t bothered at all about the rumor going around of you losing the tourney tomorrow?” 

Daemon scoffs, as unaffected and blase as her father’s attempt at entertaining. “Of course not. Have you already forgotten how apt I am with dark sister? The nobles like to whisper amongst themselves to fatten their gambling pots. I’ll kill at tomorrow’s tourney—that is a promise,” he says, a wicked glimmer in his eyes. It sends a terrified little thrill up her spind, as he intended. Then Daemon switches to Valerian, low and only for her to hear over the table amongst the eavesdroppers; her father too far away to overhear.  “ And If you truly think my skills laking, come to the training yard next morn as the tourney knights warm up, and you’ll receive a full display of my prowess .” 

When she turns away this time it’s out of far more genuine flustering. Picking at the leaves of her salad haphazardly as she looks for Alicant eating beside her father, listening to the king with appropriate smiles. 

She catches her eye across the aisle and the curve of her smile quirks in a way thats real , and Rhaenyra exhales some of the tension in her body. 

But after the banquet, late at night when the castle retires for sleep, Rhaenyra can’t find any rest for herself. 

None of her thoughts are spared on the exciting thought of seeing Uncle Daemon wielding dark sister. She’s seen him fight—he’s excellent. Practically unmatched. But the thought he could lose is a little niggling thought in the back of her mind; a small worry compared to the gargantuan weight of her mother, who’s restricted to bed rest, and whose healers restrict all visit. It’s hard enough for her daughter to get her foot in the door. 

As the “Queen’s health comes above all else,” or so says Maester Mellos. 

Rhaenyra finds it cruel to deny her the chance to even say goodnight to her, with so many rumors swirling about. He has to understand her concern—having been in the same room as her when the Sea Snake made the proclamation. Yet she’s turned away. A bother to the birthing process; the only one concerned over the state of her mother, rather than the survival—or confirmation of a penis—of the child. 

(It would serve them all right if the babe was a daughter after all. Better to welcome a sister into the world than a boy Rhaenyra has to spend the rest of her life living in the shadow of. She’d already picked out a name and a dragon egg for her just in case.)

Finding the Seer is easy at the end of the day. 

Rhaenyra wants only to ask what her prophecies say about the babe’s gender. She doesn’t care for smalltalk; or big talk. She just wants an answer to her question and to call it a night. No good ought to come with entertaining charlatans and allowing her to fill her head with riddles and heresy. Uncle Daemon has a point after all, it shouldn’t matter how one wipes—

Rhaeneya opens the door to the seer’s chambers then to witness it empty. The bedroom bare, save for the window held wide open, and one thin girl with two feet out the edge, on the verge of jumping. 

“Wh-What are you doing?!” Rhaenra gaps, and the girl idly turns her head toward her. 

“Okhiah, princessa,” she replies in the most broken, accented valerian imaginable. “Much kind of you to stop by.” 

Despite the guards behind her Rhaenrya doesn’t motion for them to pull her out. Rushing in could very well lead her to drop. 

“You didn’t answer my question.” 

The seer curls her lip at her Westerosi, her thin gown flapping in the midnight breeze. The whole room is freezing, Rhaenyra realizes. How long the window has been open, with her sitting right on the edge, she knows not. But the drop is more than a lethal leap—weren’t seers supposed to be wize? This girl looks hardly much older than her. 

Rhaenyra repeats her statement in Valerian, when the girl doesn't answer her. And that curled lip raises higher. 

“So sorry not to bow at your entrance , high-ness .” She pronounces the Westerosi word with a tangible scorn. Her grip on the ledge of the window shifting. “ My hands are cut in this cell. I figure ‘se royal family need nothing more from me after the birth fails, than a scaped goat. I will make the death myself before the mob breaks my door. I will not die captive again .”  

“ Whoa, hey, lykiri, Seer. Lykiri. '' The same words come to the princess as she does calming Syrax before a flight. She approaches the seer with the same amount of caution as a dragon. But she can’t take her eyes off her; the flutter of her unkempt hair in the breeze. The too-raw scars around her wrists. The bonyness of her collarbone and face. It reeks of suffering not known to anyone within the red keep. Rhaenyras heart pounds. “ You truly think my mother’s future so dire as to kill yourself? ”  

The girl shoots her a droll look. It’s so casual Rhaenyra forgets to be offended by its familiarity. “Do you see ‘se blue skies for my future if I’m right?” 

Well, no, but only because Rhaenrya can’t imagine a life without her mother in it. It’s an impossibility. 

Yet she cannot help herself from drawing closer to the window and asking. “What’s wrong with the baby?” 

The seer huffs a breath and looks outside; to the Red Keep, and all the dwindling, twinkling lights of Kings Landing beyond the castles walls. Rhaenyra has a far better view from her bedroom window, out toward the sea, but in this moment between a ledge and falling, each breath feels precious. 

“It’s spinned—it ehh,” she struggles with the right word for a moment. Rajusting her hold again. The strain shows on her arms as the thin lip of the windowsill offers very little for her to sit on. “Upside downside. The feet come first.” 

The princess doesn't know much about the delivery of children—nothing, at all in fact—but that makes her pause. “A…and that’s wrong?”

She nods vehemently, expression hard. Rhaenyra’s never seen someone from Essos so closely—the almond curve of her dark black eyes are transfixing; the coppery color of her skin aglow in the lantern light, despite the sore state she’s in. If she weren’t so aged by pain she might’ve had the same soft girlish face as Rhaenyra; but its replaced with a starven ugliness.  

“The head sticks, ‘se child doesn't breathe. It must be turned.” 

Her heart rate picks up. “How?” 

At once, the seer lets go of the ledge. Rhaenyra lurches forward to grab the front of her shirt before she falls, her guards right on her heels—someone shouts in alarm—but no body falls from the tower to the courtyard below. 

The Seer keeps balance with her feet pressed against the stone outside, motioning with open palm, flashing those ugly wrists. Rhaenyra tries not to recoil, despite holding the front of her in almost a chokehold. It’s rare for her to get so close to anyone—including a stranger—but her heart nearly leapt out of her throat with her nearly going over. It didn’t occur to her until her guards shout behind her that she could’ve fallen too. 

“By feel. By hand. It is human to touch. It is doom to keep your mother from it just because she’s Queen.” 

It’s the first time Rhaenyra’s heard someone consider her mother’s rights over that of the baby. 

And something clicks for her. 

She nods once at the girl, before unceremoniously jerking her out of the window ledge. 

“Then quit fooling around and help me do something about it. We don’t have much time left.” 

And there’s a flash of something on the girl’s face if only for a moment as she rights herself. It looks a little something like delight, but then its lost in the dark shadows of the keep and torchlight, hidden amongst the bones of her face. But it reminds Rhaenrya of dragons.   

⩫

One swift fall and a trip to ye old medieval morgue would’ve been the easy way out of escaping the Red Keep, but Sierazi is nothing if not dedicated to putting herself through the wringer just to feel alive. 

They’re all walking corpses anyway; Sierazi little different. She’s sure she’ll outlive the last of them until her body finally gives up whatever spark has kept her alive for so long, or she’s chopped into so many pieces and scattered about, her state of being alive stops mattering. But there’s a certain thrill in walking down the main corridors of the Keep with the princess beside her, the Kingsgaurd at their heels, knowing that for once they aren't there to beat the shit out of her, but to ensure that the Princess and her company arrive wherever the hell she wants to. Seirazi keeps sneaking grapes out of her pocket to chew on as she glances at them; nearly biting through her cheek in the process, flesh and fruit mixing as one on her tongue. More alive in this moment than she was an hour ago.

The Queens chambers are guarded by more bodies in steel and white cloak. 

The Princess argues with them in Westerosi that slides off Seirazi like seawater; catching only a few words at a time. She speaks so quickly and impassioned it reminds Seirazi of the storm. There’s a flash of white hrakkar teeth every time she opens her mouth. Her argument is so strong it begins to sway the guards at the door, but they manage to hold firm if only on the King’s orders. Orders Seirazi supersedes. 

“I work on the King’s orders,” hisses Seirazi, and her foreign tone of voice made the guards tense. She turns to the princess. “Tell them I have his blessings.” 

Rhaenyra gives her a side-eye. “You do?” 

Not exactly, but Seirazi could deal with the ‘quencies when they consequated. “I am permitted to see to ‘se Queen.”  

The Princess relays this to the guards. It’s not an easy argument—the Kingsgurds are set in their way. Seirazi recognizes faces of men who have dragged her out of the chamber prior. They look at her face and demeanour and the two girls in front of them and see an obstacle that ought to be pushed back. Of all nights than this night, the Queen ought not to be disturbed during her pains. 

But then the door opens, and a servant pokes their head out. 

“Talya,” Seirazi says, much to the confusion of the Princess and guard. Seirazi repeats the words she practiced earlier. “Vhal-ore-ous eve… thine services needeth…queen. Woudth thou allow entree?”   

She freezes like a deer in the headlights. Too young and inconsequential as the guards eyeball her, but somehow positioned with a single moment of power. Seirazi prays she remembers her desperate promise. 

“F-Forgive me…” Talya whispers, and ducks her head back inside. 

Rharnyra swears out loud. Seirazi’s heart sinks. 

The guard motions for them to leave. 

Then, as they begin to turn away, the door opens once more. 

Talya pokes her head back out. “Come,” she says, in as meek and quiet a voice as before, but with the flush of some gutsy, rebellious flush on her face. And they are bid inside. 

Notably, a guard breaks off from the door, taking poorly to their intrusions with the Maester’s name in his mouth. But it is a victory all the same. Seirazi shuts the bedroom door behind her and reaches for the nearest chair, wedging it underneath the doorknobs to the best of her ability. Talya and Rhaenrya blink at her, but she dismisses their concern. 

“The Maester will try to stop me. You cannot let him. His solutions for birth is cruel and wrong.” 

Rhaenyra scrutinies her. “And you’re better?” 

Seriazi huffs. She may not be perfect, but her first life as a midwife ought to count about as equal to a lifetime as a Maester who wheels and deals in leechings. At the very least, it should mean something in this one moment.  “I’ve spent my lives learning. I will give to ‘se Maester he has done ‘se same. But he will kill your mother if he has way. Take that as absolute.” 

While Talya cannot understand their Valerian, she ducks her head and goes about her duties, murmuring under her breath. “ Gods be good.”  

“Fine,” Rhaenyra says, the last of her doubts dying away with the fear of her mother’s fate overcoming all else. She is a fifteen-year-old girl facing a lifetime without half of her heart to guide her. Seirazi feels no shame in using this to get her way. “Do what you must.” 

The Queen’s bedroom is massive, large enough to fit a whole house inside, with long draping curtains and the heraldry of Targaryens and Arryns hanging amidst giant paintings and sculptures. It’s a comfortable room, but deadly silent inside, apart from a crackle from the fireplace, and a low moan from the bed. 

Rhaenyra takes to the bed without another word as Seirazi has Talya bring her warm water and soap. 

“This will have to be quick,” Seirazi says, looking over to the princess as Rhaenyra rouses her mother. “‘Se Maester will want to hang me if this goes wrong.” 

Hands scrubbed raw, Seirazi dries them on a fresh towel. She then takes a strip of sheet tied around her waist, folds it so, and then wraps it around her head, around her hair to tie it back. Fumbling so, but in a way she’d witnessed her Uuma tie it a lifetime ago. It feels odd to wear the godswife headwrap, but it keeps her hair back away from her eyes. Practical, above all else. 

She then approaches the bed. “Is she waking?” 

The Princess looks stricken, hand on her mother’s shoulder. “She’s had a lot of milk of the poppy.” 

So, opium addicted with fetal alcohol syndrome as well. If Seirazi lets this child live, it would be with great diffaculty. But that is not a reason to let it die.

“...nyra,” Aema murmurs, looking up at her though glazed eyes as white strands of hair stick to her dripping sweaty face. “H’ve you been out flying again? Your hair’s a mess. I thought… I thought I told you to be more careful…” 

“It’s okay mama, I’ve been good,” she whispers in Westerosi, while Seirazi tries to ignore the gnawing pit in her chest reserved for mothers and daughters of tragedy. “I’m here to help you, actually.” 

“Help me?” Aemma blinks, and then finally notices the other people in the room, illuminated as Talya lights another set of candles nearby. She shivers, though not from cold; her sheets sticking to clammy skin. “What’s… this about?” 

“There’s something wrong with the babe,” says the Princess, glancing over to Seirazi, whose face twinges. Unable to understand, but suspicious of her breaking the oath the king made her swear. “The Seer says she knows how to fix it.” 

“S-Something… something wrong with—with the babe?” Aemma’s eyes go wide, and she swoons, as if close to fainting. Or puking. Or perhaps both. She places a hand on her swollen stomach. “Is that the cause for such pains?” 

Rhaenyra looks to Seirazi for an answer. But they’re speaking in Westerosi. “What?” 

Rhaenyra huffs and translates with far less eloquence. 

Seirazi shrugs. “There are many reasons to be pained. I know the causings of your final trouble; and it is as deadly to you as it is to your baby.” 

Aemma pales.  “Was it the wine?” 

“What?” 

“The drink,” she repeats, motioning with a shaking hand. Her violet eyes are so big and wide and fearful, even as drunk on opium as she is. “Y-You said before. Drink would kill the babe. Did I…”  

Kill her own child? 

“This one is not you.” Most people in this era likely had no idea, and suffered from the same fetal alcohol syndrome as the next person. It wasn’t like they knew much better. “You had other babes before with other ends, yes? I’m thinking there is something other than your drink that is for fault.” 

“Like what?” asks Aemma. 

The same time, Rhaenrya says: “What are you doing??” As Seirazi climbs onto the bed. 

“I cannot turn ‘se babe if I'm on the floor,” she huffs, before addressing the Queens concerns. She’s so far up in the social hierarchy Seirazi’s break of social rules leaves her completely bewildered amongst her many pillows. “Many things can hurt mother and baby besides drink. Bad food, sicknesses, dirty rooms, poisonings from water, air, fork or food. Sometimes passed from the blood; family carried illnesses…” She was really getting gutsy here. “....has higher chance of catching if both parents have it.” 

Aemma blinks. “What do you mean?” 

How to explain the dangers of inbreeding to a historically inbred family, when a woman was about to give birth to her cousin-husband’s doomchild?

“Thick blood… runs slow,” she said, cryptically, because she was a cryptic mysterious seer who saw mysterious things. Her knowledge was vast as it was unknowing to everyone else. “Fresh new blood flows free. You do not want your blood so thick it stops completely.” 

Hopefully that made some sort of sense to these people. 

Seirazi didn’t wait for them to catch up. Positioning herself between Aemma’s knees (....Shepherd guide her when she asks Aemma to lift her nightshirt—they’re going to feed her to their flying lizards). “Now, are we ready to turn the baby?” 

“We—what?” 

Thrown for a loop, yet there to explain to her mother, above all else, the Princess explained. “She told me the babe is the wrong way around. A Breech.” 

Aemma swallows. “Gods be good—I barely survived the last one.” 

“Do you have a history of breeches?” asks Seirazi. If only she could've gathered patient history sooner.   

“Just… once, and far too early,” she murmurs. One hand rubs nervously over her swollen belly. The other is clasped with her daughter’s. “Th-The others were stillbirths.” 

“One died the cradle,” Rhaenyra corrects. 

“Daelleys,” Aemma breathes, shutting her eyes. Named after her own mother, who also died in the childbed. The ache of loss is still there—still lingering under the surface for her daughter. Agreived twice over.  “Such… a sweet little thing. I hardly got to know her.” 

For a second, Sierazi lets herself ache with her. “I’m sorry.”  

There was a Lhazareen saying that went, ‘no rain without thunder, no child without pangs.’ though the saying was only half complete, and followed many tales of loss amongst her kin. The agony of losing a child on the wild steppes was one that was not forgotten, and the misery of a child with no parent went in hand. Regardless of what flock one came from—Queen, merchant or slave—it was felt amongst all. A universal between all men, animal, and chattel. And in this world more than half of all children died before their first name day, more would die before their tenth, and one fifth of all mothers went with them. Seirazi had been on either side of each ache and sorrow, both child and adult. A consequence of living and dying and living again.  

If she got to do anything with this cursed existence, in this fourth life; Seirazi didn’t want to spend it grieving that pain again. 

“This breech will be deathly, but if we turn it before the baby comes…” Seirazi motioned to the Queen’s womb. A sombre, intense look in her eyes. “My kin call it womb-kneading.”

In another life, they called an External Cephalic Version.

“It’s simple. All I must do is apply pressure with my hands, and ‘se babe will move inside you.” 

If it hadn’t already shifted toward the birth canal… they had hours before the morning tourney. Seirazi was banking on the hope of Aemma’s labor being triggered on the size of the baby breaking its amniotic sac. From the look of Aemma’s bump, her body hadn’t shifted its center of gravity towards her pelvis. Which was ideal for an External Cephalic Version. But they already knew this was going to be a breech… its feet could already be pelvis-bound. Aemma had gone abed with pains. Could that have been premature labor pains? 

Fuck. Fuck fuck—It was all a gamble whether this would work or not. But…. it was better than cutting her open. Better than blood and death and funeral pyres.   

“I-I don’t know…” says Aemma, feeding the uncertainty burning in the air. It was now or never.  Voices speak outside the door as someone tries to enter, only to be barricaded by a chair, and it rattles the women conspiring inside. “What does the grand Maester say of this?” 

“He cares more about the heir than anything else—he’s going to get you killed,” stresses her daughter. As Aemma shakes her head in disbelief, the Princess’s voice softens. “Mother, I do not wish to see harm come to you.”

“Rhaenyra—” 

“You told me the birthing bed was our battleground,” she said, tears pricking her eyes as she grips her mothers hand. Her Valerian is brittle, emotional and ragged. Powerfully emotional, with every word. An agony of daughters spoken in a tongue that spans centuries. “You told me it was our duty. Th-that we ought to face it with a stiff lip, and serve the realm. But if you knew it was for a loss, that… that it would be to your end, would you not do everything you could do to ensure your survival? Even if it meant taking it into your own hands? If not for yourself, then for the kingdom you serve?” Her voice cracked. “Or for your family?” 

“Oh my love,” she whispered, cupping her cheek. “I know you fear for me. But you cannot be so sure of the way the gods work…” 

“Can you be so sure of the men who tend to you and think only of the heir?” she challenges. “I have been at your bedside all these months asking time again and time again. I beg you now you listen to me—what about you? ” 

There’s a moment where Aemma wavers. Five dead babies and all the suffering that comes with it swims in her eyes, of all the pain and suffering she’d endured only to return to this very birthing deathbed. A roll of the dice with every pregnancy, and getting by with sheer luck and the help of the help that she had not been one of the twenty percent of women in this world to die alongside her children. Perhaps now, in the final hour, alone with her daughter fanning the flames of rumor and prophecy her lip could not stand so stiff against the odds stacked against her. That she knew, deep down, this child would be her last. 

Aemma could’ve called for Talya to unblock the door, to let the Kingsguard in. Send her daughter away and the foreigner to the dungeons. Denied, outcast, and disregarded; like most women's worries.  

But maybe the Queen doubted Mellos’s methods than she let on. Maybe her heart had labored too long to grieve more children. Five empty cradles, with the only one remaining alive and begging her to trust in her. To make a leap of faith and decide for her own health. Her own life. For how she wanted to do things. 

Rhaenyra could very well be wrong. Seirazi could’ve just been another con artist. A foreigner, sent to dirty the childbed and be the reason for its death instead of salvation. But Aemma made a decision in that moment to sit up in her bed herself, and blink the opium gloss from her eyes. 

“What… will you have me do?” 

Seirazi could’ve beamed at her if she remembered how to smile. She settled for a decisive nod, placing gentle hands upon the royal womb itself. “Stay calm. Stay still. Tell me stop when it hurts. This won’t be quick, but it will not be killing you.”

More voices spoke in the hall. With a practiced hands, Seirazi moved quick, and was met with the rabbit-quick heartbeat of the infant cradled beneath the skin. With a bit more pressure, she could feel the crown of his head. The curve of his spine. He was big . Too much time cooking before coming out of the oven. If it would naturally at all.    

The baby shifted with her hands upon him, and as Aemma shivered, both in discomfort and anticipation. 

Seirazi glanced at them both. “This will be weird.” 

Rhaenyra eyed her. “What do you mean?” 

“Have you ever seen a fetus pitched wrongways?” 

There was a pregnant pause in the royal bedchamber. 

Light flashed in Seirazi’s eyes. More alive than she’d ever been. 

“Would you like to?”

Chapter Text

On the morning of the Heir's Tourney, Viserys was woken early. 

Under normal circumstances, today would have been cause for celebration. The Seven Kingdoms had united to celebrate the arrival of his heir, after all. Royal families and knights from all the realm had gathered to drink and joust and make merry. But for all the goodwill they brought, it would matter little thanks to one little whisperer who’d travelled farther than any of them combined, who’d brought with her but the doom of all his happiness. 

In truth, Viserys had sunk into his cups a tad more than usual the night before. With Aemma absent for what very well could’ve been their last sup together, it was easy to remain in the Grand Hall entertaining the lords and accepting each new refill of his glass when it came. And weakness may have softened his reasoning, his resolve to see his heir born was no less strong when he woke the next morning. 

Though the hangover put him in a sour mood when he was abruptly torn from sleep. 

"My King." Ser Harrold Westerling stood at the doors, armoured and hand on his hilt. He must have taken the stairs two at a time; for his breathing came faster than usual. "Forgive me for disturbing your rest, but you're needed at once. The Queen you see, in her bedchamber—" 

At once, Viserys threw back the covers.

 "Is this it? The babe is coming? Why didn’t you wake me sooner?!" He grunted, swinging his feet over the massive oaken bed to find his slippers. Attendants frittered about the room, running for his dressing clothes. One held up a robe and Viserys threw himself into it, bundling it around him as he made for his Kingsguard. "When did it start? How far along is she? Have the complications shown yet or will that come later?" 

Harrold staggered back. "Forgive me sire, I do not know for certain any of which you've asked." 

A gloriously grating sunbeam pierced through the window as Viserys knotted his belt. His mouth tasted of spicewine, hippocras and mead, and he impatiently snapped: "Then why are you here??" 

This, Sir Westerling did not hesitate to answer. "A commotion in the Queen's chambers, Milord. Ser Darklyn, Fell, and Thorne bore witness to a small party of intruders in the hour of the ghost." 

That was hours ago . Viserys felt all remaining composure shatter as he took to the hall. "They didn't think to alert you sooner?!"

Harrold huffed, following after the king. "Thorne did—I arrived shortly after the Grand Maester, and it was only after the barricade was taken down did the commotion start." 

