You stir in your seat for the fourth time, trying to get into a more comfortable position. Your belly is heavy and low since the baby dropped. So now your positions are limited—it’s either the left side, or the right side. 

Zuko glances over his shoulder at you, for the tenth time, physically bothered and uptight by the fact that you’re not comfortable. He wants nothing to do with the throne he currently sits on. You give him a tired, reassuring smile and shift your hips a little. Zuko sighs quietly, nostrils flaring as he looks directly into the Chamberlain's eyes. 

“Chamberlain.” Zuko interrupts the older man, a displeased look on his face. “Do you have anything urgent to address?” 

“Oh—well, no, Fire Lord Zuko.” He bows quickly.

“Dismissed.” Zuko affirms, being the first to stand and leave. 

He comes straight to you, helping you up out of your own overly padded ‘throne’, one hand under your elbow and the other on your hip. 

“Up we go.” Zuko waits for you to find your balance, supporting you, his hand shifting from your hip to your belly. “He’s low.” 

“How do you know he’s low? What if she’s low?” You reply, out of breath, feeling the pressure bud between your legs the longer you stand. You were hoping you wouldn’t have to waddle out of here in front of so many people. Zuko smiles, but it fades when he sees your face sour with discomfort. 

“Where does it hurt?” He asks, guiding you out of the throne room. “Take your time.” 

“My back.” You wince. Actually, your entire body aches. But you do your best not to show it. 

“A warm bath, shall we?” Zuko suggests and you nod. 

He mutters something like, ‘careful’, as he shifts and supports you down the stairs and into your living quarters. 

“The avatar arrives in less than an hour.” Zuko regretfully informs you as he draws you a full bath. “We have a meeting.” 

“Zuko…” You moan and lower yourself at a painfully slow rate onto the wooden chair in the bath room. You exhale slowly through pursed lips, a hand cradling underneath your bump. “I…I don’t think—I’m sorry, I can’t.” 

Zuko abandons the filling tub and comes over to help slip your robe off you, a remorseful expression tightening his face. The moment your belly is exposed, his hands find it, caressing and feeling, his lips pressing into the crown of your head. He pulls back and lowers himself level to you, gently hooking his arms under yours. 

“I know.” He mutters in a defeated way. He’s painfully aware that it’s unreasonable to expect you to accompany him everywhere he goes. Not when you’re so close to having the baby. “Come. It’s ready, darling.” 

Zuko carefully tugs you up and you allow his strength to do all the work. You follow his movement, throwing your leg over the tub to get inside. He quickly turns off the pipe. The water is so warm and you can’t help the noise that bubbles up your throat when he lowers the rest of your body in. Immediately all that weight, the pressure, the aches, they’re all relieved from the water. 

“Yeah? It’s that good?” Zuko chuckles softly, his eyes flicking down to your swollen breasts floating at the water's surface. 

His jaw clenches and his eyes trail further down. Just underneath them lays your belly, as big and as round as ever. He's done this to you. Zuko feels pride bloom in his chest. If you’d allow it, he’d keep you pregnant and full with his heir each year that passes. 

Perhaps he will. 

“A little hotter, please.” You growl the last word, spreading your legs wide enough for the pressure to release from your pelvis. Oh, that position does something to Zuko. His cheeks tinge pink and he has a hard time looking away as you spread. 

“Mhh—” He clears his throat and sits up straight, tugging his sleeves up his forearms. His hands dip into the bath, swirling in circular motions as the water heats up around you. You moan a sigh of relief. “It’s not good for you to have it any hotter than this, love.” 

“It’s good. This is good.” You whisper as you lean back, resting your head against the pillow on the side of the basin. Your protruding belly button breaks the water's surface, along with your dark, puckered nipples. 

Baths are becoming more frequent. They’re the only thing, aside from Zuko’s hands themselves, that are able to relieve some of these aches and pains. 

Zuko reaches for the cloth and begins at your shoulders, wiping you down with the warm water. He wipes the back of your neck, dipping the cloth back into the water when it’s gotten too cold. 

“Think he’s coming soon, Zuko.” You mumble mindlessly, focus on that little bit of pressure that never fades. The kind that makes you want to settle into a squat and stay there.  

“Yeah? He is?” Zuko responds with a similar tone, but then his expression shifts to something less calm. His eyes check you over, narrowing as they graze over your belly that hangs heavily between your legs. “Darling,” His tone hardens, “…how soon?”

“Don’t know.” You mutter, eyes closed, enjoying the feeling of him dragging the cloth across your chest. “Feels like—her—head is right there.”

Zuko’s jaw tightens. How can he leave you now that you’ve said that? 

“I’ll reschedule the meeting.” 

“No, no.” It takes too much energy to say that, but you think he’s just being silly at this point. “It’s the avatar, Zuko.” 

Zuko only laughs. The times that Aang has requested his presence or ‘help’ just for it to be a side quest or some air temple adventure—this is likely no different. 

“He’ll survive without me.” Zuko says, shifting behind you now, dragging the cloth down your arms. He feels the water, and reheats it slightly, keeping it at the temperature you like best. 

“Go, Zu. I’m going to be fine. I’ll probably be back in here when you’re finished.” 

“And who will help you with that?” Zuko asks in all seriousness, as if attendees didn’t garnish this palace like jewels on a crown. 

“Anyone.” You mumble, getting comfortable enough to doze off now. 

“I don’t want just ‘anyone’ to undress you and put you in this bath, darling.” Zuko speaks under his breath, his tone sharp and controlled. His voice lowers to a hushed whisper, and his soft lips press into the shell of your ear. “That sight…is only for me to see.” 

Your body breaks out into a shiver. You didn’t consider it like that. 

“Yes, Fire Lord Zuko.” You smile dopily, letting your eyes close all the way. “I expect you will be delivering the baby then.” 

There’s a pause, and silence. Zuko tenses behind you, the cloth stopping just on the back of your elbow. Then he answers sternly. “If I must, yes.” 