"Is the Queen safe??" he demanded, pacing faster to Aemma's chambers. "What intruders could get so far into the castle walls?! I trust you've apprehended them at least ." 

"In a uh, matter of speaking, my King. The Queen's condition may be in question, but she safe and under guard. Though I do not believe it was the intruder's intention to harm her… as it was your daughter who entered her chambers last night," Westerling admitted, and Viseries fell to a stop. Then, he added. "Along with the Sea Snake's… guest ."

Viserys swore aloud. 

"As for the Queen's labors..." Westerling cut short to the sound of Aemma's voice bellowing through the hall. A proper roar to shake the keep.

"VISERRRYS... VIISSERYS…! YOU DID THIS! WHERE IS MY HUSBAND?!" 

"....I cannot say for certain," he finished, shooting the Viserys a pitying look. The cries were enough to rattle several of the men shepherding the King to her chambers.

Forget forgetting the fucking hangover. Viserys needed another port of wine. Or several. 

"Seven spare me now."

The Queen's chambers was a flurry of activity as they arrived; attendants and maidservants, Maesters and guards jockeying for position around the doors. While the masses parted in the King's approach, it did not come without Westerling shoving to the front. This was a familiar chaos that Viserys had grown accustomed to with each labor of his and Aemma's children, and while it stoked kernels of anxiety in his stomach, nothing would compare to the disaster that awaited him inside. 

"By all the grace of men and gods, if you do not remove that girl the Heir is as good as already gone!" was the first that greeted Viserys as he stepped inside. The Grand Maester red in the face, breathing heavily as another, younger Maester attempted to calm him down. 

He was familiar. An apprentice tasked with de-scabbing the wound on Visery’s back under the Grand Maester's instruction. If Viserys recalled correctly, his name was Mikon. He currently attempted to keep the old man from committing an act in unprofessional outrage. 

"Breathe, teacher. You cannot serve the Queen if your heart gives." 

"I will not—w-would you quit—I am fine!" Mellos broke off from his apprentice as he saw the King, falling to his side. "Your grace, you cannot truly permit this intrusion. The queen's safety is paramount." 

"As I understand, Grand Maester. But please, allow me the chance to understand what's happening before snapping to judgment." He raised his voice above all those speaking at once. "SO WHAT IN THE SEVEN HELLS IS GOING ON HERE?!" 

And the room fell silent. All staff froze in place, caught between duties and reverence to their King. The only noise to disregard his command came from the Queen’s labored breathing as she clenched her hand against a pillow, a shock of white wispy hair and shining, sweaty skin. 

Rhaenyra, in a similar state of shock, was the one to break the silence with all eyes to witness them. "Father, I—" 

He rounded on her first. "You plan to explain yourself? What is this I hear of you intruding into your mother's room last night? Rhaenyra, what have you done?"

In a very rare moment, his headstrong daughter has no solid excuses. Words spilled out in rapid speed. "I-I... I didn't mean—it all happened so fast—I could never have imagined it would turn so… so..." She palmed a hand against her forehead, lost in what she'd seen. "I just—I didn't mean to upset—I’m sorry...!" 

“Rhaaae—nyra…!” Aemma moaned again as she clenched her knees together upon her bed, breathing hard and lost amongst a sea of pain. “ Please .” 

It seemed the one with the real answers sat between her legs, in the most unseemly of positions, as a thin sheet left little to the imagination to all those present. 

The Sea Snake's Seer spoke again in low, accented Valerian. Her back turned to all—including, worst of all the king—as she dared to lay her hand upon the Queen’s knees. Paying little attention to anything but the laboring woman in front of her. 

" Much good, Aemma, just like that. Breathe just so. " 

Viserys loudly cleared his throat, but it was drowned out by Aemma's pained humming as she created the peak of her agonies. 

He tried again. Obvious and aggravated. The servants around him shrunk at the King's ire, and yet the Seer had the gall to ignore him. 

Sir Harrold narrowed his eyes with venomous intent. "The King is addressing you!" 

She may not have understood the Westerosi word, but the tone was threatening enough. 

" Shepherd guide 'se men from this room and to some field they may fight in , for they know nothing of birth, " she said in low-Valerian, without turning her head. Aemma let out a shocked, gasping laugh, and the mad-child only encouraged more of it. " A peaceful room is too much for them to be giving. "

The Queen looked over her head at the Kingsguard as he gripped the pommel of his sword. "Ser Harrold if you so much as draw steel in my bedchambers,  I will not only have you stripped of your cloak I will send you to the wall for being so—" she winced, gripping her pillow with clawed hands again. " NNnggg . Viserys, get your guards out of here!" 

Viserys dropped all pretenses and fled to her side. "Aemma, my darling, we only wish to understand what is happening." 

"Does your brain still sleep? I'm in labor, you fool. For the babe you put inside me, if you recall. It's only the one thing we've all been expecting," she said derisively.  

Viserys face lit up. "The babe is truly coming now?"  

His face then fell in resignation. 

"The babe is coming. Oh. Oh —" 

Tragedy, doomgreif, civil warring. 

As horror dawned on his face, the Seer turned to him with a steady look, speaking in Valerian. " The birthings have only started. Do not count your eggs quite yet ." 

At his side, Rhaenyra shook her head in exasperation. " I didn't think bringing her here would start the birth. She said she knew a way to circumvent the breach; neither of us thought it'd begin the labor pains. " 

The Seer shrugged. " Her water is unbroken, but he is an eager jabby one ." 

Aemma let out a watery laugh, resting her head back as she caught her breath. " Truly. Perhaps he does bear a crown of iron after all. Gods spurn me ." 

Viserys didn't quite know what to say. Amid the pounding of his heart, and the pounding in his head, crept the helpless panic only a father could know. No warning could prepare him for this moment, and the mental image of his wife and heir drowning in blood helped only to twist his heart, he clasped Aemma's hand and prayed this would not be the end. 

Maester Mellos then stepped forward. "My lord, you must agree the Queen must be seen to by a proper vetted sophisticated if you wish for the safe delivery of your heir." 

Under normal circumstances, he would. Viserys had never been a man to ever doubt the administrations of his Grand Maester. Mellos had faithfully served him and his family, from the time of King Jaeherys to his own reign. 

But the day of the tourney had come, and so had the Queen's labors, just as foreseen. 

...though the provocation of said labors did bring some things into question. Viserys turned back to the child crouched between his wife's legs. 

" What do you intend to do now that the birth of my son has come as promised? " 

She shot him another flat look. One he could've spotted on his own daughter, in the midst of disobedience. It curried no respect. " Deliver him, dragon-master. Unless you rather I let him be cut from 'se queen's womb happenhazardly, and allow them both to die ." 

He choked. "I-I would not—" 

Then, in a shock to all, she ducked her head beneath the sheet covering Aemma's decency. A pair of maidservants gasped. Mellos went so white, Maester Mikon went back to watching him for signs of a faint. 

Aemma puffed out another delirious scoff and looked to the ceiling. As if it were not the first time. 

The girl then popped her head back out. " She aches only. There is yet to be any openings ." 

Viserys's face twisted. " I do not recall granting you permission to look upon the Queen's.... intimate... " he struggled. “ Intimates! ”

At his side, his daughter huffed. "The babe ought to come from somewhere father, I do not think it does us any good to remain blind." 

Remembering her offenses, Viserys turned on her. "And what are you doing here again? Sneaking in with your own agendas? Do not think in the chaos of this morn I have forgotten. Don't you have a joust to prepare for?" 

Rhaenyra blanched. 

"Don't you? " Aemma countered, wiping a shaky hand over her forehead. 

He turned back to her, softening. "The Heir's tourney is far beyond my concerns now." 

She scoffed. "It is for the Heir, is it not? What would the knights, gentry and smallfolk think if their King was not there to welcome them?" 

"That he cares deeply for the sake of his heir and family," he rebutted, but the tender look in Aemma's eyes made him choke. The air was thick, cloying and doom permeated every corner. He gripped Aemma's hand--blisteringly warm, and felt her grip back. His voice broke. "Aemma, I.... do not wish to leave you." 

"Viserys." she shot him a tired look. "You look as though you slept upon the floor. My pains are far between. It will be a moment more before my time comes." 

If only she knew how true that was. 

Despite his worries, Viserys turned to the Grand Maester for final confirmation. 

Mellos could not refute it. "While I cannot confirm for myself the start of the Queen’s labors, nor the suspicious claims of our intruder, it appears... we have time yet before the heir’s crowning." He hurried on. "But I require educated eyes of my own to be certain." 

Viserys turned to the Seer, in the midst of washing her hands with a warm cloth from a maidservant. 

" Work alongside the Maester ," he commanded, if anything to appease the rapid beat of his heart and the clawing helplessness brewing within him. There was so much he did not know, with so few options as his family and kingdom’s future hung in the balance. All he knew was that he was the one to give orders. 

The seer made a face. 

He pointed at her. " I mean it. Work together, or the freedom you seek will found in the confines of a dungeon ."  

"Tsch.” She turned to the Maesater as Mellos took position at the end of the bed, behind her. Her speech was near-incomprehensible as she spoke Westerosi. "Hæfþ' thyine Maysteer hȳe whashe soapan handse?" 

"What??" 

"Fie," she scoffed, switching back to Valerian. One broken tongue for another. " If I must duel ‘se old to bring ‘se young, I will ." 

"I beg it not come to that," Viserys groaned, motioning to his guard to lay down boundary lines. 

⩫

The atmosphere surrounding the royal family wasn't immediately felt by the general public, though it would be a lie to say it wasn't noticed by those closest to them. The council did their best not to speak of any prophetic doom spoken of the heir, nor did the Lord of the Tides, who invited such grim news to the castle. Neither did the Hand of the King, who refuted everything said, and went on with the tourney as if nothing were wrong. His daughter, on the other hand, was no slouch when it came to observation. And it was very clear to her that something was off when Rhaenyra was absent all morning. 

Ordinarily, this would be no cause for concern. The Princess often liked to do as she pleased and arrived at odd hours to do things all the time. It was Alicent's job occasionally to accompany her to ensure they both appeared on time—or at the very least arrive together to soften the social faux pas. 

But with breakfast missed and the start of the games missing both princess and King, requiring the Hand to bless the start of each event...

Well, it worried Alicent. She meant to go find her before Rhaenyra missed the maypole, but her father held her back.

"I would advise against disturbing the the royal family at this current moment, my dear," he said, hand tucked behind his back as he looked not at her, but at the growing crowed gathering in anticipation of the joust. "The princess will return to you in time. She has her own concerns for now. You understand how close she is with the queen, after all."

Yes, she did. Alicent recognized a close mother-daughter bond when she saw it. She would not rob her friend the chance to support her in her time of labor. 

Still, it did not keep Alicent from fretting as she and Otto made for the tents by the jousting area. Of all the many colorful shelters erected for the knights and their squires; it was the green tent with the Hightower heraldry that they made their way to first. Though not before the Hand was greeted by the Horsemaster, and their conversation began to drag on. 

Thankfully, her father was nothing if not observant as his daughter glanced at the tent and picked at her nails. 

Otto reached over to squeeze her hand in what appeared to be a fatherly gesture, if she wasn't aware that it was a message for her to cease showing her agitation. "Alicent, go on ahead to great your brother while I settle matters with Master Dennet. I'm sure he will appreciate your visit."

Alicent faltered. "Wh—oh, but…"

Otto had a particular crease under his eye that spoke of rising irritation. Though he hid it well, and it was not directed at her. "I do not believe it will take long."

Which likely actually meant it’d drag on. And Alicent was on her own. 

Well, with no choice of her own, Alicent nodded, curtsied to Master Dennet, and turned to make her acquiescence to the tent. 

It was busy inside, as to be expected. Attendants moved from one corner of the tent to another, carrying polished weapons and pieces of armor yet to be fitted. Squires worked to complete the garnature to their knightly master; dressed in traditional oldtown green, silver, and gold, while the knight representing house Hightower stood stoically, and tirelessly outfitted without complaint. 

" Owch —careful! Mind the joints, you oaf. I need blood in my arms if I'm to hold my lance."

Alicent forced on a weak smile. "Hello, brother." 

Gwayne Hightower, in his grace, looked up from accosting his squires as she entered his tent. "Sister!" 

There was an awkward lull as both stood in recognition, before some of the attendants ducked their heads and turned away. 

Alicent cleared her throat. "I um, came to wish you luck today—with father—though he has some business to attend to with Master Dennet at the moment... He will be here shortly."

"Ah." An unmistakable flash of disappointment crossed Gwayne's face, before he looked down to a facet on his armour. "I see." 

The Hand of the King always had something come up when it came to seeing his son. Alicent was not sure if it was luck or misfortune she was the only girl, and the one he kept the closest when moving their family to the Red Keep. Gwayne, the eldest boy of eight, had been left in Oldtown to be trained by Lord Hightower when Aliccent had only been a baby. She shared few strong memories of Gwayne growing up, beside overly official letters and a few occasional visits. It seemed now, a man of seventeen, Gwayne sought less of his family by the day and instead sought recognition and glory in knighthood. She couldn’t help a twinge of resentment and longing over it. 

It was a strange sight to see him now. 

Gwayne cleared his throat. "I uh, I am gladdened to see you, at least. I expect you'll be in the Lady's court overseeing?" 

She nodded. "You will have my favor."

"Well, then… you have my thanks." 

Alicent swallowed. There was something missing in the gap between the two of them which she couldn't voice. It felt like it had grown larger and faster with every day that had passed since their mother had died and Gawayne had shed the last vestiges of his childhood for armor and steel. The worst part was, he seemed to know it too, but refrained from acknowledging it in traditional Hightower fashion. It was the one thing of their father she could recognize in him.  

Gawayne's attendant snapped another facet harshly into his side, and her brother hissed another curse. Composure had never been his strongest suit. 

The urge to flee began to mount, but before she gave in or lost Gwayne’s attention once more, she asked: "Are you worried?”

He looked up distractedly. “Hm?” 

“About the joust,” she explained, picking at her cuticle again as Gwayne stared. “They uh… I hear prince Daemon is on the warpath to winning the tourney.” 

He scoffed. “The Prince will have to do more than rage at the competitors if he desires victory. It will be hard fought. There are many talented knights besides just myself he’ll be up against. ” 

Something told her a Targaryen dragon prince’s rage was all that was needed to reduce his quarry to ashes. 

“So you’re not afraid?” 

“Were I to fear every man I faced on my horse, I would never gain the courage to ride it,” he said, raising his chin up with a confidence Alicent envied. Gawayne gave her a curt nod she’d seen the King’s Hand replicate every time he dismissed someone’s idle, nonsense fears. “And you may inform father as such.”      

“Um. Right.” Twisting her thumbnail deeper into the skin, Alicent bobbed a curtsey. “Then, um, good luck then at the joust, brother.” 

He turned away from her as if he didn’t need it. Using the familial title as if in reminder. “Thank you, sister.” 

But he did need it. 

He did need it. 

He did. 

Alicent had almost all but forgotten the Princess as the Tourney began, and had front-row seating for the bloody thrashing of every single knight that could have posed a threat to the Prince's winnings. It started with high-anticipated matchups from the start: Prince Daemon had been granted the right to choose his opponent. He rode amongst all the knights, and he went through each of the realm’s favored choices. First he chose Jason Lannister, then Rymum Mallister, then Dallen Bolten. Each match more vicious than the last. While Jason Lannister got dehorsed and his pride dented, alongside his extravagantly shiny armor, Dallen Bolten was lucky to pulled from his horse with both arms still attached to his body. 

As the semifinal matchup with the Prince commenced, Alicent's brief moment of respite with ser Criston Cole winning his bouts were a breath of fresh air. If only she were smart enough to hold her breath, and perhaps analyze the ruthless takedowns of Daemon's political rivals. But Gawayne had been slotted as his next opponent, and suddenly it became too hard to breathe. 

"Sorry I'm late," said a distant, familiar voice as the Princess slid into the seat next to her. Alicent could barely bring herself from looking away as Gwayne, fully armored, was hoisted up onto the saddle to await death on swift dragon wings. "...Alicent? Did you hear me?" 

"Hm? Yes—Oh--I'm... I'm sorry, I'm glad you're here," she said, turning to her friend. 

Rhaenyra looked about as bad as she felt in that moment. Dark circles under her eyes compounded the sickly look on her face, and Alicent gaped at the sight of her. 

"Seven’s grace… Rhaenyra, what happened to you??" 

The Princess struggled to answer for a long moment; the truth of the matter too weighty to speak aloud. Before she could finally voice the horrors she’d faced, she was swiftly cut off by the sound of the King, a few levels up, addressing the entire stadium. 

He looked just as rattled as his daughter. 

"Knights, lords, ladies and all who have journeyed far to witness the final, and semifinal event. The Royal Family thanks you all for the celebration of talent in the name of the King's heir!" 

Cheers and voices rose up to greet him as nobility and overseeing smallfolk answered their king. Alicent, so close in seating to him, could see the tightness in his face as he waited for them to quiet down; the rapid ticking of his hands as if he awaited the moment it would be over. It was the same anticipated worry that seemed to stir in the Princess beside her. As Viserys spoke again, Alicent looked to her father standing beside him; though the Hand gave no indication that anything was strictly amiss. 

"Pray that this day ends with as high hopes as all who came here, as i am here to announce the Queen has begun her Labors!" A raucous outcry of celebration broke out again, and there Alicent understood why King and Princess appeared so jittery. Viserys cleared his throat. "From the bottom of my heart, I thank you all for your attending. And from Queen Aemma, I relay to you the same message of duty, gratitude, and love —" 

The King's voice audibly wavered. Were Alicent not within the royal viewing box, she may not have heard it so plainly, but to all others it appeared he took a steadying breath. 

"—For all her people, in this most delicate and joyous times. Thank you all!" 

And with that he turned and left the box, returning from wherever he came from. 

Alicnet's mouth hung open, and remained so as she turned to Rhaenyra. 

The Princess did her best at appearing undisturbed, sitting directly forward in her seat. Though the exhaustion seemed to weigh even more upon her. "It um. It has been… a long night." 

She shook her head. "Aren't you going with him?" 

Her eyes hardened. "I can't .”

Alicent blinked. "What? Surely the King wouldn't bar you from the birthing room—" 

"Not him. It... It's complicated," she muttered, looking out as the tourney began anew, a fresh buzz of excitement with the Queen's labors. All the realms blind to the stress it put upon her family, that Alicent could only imagine. "She told me I had to be here though. That I would be missing something if I wasn't here." 

"Missing what? " 

Rhaenyra sat back in her chair. “For Daemon to lose.” 

She seemed so sure of it. 

Alicent looked back to the tourney just in time to witness Gawayne and Daemon take off from their starting posts. Her stomach dropped. With the thundering of hooves, the two knights barreled closer, and it was impossible to imagine the Crown Prince dehorsed when he was such a powerful figure to be reckoned with. A black and red blur across the field—mirrored by silver and green. There was no possible way Gwayne could be the thing to end the Crown Prince’s victory streak—Alicent knew as much, with this Gwayne’s first true test of his skills, while Daemon the captain of the Goldcloaks. But for a moment, what little good Alicent's favor did worked overtime as Gawayne's lance knocked Daemon's out of the way just in time to land a blow that none before him could have struck. 

She nearly leapt from her seat. "YES!” 

The crowd went wild at the first resistance against the dark prince of dragons. The Lord of Flea Bottom, they jeered, absolutely ecstatic over the heavy blow. 

“Do you think he’ll be one to best the prince?” A little voice behind them asked—Alicent turned to glimpse little Laena Velaryon as she tugged on her brother’s Laenor’s sleeve. 

He too was on the edge of his seat. Captivated as the two knights rounded the other side of the area, fetched their new poles, and returned to position. “I don’t know. But it’s either him, or the next one.” 

“Who’ll that be?” 

They couldn’t tell for certain. Neither could most; from what whisperings Alicent had heard, but it was the farthest thing from her mind as they next round began. 

“Please let her be wrong,” Rhaenrya murmured as the horses moved from their starting position. At Alicent’s questioning look, Rhaenyra shook her head. “If she’s wrong about this and Daemon wins, then she could be wrong about everything else.” 

As the Prince and Gwayne lowered their poles, Alicent prayed in secret it would not be so. 

Let her brother unhorse the prince. 

Let him see to the final round. 

Let him gain the glory he chased in front of their father. 

Let him emerge unscathed. 

Let Daemon lose. 

Let him lose. 

Let him lose .

But in the final moment as their horses charged, as cheers and screams of excitement reached its pitch; in the blink of an eye things changed in an instant. Gwayne rode to strike his quarry with expert accuracy, the tip of his pole swinging up to reach its target—one that would not be found. The Prince swung low, his body pitching, and his pole hit the breast of Gawayne’s horse, lanced off it, and hit the dirt. Unhorsing Gwayne and the steed in one sending both flying.

Excitement turned to horror. Metal and meat and bone crunched upon the turf. Gwayne’s horse went hoof over head; it’s body slamming down onto her brother as Alicent watched helplessly from the stands. Attendants ran out to assist but the win was stolen by Daemon as he trotted victoriously out the other end, and Gwayne Hightower lay in a crumpled, broken heap. 

So much blood poured from the dented metal upon Gwayne’s pole arm. His body lay motionless as they attempted to drag him out from under the body of his beloved horse, which twitched, disoriented and lamed. Set to the chopping block; if not with its rider alongside it. 

“Damn,” Rhaeynra murmured as Alicent sat paralyzed in horror. The world grew smaller and quieter as she watched her brother be carried off to the medical tents upon a stretcher. No sign of life as far as anyone could tell. “Maybe he’ll win after all.”

Alicent could not help but hear a note of hope in the Princess’s voice as she turned to stare at her. 

“How could you say such a thing?!”

Rhaenyra shook her head as the final round was announced, between Daemon Targaryen and a mysterious Sir Criston Cole. 

“Because either Daemon wins and she’s wrong, or he loses and my mother dies.” 

Alicent didn’t know what to say. It was horrible. It was all so horrible. 

“S-She? Who’s she? ” 

“The Seer delivering the Heir.” 

⩫

 "Push, your grace!" 

"AAAAAAHHHHH!!!" 

Something was wrong. 

"Another! Push!!!!" 

"GGGHHHHHAAUHHH, aaaaUUGhhHHHhh!!!" 

Something being wrong was the penultimate reason for Seirazi being here, of course, but something being wrong was not supposed to be on the docket anymore after literally turning things around to be right. 

Aemma wept. "GOds be good—!" 

"Once more, your grace!" Maester Mellos urged; a line of handmaidens and lower Maesters behind him, waiting with bated breath. "You have only just begun. Along with the labor pains—you cannot stop now." 