You keep your eyes closed, but give him a smile anyways. “Understood, Fire Lord.” 

“You make it sound like a joke.” He exhales harshly, dipping the cloth underwater now, wiping it gently between your breasts. “It isn’t.” 

“Mm—I know, but you act as if I’ll vanish if you leave me for an hour.” You say with as little effort you can, you’re tired. 

You feel his warm hands make their way over your tight nipples, and you moan softly. 

“And if you do?” Zuko asks through a clenched jaw. 

“You won’t lose me in an hour, Zuko.” You try to force as much finality into your voice, but your exhaustion settles deep in your bones. If you have to come out of this bath now, you’ll surely burst into tears. 

“Logically…but—” Zuko doesn’t finish his sentence. His hand drags further down, and your belly hardens against the cloth. He looks up at you expectantly, just to witness your face tighten with discomfort. “You’re in pain all the time now.” 

“It comes,” Your voice strains, and you breathe slowly through your mouth, feeling your body finally relax. “And goes.” 

“That doesn’t make me any less…any less—”

“Any less, what?” You peek at him, and see his expression bounce between restraint and panic. 

“Any less worried.” Zuko says, irritated with his own  inability to find the words to explain his feelings. “It kills me…that I cannot make this better.”

“My Zuko…” You begin, turning your head to look at him properly. He looks tense. Like he has the world and more resting on top of him. “I don’t need you to make it better, I just need you here.”

“I am here.” He says. But being here didn’t feel like enough. 

“Exactly.” You let your eyes slip shut, and as the word hangs in the air, he moves down to your thighs with the cloth. “Go meet with the avatar, Zuko.”

“I don’t want to leave you.” 

“And I don’t want to leave this bath.” 

Zuko almost chuckles, though it sounds more like a scoff.  He wrings out the cloth and hangs it on the edge of the basin. “I will go to the meeting.”

“Mm.” You hum lightly, already half drifting off somewhere else.

“But I’ll be back immediately after.” He states earnestly, his mouth partially open like he’s not quite finished talking. “And if anything changes…anything, y/n. Send for me.” 

“I’m in a bath, Zuko.” Your lips curl in your last attempt to reassure him. 

“I don’t care.” He insists, showing you exactly how serious he is. 

“Right. I will summon the Fire Lord from his meeting with the Avatar if my water gets too cold.” Now your smile is beaming, and you peek up at him again. 

He is, too, smiling softly, that sweet smile. “Good. And don’t stay here too long. Actually, it’s better if I stay until you're ready—”

“No, go. I can get out of the bath on my own, Zu. Okay?” 

Zuko leans in and presses his forehead against your temple. After a few long moments, he reluctantly pulls away. “Okay. I’ll be right back.”

Eventually, Zuko leaves after returning many times. Each time he’d get a little farther, he’d turn back. Say his goodbyes again, give you another kiss on the head. Rub your belly and tell his unborn wa that he’ll be back soon. 

By the time he walked through the doors of the throne room, Aang and Katara were already seated and waiting for his arrival. As Zuko walks in, all of the attendees and servants stand and bow. He walks past them, shoulders square and head straight, ready to end the meeting before it even starts. As Zuko approaches the long, narrow table, Aang rises to his feet and turns to Katara. Zuko immediately recognizes the movement, the way he hunches forward to provide his body as leverage, the positioning of his arms—the patience. 

So when he sees Katara clutching onto Aang for support with one hand, and the other under the swell of her stomach, Zuko intervenes. 

“Avatar Aang.” Zuko greets his long-time friend with a firm squeeze of his shoulder. 

“Fire Lord Zuko.” Aang addresses him properly as he helps Katara out of her seat. “Please, sit.” Zuko insists, resting his hand on Aang’s wrist to stop him. Katara sits back down with a warm smile, her small bump nestled high under her ribcage. Zuko notes that she doesn’t seem any further than six months. 

“Katara. You look well.” Zuko says respectfully. Has that much time really passed since he last saw them? 

Katara smiles, but the exhaustion is evident in the slight discoloration under her eyes. “Thank you, Zuko.” 

“Zuko.” Aang’s tone turns grave, and Zuko picks up on it right away. This isn’t going to be one of his fun adventures or side quests, he can sense that much in the pit of his already uneasy stomach. 

Zuko finally takes his seat, his eyes glancing over Katara’s bump, and then to the doors before landing back on Aang. He’s distracted. And it’s clear as day. 

“This must be very important for the both of you to make the journey here. Please, let’s begin.” 

But before the first document is presented, Zuko is already elsewhere mentally. His mind runs on you, how you’re probably—finally—struggling to step out of that bath on your own.

What if you slip? 

Or how you’re probably clutching your back as you shuffle into bed with your hair wet. 

What if you get sick? 

All of his intrusive thoughts drive him further away from where he is. It’s Aang’s voice, which seems to fade in and out as he outlines each concern, that forces Zuko out of his thoughts. 

Hours pass like days, and Zuko is more tormented than ever. Every point piles on top of him, like one boulder after the next—the weight of the world weighing heavier on his shoulders. 

And the cherry on top is you. 

—

You’re still in the bath, but the water's gone cold. And despite your promise, you refuse to call the Fire Lord to come reheat it. You know this meeting is of great importance, and your duty as Fire Lady in this moment is to ensure it goes uninterrupted. 

But you didn’t expect it to last for hours.

Another wave of fire floods your lower back and you grit your teeth and breathe through it. Your fingers clutch onto the edge of the tub as your knees settle into the floor of the basin. The pressure worsens each time your back flares up. 

The pains huddle closer together, less space and breaks between them. You get to the point where you start rocking side to side, contorting your body as best you can into whatever position that provides a bit of relief. 

But relief never comes. 

You glance over at the window—the sun is setting and the sky is a beautiful blood orange. Interrupting a diplomatic meeting to complain about back pain won’t be your proudest moment. But now that you’re trying to get out of the tub and can’t, it’s something you’re going to have to do. 

Because this might not be just back pain. 