"I know that," Aemma grit out, shooting him a violet glare. "I've had six labors before this, I think I know how to push ." 

She shuddered as her contractions peaked again, and her head rolled back as another noise of pain tore from her mouth. The young and rattled handmaiden Talya came to dab at the sweat lining her brow, but Aemma pushed her away. 

"No more of this...! Please… Please, let me rest." She gasped, her voice raw from screaming. “If but a moment. I-I cannot… I cannot keep up.” 

Mellos grit his teeth. “You must, if you want to deliver this child, my queen.” 

But words would do no good where the body faltered. Seirazi followed enough through tone to see where Mellos was failing, and took Talya’s place with water and a fan as she shrunk back, and Aemma fell into recovery. 

The sun had already climbed well into midday, and the labor had gone on for hours. Aemma was dilated enough to begin to deliver but her contractions were erratic. Seirazi had turned the infant in her womb and preemptively started her contractions, but her mucus membrane hadn’t ruptured like it should have—which likely contributed to how unpredictable each contraction was. It was just her luck that one little trick hadn't been enough to make for a smooth birth when the whole universe hinged upon terrible tragedy.

But that didn’t mean it was the last trick up her sleeve.  

Seirazi placed a firm hand underneath the swell of Aemma’s stomach, holding her breath as the Queen lay still. 

“ Baby’s heart is beating firm ,” she said aloud. Which was good news for now. She’d check every five minutes, if she could, and then more when the baby actually started coming. Then she reached out to take Aemma’s pulse, and frowned. “ Mother’s racing. ” 

“ You don’t say, ” Aemma said miserably. 

Mellos returned to the opposite side of the Queen’s bed, eyeing the hand on Aemma’s wrist. “What was that? What did she say to you?” 

“She says the Queen’s heart beats fast,” another, younger Maester said to him; dressed in simpler robes, bearing fewer chains of silver, bronze, lead and copper. Seirazi recognized the olive-skinned man from earlier as one of the few disciples under Mellos whose ancestors didn’t seem to hail from the north. “‘ Né Visni ,’ is the Meereenese colloquialism of ‘ Nee Viaasyni, ’ meaning: ‘ with haste ’. Her heart is racing, Grand Maester.” 

Mellos paused. Scowled. Then waved him off. “I could have said so myself.” 

It was a mixed mercy for Seirazu not to know Westerosi. If she understood all the ways Mellos could have aggravated with a simple sentence, her eyes would have rolled into the back of her head and caused her next undeath. Instead, she turned to the young man who could translate her. 

“ What’s your name? ”

“ Mikon ,” he answered clearly. Accented in high Valerian speech like the rest of the Targaryns, though he bore no likeness to them. With a flat nose and short black hair and eyes. His parentage reminded her of travellers from Volantis, or Myr. “ And while I thank you for your intervention here, it would behoove you to listen to my elder’s wisdoms. He did not get this far without dedicated his life to serving the great pillars of knowledge that is the Maeser’s code. ” 

New connection with another from Essos or not, Seirazi frowned. “ He irks. ” 

Mikon sighed. “ If all healers judge the future of their patient on how irritating those around them are, nothing would ever be done. ” 

She frowned harder. “ He keeps me from my job .” 

He paused, watching as Mellos took to bossing around the servants as Aemma rested. The room fell to a lull with no progress in the labor, but preparations were made to restock towels and water and milk of the poppy. Talya especially wilted into the background, there to spectate if nothing more, as was her station. 

Seirazi saw it as a miserably helpless existence. 

Mikon folded his hands behind him. “ Perhaps there is a way we may aid each other. Tell me your thoughts so I may relay them to my master .” 

She huffed. “ Better you tell him nothing at all. ” 

“ You agreed to work together on order of the King, did you not? ” 

No deeper grimace was ever grimaced. 

One sidebar and explanation of her thoughts later, and a further translation, the Grand Maester was up in arms all over again. 

“I will not agree to it. It is unseemly. It is a violation. It’s unbecoming of her majesty—” 

Forgetting the old man, Seirazi spoke right in Mikon’s ear. “ It’s necessary to further the birthing. Her labor will normal if I do. ” 

The Grand Maester went to his disciple’s other side. “There are no writings that dictate such a process. It will induce infection, she could bleed, if not risk her internals outright. I will have to confer with the texts—” 

This was going nowhere. “ I turned her womb already, I am not inable of popping a water bladder. ” 

Mikon looked down at her in alarm. “ You what? ” 

“What did she say now?” Mellos demanded. Mikon shockingly translated, and the Grand Maester made an uncomprehending noise. “Surely she jests!” 

“ Surely you jest ,” Mikon repeated. 

Seirazi stared defiantly into his dark eyes. “ There are arts in this world your Maesters will never even dream of in all your researchings . That does not mean ‘sey cannot be done .” 

He blinked. “ I… I suppose .”  

“She claims credit for the queen’s state of womb? The child has shown no sign of coming out any other way than head-side down,” Mellos argued. “ I have counseled the King for all my fears, but if what she says is true I cannot abide untested, untrustworthy experiments another moment. If we truly wished to break her water it must be with the balancing of her body’s elements and humors. The proper procedure is that of a saltwater enema, then, if that fails, quicksilver—” 

From the bed, the Queen shot them a weary, aggravated look. “While I would love to listen to your explosive plotting, I find myself once again gripped by the unseen force clawing within my lower body. Would one of you please explain in full what it is you’re whispering about, so I may decide for myself what you do to me?” 

Before Mellos or Seirazi could answer, Mikon did. “There is a possibility—a suggestion, really, that it would benefit the queen to break her waters to restore some normalcy.” 

Aemma considered it for a moment, her face screwing up in sour disposition as she held back a hiss of rising pain. “If it would… hasten things.” 

Seirazi elbowed the younger Maester. “ We are fifteen hours long, there’s no rushing needed .” 

He raised a dubious brow. “ Only fifteen hours? ” 

“ It is a false thought that it must be fast to be good. Unless ‘se babe is lacking of air …” 

She frowned at the sheet covering Aemma’s lower body. Fifteen hours of blood, sweat, and mucus left everything an unhygienic yellow-brown color; but it was the seep of blood that was concerning. She was definitely tearing with all her premature pushing, but Seirazi couldn’t get close to tell how bad. And if the blood came from somewhere else—if the baby detached from its placenta, or began to lose oxygen from the umbilical cord… really any number of things could go wrong. And then it was all over. 

“ Some labors take days. ” 

Mikon translated for his elder, and the Grand Maester became pensive. 

“Do you believe she will last that long?” the apprentice quietly asked. 

He touched the seven pointed star at the center of his Maester’s chain, and exhaled. “I dare not speak of such grim fates before they exist.” 

“Then what shall we do?” 

The old man looked to Seirazi. He shook his head. 

She didn’t know what he said to Mikon, but the young man frowned. When he next spoke, it was cautious. “ Will moving help break it? ” 

She had to think for a moment to properly understand what exactly he meant. “ You mean standing her up? ” 

He nodded. 

For once in this miserable process, Seirazi perked up. “ Yes. Yes it could. If she walks— ” 

“ I cannot, ” Aemma said from the bed. 

Seirazi turned to her. “ If you walk, it could help your body. Balance your blood. Put pressure upon your waters. Laying is not ‘se only way to birth. ” 

She groaned. “ Allow me to rephrase. I will not. Shall not. It is an agony— ’ 

“ You are ‘se blood of dragon masters, fire lights your veins! You will stand .” 

“ Is that an order?” The queen laughed. “ In my own chambers?? ” 

“ You will obey ,” Seirazi shot back. “ You will walk. You will live to see tomorrow, Queen of dragons, because if you do not s’ere will be more blood and fire than your kin will ever see in their lives. And if you want to live to mother your daughter, you will stand and listen to what I have to say. Otherwise, I will have to pop your waters by myself, and will be wet, and there will be tearings, and you will not enjoy my fingers inside you one bit .”  

Aemma snapped her mouth close. She pulled a long, hard breath through her nostrils as they flared. For a moment it seemed as though righteous fire kindled in her lungs, but in all her grace and courage, the Queen swallowed hard and sat up from her bed. Met by Talya, who swooped in to prop her up of course, but she stood with all the energy she could muster. 

Aemma’s legs shook as she struggled to right herself, but she held her head high. “Where shall I go?” 

Young Mikon pointed. “Down the hall should suffice, m’ilady.” 

“Very well.” 

In what only could be described as a queenly waddle, Seirazi basked in their moment of cooperation. It would not last, of course, as the time droned on and nothing at first came of their exercise, but it was something. And by the time Aemma’s water did break upon the floor, the third time in between contractions, there was a genuine moment of celebration amongst them all. A collective breath taken in ease as something normal and expected happened finally, on something they had all agreed upon. 

And then of course the screaming began again. 

“AAAAAAAAAHHH!!!" 

“ It is a song to the ears once you are getting used to it, ” Seirazi said as Maester Mikon fought to not cover his ears. 

“ You talk like an expert.”  He shot her a side-eye. “You’re nothing but a girl .” 

“ Many girls give birth .” She observed as the Queen breathed heavily, drinking from a cup Talya offered. “ Someone has to shepherd them .” 

On the seventeenth hour, as the sun moved past its peak and the sounds of the tourney rose to its fever pitch outside, the Queen’s chambers reeked of fluids and sweat. They argued about opening the windows. They argued about the rate of changed sheets, washed hands and incense. They argued over who should have the right to sit between the Queen’s legs as Aemma finally dilated enough to deliver, and the crest of the head became visible as she pushed. 

Ultimately Seirazi won the spot on the bed through sheer agility and the willingness to elbow an old man in the gut before he had the chance to fuck up the entire world as she knew it would be. 

“ Easy ,” Seirazi said as the Queen strained. “ Now is the hard part. ” 

“A-As if. As if any of this—” she rasped. “Any has been… easy…!” 

With a loud, guttural moan she gained another centimetre. The cry echoed through the chamber, making all those who had not hardened themselves yet to wince. It was then the King chose to make his return; panting hard, as if he too had labored to return to Aemma’s side and also been forced to walk up and down the stairs while heavily pregnant.  

“Aemma, my darling, I returned as soon as I could!” 

“Vis—erys—” she moaned, reaching blindly for his hand as another contraction hit. “It hu—rts …” 

“I’m here, my love. What might I do to help?” He clasped hands with hers, and quickly winced. “A-Apple of my eye, turtle dove… You—OW—you are —OW, OW—crushing my hand!” 

“ GOOD ,” growled the dragon queen, squeezing harder until he made a noise to match her agony. 

“Should we um, intervene?” Mikon asked. 

Mellos shook his head, unwilling to intrude upon the couple’s affair.

Seirazi was honestly having an amazing time. 

Four centimetres out and the brow of the child passed the birth canal. Another push there were eyelashes. Veiny little capillaries pumping genuine lifeblood beneath ruddy, mucus and blood covered skin. Aemma wept as the nose came next and something tore—those who could spy beneath the sheet and saw the splash of blood gasped, but this was nature to Seirazi, it was animal. As normal as flesh and bone and breathing; it was life and death and delivery tied together by fate—all brought to the lashing razor’s edge of radical, unexpected change. But she was there, hands upon the child’s head as it slid evermore into the world, and it was Seirazi who supported the infant as the worst life-threatening moment passed over like the eye of a hurricane. 

The head was out. The chance of suffocation had lowered. The only thing left was the rest of the body. 

“ Excellent, you are excellent, ” Seirazi breathed. A week’s worth of frustration and a lifetime of misery all spent to support in the palm of her hand. Of all the lands and all the worlds she woke up in, the Shepherd guided her to be in this moment of all moments. As the child moved ever so slightly, something alive and no longer a thing , it almost made up for the horrors she’d faced before it. 

Mellos didn’t even fight her anymore. 

“ And now for the body… ” 

Aemma pushed. She gripped her husbands hand. She did what she had to. Did what she’d done so many times before. Muscles tensed; tissue strained as she split apart to birth a child that fate had decided long before any of them were real had to die. 

But he would not come out the whole way. 

“ What’s wrong? Why does it falter now? ” Viserys demanded of Seirazi. 

There were a few possible reasons. She had no machinery to tell for sure. The neck was unwrapped from the umbilical cord, she was sure of it, yet it stuck in the birth canal. The uneducated part of her mind urged her to pull, but it risked even more danger to the child’s body. But they could not stop now. 

“Your Grace, if you would…” Mellos said at Viserys' side, humbly bowing and drawing him back as Seirazi coached Aemma in an attempt to dilate her more. “I cannot remain quiet on this matter any longer. During a difficult birth, it sometimes becomes necessary… for the father to make an impossible choice.” 

He froze. 

Mellos went on. “To sacrifice one... or to lose both. There is a chance we may save the child. There is a technique taught at the Citadel—” 

“ No. ” 

The Grand Maester hesitated as Aemma bled and moaned in pain. “I understand a husband’s reluctance… but as King—” 

Commotion broke out at the door’s outside. Whitecloaks Seirazi had not yet bothered to remember names of, exclaimed as the doors were pushed open, and a very pale, angry, and shaken Rhaenyra burst in. 

“ He lost! He lost, and I hate you! And you were right! ” At the gathering of so many people around what was literally her mother’s darkest hour, Rhaenyra nearly burst into tears, but somehow maintained her resolve. She said to her father: “Every detail she told me of the tourney ended up true.” 

It was all Viserys needed to hear. He gave the Maester a curt look. “I will not hear any more. Do you understand?” 

Mellos gaped at him, but in the end the old man bowed his head. “Yes, my King.” 

But none of it helped the dilemma that was Seirazi’s current situation.

The worst part was, a cesarean under any other circumstances would have been the optimal solution. Mellos wasn’t wrong to suggest it, even if the execution was disastrous. In Aemma’s condition—a breech like hers—would have necessitated surgery. It would’ve had an epidural. It would’ve had at least an Oxytocin drip, an anesthetic, a proper disinfectant, a fucking electronic heart monitor for the both of them. A whisky shot and a slap on the back wouldn’t have hurt Seirazi’s stress levels either. But she was fourteen fucking years old with no friends in the world and only one pair of hands so she would have to make miracles out of nothing. It was all she’d ever been given the moment she came to this god-forsaken living hell of a world. 

Two hands. 

No hope. 

And one way forward. 

“ Help her up, ” she said to the queen’s ladies-in-waiting. She looked to Mikon. To Mellos, cowed, yet hovering despite his dismissal, concerned despite his ill-advised suggestions. “ Gravity will help in another position .” 

Mikon translated, though he was already on board as he did so. “ I’ve seen so before. You think it possible? With, uh, with the uh— ” 

“ I will hold the head steady ,” she ardently swore. 

Mellos ordered his attendants, the maidservants, Talya, and midwives to position. Following her command. “Seven guide you; let it be done.” 

Aemma, the poor thing—exhausted beyond all reason and delirious—moved as they carefully positioned themselves. There was no abrupt pulling her around. There was no shock. Explanation was given carefully, evenly, with her family present and her life in steady hands. Her new position had her propped up by pillows sufficiently enough for the child to slide out, with both her husband and daughter on either side. As she should have been the first time. And as she lay now. 

“ Forvive me later dragon queen, I will now have to put my hands inside you, ” Seirazi warned, but at this point anything would’ve surprised the women with just how disoriented and low in blood and oxygen she was. Seirazi looked to the entire crowd of people watching, and then to the Queen’s immediate family. “ If you care of privacy, turn away. ” 

Rhaenyra opened her mouth to object. Viserys ordered the Maester Mikon to cover her eyes. 

Gravity helped. The child slid a few inches more, and Seirazi eased the rest. The true and final hitch revealed itself after the chest, where the hips ended and the legs began, and Aemma whimpered in pain. 

The little fucker had crossed his legs. 

Seirazi muttered a curse as she slid her fingers around to uncross them. The brat actually had the gall to fight against her. He cried out for the first time during the entire miserable affair as she popped one leg straight. 

“ WaaAH! ” 

And of course everyone lost it at the sound. Viserys sucked in a choked breath. Aemma was basically a human puddle. Rhaenyra shook off Maester Mikon’s blindfold but sorely wished she hadn’t as she witnessed her mother, bare cooch’d, giving birth to a purpley little son of a bitch as Seirazi squatted with one hand up her mother’s vagina. 

“ Oh. Oh. I’m goingtobeill —” 

“WAAAHH!” the baby cried again, and with another pop , that was it. He slid out with no further resistance. Damn dragged the whole umbilical cord with him, and almost all of the placenta too. 

And it was as Seirazi held the babe in her arms, wriggling and lively and whole, the entire room lost their minds. 

“It’s here!” 

“A BOY!” 

“THE HEIR!” 

“My son lives!” Viserys gasped. “My wife—” his voice broke, clutching Aemma’s hand as he ugly cried. “Baelon… sweet Baelon. I-I feared the worst, Aemma.”  

Rhaenyra flung to her side, pressing her forehead into her shoulder. “You made it. You did it . It’s over.” 

“It is done,” Aemma breathed, collapsing onto the bed. 

“Clamps, tools, towels, quickly now,” Mellos ordered. As Seirazi held Baelon, the grand Maester cut the umbilical cord. Mikon clamped and tied the excess down, and then he was washed, cleaned of mucus and blood.

Screaming all the while.

Ragged, like he smoked a pack a day from the moment he was born. 

But alive . 

Chapter Text

Too many bodies cluttered the Queen's chambers in the aftermath of the delivery, all vying for the chance to behold the prince. But the threat was far from gone with the baby out. In fact, the risk was greater than ever. The first twenty-four hours after birth were always the most fatal for infants and mothers. 

The danger was far from over. 

"My son," Viserys said, motioning for the heir he would have cut his wife apart for in another life. One Seirazi felt so close to the one now, it felt superimposed upon them, stealing the air from her lungs. "Bring him to me." 

But she wasn't the only one with a hard time breathing. 

"Wait."  When Visery blinked, she brought the baby closer. "Listen." 

The baby gave another wet cough. Weak and ragged. 

The king went still. The attendants around slowed with him. 

Aemma, collapsed as she was, struggled to sit up. "Viserys, w-what is it...?" 

Seirazi readjusted her hold on the infant as he continued to struggle, his little body fighting to pull in air. Beneath her palm, she could feel the hitch to his lungs with each intake of breath. 

"He's drowning," she murmured. 

It was a wonder how fast the King's jubilation sobered to the sound of his son's ragged coughs. 

There was no way of knowing for sure what the proper, modern diagnosis was for Baelon. It could've been a Fetal hydrothorax, a Pleural effusion, a Transient tachypnea of the newborn or worse. Any were a death sentence in this world, so long as the fluid remained. Baelon would suffocate in his own lungs only moments after being born. 

Still reeling from the last few minutes, Rhaenyra looked between her parents, the Maesters, unhelpfully standing around shocked, and Seirazi as her brother sputtered and died. "Well?! What are you all worth standing around for? Do something!" 

"You'll fix this," Viserys commanded, though Seriazi could hear the pleading in his voice. More lustrous to her than any gold or jewels. "You said you'd keep them alive! Both of them—!" 

"I will," she said, taking the child away from the bedside. "But grant me say in 'se birthing room." 

Viserys stiffened. "You—what? Why?" 

"No second guessings of me. No holding or pushing me to the sidelines. No threat from others. Grant me power to work, unbidden." 

The King hesitated if only for a moment. 

"Just do what she says already Viserys," Aemma snapped, shooting him a cutting look. "I think she's proven herself capable enough to manage." 

"But if—" Baelon made another hacking, miserable cough as Seirazi held him, and Viserys leapt to his feet. "Seven hells, fine! So long as you save him. I grant you the powers of command within the sanctified halls of the Queen's nursery."

"Any nursery?" 

"You do love to push, don't you?" 

Baelon replied with a pathetic wet little mewl. 

"Fine! Fine—!" Viserys turned to those standing around to watch the display, speaking in a snappy, westerosi command. " From here on, I Viserys, King of the Andals…! "  

Seirazi turned away as the king rattled off his words to the others in the room, and a couple servants stormed out. Decision of whether or not she was going to help Baelon was never in question, but she afforded herself a relieved breath as Mellos took some of his most ardent and obstructive followers out the door. 

Now, performing CPR on an infant was a delicate art. One Seirazi hadn't had to perform in quite a few years. But with each of Baelon’s shallow breaths drawing in less and less oxygen, his skin began to turn pale, and cold. There was no time to waste. The room grew steadily quiet as she took the baby to a nearby table, laid him upon his back, and placed both thumbs on either side of his little ribcage, with her fingers braced behind for support.  

"One—two—three—four—" His ribs were incredibly soft and pliable as she applied careful, rhythmic pressure. Compressing his chest an inch lower, before allowing it to position. "One—two—three—four—"  

Silence. Baelon’s fate clung hard, unwilling to release him. 

When she feared she wasn't making enough of an impact, she switched her hands around. One hand with two fingers pressed parallel to the centre of Baelon's chest. 

Screwing up a pained face, the baby steadily began to turn blue. 

"Pah! You troublesome little—" 

She released him, tilted his head up, and blew air into his mouth for a second. 

his chest rose. Fell. And then rose again as she blew again. 

Then he vomited. 

Seirazi quickly pulled back and turned him onto his side, so he didn't end up choking on it, and then the crying started up once more. But it was a hale and heartier kind of cry, and as she picked up the baby again and turned, the audience that remained in the room was awash with tears. 

"Thank you," Aemma sniffled. 

She nodded as she approached the Queen's bed. Grimly passing the child over as he gave another unsteady cough. 

It wouldn't be the last. 

⩫

"Come now, terror," Seirazi murmured as she lifted the infant from his sleeping mother, who'd finally just finished kissing and weeping over him. 

Baelon was the ugliest wrinkled little thing she'd seen in all her lifetimes, and the poor creature gurgled and spat at her as she took him back into her arms. His face was still swollen from the birth canal, his pale eyelids bugly like a goldfish, veined blue like the rest of his translucent skin. He had all the charisma of a diseased hairless chihuahua. But he was alive, under all technical standpoints. So they went into a burping position first, and she rubbed his back as he fussed over her ministrations. 

"If you thought free of me now, be mistaken." 

"Should we let the child rest?" Maester Milkon asked as she sidestepped through the room. Of all the people who had left, and who Seirazi had decided to boot out with the new power afforded her, she'd been adamant about keeping her translator on hand. 

"The Queen perhaps, but this one has more work doing if he’s to live longer."

The young man blanched. "Is it serious? Should the Grand Maester be alerted...?"

She shot him a resentful look. 

Mikon successfully held her gaze. "Surely there's something he can assist you with with that you cannot manage on your own." 

"I have you, yes?" 

The young man's face quickly pinked, but he waved his hands. "I-I am only an apprentice." 