“Guard!” You whimper out, voice shaky but strong. Metal footsteps hastily clink towards you and stop just outside of the door. 

“Fire Lady—”

“Get my husband! Oh—get Zuko, now!” 

“Yes, Fire Lady.”

—

Aang finally introduces the final point—the resistance of some of the fire nation colonies, and how that’s been a significant threat lately to the balance of things. Zuko just nods and glances over at the door once again. 

“…if we don’t approach this correctly, it could turn into a war that neither of us want…you do understand that?” Aang follows Zuko’s gaze to the door, “Zuko?” 

“Yes. I understand and I agree. We will need to approach it strategically.” Zuko begins, growing more tense as that feeling inside him starts ringing like a siren. “I apologize. My mind is in two places at once, today.” 

“If I have to be honest, Zuko. You look like you want to bolt out of your chair.” Katara jests carefully. 

Zuko looks away from the door, right at Aang and Katara. He didn’t think it was that obvious. He never wanted to come off as uninterested. He swallows quickly, huffing a sigh. 

“My wife is due any day.” Zuko admits, fixing his slightly curved posture. “She was very…uncomfortable when I left her.” 

Katara’s expression softens, and Aang goes rigid. 

“We understand.” Katara says as she looks over at Aang. 

Suddenly, the doors burst open, and a young, breathless attendee stumbles in and onto the carpeted floor. He scrambles to his feet and bows as low as he can. 

“Fire Lord Zuko, I—I apologize.” The attendee heaves in a grating breath, and Zuko’s body primes to act, to do, to run. “Th-the Fire Lady—,” He gasps loudly and Zuko immediately stands, his chair screeching behind him, his hands gripping the corners of the table. 

“Speak!” Zuko commands.

“The Fire Lady requests your presence at once!” 

Zuko is already moving around the table, his voice thick with worry, “What happened?” 

“The Fire Lady said only to fetch you, Lord Zuko.” 

“My apologies.” Zuko huffs as he hastily passes Aang and Katara. 

“Go. We’ll stay here.” Aang projects his voice. Katara’s hand instinctively hovers over her spirit water pouch, like she wants to follow and help. 

— —

When Zuko bursts through the door to your living quarters he doesn’t see you in the bed with damp hair like he imagined. His heart slams into his ribcage, and he immediately rushes into the bath room. 

There he finds you perched on the edge of the tub, curved back heaving from heavy, uneven breaths, belly hanging tight underneath. It looks bad, worse than usual, actually. Your face is hidden in your crossed arms, and your hips wade side to side half submerged in the water. 

Zuko shouts your name, closing the distance between you in a few strides, adrenaline high. You raise your head from your arms, revealing a face screwed with pain, and Zuko sinks to a crouch in front of you. His fingers comb away your sweaty hair from your face. 

“You’re back in the bath, my love.” Zuko says it like a question as his eyes search yours, slightly confused and mostly concerned. His hand leaves your face, shaking slightly as it dips into the water. His pupils blow when the horrifying realization hits him the second the water registers as cold—

“This is the same bath I left you in.” Zuko’s voice shakes with restraint. 

He quickly strips himself of his robes and enters the tub behind you, water sloshing out the sides and onto the floor. Anger bubbles inside him, anger directed towards himself. 

“You’ve been in here for hours.” He growls. 

“Zuko…” You sob weakly as heat floods your pelvis in the most excruciating way, and the pressure makes your legs spread further.

“Okay, breathe. Breathe.” Zuko coos as he heats the water with his body as fast as he can without hurting you. “Talk to me darling, is it your back?” 

You nod your head desperately, and a deep, lengthy groan erupts from your throat. The sound of it makes Zuko grit his teeth. His hands move quickly to your back, pressing firmly against it, his thumbs massaging deep into the tissue. 

“You should have sent for me sooner.” He grinds out a tight jaw, careful and deliberate with his every movement. “How long has it been like this?” 

You shake your head, unable to speak during. Zuko waits patiently, massaging your back as he continues to heat the water. His eyes scan you like he’s trying to figure out what is about to happen next. These didn’t seem like the usual back pains you’ve been getting lately.   

“F-Few hours…haah, my back—oh, there’s pressure,” you cry softly the second it’s over, and Zuko embraces you from behind, pulling you gently into his chest. You allow your head to fall back onto his shoulder as you reestablish your breath. “I—I can’t get out…” 

The thought of you here, trapped and cold, makes his stomach twist. His hands instinctively slide over your belly, yearning to connect, fingers pressing softly as he checks the position of the baby. Much lower. 

“I’m here. Does the pain come and go?” 

Your eyes slam shut, and your breath catches in your throat. The pain is back, and the pressure is at an all time high. You begin groaning again, even louder this time. Zuko supports you in the water, his body hot against your back. But not even that helps you. Zuko’s fingers splay across your stomach as it pulls closer to you—tightening up. 

“Oh.” Zuko breathes, looking down into the warped water to see your stomach seized in a way he’s never seen before. “These are contractions.” 

And it hasn’t been long between this one and the last one.

How close are you exactly? 

“Wha—aah!” You’re cut off by the pressure morphing into something else entirely. You grab his forearm, using everything in you to hoist yourself up. “Zuko…I need the toilet!”

Zuko’s heart leaps into his throat and he tries to swallow it down. He’s only able to say your name before he finds himself holding you up, bringing you both to a standing position. 

Once the cold air hits your thighs, gravity comes into play and the pain concentrates in your pelvis now. The tightening crests, leaving you shaking as you slump back into Zuko entirely. 

“I’ve got you.” He says through a ragged breath, securing you properly in his hold. “Breathe darling, I have you.” 

Your body jolts against him and there’s a popping sensation inside your pelvis. Once cold thighs flood with warmth, and then there’s the distinct sound of water hitting water. Zuko looks down in awe, and so do you. 

“My water…My water broke.” You whisper shakily, that feeling intensifying by the second. 