"Better an open head 'app-ren-tice'," she mimicked the words. "Than a close head Maester." 

But she paused as she watched a young maid—Talya—turn to the queen and lower her pillows for her in bed. Seirazi looked down at the infant in her arms. It was true she couldn't be everywhere at once. 

She sighed. "Fine. Have him tend to 'se queen. I did say I would work together." 

Mikon perked up. "Excellent! That is—I'll tell him right away. I thank you!" 

Baelon saw this as a grand opportunity to begin screaming right into her face. 

“AAAAAWAGGGH!!”

Seirazi's cheek twinged, and an unfamiliar expression pulled at her cheeks as she brought the baby up and let him scream right into her ear. "Oh you are a rotten one. Nasty babe."  

the Maester watched in morbid fascination. The child's screams rang through the room, even as she began to walk the baby away from the queen's resting place. "Seir—miss, erm, my lady…? Are you quite alright? Do you need me to fetch you something?" 

"I am happier than I ‘ave ever been in years," she replied. And bizarrely enough, as she felt Baelon's pitter-patter heart against her breastbone, meant it. A wild and manic energy raised her cheeks as she turned to him in full. "Do I not look happy?" 

The young man struggled to answer. 

Baelon spat on her some more. This was going excellently. She motioned at the young man with one hand. "If you are running though I would have you bring me things. You Maesters have all kind of tools and things you make, yes?" 

"Um, I would say so...?" 

She widened her toothy expression. "I will be needing many. Some you may not understand. Get a paper and begin a list." 

And to his credit, Mikon did so. 

A few short hours later, he returned with tools in as close approximation she asked for. Seirazi's mood had settled after more breathing problems came up, but Baelon had fallen into an uncomfortable snooze upon her shoulder as she listened to his every rasp and gurgle. The prince lived in an ongoing state of discomfort and Seirazi didn't have high expectations for his future—however long it could be.  

Aemma slept like the dead. She'd been rudely woken up late in the night after all, with little sleep and much misery in the days, if not weeks and months beforehand. Thankfully with her privilege, she didn't have to worry about breastfeeding, or tending to her other children, or her homestead. There were wetnurses, domestic servants, tutors, stewards, and all manner of people within her Household specifically made to cater to her every need. Everything was taken care of for her, and the worst of the Queen's duties after delivering the King's son was over. 

And then she began to run a temperature. 

It started weak at first; hiding beneath the sweat and filth of delivery, but after she woke around lunch, Grand Maester Mellos took note of her flushed skin.

“ If it is a fever, it is a sign of her body working to sweat out the acrimonious vapors that still wrack the queen’s body. With more heat, the queen’s system should rise to fight this imbalance and sweat out the dark humors. Under supervision, I suggest a strong bath to sweat the miasma out .” 

Mikon wasn't without his obedience after he'd finished translating for Seirazi.  “...I believe my teacher to be correct in his thoughts. A bath would be most suitable."

Having the power of last say was a great boon to her spirits as she hemmed on it. Seirazi nodded after a moment. 

“I accept ‘se bath. I do not agree to adding to her sweating,” she argued, eyeing Mellos as she held the heir upon her shoulder asleep. “Low water; salted. It’s clean—it will help with healing.” 

Upon translation, Mellos chafed they weren't taking his concerns of the queen’s humors to heart. 

“ Salt has been known for its restorative properties in keeping the flesh from turning ,” Mikon said to him. “ Its quality finds some familiarity within the Sanguine humors, and drives off the Flegmat and Choleric. Perhaps this will offer an alternative balance before we move to fever therapy while the queen is still abed .”

Mellos ruminated on it. He clearly hated the idea of handing over the reins to some girl he disliked. But she had command, and the king's favor. There was little he could do before his complaints betrayed the crown’s decree. 

“ Very well. Fetch her Highness's ladies in waiting to draw a tepid sitz bath… for now .” 

Once Aemma had her bath, she was given some food and liquids, and then sent was carried right back to a fresh bed full of pillows. But not before seeking the prize she'd fought so hard for.

"Baelon. My baby—bring him to me," she said, raising her arms as her maids tucked her in. With all her energy spent, Aemma’s attitude post-birth was rather simple and direct. One Seirazi appreciated, though it probably wouldn't last long. 

It was so much harder to detach herself from Baelon than expected after so many hours of rocking him. The shoulder he'd dribbed and cried and coughed upon felt all too cold and light after releasing him; but the look on Aemma's face as she took her baby into her arms was a balm. Joy radiated from her every pore, erasing any trace of fever or pain. 

"Wiggly little one, hm?" she murmured, cradling her newborn with a misty eyes. One finger rose up to trace the lines on his face. "What are these?" 

"Nail tracks," Seirazi informed, pointing to the little sockies she'd laced around his hands. "He came out with claws. He doesn't know he hurts himself when feeling his face." 

"Claws. My poor little dragonling," Aemma murmured, bending to gently smooch each little sock. Baelon, eyes still welded shut, made a wet coughing sputter and screwed his little potato face up. Aemma hummed. "He looks like his father." 

"Don't let his Majesty hear you said that," Maeseter Mikon said as he returned to Seirazi's side. At Aemma's snort, Mikon's face immediately cooled, and he bowed. "F-Forgive me for intruding, your grace." 

"Forgiven," she said, waving him off. "Too many have come and gone from these chambers for me to keep tally of. What brings you?" 

"I have come to deliver medical supplies requested for the child." A box of instruments hung in his arms, and he offered them to Seirazi. "I trust these will help in some matter?" 

They would have to do. Seirazi inspected what good the Maesters could provide: 

1. A round, concave hourglass-like device Mikon indicated they used to listen to the heartbeat. She took it. 
2. Several long, thin instruments made of metal used for inspecting wounds and narrow orifices. Seirazi put them aside. 
3. A cup made of soft materials. The best Mikon could get was made of unfired clay; which she set aside. She’d need softer if she intended to use it against the Prince’s back as a Percussor cup to vibrate the airways and loosen some of his mucus. Ideally, soft plastic, but she’d take what she could get now and consider bullying the Maester into making her something better later. 
4. The last was the oddly shaped, dried out, organic object that caught her eventually— one end tied shut, with a balloon of air inside it, that Seirazi snapped up immediately. 

Queen Aemma rose a brow, her child tucked beneath her arm. “And what is that supposed to be?” 

“Sheep's bladder!” 

“Pig bladder, actually,” Mikon corrected. 

“Pah.” Seirazi rolled it in her hands. It still had some elasticity to it, and gave a small amount of suction as she thumbed the balloon inside. This would be what she would have to use to suction excess mucus Baelon couldn't spit out. She looked to the young Maester. “Do you have tubing?” 

“You will not putting a thing down my son’s throat,” Aemma warned. 

Mikon looked to her in alarm. “Of course not, highness! Our concern is merely for the young prince’s breathing. His survival is paramount.”

She knelt at the queen’s bedside as Baelon gave another cough, and began to fuss as it became harder for him to breathe. “You 'ave not come all this way for another empty cradle. We will see him live. I will be his lungs, if I must.” 

Baelon coughed in answer. 

Aemma let out a breath. Her lower lip wobbled as she tucked some of Baelon’s nightie around him, running a loving thumb over his sockie hands, before giving him up the longer his breathing suffered. 

“You swear no harm will come of him?” 

Seirazi returned the prince back upon the shoulder that yearned for him. All the more whole with her arms around something weaker and smaller than her. 

She nodded to the Queen. “You may watch from ‘se bed. We won’t leave this room.” 

Relief washed her face. Aemma slumped back in bed, allowing more exhaustion to show. “Thank you. Thank you.” 

The rest of the night was a pattern of extremely gentle chest therapy, coughing, suctioning mucus out of the baby’s throat, and sleeping. Seirazi didn’t leave Baelon or Aemma's side for a moment, and had the prince sleep on her shoulder for the entirety of the day. So if his heart or breathing stopped, she'd know. And whatever skinship she could provide, he had. 

For something that wasn’t supposed to be alive, Baelon fidgeted incessantly from the moment he was born. He didn’t seem to be comfortable no matter what surface he lay on; whether it be a bed, a chest, swaddled, or upon a pillow. It was either someone had told him about his doomed fate, and he was perpetually mad about being alive, or he was just naturally agitated by something all the time. Maybe the very nature of the universe itself. 

But when she'd passed Baelon off to his wetnurse that night, and her thumb pressed into the curve of Baelon’s hip, he started wailing like someone had shot him. 

“WaaAAAAHHHHHHHH!” 

Snatching the kid out of her arms, Seirazi couldn't understand a word of what the wetnurse said as she bounced and rocked and soothed the sore spot that'd been pressed. 

The wetnurse blabbered on apologetically. “ Ic eom sworrow mīn lǣdae! I-I hæf hine for āne mōmen. ” 

Nobody was around to translate—--but the only language she needed to understand were the pained cries of the infant. The little guy was beside himself, trying to claw at his cheeks again with plush, sockie fists. 

“Ok, ok, okay. Cry if you will, I have you. It's over,” Seirazi murmured. His sobs turned hacking as he struggled, but as she tucked his arms against him and began to sway, he quieted down. She gently rubbed over the spot the wetnurse had prodded. “Does it still hurt?” 

He whimpered again and mashed his head into her shoulder. Ruddy face turning the shade of a tomato. The crown of his head was a stark, bright white against it. “Ubwwahhh!” 

“M’hhy son,” Aemma croaked from the bed, half asleep, and caught between fever and opium Mellos had given to her earlier. Seirazi hadn’t rejected the offer of pain medication. As addictive as it was, Aemma needed all she could get after the traumatic birth. And queens didn't breastfeed, so the drug at least was contained. “Wh’as…. Happening. Baelon? Where’s Baelon?” 

“He’s here. He’s okay. He’s sore, I think,” she said, coming to her bedside. She brought the bundle down for the mother to see her child. “Your baby is fine.” 

Aemma gave Baelon’s little tuft of hair a delirious smile, before her eyes began to close again. “My baby boy…”  

"Uuug hhaa ," Baelon whimpered, growing tired too. 

Seirazi watched them both for a moment, in the low light, before pressing her mouth to the white crown of the infant's head. And quiet descended upon the queen’s chambers once more. 

The night droned on. 

Seirazi remained awake for all of it. It was easy to lose track of how long she’d been on watch—the creak of her body said longer than she ought to. Still, the first twenty four hours were the most critical after a birth. Baelon’s ragged breathing was an ongoing scare, and he needed constant percussing and suctioning and monitoring to ensure he didn’t drown in his own mucus. Laying him flat was not yet an option. He had to be held at all times, and apart from handing him off to a maidservant or Maester so she could focus on some brief other tasks, Seirazi had to make sure he survived the night. 

Because if he didn’t, everything was still at a loss. If he still died, everything she’d done until now would be worthless. Her own health wasn’t even a factor. If she overworked herself and died again, Seirazi was intent on getting right back up and start changing diapers. It did not matter. Her needs weren't necessary. All that mattered—all that was , in the hours stretching on, were there soft ongoing breaths of Baelon and Aemma. Nothing else.

It felt like eternity until dawn broke again. But it did. 

It wasn't the first time Seirazi had been worked to the bone. Servitude in Meereen often reserved its worst jobs for the smallest and disposable. The mongrels from the mountains, as her kin were described, were given jobs nobody in their right mind would want to work themselves, let alone their children. The first year Seriazi spent in Meereen had been working as a hearth sweep and a canal cleaner, along with a crew of fifty other children who would die in horrific and claustrophobic ways. She'd hack away at charcoal and soot with a metal pick until her skin was black, and dredged sewage buildups beneath the city for hours on end, without rest or seeing the sun until it had already set. 

Often they would come across things that had no right being there. Teeth shards in the fireplace. Remains of bodies clogging a drain. Sometimes members of their labor crew would end up being the thing they'd have to dislodge the next day, and they were forbidden from speaking of that other child again, or face the whips from their masters. It didn't matter if Seirazi was decades older in mind than she was in body, she was the same chattel mourning the last kid along with all of the others, with another long day's work ahead of them tomorrow. There was little food, low survival, no thanks or breaks or pay. It had been some of the longest, disillusioning, and brutal work Seriazi had ever done in her four miserable lives. 

So bouncing a little princeling in her arms as she paced about the Queen's chambers was absolutely nothing.

If anything, it was a grand reprieve. 

It was surprising though how much peace she was given after the birth itself. Command of the room certainly helped, and obviously the Queen remained under careful watch by attendants and guards and Maesters, but in the early hours of the morning, when all were sleeping, Seirazi found freedom in the quiet nothingness that surrounded them. 

Unconsciously, she found herself singing to the doomed little princeling. 

" Buuwei, Buuwei, Buuweiiii, nga la... " It was a rhythmic song, sung over and over and over again, as a Lhazarian mother would rock her baby in the hopes of lulling her child to sleep. But her raspy, off-tune voice didn't put it to justice. " Buuwei, Buuwei, Buuweiiii, nga la~ Buuwei, Buuwei, Buuweiiii, nga la ."

Traditionally, it was also a counter-curse to ward off evil spirits. The thought was that while a child cried, it drew evil towards itself and all those around it—and superstition or not, it wasn't wrong. Singing this on the grassy steppe, it was important to soothe a crying baby before a Hrakkar heard and began a hunt.

(Or Dothraki)

" Buuwei, Buuwei, Buuweiiii, nga la... "

Seirazi's Uuma had sung it to her so long ago she feared she'd forgotten the melody, but it had been the first thing she had ever heard in her second life to pull her from her confusion and horror. 

 " ...Be brave, be brave, be brave, my love ." 

Things were so quiet within the Queen's chambers, not a soul overheard her as she rubbed a hand upon the little prince's back and swayed toward one of the windows. And the sun crept into the sky, washing the rest of Kings landing in a warm encompassing yellow. 

But if they did, they didn't have the energy to mention it. 

⩫

The King and Princess arrived later that afternoon, the second day after delivery. 

The Queen had been drifting on a bed of poppy milk since the morning, complaining of residual abdominal pains. It was common to experience afterpain contractions for a few days after birth. But nobody was of the mind to deny her as her suffering continued, and torn between the newborn glued to her shoulder and the Queen, Seirzi left her medicating to the Maesters as well as she could. 

It wasn’t like she had any better medicine anyway. 

Thankfully, Aemma mustered more energy at the sound of her daughter and husband arriving. 

" How are you? " Rhaenyra was first to run to Aemma's side as her Household staff bowed to the entry party, and Viserys acknowledged them. " The Maesters said you've been flushed all night. Are you ill? " 

" Better than I was the day before, sweetling, " she replied. It was a white lie; her fever was yet to break at all, but it was one even the Queen in her poppy milk comfort could believe. She rested a hand upon Rhaenyra's white head. " How’re you? Have you seen your brother yet? " 

Her head bobbed hesitantly, but only because the last time she'd seen the prince it had been covered in blood and post-birth mucus. 

" How is my son? " Viserys asked, a glow upon his face as he approached the bed. 

" You'll have to ask my Godswife. " 

" Your what? " 

She gave a weak laugh. "Seirazi." 

There's a question that hangs in the air for a moment, before eyes fall upon the girl cradling the prince. And it's made all the more obvious how little these nobles she's worked night and day for actually know her. The least they could do would be to remember her name . 

It's something these dragon lords have in common with her Meereen masters. 

"The Godswives are a sect within my kin looking after 'se expecting and small," she explains, to dispel the awkwardness in the room. As if it's her fault. "They were women healers. I learned much from them." 

"She was just telling me a bit about them before you came in," Aemma finished. It wasn't entirely untrue—though the conversation had happened hours earlier with Aemma dozing off in the middle of it. In Westerosi, she said to her family. " I found it curious how well-learned such a child could be compared to all my nursemaids. The gods must favor us if they sent someone from such a land so far away. Her people even use it in their healer's names ." 

Viserys flashed her an uneasy smile. " Perhaps you're right, my love. We must be favoured indeed. " 

Rhaenyra traded a knowing look with him.

But the princess held her tongue of their doom as the king stepped toward the bed. " Nevertheless, I am gladdened to see you wake. Rhaenyra and I have brought a gift for you and Baelon ." 

"Oh?" 

He motioned behind them, where many servants hovered by the door. Four of them wore ashen rags, with shaven heads and dirty, charcoal-laden hands. Seirazi could smell it in the air as they drew within the chamber, and with them they brought a large, dark cauldron that radiated heat. 

" My heir to be will need a dragon to ride if he's to take the Iron throne someday, hm? " 

" I picked it out for him ," Rhaenyra told her mother, rising to her feet as the dragon keepers took the cauldron to the one side of the room where the fireplace sat. It also, coincidentally, was where the prince's cradle had been placed. 

In high Valyrian, the king motioned for the prince to be brought along as the lid was lifted from the cauldron and a dark, black glittering scaled egg was revealed inside, nestled amongst the  glowing embers. 

" Come. It's time for Prince Baelon to be paired with his birthright. " 

Seirazi scowled. "The baby prince has barely ‘se breath to lay on his own. If you are to be putting that in his cradle he will catch on fire . " 

Viserys laughed. "You would be surprised how cool to the touch a dragon's egg can be once lifted from the embers." 

She stared back at him. "You would be surprising too how easy it would be for him to choke on the ashes of that dragonling. You cannot tell me it is clean either. Your promised prince is more fragile than the shell of that egg." 

He paused. "How fragile? Maester Mellos had told me of his breathing, but..." 

Seirazi fought not to pinch the bridge of her nose. "To sum it, I have been his lungs the past day. He improves, but I beg you do not push." 

Viserys thought about it. Considered her rejection of his family's traditions, and sighed. "Very well then. If that is what our Godswife believes, I will leave you to confer with our dragonkeepers on the best way to introduce the prince with his egg in a safe and timely manner." 

Seirazi nearly fainted. Did someone of power finally listen to her for once? Had they finally taken her at face value? 

Hold on. 

" Your Godswife?" 

Rhaenyra looked up from the dragon cauldron, where Baelon's egg gave a little wiggle amongst the ashes, and smiled at her. “ Surely you don’t think we would have you tossed back to the sea once we were done here.” 

Well, no, she had hoped not. But Seirazi looked back at the King with a tension hard in her chest and a suspicion in her eye. Baelon made a little fuss against her shoulder. "Your Godswife? Am I belonging to the royal family now?" 

Viserys, damn him, had a softness in his face as he opened his arms to take the baby from her. "I would not keep you here with chains and whips, if that’s what you fear." 

Without a word she handed the king his son. It required a fair amount of careful positioning, so that Baelon remained upright enough with his weak lungs, and Viserys had to be corrected a few times before he got it right. All of which resulted in breaking more social norms between common-born and King with their contact. It had to have clutched pearls under any other situation. 

Yet Viserys positively glowed as he held his son. It made a knot form in Seirazi's throat. He spoke low and soft, so not to wake his son. "I understand your journey from home has been... far from easy, seer. I know a trip back would be more hardship many would not seek. Even so... while you are here, and my family counts themselves lucky enough to have you within the Red Keep. I would offer you proper employ—proper lodging, and station, and payment—continuing your watch upon my son, as you already have. For however long you would like, and no longer, whenever you wish to leave once more."

Seirazi thought about it. In a rose-coloured world, it might have been everything she wanted. Stable employment, housing in one of the safest places in the west, a boost in rank, and the opportunity to continue changing the timeline to avoid generations of turmoil, war, and famine.

But it was not the first time Seirazi had toiled in the servitude to aristocracy before. She knew the ways they still took, and took, and took, even with the simplest of requests. 

And as close as she had gotten within the Queen's birthing chambers, in her heart, she knew could not trust them. 

Seirazi made a show of looking humble, at least. "I-I would... thank you. Your Highness. For your offer. It is more than I have thought possible for myself." 

"You need some time to think upon it? It is more than a fair offer. I doubt you would find another so generous." 

And he was right. But it would be trading one form of servitude for another. 

Seirazi's gaze fell to the baby in his arms. 

Baelon gave a little hiccup as his father readjusted his hold. As Viserys looked down at him, he chose in that moment to finally open his little swollen eyes to reveal a flash of bright, light periwinkle. The color of valley flowers on a fresh spring day. 

A little part of her melted over it. Over the first child she'd cared for since the Dothraki trampled her to death with their horses. And furthermore, she could feel herself care. So much. Too much. About his survival and his family. 

It would be the death of her. 

It would be better for her if she fled the keep now while she had the chance and lived in some cottage somewhere in peace. Muddy and miserable from the living conditions, but free. 

What would the price of that freedom be though? The rest of the people around her? 

Was there any option for her that didn’t come at the cost of untold suffering? 

She didn’t know. Serazi felt herself squeezed through slaver’s pass once more, sold from one captivity to another. She felt no stronger or wiser than she did years ago as a small child. For all she boasted, Seirazi truly knew nothing at all. 

" Aemma! Rhaenyra, look! " Viserys cried in joy, at the child in his arms. Staring into the periwinkle eyes of his son with such love and affection it left Seirazi burned, like sunshine. " He's beautiful. My boy. He's got his mother's eyes. " 

Baelon sneezed, and vomited a bit on him. 

Rhaenyra snorted. " And his father's countenance. " 

" Oh hush, you. " 

Aemma struggled to sit up in her bed, pained by the movement, but determined through the opium haze. " I'd like to see, Viserys. Baelon—bring him here, would you? I'll hold him. " 

Attendants came to roll back the covers, but Aemma beat them to it. As Viserys came to bring the baby over however, he stopped short at the sight before him. A smell that wafted up from the sheets Aemma lay in. And then the sight after. 

"M-Mother, what…" Rhaenyra paled at the dark streaks upon the sheets. The smell that came from it. She covered her mouth. "A-Are you still ill?" 

"Wha--I..." Aemma looked down, surprised herself. "I didn't... what's happened? Why do I still bleed?" 

But it wasn't blood. Not entirely. And it was worse than Seirazi had hoped. Baelon began to cry as Viserys stepped back and attendants stripped away Aemma's sheets to reveal her soiled bed. It seeped into her nightgown and pooled around her while she'd lay unconscious for so long, unfeeling thanks to her milk of the poppy. And while the smell was uncomfortable and fetid, it indicated far worse than just infection as Seirazi came to her bedside. 

If she was incontinent, her tear was worse than one that'd heal naturally. Worse than what Seirazi expected, and far worse Mellos had let on, if he'd even checked between her legs at all. 

Which meant Aemma was in a lot more danger than a simple fever. 

She was going to need surgery. 

⩫

Aemma was prepped to the best of the ability of her maidservants. Taken to wash and sit in another sitz bath, while her bed was stripped and her clothing taken to be washed, Seirazi was left with a problem. 

Well, actually, a few. 

They didn't have dissolvable thread, for one. Whatever stitches Aemma would need, and she would likely need a couple, it would have to be taken out later, and it would have to be done with as careful stitching as possible, with a delicate surgeon's hand. 

Seirazi didn't have such a hand. She barely had ones that didn't shake with hunger, or stress, or sleep deprivation. 

That last one was important, as loathe she was to admit, pacing about the queen's chambers as Baelon nursed by the fire with his wetnurse. She admittedly wasn't in the best physical state to do impromptu surgery on the Queen's vagina. Okay? She didn't. Curse it all. Some other time, she could be all up in there. But because she’d failed to care for her own needs, Seirazi needed to find a suitable surgical replacement. 

Mellos, of course, came running as soon as he heard of the Queen's incontinence. He rattled off another string of Westerosi common that Seirazi neither cared for nor listen to. 

" A buildup of black bile indicates a cold and dry melancholic state. Those cold sitz have done worse for our Queen’s condition than thought. Look to her flaccid limbs and loss of vigor. What she needs is heat. Water and fire to counterbalance the yellow and phlegmatic humor as I suggested before. Only that way will the Queen's earthen humors quell. I would like to inspect her spleen and offer a rigorous bloodletting first too. " 

" I hear the wisdom in your words, Grand Maester, " said his apprentice, always hot on his heels. The jury was still out whether or not he was in Seirazi’s camp or just a radical young upstart who wanted his higher ups' attention by debating them. “ The Citadel's teachings would suggest similar procedures as the Grand Maester, though I am interested in what the Godswife says on the matter .” 

Seirazi wished she could’ve spoken to the old man herself about it. She wished she wasn’t such a wall between them—and between the maidservants, who she endlessly had to harass over bedsheets and the handling of appropriately cleaned tools. She wished she could’ve told them herself why it mattered so much. Why shooing a girl out of the room with a cough was for the common good, and not just because she was a foreign jackass. Seirazi had to be sure of everything when it came to the surgery. From the needle to the sheets they worked on. It all had to work out. 

Describing a modern procedure in her third language, only to be translated over to another, was a pain in the ass she’d never get used to though. 

Seirazi shot both men a firm look. “We close ‘se open wound.” 

“ Unseemly ,” Mellos sniffed at the suggestion. “ We are not barbarians to mutilate the queen’s female bodily parts. They will heal, should we treat the root cause of her unbalance .” 

“The root cause of her balancings is the open wound,” she shot back, frustrated even more having to wait for Mikon to translate between the two of them. “And just because you don’t want to mess around under her skirt doesn't mean it’s going to go away . ” 

“ A Grand Maester does not fear— ” 

Mikon cut off halfway through his translation for Mellos as the old man went on, getting even more irate before he turned to Seirazi with his own words.  

“This is becoming complicated. I do wish there would be some middle ground to be found with the queen’s condition.” 

Seirazi pinched her brow. “I don’t care what happens between us so long as ‘se right surgery happens to fix ‘se problem torn vagina.” 

Mikon’s face pinked as he tore his gaze to the ceiling. “Seven forgive me for my hand in this. But… repairing of the middle female muscle has been considered before. There does exist some some theory on the procedure, though its success has been controversial and decried as profane and perverted by the faith.”

She eyed him. “Must the faith also know about up ‘se queen’s skirts?” 

“Well, no, but—” 

Mellos’s lecture grew louder with both of them ignoring him. 

Mikon winced. “To lack transparency of our methods would be a sin. It would be putting our desires first before all else. Before the Seven—” 

“ Meekown ,” Seirazi said, grasping both his arms to force him to look at her directly. She mispronounced his name with particular urgency. “I just need you to sew a wound.” 

The young man swallowed hard. 

“You can do that, can’t you?” 

Tentatively, he nodded. 

She released him. “Then I see no problems. You will be doing it then.” 

Despite himself, Mikon swore under his breath. He raked both hands through his short-cropped hair. Caught between what he felt was right and feared was a step too far. "I-It's not a matter of whether or not I should. I can sew a wound. I clean and cut and tend enough for the Grand Maester and King as it is.  But what does the queen think? Are we not mutilating her if she does not know the truth of our methods?"

Seirazi paused. He was right. He was absolutely right. 

Reading the look on her face, Mikon bowed his head. “Forgive my outburst… I do believe that we must act truly on the basis of knowledge and truth if we are to learn everything we can in the pursuit of healing. But I have seen much horror found by those that allow ambition to lead them heedlessly. As has Maester Mellos; more than anyone. It is why he fights you so." 

"I... understand," she murmured.

And she did--she got why they'd be so nervous around her. When medicine was so close to witchcraft and medical malpractice was basically a given. They didn't even know about the horrific history of Husband stitches or what pain 'corrective' genital surgery did to intersex people. The forced sterilization of innocent minorities in order to 'control' population growth. Seirazi was opening up a can of worms they didn't even understand. Piggybacking off an alternative medical history drowned in blood and suffering and getting frustrated by the fact that people didn't bow down and accept she knew what was best because she said so. Why wouldn't they be worried?

A pang of remorse struck her as she glanced over at Grand Maester Mellos as he angrily packed up his balms and ointments and jars of leeches. It lasted long enough for her to ignore the next loud Westerosi insult he threw her way, even if Aemma's fever and condition had been hid from her until it had gotten too out of control for Mellos to handle. She did sympathize with him as a man trying to do his best. Even if he was too prideful to change his ways. There was a good kernel in him that only wanted to help and heal. 

Seirazi turned back to Mikon. "I wish there were another way. I do. I wish 'se queen nothing but healthiness.  But she will suffer and bleed and fester with this tear until she dies, and I cannot offer any other way." 

He sighed. Rubbed one of his Maester's chains through his finger--the silver--before eventually, blessedly giving in. "Very well. So long as Her Majesty agrees. I will do it. But... I will need a moment to prepare beforehand.” 

“To wash?” she asked hopefully.

“To pray ,” he said, before turning to flee; his teacher scuttling right after him. 

It took an hour and a half before would be ready to get to work. In the meantime, while she waited for preparations to be done, Seairazi sat at Aemma’s bedside and explained to her everything she needed to know in case she wanted to back out. 

“It’s an ugly thing you describe,” Aemma murmured, nauseous at the thought of another procedure. “I tire of all this mess. Give me milk of the poppy. Give me rest. My body exhausts at all the chaos it's gone through.” Her voice broke. "Please. I just wish to be with my baby." 

“I know. You have great strength for having gone through so much already. But it will not be better if we don’t act before your wounds fester.” 

Baelon made a little gurgle as Aemma held him in her arms. Her pale purple eyes were glossy from fever, and perhaps unshed tears as she tried to hold it all together. “Have I not done enough of my duty to warrant a break from this?” 

“'Se body knows nothing of human duty,” she replied.  A sombre tone in her voice. “Though… this duty is something you may not need after this.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“This baby,” she explained, humbling herself on her knees at the Queen’s bedside. “Would have been your death. I would not have you bear another again. ” 

“I know.”  Aemma hummed and stroked the crown of Baelon’s head. “He's the last I'll ever have.” 

She needed her to understand the risks clearly though. “It is likely you will not be able to. The risk is too great, and your body too weak for it. I would not have you take part in any acts that could lead to children. Should this stitching work, you must heal. That means no strain. No running, no horseback, no dancing or jumping or lifting or sex of any kind for many moons. Not even hands or mouth or rubbing.” 

Aemma’s face flushed a beautiful pink. “W-Well. When you state terms so plainly like that...” 

“Am I not your Godswife?” she challenged. 

The Queen’s expression was careful. “I don’t know. Are you?” 

Seirazi bit her tongue. 

But Aemma consented to the surgery. And when Mikon came back, it was gametime. Seirazi adjusted the sling she’d made to carry the prince and began her explanation of the procedure the third time over. 

“So ‘se perineum vaginal tear is connecting to ‘se queen’s back… passage. The anus—” 

“Passage is more than sufficient,” Mikon complained. 

“Not when there are other passages for you to be confused for,” she stated. “The thread we will be needing will have to be removed later, which may cause later sickness. OR, be made of something ‘se body will allow as part of ‘se skin. I am suggesting catgut or sheep innard, stretched and boiled thin—” 

“We don’t have anything of that quality at such short notice,” Mikon floundered. 

She thought as much. “Silk will also do.” 

He blinked. “Truly?” 

“If it is purified, and boiled. Though it will be more permanent, and will not be broken down as catgut.” 

“We are on the same page then. Catgut has been used in some surgical implements, alongside silk, though linen and cotton have been the most prevalent in these cases. Usually, wounds have been left to heal through natural means with the aid of a balm of honey and lettuce wraps.” 

Okay. Okay, that was— this was something. Mikon was actually meeting her on medical terms now. She could work with this. 

Mellos and his aids were less than accommodating. Whispering to each other. “ What is it she called it? The perineum? ” 

“ Some sort of backward Essos cuss word for the broken stretch of skin ?” 

“This treatment tampers with the Seven’s natural design. When the faith come to decapitate us for defiling the queen’s body, you will not find me falling in line with the rest who allow a savage to work her dark magic here.” 

Seriazi imagined they were talking about who was the prettiest little monk amongst them, and couldn’t decide whose tonsure was the shiniest. 

She would've loved to tell them all about the germs they had no idea about. How a simple sneeze and cough could mark the end for Aemma and her child, and thus doom the whole kingdom. To be held at her word, unquestionably, and granted the power of true knowledge. To be understood that she actually knew what she was doing. 

At least she had Baelon against her chest, spitting bubbles up as her living proof that something she was doing was right. 

“ Ubwuah .” 

She patted his back, sighing as he mashed his runny nose against her shirt. “Yes, you are very helpful. Thank you.” 

She turned back to Mikon, since the rest of the Maesters were useless to her. 

“The longer ‘se Queen remains abed the longer it will take for her to heal,” she pointed out, motioning to Aemma as she was given another dose of milk of the poppy by Talya. It wouldn’t last her forever. Already she slept all the hours away. “The infection will spread, her body is already trying to heal everything else after the birth, and the skin will not heal the way it should. She needs more than just milk. She needs—” 

Antibiotics. 

But there was nothing that existed in this world at all. Aside from witch hazel pads and opium for the pain… there was nothing in this world to properly treat an infection effectively. 

Seirazi swore under her breath. “ E n’ tengg baaka amdr’alhh noush .”

Mikon looked at her, as did some of the other Maesters at the change in Lhazarian dialect. “What was that?” 

“Nothing.” ‘ Fuck this stupid baka life ’, essentially. “A prayer. Let us do the best we can with what we have.” 

With his elders and colleagues standing back to judge and Aemma in position, Mikon readjusted the collar of his Maester’s robes. His three chains dangled. “I suppose that is the best we can only ever ask for. But i-if I’m to make a mistake. If the thread is too thick—” 

“We will have to deal with that when it comes at us, Maester,” she pressured, hanging over the young man’s shoulder in their makeshift little operation room. 

Aemma’s birthing chamber had had everything replaced and cleaned out from the days before. A table of instruments had been brought alongside the bed for Mikon to pull from, cleanly sanitized in a pot of boiling hot water nearby, while handmaidens oversaw their Queen and brought her into the best position to be worked upon. Incontinence and inability to maintain herself aside, the setup was kept decently clean. There was hardly any blood when it came down to it, and when Mikon’s work had too much fluid buildup, warm water and clean pads were there to clear it away. Despite the headache it was to set up, it took little more than half an hour to complete the last stitch. No higher than necessary to let her heal naturally, and with as few stitches as possible for future removal. 

“You are looking good, queen’ness,” Seirazi said to Aemma after Mikon finished. She’d oversaw every stitch herself, and gone over his work once he was done. He didn’t have the precision of a modern surgeon, but he was as good as any seamstress of his time. Which wasn’t anything to scoff about. “How is your pain?”

“I find it… I-I am… I just ache,” she said, her eyes wet; her head turned towards the chamber window. For much of the procedure, she had kept her composure. Her face resigned and intent on keeping a stiff lip despite all the people who had witnessed the procedure. But the relief of it being over seemed to be breaking down her walls fast. “I-I would like… very much for it to be over now.” 

Seirazi couldn’t blame her. 

Aemma was let to lower her legs and moved into an easier position. Packed with more pads of witch hazel and given water to replenish the fluids she’d lost, though she drank thinly, and closed her eyes once more as they packed up and everyone shuffled out of the room. No longer a spectacle for display.  

“...How is Baelon?” she asked after a long, miserable beat. 

“He grows stronger with each hour,” Seirazi reported. And it was true. But she didn’t tell her how many times she’d had to percuss and drain his throat of mucus. “Our only concerns are for you to rest now.” 

Her body released a bit of tension. “Good. Good…” 

As she nodded off again, Seirazi stepped to her bedside to check the pulse on her wrist. It beat rapidly, labouring with adrenaline, but she couldn’t be sure if it were for any other cause. Her hands alone weren’t good enough to diagnose internal infection. She could barely question Aemma for her symptoms and have her understand her. 

Time was the ultimate decider in the end. 

⩫

Time moved on like a slow ripple across a grassy plain. Aemma's healing journey came with its ups and downs. 

She proved resilient to infection as her body temperature remained blazing as she healed. It was unexpected—worrying, for Seirazi, who kept track of her condition hourly and daily, up until she'd been told of a particular Targaryen quirk. 

"Their dragon's blood runs hot, as the fourteen flames of ancient Valeria still lick their veins. Sickness cannot hold them, and it would take one who spurned the gods to fall to infection." 

So. There was... that. 

Seirazi essentially took that information, filed it away for later, and then promptly went on as if a septa hadn't whispered in her ear about it when the clergy had come to bless the queen in her bed. Whatever made Aemma more comfortable. 

Baelon remained a wheezy baby in the weeks after his birth. His skin smoothed out to a pale, splotchy complexion, while he wanted for nothing, and peered around the world with his wide, buglike purple eyes like some sort of fairy alien. 

"Ghhh. Aghhhgggh." 

Seirazi bounced him as he stared up at her with the finest ruffled baby bedhead. "Bouncing babyboy baelon~ Who bounds between breastfeed and basket~" 

"Aggahg!" 

She brought him up to her chest before he had a chance to choke on his own spit up, and rested him upon her shoulder. Weeks out of the womb and finally given a chance to reorient himself, Baelon was a fussy baby, but not a bad one. He joyed in drawing out his complaints to everyone else, but when it was Seirazi, he immediately made his needs known. 

As he spat up over the towel on her shoulder, Seirazi hummed in approval and pressed her mouth and nose against the prince's stubby little neck. Breathing in the smell of newborn. 

Forget milk of the poppy, this was better than all the honey and sweet wine of Meereen. 

And then of course, were the other smells. 

Seirazi pulled back and looked down at the prince. "Stinky. You're to tell me when you're stinky, baelae. How will all your people survive at this rate when the prince is hiding his potty pants."

 The little twerp answered with a toothless smile. "Ghahghghee."

Turning from the Queen to the hearth, where Baelon's crib sat, Seirazi rolled her eyes. "Oh,  now you flatter me? Well, it is working, mr. poppy pants. It's working quite well. Time for a change of the princes—” she switched over to English for emphasis. “ Pantaloons .” 

“I couldst doth yond f'r thee,” Talya interjected, and it took a minute and her repeating herself for Seirazi to understand what she meant to say. “Youwe be’n at w'rk f'r a longeth any of e’re he’re.  Thee shouldst abed while thee can.” 

Common gave her a headache. Seirazi sighed as she unbound Baelon from her sling. It was a shame Mikon couldn’t be at her side at all hours of the day. “Haply. Tis fine.” 

“Tis not fine ,” she scolded, gesturing at her. “I rarely seeth thee catch but a wink 'r breaketh festinate. Thee w'rk as if 't be truly possess'd. It canne be in good virtue nor healthe.” 

“Mine virtue arte nay an issue.”

Talya shook her head. Her hands worrying the cleaning cloth at her hip. “Thy Queen’s handmaidens feareth thee shall keel ov'r and crusheth the prince beneath thee shouldst thaou wend on longeth'r.” 

Seirazi had to have that one repeated twice over. Talya helpfully tacked on a little extra just to confuse and insult her further. 

“It dareth be true at your beholdence.” 

Goddamn did she really look that bad? Seirazi rubbed a hand through her unkempt hair and then sniffed herself. Confirming the slanderous remarks. 

She turned to the babe in her arms. “ And here I thought that stink was coming from you. Have I done you a slander, prince poopypants? ” 

Baelon blinked up at her and toothlessly smiled. “Ag.” 

“Ag. I am agog as well. ” She turned to Talya, and carefully, reluctantly, handed the soggy Prince over to her. “Thee gent's to beest hath changed, given to wetnurse, and backeth ab'd.  Sendeth f'r maest'r Mikon to obs'rve breaths, and doth not allowed him lie unobs'rv'd. We get?”

“I, uhm.” Talya listened intently as her accent butchered most of her orders. “Aye?” 

“Thee calleth f'r me the winketh of a problem,” she stressed. And this, at least, Talya understood. 

“At thy 'rd'r, Godswife,” she said, dipping her head. 

It rankled her to be called that. Though it rankled her more to hand over Baelon when he was still so fragile. But at two weeks old the chance of him spontaneously choking to death was lowered. Seirazi still waited for Mikon to be in the room before she left her post for the first time; and painstakingly rehashed everything he had to know about percussing and suctioning and infant CPR if it came down to it. Mikon seemed genuinely interested in the art, and it was a skill they all desperately needed, but it kept Seirazi an extra two hours than intended by the time she did hand things off to the others. 

By the time the doors to the Queen’s chamber officially closed behind her back, the world was dark and alien to her. 

Fire lit the braziers along the hallways; empty of most servants and guarded by bodies cloaked in steel and gold thread. Seirazi felt all the more a small girl once more without the protection of the Queen’s chambers. Nobody stopped her though as she padded down the hallway. Nobody grabbed or shouted at her as she turned a corner. When she was confronted by two branching halls, and no stairs that Talya told her to take, Seirazi wasn’t hauled off to a cell when one of the kingsguard stopped in the hall to direct her. But he was quite the towering figure. 

“Erm. étuve,” she said. Not sure she said the word right. “Sweat home. wat'r…. eegh base.” 

Sir Harrold Westerling, not yet the lord commander of the Kingsguard and under discreet order to keep an eye on the prophetic girlchild at her majesty’s bedside, offered the best direction as he could. 

“Down hall, to thine hath left s'rvant's stair.  Thee shouldst findeth bath on the fourth flo'r down.” 

“The what?” 

 His accent was even harder to parse than Talya’s.  The Kingsguard huffed at her lack of understanding. “Shalt I esc'rt thee th're?

She watched him motion for her to follow, and steeled herself. If now were a time as any to gut and dispose of her in some small corner of the castle, it would be now. 

Instead, he led her down a small winding servant’s staircase. Down and down and down through the keep. The claustrophobic nature seemed uncomfortable to the broad shouldered knight as well; and by the time they made it down through the keep’s innards and to a floor of steam and waterproof stone floors, he seemed just as relieved as she did. 

“Taketh thy wash.  I shall hail f'r towels and dressings.” 

“Um.” She turned and confusedly watched the guard squeeze back into the narrow stairway and begin his ascent. “Thanks?” 

Whatever he said, Seirazi took advantage of the hot water and privacy as she could. The servants bath house was a scarcely decorated room that shared its purpose with the scrubbing and cleaning of all manner of other things. Towels and sheets were hung along the walls and on a line, while scrubbing basins sat waiting their mistresses for the coming morning. There were several servants still at work as Seirazi stepped around them towards a corner of the room, many of which paid her no mind beyond a suspicious frown or a curious eye. She found an empty basin large enough to fit her in and a bucket to gather water and began her work. Walking all the way down another three floors to a well to fill up a pot to boil on a stove before she got to strop off her clothes. Her feet were aching by the time she was done, and most servants had gone to bed by then. The moment Seirazi finally got a moment’s peace and slipped into the bath, the felt the rest of her body’s aches and pains come back to her. 

Two weeks of strain and little sleep. Three weeks of anxiety, dread, and dealing with Westeros as a whole. 

A lifetime in a cruel world she didn’t belong in. 

And another she would be signing herself up for by becoming the Queen’s Godswife. 

Seirazi afforded herself a spare moment to shut her eyes as she considered her spare, few options. And let it fade away into the back of her mind as the hot water lapped at her aching arms, and clean soap slid between her fingers. 

She dreamed of her Uma's healing tents as she made her bed upon the floor that night. And could almost hear her dulcet singing as she slipped off into hazy oblivion. 

(Be brave. Be brave. Be brave my love~)

⩫

“I see you’ve done good for yourself, as promised.”

“Much thanks to you,” she said to the sea snake, the following day after a much needed rest. She’d been given a finely sewen red dress to blend in with the Queen’s personal maidservants. With white sleeves and thread of black and gold. She found its many layers a waste of time to put on, and though her race would always distinguish her apart from the rest of the flock, Seirazi had bound her hair back and fashioned a scarf in appropriate Lhazareen fashion to denote her new role.  

“Many say you’re to be the Queen’s new Godswife,” Corlys stated, indicating to her gown. “Dare I say you look quite different from the girl my brother fished from the sea a moon ago.” 

She plucked at the dragon embroidery over her chest. Her skin prickled beneath the white lion’s stare. “Gratitude goes ways longer here than Essos.” 

“As it should. The king himself states you saved his heir.” Corlys shot her an approving look. “And his queen.” 

“Saved sounds as if they did not suffer,” she muttered. “Or will continue to suffer.” 

“Saved is still saved.” Corlys stepped towards her, his voice low to keep their conversation between them. Though there was a noticeable lack of intrusion in their hallway for a moment. Likely orchestrated. Seariazi could only wonder what he could have planned should she have failed. “You made good on your word. That won’t be forgotten.” 

She stared up at him. “And ‘se rest of my words?” 

“Also not forgotten.” He flashed his white teeth. At her dreadful sigh, Corlys Velaryon barked a laugh. “Be at peace, m’lady Godswife. Your secrets will lay safe with me—until they come necessary. I've made good on my portion of our agreement, did I not? Safe passage to the Red Keep to do what you foretold. It's not every day I choose to trust the tale of a creature I pull from the sea. But you've made quite the impression. Just think of the future good of this kingdom that can be accomplished now with the change that's been made! And the future battles to swiftly vanquish thanks to your word alone. You have given us the chance to rewrite history before it’s made. Do you not see the glory in that?” 

She stared grimly at him. “I see death at all turns. Forgive me if glory is harder to grasp as you.” 

“Live a captain’s life and then tell me glory has no purpose in the eyes of your surviving men and crew. Prestige and hope can be the deciding factor between ruin or salvation.” 