“Yes.” Zuko breathes hard, his hand quickly slipping between your thighs. The world stops spinning when his fingertips catch something soft, yet firm. Instinct drives his hand, tugging your leg to the side as he maneuvers and looks, really looks. And what he sees makes his eyes bulge, confirming what he thought he felt.

A tuft of dark hair, just barely emerging. 

“Y/n. Thats—” He whispers breathlessly, staring wonderstruck, “That’s our baby, darling.” 

“Ohh—Zuko! Zuko! It hurts!” A scream erupts from you, and you give in to this feeling of push. 

Zuko acts quickly, lowering you back into the bath. You find yourself settling into a deep squat. Meanwhile, Zuko doesn’t have time to think, to call for the palace physician or even Katara—he only has time to act. He kneels behind you, hands instinctively moving into position between your legs. 

With a growl, your body bears down and you topple forward, gripping on to the edge of the basin. Zuko steadies you with one hand, keeping the other ready under the water. He watches as your body shakes and strains with effort, your finger tips white around the basin. 

“That’s it.” His voice is rough but raw with emotion, his baby’s head emerging a little further. Zuko feels as you stretch, his mouth agape at the sheer power you’re exhibiting. “Our baby’s coming, y/n. You’re so strong.” 

The contraction fades, leaving you utterly wrecked and your breath hitching repeatedly. Mere seconds pass before the next wave crashes over you, sucking you back into the blinding pain.

“I can’t do this.” You barely whimper before your body pushes again. You make a noise you didn’t know you were capable of making, something primal and sacred. 

“But you are.” Zuko murmurs, overcome with emotion. He feels the baby’s head transcend further, and your thighs begin to shake tremendously. “Darling, you’re doing it.” 

“It burns!” You yelp, trying to shift away from the blossoming fire. 

“I…I know.” Zuko grimaces, his instinct screaming protect. But this isn’t something he can protect you from. “Pant for me, baby. Small pushes.” 

You shake your head as you pant loudly and quickly, tears streaming down your red cheeks. 

“That’s good, I feel them.” Zuko’s voice cracks, eyes swelling. “They’re coming.”

With a guttural grunt you feel a sudden release, and Zuko gasps loudly behind you. “The head…the head is out, y/n.” 

Shock sputters from you in short gasps, and you reach into the water to feel the baby’s head. It’s the softest thing you’ve ever felt in your entire life— soft fuzzy hair, stuck to their skull. You burst into tears, snotty, sobbing sounds ripping from your chest. 

Zuko leans in to sprinkle haphazard kisses on your temple and cheek, and then he quickly settles back and readjusts how he supports the baby’s head. 

“One more push, darling. Please.” Zuko pants, and immediately you’re shaking your head. You want this baby out more than anything, but the thought of continuing is absolutely terrifying. 

It’s too much. 

“It’s almost over. And then we’ll have our baby, okay? Breathe.” Zuko quickly and carefully slides his finger around the baby’s neck, automatically checking for the cord. Relief flashes across his face when he finds nothing there—everything is going the way it should.

A low groan rumbles from you, and Zuko is already bracing himself, readying himself to catch. His stomach lurches when your groan ramps up to a bloodcurdling scream, and your body curves from strain. 

“That’s…that’s perfect…” Zuko mutters when he feels the head turn and drop further into his hands, and he begins guiding the shoulders free. “Push, push.” Zuko encourages you, and you do, helpless against the force of it.  

You push with everything you have left. 

In the next second, you feel a rush that's impossible to comprehend and the baby slips right into Zuko’s hands. You gasp hard for air and your body trembles violently from depletion. 

“Oh.” Zuko sucks in a broken, sharp breath, mesmerized by how tiny and delicate they feel in his hands. 

Zuko moves fast, purely off instinct, one hand firmly supporting and guiding the baby forward, through your shaking thighs, bringing them up against your chest. His other arm curls tightly around your middle, carefully pulling your exhausted body back against him before you can slump too far forward.

“Oh, Zuko.” The words break apart when you look down to see your baby’s scrunched, slightly blue face. Still. Not breathing. Horror blooms inside you and you panic. “Zuko?…Zuko!” 

“I know, come on.” Zuko whispers roughly, his hand rubbing the baby’s back vigorously. “Let us hear you, come on.” 

After a second that feels like an eternity, a wail pierces the air. Tiny, but strong. So strong. And loud. 

You sob as your body sags in relief and exhaustion, and Zuko lets out a breathy laugh before his own tears burst free like a dam. 

The baby slowly flushes to a healthy pink, and their bottom lip trembles. Zuko continues to rub her back, soaking in each moment like a sponge. And that’s when he notices.  

“There it is. She’s okay. She’s perfect. Strong like her mother.” Zuko huffs, turning his attention down at you against his chest. 

“She?” You barely whisper, smiling weakly. “She’s okay. She’s okay.” Each word comes out a little softer, a little more slurred. 

He analyzes every line in your expression, every bead of sweat budding from your forehead. You look exhausted. You had just given everything to bring his child into the world, and it was his honor to witness it. 

“You just…you did it, y/n.” Zuko watches as your eyes unfocus, and his chest tightens. “Hey. Stay with me.” 

Zuko’s distant voice echoes in your head, and you concentrate to look at him. The pain is constant, an aching throb that stings hotter than venom. 

“Tired…hurts.” You manage to mutter, glancing down at your baby squirming on your chest. 

“I know, baby.” Zuko whispers, desperately comforting himself with the reminder that the best healer in the water tribe is sitting in his palace now. “You’re okay—Guard!” Zuko shouts the last word, looking over at the door of the bath room. 

Hurried footsteps approach and stop just outside of the door. “Fire lord Zuko.” 

“Get the physician! Bring Katara!” Zuko gives the order and returns his attention to you. 

“At once, Fire Lord.” 

Zuko sees your eyes flutter, and jostles you to keep you awake. “Stay awake, darling.”  

You move against his chest, heavy eyes flicking down at the baby cooing against your chest. “Zuko. You…did it. Like you said.” 