She didn’t come here to be lectured to. Seirazi did her best dismissive servant’s bob. “If you’ll excuse me, m’lord—” 

“Our agreement,” Corlys stated plainly, cutting to the chase before she slipped through his fingers again. It likely hadn’t been easy to corner her with her stay in the Queen’s chambers for the last few weeks. “Details of the Crab Feeder and the future war of the stepstones. I’ve been more patient than most, but I need them before my family is to depart for Driftmark tomorrow. The King is yet to understand the gravity of the situation. And I must prepare all I can.” 

Hands bound by an agreement that had a greater impact on the world than either of them would ever know, Seirazi sighed and dipped her head. 

“You’ll have them within the night.” 

“Excellent.” He grinned, taking a step back. As Seirazi made for the Queen’s chambers she heard him say, “You and I have a shot at shaping the world how we want it, Godswife. I have grand hopes for the path ahead.” 

She sighed. 

Seirazi only hoped the forecast stayed sunny.

Chapter Text

“I want a contract.” 

Viserys blinked at Seirazi from the fireplace, after handing his son off to be nursed. 

“Papers and agreement of my working for you.” 

“I know what a contract is,” he huffed. “What brought this on? Are you not happy with your new title? Have I already not given you say in the nursery?”

“I work a service for you,” she replied, emphasizing her words to get the proper meaning out, so as not to be misconstrued. “I do good what I promise. You say I have time to think—and I have not called a price for my interventions. But now I have thought of it. I ask for a contract.” 

“So it is more than simple freedom you want now,” he said, as though expecting it. Everyone had their agenda. Seirazi did not consider herself so enlightened she was any different. 

Still, she squared her shoulders. “I want writings to state my working is fair. I want payment as equal to as others. I want it to be able to read that I may leave at any time. That I am no slave , but your worker. Paid for and maintained for my stay.” 

Surprise colored his face, before Viserys smiled. “You are far more shrewd in business than your demeanour lets on.” 

“Being sold does this at times.” 

He sighed. The King motioned for Seirazi toward the door. “Come then. Let us talk business.” 

Her feet stayed planted, however. “I… stay here.” 

“I beg your pardon?” 

She motioned to the Prince, who, at four weeks old, had nearly doubled his weight, but still sputtered and coughed after nursing that needed intervention. Seirazi stepped in to soothe Baelon’s coughing just as he unlatched from his wet nurse, and fell into a familiar routine of percussing, wiping, and suctioning that had become practiced over time. 

Then of course, over all the handling, Baelon began to cry, which was the next thing she had to fix. Nobody else among the staff really understood yet what really made the young Prince stop wailing. While she had to give them some credit—the other nurse maids did understand normal childcare—Baelon was a unique kind of colic. Uncomfortable at all times, easy to wail, and eager to choke and die while swallowing so much air crying. Seirazi couldn’t rely on anyone to pacify the Prince but herself. 

“Ah.” 

Viserys watched her swaddle and tuck the Prince’s arms close together before rocking him at an angle. His watery eyes went wide, blinked several times as the rocking continued, and then closed.  Seirazi then murmured a few soothing words to the baby as he made a low whimper, and then she quietly handed him back to the wet nurse. 

“He wants more.” 

Viserys shook his head. “How can you tell?” 

 “‘Se Prince cries different for what he needs. As do you—you only have more words to use than him.”

Viserys let out a lightly offended laugh. “Alright. But how are we to do business if you’re to be here at all times with my son?” 

She thought about it. “Bring business here?” 

He frowned and rubbed his chin. 

“Perhaps. I will send for my hand—” He glanced over to the Queen’s bed, where Aemma floated on a bed of poppy milk, slumber her main comfort post surgery, aside from checking on her son. She didn’t seek anything else. Viserys lowered his voice. “Perhaps if we are quiet.” 

Seirazi could do quiet. “Paper and pen are quiet, yes?” 

“A contract,” he repeated, confirming her desires. Seirazi vehemently nodded. For a second, she felt like a girl again begging her father for allowance. When his expression cracked, and she knew she had him, a little bit of warmth filled her chest. “Alright. I’ll have Otto record your asking price, and then we may talk terms.” 

Excellent. 

It was too bad it was not so simple. As everything was in Westeros, she found.  

It started with the arrival of Otto Hightower to the Queen’s chambers. His tall frame and humorless expression was a fresh face among those Seirazi saw every day.  He eased himself into the room with a controlled sort of discomfort; keenly aware that he was intruding in a place he did not belong, nor want to. But when his shrewd eyes found Seirazi, they seemed to stare her down to the threads of her uniform, as if to find her ill-suited. It was a sort of stare she’d seen before in Meereen. 

But it had been by her request he came to the nursery to speak, and because of her request of the King that the Hand obeyed. She had more power within the Queen’s chambers than he did. And she saw the shift on his face, as he saw her realize it. 

It was the language gap that ruined any good negotiation they could have had, however.  

“ La King 'ath sent to drafte thee a treate. Ai 'aiyaire thee desiyairé waje een return f'r thy w'rk an’ ' ur sairv. ” 

She understood about a third of the words used. Caught with prince Baelon sleeping over her shoulder, Seirazi adjusted her hold and focused hard on her phrasing. 

“ I wanteth pay…as oth'r maids. ” She paused and thought again. “ And… do’so reflecteth extra hour I w'rk, and myne high artes .”

The Hand pursed his lips. “ Thee waan to taketh the maids coin? ” 

“ Aye? ” 

They seemed to come across a complication almost immediately. “ S'rvants art thustly pay a f'rnight, deduc'd in cubiculo and répast unléz hail cometh gentle family. ”

She didn’t know what that word ‘cubiculo’ meant. She didn’t know what any of those words meant, said so quickly and accented so strange. Otto Hightower spoke nothing like Talya, who had a subdued accent she’d learned came from the Riverlands, as opposed to his that came from Oldtown and sounded sharper and almost French in origin.  

“Erm.” Seirazi struggled for a response. Failing that, searched the room for Mikon—who was missing, fetching a salve. And then looked down at Baelon, as if he would help. “Ah…. fuck. Do you know what this guy’s saying?” 

The colicky prince blew out a bubble from his mouth. 

“Aggbbl.” 

Surely that also had to mean something, but all translation was lost between both of them. The hand tried again, but she understood even less than the first. 

“.... Arte anon a lacking valor ‘our? ” Otto asked, judging the confusion upon her face. He looked unsure whether to stay or not. Uncomfortable to be in the presence of the sleeping Queen, and Baelon, as he bubbled and coughed. 

But she wanted this contract more than any personal wealth or riches. She wanted—no, needed —acknowledgement of her position in Westeros. She needed all governing laws and powers to recognize her as someone of value. No slave to masters but a needed provider worthy of necessity, compensation, and protection. Something most common-born of Westeros didn’t even get in their own country. It had to be done right.  

The King’s Hand made for the door. “ Shuld'st wé tallyon ai d’ost bliéve we shall’st went anothair fair aide .”

“No! Wait! Augh!” As Seirazi went to stop him, Baelon began to cry, making Otto even more reluctant to stick around. His face screwed up in distaste and he bowed his head before leaving her to deal with the crying baby, no closer to any real progress than they began. “ Damnit .” 

Then of course, Aemma roused from her sleep, disoriented from all the opium. 

“Whuh? B… Baelon? What’s it… what isn’t…” She let out a moan of pain as she tried to turn over on her own. “H.. Help. I need help…!” 

“Coming, Queenness,” she said, forgetting Otto. Crying babe and Queen the only thing she could deal with at the moment. 

⩫

It would take some time before Seirazi would leave Maegor’s Holdfast alone. Her downtime was practically nonexistent, and she reportedly slept within the nursery on the Queen’s chairs instead of going back to her own room for the night. Ever-watchful over her charges. Her diligence was often spoken in equal measure to her brazen discard of social norm—one of the few redeeming qualities among her actions and prophecies that fed into her growing reputation. Despite the weeks following the joust, she remained a topic of conversation amongst the Keep. A person to look out for and report on day by day, a titillating little treat of gossip for the court and staff to speculate on.   

Daemon Targaryen didn’t care for it one bit. 

It could’ve had something to do with the fact that her bloody prophecy had been proven right, to his utter humiliating loss at the end of the joust, or that she’d somehow wrapped his brother around her finger and taken up all his attention. He certainly didn’t like that the Queen’s chambers were conveniently closed off for visitors every time he tried to come by to see his good-sister and nephew. And the only time he’d been able to get in the door had been chaperoned with Viserys, when the Godswife was conveniently elsewhere. 

There were many such cases that stirred Daemon’s ire. All he knew was that he needed to see for himself what kind of person the seer was before she fouled up anything else for him. 

And he eventually had his moment the fifth week after the Joust. 

It was a rare afternoon where the girl left Maegor’s Holdfast to do her weekly bathing rituals.

Daemon waited in the courtyard as servants came and went, waiting for her to appear at the bottom of the stairs. While she didn’t appear immediately as he’d hoped, there were other sources of entertainment to preoccupy himself with in the meantime. 

“Don’t you think the fresh air will do some good? I fear you’ve been abed for too long, brother. Maester Mikon says you must move.” 

“I do ,” Sir Gwayne Hightower complained as he hobbled through the courtyard, arm taken by Alicent. It was the first Daemon had seen Otto Hightower’s lesser son after the joust, and while he had heard of his injuries—and smugly bestowed them at the time—it was quite the sight to see the boy so crippled. Most of Daemon’s wroth had been expended upon far greater threats at the time. Unhorsing the Hightower had been a victory lap to thumb his nose at the Hand, at best. Or it should have been, if that common-born Dornish prick hadn’t ruined everything. 

“I do not think sneaking down to watch the training yard counts as proper movement,” Alicent replied, grip firm on his arm as they turned a bend. 

“I disagree. I feel quite invigorated every time I take to all the steps. The Maesters must add another every time I go, just to expedite my great recovery.”

“Is that the reason you’re in such a huff when I come fetch you?”    

Gwayne looked properly sour before he even spotted Daemon. His one leg was bound and taped to a splint, and he kept one hand painfully against his ribs, as if broken. Any good health he attempted to feign withered as soon as he saw the Prince responsible standing before them. 

“The weather is quite lovely today for a stroll,” Daemon said in cheer as both Hightowers stopped in their tracks. He placed a hand upon his chest. “By all means, do stroll on without my grand shadow impeding your way.” 

“Thank you, my Prince,” Alicent murmured, dripping her gaze to the floor and lowering into a curtsy. 

Gwayne made no such effort to bow, fixing Daemon with a narrow glare instead. So obvious was it that his baby sister looked over and gave his arm a tug. 

“ Gwayne .” 

“You’ll have to forgive me the effort, your Highness. I seem to lack the knees to bend at present,” he said dryly. 

“Oh of course. How thoughtless of me.” The challenge was like sweet wine to Daemon’s ears. He cracked a grin, and turned it on Alicent. “I suppose it’s only right to let your poor brother lick his wounds for now. You know how some men can be when unhorsed by their betters.” 

The girl visibly shrank under his attention. “Oh. I, um…” 

“I suppose that puts us on common ground after your loss to Sir Cole, doesn’t it?” Gwayne challenged, taking a hobbled step forward to dutifully place the attention back on him and off his sister. “Though were we to be upon the same level, you would have bested me fairly at lance point instead of killing my horse .” 

“Still sore over that?” He flicked his eyes up and down at all of Gwayne’s poor broken little bones. “Of course you are. Allow me to give you some advice should you ever recover enough to ride without holding your sister’s hand—” 

“It is unneeded, your highness,” Gwayne said in a biting monotone.  

Daemon went on, grinning wider. “The dirt goes under your feet after dismounting, not in your mouth, like some losing dung-eating wretch. ” 

“ Gwayne, ” Alicent warned, grabbing his arm before he did something foolish. Like take a step toward Daemon when all he needed was one good shove to break the rest of him.  

Daemon’s interest in them was entirely gone by that point however, as his real prey finally made herself known as she came down the staircase, and then he was off, stalking after her. 

“YOU—halt! I’ll have a word with you!” he shouted. 

Though it seemed to fall upon deaf or dumb ears as the seer’s head sunk at his tone, but nevertheless did not turn to face him. Daemon growled and took off after her faster than her short legs could carry. Hightowers entirely irrelevant. 

He pinned her in the corner of the hall. 

“Vestan keligon! ” he said in High Valyrian.  I said stop. 

Finally, those dull black animal-like eyes were forced to look at him. Her bastard tongue was even worse than Rhaenyra led him to believe. 

“K’yesa?” 

“You have some nerve to strut around my home and my family after the lies you spread at the tourney, witch ,” he said in a low, cold snarl. She took a startled step backward. “ Did you think your lies wouldn’t come back to roost after letting them fly through the castle? ” 

“Th-This is not ‘se place to put your poor loosings on me,” she rebutted, looking desperately for anyone for help. But with her assailant being the Rogue Prince, none were keen to intervene. Though many were certainly watching—including the Hightowers. Daemon could see the moment the girl realized nobody was coming to her aid. “I-I am sorry. But I have no things to do with you.” 

“ On the contrary, I have everything to do with you as you worm your way within my family ,” he said, taking another step toward her. The witch, for what little she was worth, did not allow her back to hit the wall. Though her hands did ball up into fists at her side. “ Viserys may not see you for the poison that you are, but I will not suffer any more delusions of his that claim you to understand anything here. ” 

“ That is for ‘se King and Queen’s decision , not yours, ” she said curtly. Making a quick servant's bow, she tried to skirt past him. “ If you’ll excuse— ” 

“Oh I won’t!” he laughed, catching her arm before she even thought to scurry off anywhere. 

At his tight grip, her feet stuttered to a stop. By some bizarre reflex she tried to yank free, but he wasn’t letting her go anywhere. 

“ Stop. ” She gasped, eyes wide. “ Don’t—don’t touch me. ” 

“ And let you slip back into the shadows? I’m trying to have a conversation with you . I will not suffer another moment waiting for your next move.”

“Suffer? You suffer?” She gave a desperate laugh. His whole hand eclipsed her skinny, scarred wrist. He could feel her heartbeat thunder beneath her skin. “ Let me go. Let me go now, Daemon Targaryen. Hurt me here and I will be hurting you back! ” 

“ Look who’s threatening who now ,” he said, yanking her arm closer as she tried again to wrench herself free. Daemon’s expression was pure innocence as she bared her teeth at him. “ I truly cannot understand what my poor fool brother saw in you. But don’t get too comfortable, it will not last long .” 

“Daemon,” a voice called to him in astonishment. He didn’t need to turn to know it was that crippled Hightower brat. “What are you doing?” 

“Nothing that that would concern you at all!” He shot back. He turned back to the seer, grimacing as she yanked again, even less the lady she pretended herself to be. “ Would you get a hold of yourself already? ” 

But of course she didn’t. Of course, she didn’t simper and fall still as expected. As one was meant to do so, when outclassed and out muscled, cornered so. It made sense to stand there and listen to him. To be subdued, like the good smart young Alicent. Who turned to stone at her brother’s side. To know her place when the dragon turned to face her. But this slave liar knew even less than nothing of decorum than reason. All he wanted was to talk . 

Instead of listening? 

She screamed . 

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAUUGGGHHHH!!!!” 

She shrieked. 

Louder than the seven hells, it was a blight on the ears. Daemon released her as every head turned their way. Every man and Kingsguard snapped to attention. Every bloody noble and servant alike turned toward the sound. In one short second, the whole Keep would be on alert, as if the castle had just witnessed a gruesome murder—by his own hand. 

“Seven hells, what did you say to her?!” Gwayne gasped. Then he took one wrong step forward on broken foot, choked in pain, and nearly dragged Alicent along with him to the ground. 

Daemon almost didn’t have it in him to laugh at Hightower taking another mouth of dirt as the Kingsgaurd descended upon them. And at that point, the shrieking witch had shouted herself hoarse, and had similarly collapsed upon the wall. 

“What,” demanded a very out of breath Harrold Westerling, as he came upon them with his hand on his sword. “Happened?” 

“I did absolutely nothing,” Daemon replied, palms to the heavens as he tried to skirt away. 

The Kingsguard did not seem so eager to humour him with the Godswife on the floor and trembling. “We’ll see about that.” 

⩫

“‘Se first thing I ever ask” Seirazi said, hunched up in Aemma’s settee, with a blanket around her. She watched Viserys rub his forehead. “Was not to be touched by any man.” 

“My good-brother has never been just any man,” Aemma muttered. Propped up against her many pillows, she held Baelon protectively against her shoulder as she looked at her husband. “Are you going to do anything about it?” 

Viserys scoffed. “You think I can control anything about what Daemon says or does?” 

“He is your brother.”

“And I am also his king, and it makes little difference to curb his attitude on the best day,” he retorted. Turning back to Seirazi, who remained hunched in her chair, he shook his head. “For what it’s worth, I apologize for what transpired. I will speak with him—you needn't encounter him again. But I do not think this incident is worth making a fuss over.” 

She stared at him. “So you will be doing nothing.” 

“Not nothing,” he assured. When she didn’t blink at him, he stressed again. “He’s a member of the royal family. And the Commander of our City Watch. You do understand I cannot simply lash his bottom for giving you a fright.” 

She turned her gaze toward the window. She had hoped the promises the King had given her would mean something at least.   

Viserys sighed at her disappointment. “Give Daemon some time to sulk and all will be forgotten. The tourney hit him hard. As did the many outrageous bets taken against him. Corlys Velaryon made off with quite the fortune.”

Seirazi grimaced. If only he knew the half of it.  

“I take issue with Daemon’s harassment of a member of my household,” Aemma interjected. Her thin pale eyebrows knit together. “She’s under my care. A threat to her is an offence on me. On the future of our son .” 

“Aemma,” the King almost whined. “Must we go on about this? You’re still healing—” 

“It is not the first time he’s cornered one of my girls,” she went on, a bit of steel in her voice as she tucked her babe beneath her chin. “It will not be the last unless you’re properly stern with him. He faces no repercussions in the Keep.” 

“He faces plenty .” 

“None that matter. None that stick,” she shot back. “Otto has been saying for years—” 

“Otto has his own vendettas , ” Viserys said exasperatedly. “There’s nothing to get worked up over. It was a fright. That is all. The girl doesn’t even care to argue on it further.” 

Seirazi didn’t quite like being spoken for, never mind being referred to in the third person after being assaulted. Seirazi rubbed the scarred skin around her wrists. Finding the King’s word empty and dissatisfying.  

“I want to be protected.” 

Viserys looked at her. “You are protected. The Keep is the safest place you can be—I’ll have a guard posted at your door each night if you’re so concerned. But Daemon won’t do anything more. I think you frightened him as much he you,” he joked.  

His humour put a sour taste in her mouth. She’d already had guards posted at her door—there had been guards in the hall when Daemon had cornered her. She’d thought herself immortal, free of fear from death, but the moment he’d grabbed her her vision had tunnelled. And she’d been reminded of all the other ways men could make her suffer the pain of living. 

She took a steadying breath. “You want me to stay here and work here. To serve ‘se Queen and Prince, yes?” 

“Of course,” said a frustrated Viserys. 

The same time Aemma said, “I need you.” 

“All I am asking is not to be touched again.” 

“You have it,” Viserys said immediately. 

Seirazi went on. “And I am wanting a contract.” 

The King groaned. He said something to his wife in Westerosi. Aemma looked between them both as they spoke rapidly, until something Viserys said made her blink with understanding. She looked at Seirazi. 

“Would you like help dictating your terms?” 

Seeing as how Seirazi could neither read Westerosi nor write, and the Lhazareen alphabet was almost entirely textile-based and useless here, she sheepishly nodded her head. 

Aemma patted her beside.

“Come then, my girl. Let me return my debt to you. It’s only fair.” As she gingerly made her way over and sat on the side of the bed, Aemma and Baelon welcomed her with a pillow of her own. “Now, though we’ve never had a Godswife of our own, there are many similar roles that overlap. How much would you believe your services worth?” 

Honestly? Seirazi had absolutely no idea. 

“A Godswife was a sage with my kin…” she explained to the Queen, who listened carefully. It was a vocation that lasted for life and required no pay, as the Great Shepherd offered healing and shelter to all, without discrimination. Anything that could be offered freely was accepted of course, but to demand payment went against the ethos of her people’s teachings. 

However, they never had to tend to kings and queens who had more wealth than they needed. 

Did that make her a bad Lhazareen for demanding wages? 

The thought honestly hadn’t occurred to her until now. She’d been so caught up trying to push modern medicine and modern rights, she’d forgotten the second family and the values they raised her on. What would her Uuma think of her now, in service to the dragons their ancestors fled from?    

That… troubled her more than she could put into words. 

“We will find a number,” Aemma assured.

 Though it didn’t comfort her as much as it should have. 

“My… thanks.” 

It took more than a few days to come to an agreement. Hampered by Aemma’s energy levels, and the duties of both King and Hand, who drafted the contract. Aemma was a surprisingly firm negotiator from her bed. Unwilling to budge and often taking Otto to task on tiny, small details Seirazi didn’t even think about. They went over her weekly allowance, monthly salary and yearly income. Holidays and wardrobe costs, tailor fees paid for by the crown, and expectations placed upon her as an intimate member of the Queen’s household. Higher in rank to her ladies of privy, ladies of robes, and ladies of the bedchamber, who she was already acquainted with. Not higher than Aemma’s noble ladies in waiting, who served as the Queen’s civil company, but with special privileges to guide them and direct if necessary (instead of the yelling Seirazi had done to flush them from the room when they got in the way). Most staff were paid, but those from noble families often sent their kin to foster, work, or stay within the keep off their own dime, due to the great political advantages of being so close to the throne.    

Every contract was managed by the Hand, and the Master of Coin. Who was also dragged into the Queen’s chambers to be spoken terms to after Otto.  

Seirazi had only ever asked to be paid the price of bread a day. But apparently it was a laughable asking price when tending to the royal family. Her weekly allowance was set at thirty-five silver stags; or seven stags a day. But she didn’t know enough about the economy to understand if that was considered a lot, or if the kingdom was so flush was gold that it was basically nothing. Meereen bartered in flesh, labour, and jewels of all sorts, and the market price for everything fluctuated so wildly she learned it was better not to ask to avoid a beating.  

It was a great relief when Aemma explained to her how to break her contract if it came down to it.  And especially interesting to see Aemma operate in a state other than pain or sleep. Despite the tension she saw creep up her face as her poppy milk wore off, she made herself out to be a very good and competent Queen when needed. 

“I’m sorry… I can’t do this much longer,” she murmured, sinking lower in bed. The last few days of contract work had been informative, if taxing on her. And her temperature rose again with the extra workload. “The rest of the contract should be easy enough for Beesbury to handle. Seven knows he's done it enough times.” 