Relief pulses through Zuko when it registers, you’re speaking of what he said earlier. That he’d deliver the baby if he needed to. He smiles down at you, adjusting the hold he has around his entire world. “Yes, my Fire Lady. As promised.”

A slow tightening breaks your concentration, and you find yourself seizing up against him. A soft groan rumbles from you, and your eyes squeeze shut. 

A contraction?

“What is it?” Zuko asks, panicked. 

“The afterbirth.”

Katara appears breathless in the doorway, one hand braced against the frame and the other resting beneath the swell of her stomach. Aang lingers quietly behind her, relief relaxing his face.

“You’re okay, you did so well,” Katara reassures gently, already moving closer. Her eyes flick briefly to the baby and soften. “She’s beautiful. Just a little more, okay? Then you’re all done.”

The physician follows quickly behind, bowing once before moving to assist. Everything overlaps into one big blur around you.

Katara’s calm voice. Zuko’s hand never leaving you. The tiny warmth of your daughter, squirming against your chest. The physician’s quiet reassurance that she is healthy—her congratulations. But everything feels distant.

Distant but safe.

You focus on Zuko’s touch, and the babe that he’s now fully supporting against your bare chest as your arms fall limp either side of you.

“It was a good thing you were here,” Aang says quietly from the doorway.

Zuko barely hears him, because his attention never leaves you. Nor the tiny babygirl tucked safely against you.

“Yes,” Zuko says softly, brushing sweaty strands from your forehead.

“I’m always here.”

Valarr stood uselessly in the hallway at first, palms pressed flat against the wood as if he could feel you through it. The sounds from within were not like battle cries, nor courtly laughter, nor the weeping of petitioners. They were something rawer. Something that tore through him in slow, merciless strips.

“Your Grace,” A maester had said gently earlier that evening, “it is common for a first birth to be long.”

Long.

Valarr had fought in tourneys, he had ridden through storms and stood in council beside kings. He had believed himself patient.

But time was a cruelty he had never known until that night.

He pushed through the door at last, his feet feeling like lead.

You lay on the great bed, sheets tangled around your thighs, dark hair plastered to your damp temples. Candlelight trembled across your skin. You had always glowed in sunlight, golden, warm, the sort of beauty that made bards forget their rhymes. Now the light flickered uncertainly, as if unsure whether to stay lit.

Your eyes found him immediately, for how could you not instantly recognize your beloved.

There it was. That small, familiar smile, the one you reserved for him alone. It was faint, but it was there.

“Valarr,” you breathed.

He crossed the room in three strides and fell to his knees at your side. His hand wrapped around yours, careful and reverent. You squeezed back with as much strength as you could muster.

“I am here,” he said, voice cracking on the final word.

He had not wept when a many of his relatives died, he had not wept when his cousin fell in the lists, but his throat burned now, thick and unsteady.

Another wave seized you. Your body bowed against it. A cry tore from you that made him flinch as if struck.

He would have traded anything in that moment. His claim, his titles, the dragon banners. He would have thrown the Iron Throne itself into the sea if it meant you would not suffer any longer.

When the pain passed, you looked at him again, dazed and breathless.

“Do you remember,” you whispered, “the orchard at Summerhall?”

The question startled him. He let out a broken laugh. “Of course I do.”

It had been the first place you had kissed him. Apples half-ripe on the trees, bees lazy in the heat. You had scolded him for climbing too high, though he had been a prince and you only the daughter of a sworn lord. You had always scolded him when he acted foolish.

He leaned forward until his forehead rested against yours.

“You told me,” he murmured, “that love was not a lot of things.”

Your lips twitched.

“Not a crown,” you breathed. “Not a kingdom.”

Another contraction seized you before you could finish. Your grip on his hand tightened painfully.

The maester’s voice rose, the midwives moved in urgently, their skirts flowing. Valarr was gently pulled aside, but he refused to leave entirely. He stood at the edge of the bed, watching as if through a pane of glass, powerless.

Hours bled together, and your screams grew hoarse. Your strength slowly fading.

At some point, the maester’s expression changed. Valarr saw it. He recognized that look, the quiet gaze of loss.

He stepped forward sharply. “What is it?”

The maester hesitated. “The babe is large, Your Grace. And the princess-”

“Say it,” Valarr demanded.

“She weakens.”

The room seemed to tilt, and not in his favour.

You were drifting now, your voice thinner, your skin pale beneath the candlelight. When Valarr returned to your side, your gaze struggled to focus before settling on him again.

“Valarr,” you whispered, barely audible.

“I am here.”

“I am not afraid.”

The words struck him harder than any sword.

“Do not speak so,” he said fiercely. “You will live. We will-”

“Listen,” you interrupted, with a surprising thread of authority. You had always possessed that. Even when you were a girl with grass stains on your hem and laughter too loud for court.

You raised your trembling hand to his face. “He will be great, he must be,” you said softly, “please Valarr, you must take care of our boy.”

He did not understand at first, how you knew it was a boy was beyond his comprehension.

You said plenty of funny things. Sometimes they made sense, others not.

He recalled a memory.

It had been a jest once, something you had said in the orchard when he promised to love you until the end of days.

Not a lot, you had teased. Just forever.

He pressed his lips to your palm, desperate.

The maester gave a quiet command. The midwives shifted you.

And then a cry.

A son.

For one suspended heartbeat, the world was nothing but that sound.

The babe was lifted, red-faced and wailing. Valarr’s eyes snapped toward him instinctively, and then back to you.

You were too still.

“Maester,” Valarr said, voice low with warning.

The cloaked man did not answer immediately, his hands were busy. Too busy.

“Maester,” Valarr repeated, louder.

There was blood, so much blood. Your blood.

Valarr had seen men disemboweled. He had seen fields painted red after skirmishes. But this, this was wrong. This was sacred and terrible all at once.

“Stay with me,” he pleaded, kneeling again. “Stay.”

Your eyes fluttered open once more. They were unfocused now, blurry.

“Is he…?” you breathed.

“A son,” Valarr choked. “Strong. Loud as a dragon.”

A faint smile ghosted across your lips.

“Good,” you whispered.

Your hand twitched in his. He clutched it tighter, as if he could anchor you to the world by force.

“I love you,” he said. It came out raw, unguarded. A boy’s confession, not a prince’s declaration.

You exhaled slowly.

“Forever,” you murmured.

And then-

Nothing.

The candles burned on.

The babe cried again, indignant at the cold air.

Valarr did not move.

He remained kneeling beside you long after the maester’s hands had stilled. Long after the midwives had wrapped your body in white linen.

Someone placed the child in his arms.

He took him automatically, as one accepts a blade or a burden.

The boy was small and furious and impossibly warm.

And he looked exactly like you.

The same pattern of his hair already curling damply against his scalp. The same stubborn line of brow. Even the shape of his mouth, the hint of that familiar smile that had undone Valarr from the beginning.

Valarr let out a sound that was half-laugh, half-sob.

“You could not even leave me without haunting me,” he whispered.

The child quieted slightly, blinking up at him with unfocused eyes. Valarr pressed his forehead to the infant’s, trembling as he did.

“Aelor, your name.” he said hoarsely. “For the strength you stole from her.”

—

He did not sleep that night.

He sat beside your still form until dawn bled pink through the windows. The babe rested against his chest, tiny fist curled in the fabric of his tunic.

When the sun rose fully, Valarr stood.

The court would need to be told, his father. The king. The realm.

But for a moment longer, he allowed himself to be only a husband.

He brushed a lock of hair from your face.

“You had said not a lot,” he whispered. “Just forever.”

He swallowed hard. “How cruel of you wife. To make me bear it alone.”

—

The Red Keep draped itself in black within the week.

Bells had tolled, septons sang, and ladies wept into their embroidered sleeves.

Valarr did not cry in public. He couldn’t.

He stood beside your bier in the Great Sept, dressed in mourning colors, son cradled in his arms. The boy had your eyes, that same clear shade that caught the light like glass.

People whispered about it.

They said it was a blessing.

Valarr thought it a cruelty. A mockery from the gods.

At night, when the court had dispersed and the corridors fell silent, he would walk the nursery alone.

Aelor slept in a cradle carved with dragons, soft blankets tucked around him. The blankets you weaved.

Sometimes he would fuss, tiny brows knitting together in a familiar way.

Valarr would lift him carefully.

“You have her mouth,” he murmured one evening, tracing the air above the child’s face. “When you are displeased.”

The baby made a small, indignant sound. Valarr’s lips curved despite himself.

“I do not know how to do this,” he admitted quietly. “She was meant to teach me.”

He would sit by the window overlooking Blackwater Bay, rocking the child gently as moonlight spilled silver across the floor.

“You must forgive me,” he whispered into the downy hair. “If I falter as a father.”

—

The boy grew, and the days blurred into months.

He smiled early, a bright, sudden thing that stole the breath from everyone and Valarr’s lungs.

The first time it happened, Valarr froze mid-step. Aelor gurgled, tiny hands reaching toward him.

And there it was. Your smile.

Not exact, but close enough to make his vision blur with tears.

Valarr laughed then, a broken, startled sound.

“You wicked thing,” he said softly. “You knew what you were doing.”

He began to speak to you in the quiet hours.

Not aloud, not where others could hear, but in his mind. In the spaces between breaths.

He would recount Aelor’s progress as if writing letters you might somehow read.

He has your stubbornness. He hates the taste of lemon cakes, though the cooks insist other children adore them.

Silly boy? He sometimes reaches for the sun as if he means to catch it. When Aelor took his first steps, it was in the courtyard garden, his palms open to the sky.

Valarr had been kneeling on the grass, arms outstretched. The boy wobbled uncertainly between nursemaids before lunging forward.

He fell into Valarr’s chest with a delighted shriek.

Valarr held him tightly, pressing his face into the child’s hair.

“You would have laughed,” he murmured. “Gods, you would have laughed.”

The court watched him carefully in those years. They expected him to remarry as a proper heir would. After all one son was not enough, they wanted him to remarry and his new wife to pop out a spare.

They whispered of alliances and heirs and the necessity of queens.

Valarr listened, he nodded where appropriate. But he could never get himself to agree.

“Your son requires siblings,” one lord pressed gently.

“He requires his father,” Valarr replied coolly.

He would not bring another woman into the chambers where you had died.

He would not risk another grave draped in white.

And selfishly, desperately, he could not bear the thought of another smile that was not yours.

—

Aelor grew tall and bright-eyed.

He loved the training yard, he loved stories of dragons, he loved the sea.

He would sit on Valarr’s lap and demand tales of you.

“What was she like?” he asked once, solemn and curious.

Valarr studied his son’s face, the echo of yours staring back at him.

“She was brave,” he said first. “Braver than any knight.”

Aelor’s eyes widened. “Did she fight?”

“In her own way,” Valarr answered softly. “She loved fiercely. That is its own battle.”

The boy considered this gravely. “Did she love me?”

The question struck deep. Valarr cupped his son’s cheek.

“She loved you before you ever drew your first breath,” he said. “She knew you before anyone else.”

Aelor seemed satisfied with that. Valarr was not.

He often wondered what you would think of him now, grey threading through his dark hair, lines stating to carve at the corners of his eyes.

Would you scold him for brooding?

Would you laugh at how hopelessly he adored your son?

On seasons, he would return to the orchard at Summerhall.

He stood beneath the same apple trees, older and heavier with grief.

“I am still here,” he would whisper to the wind. “As you asked.”

The years did not soften the loss. They only shaped it.

Forever, it turned out, was not loud.

It was quiet moments. It was watching your son tilt his head exactly as you once had. It was catching the scent of apples in late summer and feeling his chest tighten.

It was loving someone who could no longer answer.

—

On Aelor’s sixteenth nameday, Valarr presented him with a sword forged in Dragonstone steel.

The boy, no longer truly a boy, accepted it with shining eyes.

“Will you watch me train today father?” he asked eagerly.