“Thank you for every things,” she replied, lifting a wet cloth to the Queen’s forehead. “And more. Your kindness won’t be forgotten.”  

“I do what I can.” Aemma smiled up at her. And though she was more than twice her age in body, and Seirazi doubly so in mind, Aemma felt less like a patient, and more a once-lost sister with each day spent at her side. 

 ⩫

Seirazi had her duties to attend to, but she couldn’t live a coward’s life forever. 

There were things she needed to do on the rare time off she had from Baelon. Namely, bathe. Change her clothes. And now that she had funds, she needed to begin collecting medical supplies so she wouldn’t have to rely on the Maesters. Of course, in order to leave she had to rely on them to stand vigil over Baelon, so she couldn’t take Mikon with her. But she could take Talya. 

“Hark, an’ ye doth recall, thou wearst’ a cote over thy chemise, yet under thy chape. Buckle with corrorie, girdle 'r sash. Wee ladies of fyne holding may dost’ thine hair uncover, unlike those of low hold or gentile age, yet as compatrie of nobile house we garb ours coif'd upon work. One might dress thineself ‘yon custom at leisure. Yet upon sortie, lace thy sollars ‘ere we leave an’ compose right to keep thy coin purse safe and close. Do ye follow?” 

Hardly. 

They literally weren’t even leaving the Keep, just going down to the lower square to inspect the fresh shipment of materials up to the castle. Someone had to have said something to Talya though. She’d fixed herself to Seirazi’s side as of late, and she seemed to have fewer duties that expected her elsewhere in the Keep. A guard had been assigned to follow them around as well. 

“This be ser Brod,” she went on in Westerosi. “He shalt beest our chap'rone.”  

Seirazi didn’t make much eye contact with Brod. The gold cloak and sword at his hip didn’t inspire much confidence where his loyalties lay. But at least her requests for security hadn’t gone entirely unfulfilled. 

“Course thine way to the s’rvant’s climb,” Talya instructed, with an open gesture of her hand. Often they passed other servant girls walking arm in arm, but Talya thankfully didn’t demand to put her hands on her like some others. “Be sure of thy foothld, we lack holding to fall upon.” 

Seirazi fiddled with the buttons on her blue overcote as they made their way down. She preferred to travel at night, when most of the Keep was asleep to avoid as much attention as she could, but any resources she could get would be gone by then. And now that she had money, she needed to start using it.  

“By thine leaveth,” Talya said as they squeezed by several other servants. 

Personal space, unfortunately, was still a greater expense than their class could afford. 

“Grammercy.”   

“Pardon mine passing.”

It reminded Seirazi of the tight sewers of Meereen. 

“ Ovoosh ,” she huffed in Lhazareen as the claustrophobia mounted. Move. 

The ground floor was flush with activity as they made their way out of the Keep and toward the interior yard. The great bronze Barbican gate that had been her entrance to the castle was open wide, and carts came and went from its mouth. Up above in the iron tipped ramparts stood archers on guard, watching the processions from their nests. Men shouted directions to the supply wagons as labourers unloaded lumber and stone for renovations, crates containing food and clothes, and animals for the pens kept further inside the castle walls. Chickens and goats and pigs. Sheep and cattle were apparently kept elsewhere; or taken directly to the dragon pit for consumption. 

“Course mine way. N’ere tally from mine side,” said Talya, ushering her through the yard toward some wagons. 

The both of them had to lift their skirts to keep from dragging in the mug, and Seirazi looked back to check in case Ser Brod had to lift his cape. He shot her a bored, flat look in response, and she swiftly turned back around. 

“The mercers should's' beest dropping their goods. Ye' if it be herb an’ ointment thou desire, we visi' the maest'rs and did bid wouldst those gents hast any extra suppliessy. I wouldst taketh to th’ garden as well.” 

Seirazi listened to Talya talk, murmuring some of the words she used under her breath to memorize them. As they walked further into the yard Seirazi pointed to certain things that caught her eye. 

“ Ehh..skoro ?” 

“Tha' beest the commons. Wh're the stockroom, cook'ry and th’ wee kitchen abide.” 

Seirazi repeated the word. “Kom-onse.” 

Talya repeated it for her in proper westerosi until she got it. Far less easily frustrated than those that taught her how to speak in Meereen. That had been a lesson in necessity; to learn which words meant an order and which words were meant for those above her, not to be reacted to. Admittedly, Seirazi had been even more the wilful brat in Meereen than in Westeros, and made it a habit to misunderstand or disobey small orders where she could in an act of rebellion, but regular beatings did a good job of filling her vocabulary. Seirazi didn’t think Talya had that power of discipline, but she didn’t want to give her the opportunity. 

Seirazi pointed to another area. “Eskoro?” 

“Yond beest the armeth'ry, wh're repaireth to weaponry art did fix.”

“Erm…thery?” 

“Arm-more-ee,” Talya enunciated. 

Oh! She knew that word. Why the hell did they have to say Armoury in such an antiquated tone?

She pointed to another building. “ Eh-see vonnah? ”

“Yond beest the kennel, nex' to swine’rd and stable, where equine are teth'r'd.” 

She didn’t really need to ask, she could smell it across the yard. But she turned each new word over in her mouth until they became a bit more familiar. 

“Yond beest the Hand’s tower, in s'rvice to the Hand Otto Hightow'r. It is residence f'r he, his servants, and his blood,” Talya went on, moving her further down the yard. 

Seirazi glanced over as they did so and caught the Hand standing out in the open. His attention elsewhere as he appeared to be taking stock of all the produce being moved into the keep. There were a few others alongside him, and one man talked animatedly as Otto wrote things down. 

“Yond beest the Keep steward, in chargeth of cast'rly needeth and upkeep while the Hand tends to kingly admin.” She smiled tightly as the balding man counted off on his fingers as the labourers behind him carried crates and barrels toward the commons. “Ser Varn Chafferly hast s'rv'd the king f'r ten odd year. I knoweth the gent as a descent sir, though he doest taketh his men to task.” 

Seirazi jumped as Ser Brod piped up behind them. “Some sir need f'rce the lab'r'rs off thy arses.” 

Talya snorted. “Aye. Faint not be’est me.” 

Seirazi shook her head as they traded a few more words, watching Otto converse with the Keep steward a bit longer. Chafferly was a thick man with calloused hands and a rough face, in stark contrast to the tall, thin Hand, in his evergreen velvet doublet. 

Among the few people loitering who weren’t at work, a head with bright orange hair stuck out among them. Seirazi stared at the crutches he favoured as the boy rested against the wall, dressed in a subdued, if also finely tailored, green tunic. 

She caught his eye for a moment, and while the boy appeared to straighten in recognition, she motioned to Talya. “ Qilōni ‘iks vonnah? ”  

She didn’t understand the question. “Hm?” 

Seirazi huffed. Motioning with her arm. “Who’mpst?” 

The servant girl coloured at who she motioned to and leapt to push down her arm. “Yond beest the hand’s son! Wee folk as dare not pointeth liketh yond to nobility—thy beest draw their notice.” 

“I doth reckon the lady hast done so,” said Ser Brod.

“Ah sckitte ,” Talya swore. Seirazi paid special attention to that lovely little curse word. Swears were always the most fun to learn in a new language. Seeing as how the young man popped off his wall to speak words to the Hand, Talya hastily explained to her as she motioned for them to move onward. “Gwayne Hightow'r did injure during the tourney.  He’s to stayeth at the Keep until hale enow to rejourn t’ Oldtown, Though the Maest'rs fret that gent may not be’est fit to ride.  But it’s malapert to gawk, let us tarry on.”   

Injured during the tourney? Seirazi hardly recalled him at all from her account of things. Though it made sense. The tourney was a ritual of pompous violence and showboating. Any noble-born nepo baby with something to prove would have leapt at the opportunity to grab at glory and live with the consequences. But Gwayne Hightower’s recognition of her was unusual as they passed him by. She neither understood the words he said to his father, nor bothered herself in caring about it. Everyone liked to gawk at the dark skinned foreign girl. 

(“Father, might you know who that is?” 

Otto paused his regularly scheduled argument with steward Chafferly to glance at whom his son motioned to. He sighed in response. “That would be the Queen’s Godswife, who the grand Maester has yet to cease complaining to me about. She usually keeps to the holdfast.” 

“I can understand why,” he replied, watching her carry on toward a stack of shipments. With the Prince roaming the halls with some sort of vendetta against her, he could see why she kept away. 

Still, it was brave of her to leave again. 

Gwayne noted the guard posted to her, and turned back to his father before he lost his attention to the steward. “... What’s a Godswife?” 

Otto shook his head in frustration. “You would find a better explanation of her duties from Lyman Bessbury. It’s an eastern term. Involved in the care of children and women. Now, if there’s anything else—” 

Gwayne took a pained step back, his expression politely tight. A second was more time than he usually got from his father anyway. 

“Right. Carry on.”)  

The stock available for Seirazi and Talya to parse through was hardly abundant, but offered a variety of herbs for her to study when it came to understanding what the people in the Keep used for medicine. There were a lot of wasteful, useless grasses that had no purpose being used in salves or medicines (and that came from someone whose people made their living on grasses). Quite a few dried insects, bugs, and animal parts she couldn’t verify their uses for. No eyes of newt or toe of frog, but there were fresh bundles of dog’s tongue, a type of fern, and adder’s wort—which was a type of aquatic buttercup. She knew it by the name of Bistort, though. It’s modern holistic properties are used for diarrhea and menstrual bleeding when boiled into wine. 

The dog’s tongue was more useful for urinary tract infections, if she dimly recalled. Though it had found far more use as a gardening decoration for its wavy leaves. A few lifetimes ago she once had to council someone on their children and pets consuming it in their vegan diet—while it wasn’t deadly toxic to ingest regularly, it continued an enzyme that removed vitamin B from the body in large quantities. It was safer to consume after cooking or drying through heat.

“I doth sighted maest'rs grindeth this ‘ere unto a salve,” Talya said over her shoulder, motioning to the fern. 

She had little idea why, but it interested her. She’d have to ask Mikon about it next she saw him. 

Seirazi motioned to another plant. “ Se’ vessa? ” 

“Yond beest h'rb-of-grace.  A fine planteth f'r seven blessings an to counteth'r the dark moods of the corse hath brought on by malfeasance 'r hexes.” A moment later, she glanced away, covering her mouth as she spoke. “Or ill begotten incubations of womb.” 

Uh, right. Seirazi sniffed the flowery plant and ran her thumb over the dried waxy stem, before putting the bundle back. Then she spotted another plant she knew by name. 

“Fennel!” 

“This be sweet anise,” Talya corrected. “Lic'rice plante, or sweet finol. Used in cookery.” 

It also went by the name of madhurika in Essos, but Seirazi wasn’t about to be a pedant about it. It was low in carbohydrates and rich in potassium, sodium, phosphorus, calcium, and high in essential fatty acids and magnesium. The seeds were known to have an antioxidant, anti-inflammatory, antifungal, and antiviral effects. She remembered it fondly as a holistic suggestion for mothers who were breastfeeding, as it stimulated prolactin and milk production. While that wasn’t necessarily needed for Aemma, it might for her wet nurses. Seirazi collected a bundle with the intention to steep it and turn into a tea: because Fennel was useful in aiding digestion, heartburn, bloating, loss of appetite (which Aemma sorely lacked), and colic! in infants! Which was nothing if not Baelon’s entire existence so far. 

“ Eh’ Skorky’doso? ” she said to Talya as she fished out her coin purse. Struggling for the right words as she glanced between her and the stocker who overlooked their picked-through wares. “Ahhum… many stags?” 

“Oh, nay— these beest a few copp'r penny,” said the girl, pushing the ten silver stags back toward her purse. She blushed at the stocker who stared at them with wide eyes. “These stock belongeth to the King, and thee in his s'rvice art welcometh to taketh from those folk as any of the maest'rs doth. A bushel of these woulds' wend f'r two silv'rs a' most—a container woulds' wend f'r far lessy. Be’est mindful with thy coin bef're it goeth hence.” 

Right, okay. She was definitely undervaluing the worth of her paychecks. Seirazi looked through the rest of the stock with Talya’s help before it was all taken away into the castle. She found quite a few extremely useful herbs to carry back with her. Yarrow, lavender, sage and thyme. Black pepper, cumin, garlic cloves, and dill. Talya helped her identify betony, angelica and musk mallow, though more herbs that had less culinary uses had already been shipped off to the Maester’s quarters to be used in their lab. 

Seirazi’s mouth watered imaging all the plants she hadn’t even seen yet, but settled on exchanging two silver stags for a bag full of sweet anise, chamomile, fennel, and ginger, for the prince’s colic. As well as purchasing a few small jars of honey, so Seirazi could also brew a ginger and coriander tea for the Queen. 

It couldn’t compare to modern antibiotics, but she hoped it would at least soothe some of her fever and appetite problems. 

“Thankings for thine aid, Talya,” she said after all was said and done. Feeling a bit lighter in chest with the newfound financial security. She even turned to address their chaperone. “Thankings to thee too, Ser Brod.” 

The goldcloak grunted as he juggled her purchases in both arms. One decently sized, extremely aromatic hemp sack, and several small jars of honey tied together with twine. He sneezed. “Aye. Wilcuma.” 

Talya smiled and offered her a friendly smile. “Shalt we returneth t’ Maegor’s Holdfast?”

Seirazi hesitated, before tentatively returning it. The Westerosi rolled a little smother across her tongue. “We shalt.” 

⩫

“You made tea?” Rhaenyra asked, popping up behind Seirazi as she carried two heavy pots toward the Queen’s chambers. She sniffed the air. “It smells sweet.” 

“ Gah—! ” she tried not to drop everything in her surprise, but a bit sloshed out the top to scald her hands. Seirazi winced but held them firm as she forced a curtsy. “I thank you, Princess. Your mother is of agreeing. This is third of my batch.” 

Rhaenyra smiled ruefully and fell into stride as they began to walk. Her lyrical High Valyrian almost even harder to follow at times compared to Talya’s common. “It’s good to know my faith in you hasn’t been ill-placed. Maester Mellos and Daemon are convinced you’re brewing poison in your rooms, you know.” 

A burn to her fingers was more welcome than anything the rogue Prince had to say. 

“...then I’m being glad to letting them down.” 

Rhaenyra stifled a smile and walked with her in silence for a moment. Oddly companionable as other servants bowed and curtsied as they passed. Seirazi left a footstep between her and the princess’s gait to denote rank. Though with the carefree pep to the Princess’s steps, she hardly seemed to notice. 

“Things have been a lot more interesting since you came around,” she said eventually, as they made it to the door. As a footman moved to open it for them, she went on. “I’m grateful for it. I’m thankful for your work in saving my family, truly.” 

Seirazi wasn’t sure what to say. Genuine admissions of feelings weren’t really her thing. Surely, she had to be after something.

Seirazi ended up dumbly bobbing her head. “I am gladdened to be of help.” 

Rhaenyra made a sympathetic face. “I know it hasn’t been smooth sailing. The uh, little disagreement you had with my uncle—” 

Was that the narrative going around?

“He’s really not so bad once you know him. I know he was quite worried for my mother when everything happened. It's been difficult with all the secrecy and panic the last few weeks. I hope you can forgive him.” 

Ah, so that was it. Rhaenyra was so much like her father sometimes. Seirazi focused hard balancing her teapots as she moved through the doors instead of any sort of expression that would give her away. 

“You are kin. I am trusting you know him well,” was what she said in assent. 

Rhaenyra laughed. “Well, I can’t rightly guess what he’ll do at the best of times. But I know he’s loyal to his family, despite what anyone in the court may try to insinuate.”

Right. Seirazi was fine not being included in that group so long he kept his hands to himself.  

“Mother!” Rhaenyra rushed past her into the bedroom at the sight of Aemma not in bed, as usual, but perched upon her settee by the cracked-open window. “You’re up—you’re out of bed. You’re feeling better?” 

“Most of those things,” she replied with a tight smile. Shifting as she held a hot cloth against her abdomen, she shot her godswife a warm look as she set down her teapots on a nearby table. “Thank you. The ginger has been doing wonders.” 

 “And ‘se princeling?” 

“Sleeping soundly as of now,” she replied. 

Mikon stood vigil over the crib, where Baelon appeared to sleep comfortably. His mucus buildup tolerable enough to sleep laying down, so long as he was watched carefully and sipped the room-temp teas Seirazi brewed. She didn’t dare introduce too many different herbs at once in case he had an allergic reaction, but the chamomile seemed to sooth some of the colic. 

Rhaenyra cut her mother a curious look as she sat down across from her chair. “Are you feeling well enough for a trip outside the Keep?” 

Seirazi shot the Princess a bewildered look, but Aemma just sighed, as if expecting it. “Maybe in a few days. Perhaps a week…” 

Rhaenyra practically bounced in her chair. “I know it’s soon, and father hasn’t brought it up, but everyone’s been expecting it and I think they’re all worried it isn’t going to happen, which has been worrying them even more—” 

“What trips outside ‘se keep??” asked Seirazi, frankly scandalized they wanted to tear the Queen out of her healing bed. 

“It’s customary,” Aemma explained. 

“The kingdom’s yet to even see the Prince or be presented to the kingdom,” Rhaenyra went on. 

Mikon filled her in at last. “Each son and daughter of the nobility are to be brought to the Great Sept, to be blessed under the seven pointed star.”

Ah. So, tradition. Seirazi wasn’t keen to rob a child of his people’s ways—but she worried the trip outside was more hazard than it was good. 

“It’s important for the Mother to welcome each infant into her home of worship as soon as it comes into the world,” Aemma went on, looking regretfully toward the cradle. “It’s my own weakness that kept me from taking him any sooner.” 

“You were ill ,” Seirazi argued. She still was. 

“If he were to perish like all my others,” she replied, a rough pain to her words. “He would never be met with his ancestors in all the seven heavens. The stranger would take him into the void, and I would lose him forever when it would be my turn to join him. A simple blessing from the septas would not be enough.” 

So it was a type of baptism? Seirazi swallowed her words and turned her attention back to her teapots. Pouring a cup to set aside and cool for the Prince, and another to serve warm for the Queen. She struggled with the new power of the cradle if she had to veto the family’s religious rights. If she denied them, and Baelon did die—even if he was doing better—Seirazi would never, ever be forgiven.    

“Two weeks healing from your stitches, and ‘se princeling remains in my care ‘se whole trip out. Then we may go, yes?” 

Rhaenyra beamed at her. “That gives me the perfect amount of time to find the proper dress!  Do you think Baelon will fit my old lace frock?” 

Aemma shook her head in endearment. “There’s only one way to know for sure.” 

When the day eventually came, it was through the effort of great preparation. Seirazi had Aemma out of bed and eating food no matter how tired and lacking of hunger, just so she wouldn’t end up passing out the moment she had to stand on her own inside the sept. With careful planning and instruction from Mikon, Talya, and other servants and septas, Seirazi knew almost everything they had to expect with the journey out of the castle, down to how long their  carriage trip should take, to how long the blessings would be. Barring any unexpected complications, it would be four hours, tops. 

Obviously nothing was ever as simple as she would have liked it, but Seirazi woke the day of the trip feeling confident about their plan. 

Of course, that also had to be a day Baelon was especially colicky, and he threw up a fountain of breastmilk all over his wet nurse and absolutely refused to drink any more. Which meant he was hungry and fussy when it was time to dress him. 

“UuuwwAAAHHHHHHHH!!!” 

“Yes, I know—I know, it’s early and awful and it’s so much fabric. You may bask in your skins again once we appease your conquered people’s priest folk.” 

He struggled and sobbed as she slipped the lacy frock over his head. Dresses weren’t a gendered garment in Westeros, nor had they been in her last life until the modern century, and the bottomless frock gave ease of access in case of accidents or dirty diapers. 

As she gave him a final pat down she noted that his hip was still sensitive and off. Additional pressure to the joint between femoral head and pelvis made him jolt and sob like he did weeks prior. 

“AAAAGGAAHHHHH!!” 

She quit her probing and drew him into her arms. “Shhh, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—It’s okay, you’re okay. I was only testing.” 

As Baelon smushed his little forehead into her shoulder to sob openly into her chest, it worried her. But it was just one of several things on his list of concerns that Seirazi was left to manage. Today was supposed to be his seven-pointed baptism. 

At least Aemma was in brighter spirits as her maids helped her out of bed. She was dressed in a rich blue gown with white Targaryen and Arryn embroidery; yellow puffy sleeves and gold threaded edges. It was far more regal than any of the sleeping gowns that Seirazi had seen her in, and her ladies of dressing had taken her away to primp and coif her hair in expectation of the event. Seirazi didn’t think they liked her that much, but they did a good job of dressing their Queen in the proper finery to be seen in public once more. No longer did she look the thin, sickly woman under her Godswife’s care—but a noble, strong and proud. Even if she did need to take an extra strong dose of poppy milk before she was set to leave her bedroom. 

“You good?” she asked, cautiously watching as the Queen wobbled a bit on her feet. 

Aemma did a good job of acting like she wasn’t opium drunk and weak enough the wind could knock her over. “Quite. Let us… not tarry longer. The seven kingdoms await our procession.” 

Not in the mood to argue, Seirazi followed suit. 

Baelon in his long white trailing frock remained primarily in her arms as they made their way out the room. He was the showpiece—Seirazi was just the pedestal to hold him. But she’d also been dressed in a fine blue gown to match with Aemma, with a thin golden chain around her bodice, and a trim of lace on her sleeves and collar. While it was the finest garment she’d ever worn, it paled in comparison to the dress Rhaenyra sported as she met them at the stairs. All tresses and poof. Her hair was half up and braided to form a chain around her head; little white pearls amongst the strands, and a necklace of black valerian steel around her neck. It stood out against the neutral gold and white of her outfit—drawing the eye. 

Seirazi wondered where she got that. She hardly had to wonder long when the rest of the family showed up, waiting at the bottom of the grand serpentine stairs, with one member dressed the exact same black Targaryen colours. 

“My darling, you look radiant,” Viserys said as he took Aemma’s hand and pressed it to his mouth.

“As do you, princess,” Daemon said with a wry smile on his face, noting her jewellery choice. 

The language of clothing was especially loud when it came to the nobility, Seirazi began to understand. Viserys’ wardrobe was the least changed—in that he was usually seen dressed as befitting a king. His colours were red for the realm, white for the new prince, and a deep royal blue with gold dragons tailored into the fine fabric of his tunic. Subduing his house colours when appeasing the smallfolk and the faith, who likely didn’t love being intimidated by prideful Targaryen nobility. His clothes reflected his attitude—and today was for a tradition to unite the dynasty with the faith of the people. An unspoken act of diplomacy before they even set foot outside. 

Daemon on the hand eschewed diplomacy altogether, and wore a pure black doublet with red sleeves, matching the scabbard at his side. The hilt of his sword Dark Sister glittered in the morning light. 

Seirazi stared straight ahead as Rhaenyra flushed and looked down at herself. “You don’t think the colours of my dress clashes with the steel? Alicent offered another necklace, even one of her own prayer pendants, but I couldn’t make up my mind in time.” 

“Well, there’s still time for you to remove your clothes for something else,” he replied, low as Viserys and Aemma exchanged words.

Rhaenyra’s face flushed an even deeper colour, even as she swatted at him. “Not any more there isn’t.” 

From her flustered tone, Seirazi turned her head towards them both. The Princess had shame enough to make herself look occupied, but Daemon had none at all. 

“Hello there,” he said lightly. As if she wasn’t aware of the predator in their midst. 

Or maybe he expected her to turn a blind eye the same way the others had when he’d cornered her in the hallway. 

“ Leave ‘se princess alone ,” she said, in a low whisper. 

“Oh? Now you have words for me?” Daemon asked, even more interested as he stepped from Rhaenyra’s side. “Rather than screeching like a struck pig?” 

Panic flashed in Rhaenyra’s eyes. But before she or Seirazi had a chance to respond, the King loudly cleared his throat. “Are we finished? Good. Better we go now before the people riot.”

“Don’t say such a thing,” Aemma admonished.  

“My gold cloaks would put them down before Caraxes had a chance to eat the rest.” Daemon promised. As the front doors were opened and the family began their way outside the Keep, he offered Rhaenyra his arm. Seirazi cursed all their western gods as the foolish princess took it. 

“Awwga,” Baelon said in response to all the chatting. 

Daemon inclined his head to the prince. “Quite the observation, my prince. I do agree, some people should be seen and not heard.” 

Seirazi did a good job impersonating a pedestal, offering no reaction to him as she carried Baelon. 

“Some would be surprised when they too fall under the same category,” said Viserys, shooting him a wary glance. “I ask that you keep to yourself, Daemon, this trip is for my son .”

“Thank you, husband,” said the Queen, her gaze straight forward and made of steel. It was impressive how Aemma was able to convey ‘ shut the fuck up you’ into a simple sentence not even directed at him.

Daemon merely rolled his eyes as they headed down the front steps. He held up the one arm that Rhaenyra wasn’t attached to. “I’ll be no problem so long as your little witch doesn't curse the procession.” 

By now Seirazi knew what the word witch meant. 

But she also knew who her allies were and what her role was today. 

“Your majesties,” she murmured, gaze lowered and obedient. Talya had practiced all night with her to get the westerosi word sounding right. 

And literally that was all it took. 

“Aemma, Rhaenyra—” Viserys motioned for them to enter the carriage as staff hurried to open the doors and lower the stepladder. He then motioned to Seirazi. “Baelon and his Godswife will ride with us. You, Daemon, may ride beside .” 

The false humour finally bled out of Daemon’s face. “You’re joking.” 

“I don’t quite wish to listen to you amuse yourself on the long drive to the Sept,” he said. Seirazi could really tell the brotherly relation in the expressions on their faces, even if she couldn’t exactly discern their words. “Best for Aemma’s condition too if you entertain our entourage.” 

Daemon let out an offended growl. “Viserys!” 

“Come alone now,” he said to Seirazi, and with three sharp steps into the carriage with the Prince in her arms, the doors swung shut behind her. 

“Fine then!” she heard Daemon exclaim, before his footsteps took off later down the collected procession, and his voice faded. “Give me your horse!” 

Seirazi settled into the carriage. She couldn’t have imagined tension in enclosed space, but it wasn’t her place to comment on it. In fact, she was paid specifically not to. 

“Did you really have to do that?” Rhaenyra complained. 

He rubbed his forehead. “Never you mind. Let’s just get this ceremony over with.” 

Awesome. 

Seirazi schoold her face as best she could as the carriage began to move. She schooled her thoughts as well, in the hopes that if she thought as neutrally as possible, nothing unexpected would happen. Four hours of appealing to the masses, religious lecture, and royal service, and  then they could return to the Holdfast where everything was quiet and safe.

Quiet however did not describe Seirazi’s second foray back into King’s landing. 

It was wild outside the gates. 

The windows had been unshuttered to allow the masses to see inside the carriage as they rode through King’s Landing. Baelon was passed to Aemma for the portion of the ride, to be witnessed as a healthy and doting mother, and Viserys sat beside her as the watchful and virile father of a son. Seirazi didn’t have much to do sat beside Rhaenyra, aside from making sure the Princess’s hair didn’t come undone during the ride and keeping a watchful eye on the prince’s disposition. 

The smallfolk loudly wept and cried out in joy at the sight of their King’s new heir. The Queen’s miscarriages had been an emotional subject for more than just the family. It was jarring to see how deeply emotionally invested all the people were as the carriage travelled further into the city. The filth and stink and squalor faded completely into the background as thousands of faces looked up and cheered for their resplendent King and Queen. 

“Long live the king!” They cried. “Long live the king! Long live the king!” 

The exaltation was feverish. “Baelon! Our new prince!”

Ladies and mothers threw flowers into the air, catching on the wind to gather in the processions' hair. 

“Bless our good lady queen!” 

“May the seven bless you on this day!” crooned some of the elders.

“Long may they reign!” 

The noise was overwhelming. Seirazi didn’t know where to look or how to be. With so many eyes on all of them, she wanted to draw into the servant’s wimple around her head and be done with it all, but tradition required the new prince be seen by all. And as his caretaker, she had to be beside him. 

“Cheers to the now and future king!” 

“Baelon! Baelon! Baelon!” went on and on. Streamers and flowers and tears and joy. The power of the prince’s survival stretched further out than the Keep. It consumed all of King's Landing. The effects no longer contained to the birthing chamber where it all would have gone so wrong. “Baelon! Baelon! Baelon!” 

It all bled together to sound like a hungry cacophonous ours ours ours! 

Seirazi tried not to cover her ears. She fussed with petals collecting around the prince. Fixed his outfits. Checked his airways. Aside from being equally startled over the noise, his crying was taken as a sign of incredible vitality. 

Little did they all know. 

“Our prince!” was cheered again, further up ahead, as it was noted that Daemon rode a horse ahead of them all. As if he were leading them to the sept. 

Viserys scoffed as he kept a forward face of benevolence to the people. “Leave it to Daemon to take point on one of my most important victories.” 

“You did tell him to join the entourage,” Rhaenyra pointed out. 

Seirazi was more concerned with the pinched look on Aemma’s face than anything to do with the rogue prince. 

“Not a worry,” Aemma murmured, shifting as Baelon cried louder in her arms. She motioned to Seirazi, and handed the prince off to her. “Would you help him?” 

It was expected of her to take him. Normal—she’d held him more than anyone else thus far. But there was a ceremonial meaning seen in her taking the Prince from the Queen. One she didn’t quite catch until far later. The procession was for the people to witness him, after all. To be the one holding the future of their realm was to hold its power. Seirazi only connected the dots when the hysterical crying and cheering softened and full attention was drawn toward her. The air seemed to tighten. It was terrifying. 

“Aguah,” Baelon hiccuped, bouncing in her arms, before his pinched little tomato face sobered and he looked out toward the smallfolk with lavender eyes. 

Awe overtook anything the people had to say. The smallfolk froze in pure adoration, struck by the passing moment as the cart rolled onward. 

“Glory to the Godswife,” said a lone voice. 

Seirazi turned her head to catch who said it, and caught a woman in a red veil out of the corner of her eye. 

Whipping her head to get a full view, her heartbeat spiked—and spotted only a woman with ginger hair in her place. 

Her eyes must have been playing tricks on her. She had been sure it had been a deeper scarlet.

The Great Sept greeted the procession as it approached its main steps. Much more of the crowd gathered at the edges, kept in check by goldcloaks and guards of the clergy.The outside of the building was made of white marble polished to such perfection it hurt the eye to look at. Around the building were carefully maintained gardens of native and exotic trees and bushes. White marble steps led up to the main entrance. The presence of the the sept's leaded glass domed roof and towers took up the sky, and seven bells began to chime to harken their arrival. It was here at the front steps that they disembarked from their carriage. First the King, then the Queen, the Princess, and then Seirazi, with the prince in her arms. They paused in wait as each bell chimed, and only after the seventh did Viserys acknowledge the crowd, take Aemma’s hand, and then approach the stairs. 

Daemon at that point had handed off his horse and occupied his attention with praising his goldcloaks. But he took the rear as they went inside. 

Seirazi had prepared for all the performance. She trailed behind the Queen as her dutiful baby carrier, going off script only to sooth Baelon when he fussed. The front doors of the sept were grand and impressively tall, and were opened for them by septons. The interior was cavernous and gilded; every inch of the walls made up with impressive sculptive deco, inlaid with gold or painted in the richest of hues. If the purpose of the seven was to preach piety, Seirazi figured the architects had failed in their designs, or purposely forgotten that lecture. As their altar to the gods was a grand display of ostentatious wealth. It stood in stark reminder to all the dirty impoverished faces Seirazi had seen on their way there. 

More members of the royal household were a part of the ceremony, and either trailed behind the king and queen’s party, or stopped outside the sept, depending on their noble status. Aemma’s ladies in waiting took special positions throughout the sept as her closest companions, and Seirazi recognized Otto Hightower and his family waiting on the opposite aisle as a member of the King’s confidants as they walked up the aisle.  

“Hi Alicent,” Rhaenyra mouthed to her friend as they passed. 

Seirazi caught the moment Alicent’s eyes caught on her necklace, her expression pinched, and she mouthed back a nervous and forced, “Hi.”

Then she began to bite her nail. Otto placed a hand on her wrist to get her to stop, and Alicent promptly fell back into position. But not before her brother Gwayne, a head taller than her, and doing a rather poor job of standing on all his broken bones without assistance, took note. 

Every eye that wasn’t on the King and Queen were on Baelon, and so by proxy Seirazi as she carried him toward the end of the aisle. There were representatives from each great house of Westeros, if not a member from the head of household. Out of the corner of her eye she could see the colours for house Baratheon, Tyrell, Tully and Lannister, and on the other aisle were the Starks and Greyjoys—though those were far smaller, and likely had no head of house. The Martells were absent, though that was to be expected as Dorne remained independant and its relations to the Iron throne strain even more in the future when the war in the Stepstones broke out.  House Velaryon was present, with Princess Rhaenys at the helm to welcome her new family. At the front of the crowd was house Arryn, who was the largest in attendance, standing proudly to regal their Queen with love and praise. With them were some vassal houses Seirazi wouldn’t have recognized if she hadn’t studied for the event ahead of time. Houses Hersy, Templeton, Redfort, Grafton and House Royce—whose Lady stood near the end beside the young Lady Arryn. 

“Oh gods,” Daemon’s loudly groaned at the sight of his estranged wife. 

Lady Rhea Royce did a better job at resembling stone than Seirazi did, staring straight ahead where she should be looking, instead of causing any outbursts like her husband. 

“That’s him?” Jeyne Arryn murmured to the woman beside her. 

Rhea’s mouth barely moved, but her voice was clear enough to hear a low, “Unfortunately.” 

It carried far enough to reach Daemon’s ears at least, and he made another loud disgusted noise as he took to the right side of the dias, furthest off from the rest of the party as they took their places for the ceremony. 

“Esteemed and noble guests,” said the High Septon, as he began his address to all those who came to witness the Prince’s baptism, or confirmation, or whatever the modern ceremonial equivalent it was supposed to be. 

Since she couldn’t understand most of what the Septon said, she had to take cues from others on when to dip her head and when to present to prince forward. There was a lot of pontificating from the septons beforehand. They stood in the centre of the building, between all seven massive statues of the gods loomed down, and where the domed ceiling gave way to a circular oculus—an open skylight—which shone down and hit the white-haired heads of the royal family, making them appear to glow with an otherworldly light. 

It was a clever little bit of stagecraft, but the awe it inspired sat all five hundred witnesses in attendance. 

“The Seven watch over and appoint this gathering by smoke, by candle, by fire and by water,” The septon went on. 

Incense was brought out by septas and circled around the room. Candles were lit around the building. Torches lit, and fountains released water from their mouths. A High Septa stepped forward with two jars in hand. One of a thick red-wine paste, and another of clear herbed water. 

“As Thou enters unto life, the soul partakes in sin and virtue. Let this mark the first of both, as we harken Prince Baelon into our convenience…” 

Rhaenyra signalled to her to bring Baelon forward and pass him to both parents, who took each side of him as the Septon dipped one finger on each hand, and smudged his forehead. 

Baelon, expectedly, did not like this very much. And as he began to cry the ceremony went on mostly ignoring him. Which made him cry even more. To the point where the next part of the ceremony could barely be audibly heard over him. 

“He that beliveth and is—” 

“wwWWWWHAHHHHHHHHH!!” 

“Is cleansed,” went on the Septon. “Shall be carried into the arms—” 

“AAAAAUUUWAAAHH!!” 

“Of the mother and preserved,” he said forcefully. “When called on by the stranger!”  

Seirazi had been given very special instruction not to intervene unless absolutely necessary, and let the screaming go on far longer than she would have liked. But When Baelon began to go purple and both Aemma and Viserys gave her helpless, frustrated looks, she stepped in-between them, tucked Baelon’s arms close together and tilted him at an angle and rocked him quiet. The effect was almost instantaneous, either by comfort or routine, and the resounding silence afterward felt almost reverent as everyone held their breath.  

“Shhh, there we go princeling. Not much longer, ” she murmured into Baelon’s little ear. The Prince made a pathetic little kitten whine as she released him, and he twisted his head to watch her file back into place, away from the spotlight. 

The ceremony continued without further interruption. “And so we thank the Father for his vigour, the mother for her fortitude—we thank the maiden and her youth, the warrior for his protection, the smith for the cradle, the crone her guidance, and the stranger in hopes of a long life, and all seven in one god for their rainbow of patronage above our seven kingdoms…” 

As the ceremony wrapped up, Seirazi had an opportunity to look through the crowed once more. Many devout heads were bent in prayer—like the Hightowers, who seemed to know the words of the ceremony almost as well as the High Septon—but others stood in respect without prayer. Likely they were followers of the Old Faith. Seirazi began a game of guessing which belonged to which, and caught the Lord of house Stark’s eye, when the high Septon caught her attention once more. 

“...we thank the honourable household who stood watch over their Queen’s delivery. Her talented Maesters and their healing artes, her noble ladies in wait, clothe, and privy. We thank her caring midwives for whom the Mother would not be without. And,” he said, going off script a moment. “We thank the clever Godswife for her intervention.” 

Gulp . 

Attention zeroed in on Seirazi as Queen Aemma shot her a dazzling smile. 

She felt her face begin to warm as High Septon closed his speech with a round of applause. It rose to a fever-pitch as she realized some of those claps did, in fact, belong to her. Worse more when it dawned that this entire ceremony would have been for nothing if she hadn’t intervened. And many of them knew that . 

She didn’t know how many. But it was more than zero. And now that the High Septon had given her a shoutout, there was no doubt word would travel. 

“And now I ask thee parents for seclusion,” said the High Septon. 

This was the part Seirazi had to let them take Baelon out of sight, where he, Viserys and Aemma would go to the Rainbow Pool for further baptism ceremony. Seirazi didn’t know the full details due to not being a part of the faith, other than the fact there’d be water, and she’d probably need to dry and warm Baelon up after. Worst case scenario he’d catch a cold, which she had also prepared for with tea and herbal tonics. 

Still, it was her duty to stand outside the door where the Septon took the family, and wait until it was done. 

“Rhaenyra,” Viserys said, looking over his shoulder as the Septon bid him inside the chamber to the Rainbow pool. “You may wait here with your uncle or visit with the guests.” 

“Daemon’s already gone.”

“He what? For fucks—I’m so sorry high Septon—” Viserys blew out a breath and looked around the main chamber, which was missing a rogue head of silver hair. “Would you make sure he doesn't do anything? Actually—” Because he realized how terrible of an idea it was sending Rhaenyra off alone to find her uncle. He looked at Seirazi. “ Go with her .” 

She went entirely still. 

The Princess shot him a dubious look. “You’re sure about that?” 

The septon ushered him in again as Aemma and Baelon waited for him, and Viserys weighed the odds. Daemon alone in their holiest of buildings of Westeros, or Daemon alone with two girls with wildly varying antagonistic relationships with him. Viserys chose the latter. 

“Take a guard.” 

“My whitecloak retired,” she pouted. 

Viserys threw up his hands and went into the next room. “Then figure something else out!” 

Seirazi shared a look with the Princess, before Rhaenyra rolled her eyes. 

“ I’m sure he couldn’t have gotten far, ” she said in high Valyrian. Adding with much humour. “ The gods are watching after all . I’m pretty sure I saw him sneak out of the Great Sept toward the south hall… ” 

Still though, as the princess began to move Seirazi remained torn by the rainbow door. 

“ You needn’t leave your post. I can find him on my own ,” Rhaenyra assured. Though as she turned to leave the image of the princess alone with her uncle made her even less comforted than before. 

So busy was the chamber though that Seirazi lost her before she had a chance to get her to wait. Shouting for the princess was probably the worst thing she could do in a crowd of nobles, in their holiest of sanctums, and while Seirazi had a level of disdain for class decorum, she did want to respect their religious etiquette, which left her with few options. 

Otto Hightower was a head above most men in the crowd, and was in the midst of entertaining the House Tyrell and Arryn delegations when Seirazi slid up to him. 

“Great pardoning,” she said forcefully, the westerosi awkward on her tongue. Seirazi dipped a very low curtsy at the sight of Lady Jeyne Arryn and Lord Matthos Tyrell with his pregnant wife. 

Seirazi noted the swelling in Lady Tyrell’s wrists as she rose from her curtsy, and for a moment desperately wanted to speak to her about her fluid retention, but another disaster in the making took priority. 

“Daemon Targaryen,” she said pointedly to the Hand, who stiffened at the name and glanced around the room, noting him missing. Seirazi made a walking away motion with her hand. “‘Se Princess Rhaenyra seeing him. Alone.” 

“Right.” Otto’s eyebrows rose exponentially on his forehead. He glanced around him, seeking his guards and assistants. “That is—I thank you—Lord and Lady Tyrell Lord Arryn—” 

“It appears you have much on your plate, Lord Hand,” Jeyne Arryn said in dry amusement. She couldn’t have been much older than Rhaenyra, dressed in the traditional colours of her house. 

Alicent Hightower appeared by her father’s side, shot him a pensive look, having heard everything. “Father, might I go fetch her?” 

Everyone spoke too fast in Westeros. Seirazi looked Alicent in the eye and told her, “South way hall.” 

Alicent looked back at her with wide big brown eyes and gave her a curtsy. “Thank you milady Godswife.” 

Heat flushed Seirazi’s face. Completely unused to gestures of respect. 

“I believe I spotted him talking a walk with his good lady wife,” Lady Arryn cut in. Her expression a mix of worry and interest. 

Seirazi blinked at her. Perhaps a conversation with his wife would be a good thing—if she didn’t already know that he planned on murdering her in a few years time. 

“I’ll send for the Kingsguard,” said Otto. He motioned to his daughter. “You may go after her first. And you—” He glanced at Gwayne, who stood beside Alicent, and who probably should also be sent to protect his sister. “Remain here.” 

Seirazi saw the conflict writ on Gwayne’s face. 

“Father, would it not be wise—” He began to protest. 

“I shall handle the rest,” said the Hand. With one pointed look, Gwayne shut his mouth and took a pained step back into irrelevancy, watching his sister run toward trouble. “My Lords and Ladies, I thank you for our discussion, it has been most diverting.” 

Right, well, there. Mission accomplished. 

Seirazi watched Otto take control of the situation and begin his Daemon manhunt, and now she could return to the rainbow door to look after Baelon once he was done taking a swim. She made a move to leave herself, before she remembered social decorum required her to say goodbye to the people she interrupted as well. 

“Great pardonings,” she murmured, dipping low. Hoping that would be the end of it. 

Jeyne Arryn seemed to find great pleasure in her accent for some reason. Dipping to match her curtsy. “Quite the honour to meet the one responsible for our Kingdom’s jubilation, is it not, Lady Castellen?” 

“Very much so,” said Lady Tyrell, dipping as well, though her pregnancy kept her from moving much. 

Seirazi so very much wanted to talk to her. But Baelon surviving and keeping the kingdom from plunging into chaos was her main priority.

“If thou should’st remain,” she said, struggling with the proper words. “It would…make happy. To erm—” Fucking hell, this was why she’s been born a peasant instead of a noble. Seirazi was terrible at this. “Speak ‘se female… matters. If you like.” 

Lady Castellen blinked in confusion. “I beg your pardon?” 

But Lady Jeyne was a step ahead of her. Apparently having gone to the right school of translating bullshit. “I do believe you’ve been asked to privately confer with the royal family’s own Godswife. If you would be so interested.” 

“Yes.” Seirazi hoped she understood correctly. “That.” 

“Quite the generous offer. My lady wife and I will happily discuss it,” Lord Tyrell said. He was a much older fellow, with bright red apple cheeks, and smile lines around his eyes. 

They exchanged a few more words but Seirazi was eager to return to her post. Curtsying again, she went to go back to her door. 

“You— sit ,” she said sharply to Hand’s son as he stood painfully, searching after Alicent and Otto. 

Gwayne’s face colored at the sharp command. And at least with that she got his attention away from moving. “I beg your great pardon?” 

She meant to say: ‘ Please relax, seeing you stand on a broken leg looks painful .’ 

Instead, she said: “Your plague upsets mine eye.” 

Which was definitely not what she meant to say, but it had Gwayne sat. Fuming, scarlet faced for being called out in front of other nobles. Seirazi didn’t realize the position it put him in as she returned to her post, feeling quite satisfied with herself for all her great intervention. Not only was she the reason for this great party, Baelon and Aemma were alive, thriving, and Daemon was being hunted without her having to deal with him face to face. Things were really looking up. 

Then, of course Viserys burst open the door and called on her. 

“ Godswife—I need you! ” 

The sound of Baelon screaming bloody murder rang out from the rainbow pool, making every head turn. Viserys didn’t need to elaborate, but he did so anyway. 

“ Aemma has taken ill, ” he said lowly into her ear. 

Which was just great, honestly. Just what this party needed. 

Then Daemon came charging back into the great sept, dragging a fuming Rhea Royce behind him, shouting over everyone’s head.  

“Viserys I want a divorce!” 

Scratch that. Now the party had everything.