Valarr smiled faintly. “Always.”

As Aelor crossed the yard, sunlight caught in his dark hair. For a fleeting instant, Valarr saw you there, not as you had been in that terrible bed, but as you were in the orchard. Laughing and alive.

He exhaled slowly.

Not a lot.

Just forever.

And as his son lifted the blade and stepped into the ring, Valarr felt the ache settle into something almost bearable.

You were gone. But you were still here.

In every smile.

In every stubborn argument.

In the fierce, unyielding love that refused to diminish, no matter how many years passed.

Forever, he realized, had never meant endless days side by side.

It meant this.

Carrying you forward in the only way left.

Through the son who looked just like you.

Through the love that death had not managed to silence.

Through the quiet promise whispered beneath apple trees and kept, steadfastly, until his final breath.

We stayed friends on Facebook after we graduated high school, and I was so happy for her when she announced she was going to have a baby. She loved her baby so much and wanted to make sure he was healthy, happy, and safe. We didn't talk much, but I still cared about her just as much as ever - I bought her a mother/newborn skin care set, which came with a cuddly plush cow.

Bailey unfortunately continued to experience more than her fair share of trouble after little Leo was born (despite her best efforts), and I'm not active on Facebook any more, and I'm quite sure Leo must be a small child and well and truly not a baby any more by now. So unfortunately, I never got to give Bailey her present.

Now, many years later, I am friends with @hildanasr. Oh, how I wish Hilda had the luxury of being in a position where she could choose a skin care set instead of needing that money to survive. Literally.

Bailey made the decision to eat healthy to support her baby - Hilda has to eat whatever she can get her hands on, and is still trying to support the development of her own baby at the same time.

Bailey made plans to live somewhere safer and better for her - but she always slept in a warm bed. Hilda has suffered through a freezing, wet winter in a flimsy tent.

Bailey could turn on a tap and get a drink of water in the middle of the night if she needed to. I don't know what this is like for Hilda, but I have to assume it's long, complicated and dangerous.

Both women faced challenges. Bailey's challenge was complicated and real, for a person who has their basic needs met. I don't know how her story ended. Hilda's challenge is also complicated and real. She does not have her basic needs met. She needs our support to make it through this.

We have a chance to help

A person can care for a baby with the absolute minimum of essentials - breast milk, cloth nappies, a baby blanket - but they need food in order to produce milk, clean water in order to wash nappies, and money to purchase a baby blanket. If a child has nothing, at least let them have a small, soft blanket!

I've been trying to help Hilda eat properly for at least 8 months or more. It hasn't been enough. Giving birth should be something that a person can achieve for free at home if they are healthy enough to do so, but Hilda is not. She's been anaemic for months and can no longer have this baby safely at home.

She needs to go to hospital - where it is likely the hospital will be crammed with people, under-supplied, and under credible threat of danger from Israeli forces. Hospitals are running out of blood and "in the remaining hospitals across Gaza, there are not enough painkillers, anesthetics, antibiotics... or surgical instruments". (source). Hilda is among the one in four pregnant women in Gaza suffering from malnutrition. I am really, really worried about her baby.

Hilda has trusted me with her bank details, and I have successfully been able to send a little money directly to her Bank of Palestine account. If you're in Australia and you want to help, reach out to me. I can get it to her. If you're overseas, I have PayPal and of course, Hilda has her own GoFundMe. She needs our help.

If you've made a donation of $50 in AUD, CAD, NZD, USD or EUR, you can go into the draw to win a prize of basically your choice. What do you want? I've got a modded PSP with a Fluttershy skin, a PSX Mini, this sweet cow friend, and a number of valuable trading cards (MTG, MLP CCG). I can send you a book, some stickers - what's mine is yours. Send an email to [email protected] and let me know if you've made a donation, and I'll reply with your number.

Last but not least, the tags. If you've made it this far, then thank you so much for at least reading the fruits of my labour. I don't tag people often, so please take your inclusion in this cloud as a compliment and know that I won't make a habit of it. Please message me if you'd like to be removed. Round 1:

Your bleary eyes crack open to bring the small world of the bedchamber back to you.

Grey washed and salt licked, like much else in your bedchamber. Beeswax candles shiver low on the sides. Giving the room a faint lick of honey. The fire is a warm roar of flames in the hearth.

The old bed creaks and groans when you move. Muggy headed and sore, sore all over it seems. It’s like you’ve been chucked from the highest ramparts and been bowled around in the tides, bashed about to bits on the rocks. Stomach, thighs, and arms tender. Eyes raw. Everything about you wanted to weep, bleed, or leak. But despite it all, you’re so happy.

You rise from the pillows. From the lulling goosedown warmth of the mattress. The light coming in is thick with cloud. Threaded with the usual cry of gulls. The thrash of the sea backing every moment.

It feels serene now. Like the storm has rushed through and now it’s finished with you.

The air is awash in the calm perfume of lavender oil. The old aroma of iron and blood that’s been washed off the stone floors. Off the bedding. All the pain, sweat, screams and strife that came before this moment, trickling away.

Your eyes focus across the bedchamber. Where your son, your newly born babe, fusses in his carved wooden cot. Wrapped in yellow blankets. Little warbles and squeaks fluttering in the air like fragile birdsong.

Lyonel is leaning over the bassinet. Humming to him.

Light paints itself in chalky bold stripes down his hair and face by the window. His ringed hand reached out to caress his sons chubby cheek. Stroking a knuckle down skin so soft, he’d never felt the like. Laundered silk.

There is much joy and serenity to be had around the keep. For mother and babe are hale. Your son’s lungs are strong. A true Baratheon through and through.

One who gave a shrieking loud cry that pierced the walls as soon as you birthed him. Lyonel’s smile and resounding laugh had split his face like thunder when he heard it. It tugged and pumped fierce, pounding blood through both your hearts.

“Hear that? Lady Storm? Listen to our boy.” He awards. Smoothing sweaty locks of hair out your eyes as you heaved for breath.

“I can see your resemblance already.” You pant for a breath. Voice wearied and no fucking wonder.

He chuckles. Squeezes you tight. Peppers kisses down your sweat slick jaw. Awed. Relieved. Wild with love at your strength.

“You did it. My love. You did so well.” You don’t miss the way a salty tear or two from him drips and splashes hot down your shoulder. His hard brow aligned to yours. Knocking his stubborn head to your own. You squeeze him back as much as you were able.

You watch the plethora of people attending your babe. Washing him. Checking him all over as he squirmed and fussed. All under your careful supervision. And the looming threat of Lyonel’s black-eyed wrath if they didn’t let you hold him, your child is brought straight over to you after he’s been examined.

“Given your age…” The Maester had grumbled as he handed you the writhing, squirming bundle. “The complications were, thankfully, few. Praise the gods my lady.”

The man stands there and crosses his arms. Chain at his chest clacking. The shift of his rough hewn robe as he moves his arms.

The many eyes still in the room watches you tuck the linens back around your boys face, so you could see his wrinkled little brow and dark black eyes. Warbling cries from his mouth come.

That scent of a bathed newborn reaching you. Pure milky soft skin. Innocence. You nuzzle your lips to his head. Whirls of black hair stick to his soft scalp. Place him alongside your heart, so he can hear his mother.

Lyonel piped up from the side of the room. Eyes goring into the man. Offended. Tunic laying open at the neck. Stinking of sweat. Tired, and clinging at the last fraying rope of his patience.

“Must all due credit go to your fucking gods? I’d think we can spare Lady Baratheon some of that, for actually having been the one whose body bled and split open to deliver my son.” He warns darkly. Voice like flint. Arms crossed.

“Lyonel.” You chide weakly. Eyes drowsy. Still blood and sweat wicked from your labours.

Even in your birthing bed, not having delivered your first born, and then the gory nightmare of the afterbirth an hour previous, A lady’s work is never done: still you had to mediate your husbands temper.

“Enough blood has been split in this room. We don’t need more.” You encourage. Voice croaking. “Not on this auspicious day. Come over here and see your son.” You arbitrate.

You swallow the tick of your annoyance. You’re far too tired to decimate at present. You’ll store it for later on. “I Thank you. Maester. For your help.”

Your husband hadn’t left the birthing chamber. Not for one minute as soon as your pains started. He didn’t disappear to revel and drink with his bannermen, your countrymen and both sets of your cousins.

Even though you’re sure they’re all roaring drunk, in the round hall by now. Toasting to a boy heir, to the fruits of the laughing storm and singing bawdy folk songs. He stayed.

You’re certain you’ve sprained the bones in his hands. You’ve bitten out sobs and cried his name, cursed it in places too. He was there. All throughout. Unwavering. Storm steady. Mouth in your ear. Bathing your sweat away with a cloth. Encouraging you. Kissing your head.

He can survive a battlefield for certain, and there was no way - in his own words - ‘in the seven cunting hells’ that he would abandon you alone, to yours.

At the very least, he’s getting in practice as a proud, stomping, fatherly stag. Watching over his wife and his young from the first.

He lopes himself to your side, insult not forgotten in those dark scowling eyes, but he buried a kiss in your hair. Curled around your back as you held the baby. Arm around your shoulder. Settling into the pillows at the headboard of your bed.

The stooped old midwife you’d insisted on having fetched from Blackhaven, was washing her hands in a wooden bowl the other side of the room. Watching this whole tableau with a flick of a smile, glittering eyes. Anrea.

Lyonel is ninety percent certain the woman is a white witch. But you’d insisted.

The maesters of the citadel lacked one thing when it came to knowing of childbirth; some things just couldn’t be taught or learned. You wanted a competent midwife. You refused their suggestions of yet more men.

You wanted Anrea here from your sixth month. You had her. Lyonel assumed he pays her in ravens, or magic beans or some such. But after meeting her, he was left with little doubt that she was the one he wanted to help pull his baby out of you.

She has hair like white rope long since frayed. Gathering back at her neck and and held with a comb. Robes of long, lavender cloth and shawls of lace. Her face and neck bore a thousand wrinkles, each sagging into the other. One eye was green, the other dark brown.

She smelled of yellow camomile and dried rustling lilac and has a voice like scraping stone. She used plants and potions of her own making to wilful effect. She required no payment from you, but a room and board, and a patch of the godswood to grow her own herbs. She was having brewed for you, a tea made of seaweed. To restore strength and iron.

Lyonel defied the gods to produce a more stout woman. Crone she may be, but Anrea may aswell have been spat out to this realm, by the warrior himself.

She was fierce and forthright and knew everything there was about the birthing bed. And every instruction she gave rang true. Every hitch of breath or pull of muscle. She knew. Told you to lie on your side to prevent tears and it had worked. And guided you through the hell of it all. Calm as a millpond.

“He’s healthy as an ox. My lady. He comes from a strong mother.” She insists. Coming over. A bony hand reaches and folds the cloth down. Rings of iron and amber replaced on her clean hands.

“Big lad he is. You quickened well. Though I’ve oft heard tale of the sheer strength of Baratheon seed. You stags do produce big, dark sons.” She sends Lyonel a coy, pointed look over your shoulder.

“I’m honoured you think so. Anrea.” He smirks. The humourous nature of the comment not lost on him.

“I should know. I delivered your grand sire. Huge chunky brute he was. Near killed your great-grandmother in coming.” She tells in plentiful amusement. Watching your babe as she said it.

Lyonel frowned. He was set to ask exactly how old this woman was, but her instructions cut him off. There’s dark magic at work here, and he dare not intrude on it.

“Let him feel your skin. Your heartbeat. It will soothe him. Help the bond.” She tells you. Unfolding the blankets. “Soon we’ll help him latch and try a feed, My lady.”

She turns her well meaning ire on the rest of the bedchamber.

“Out with you. Mother and father only.” She turns and barks to the room. Like a pestered grey old hound.

Maids and attendants shuffle to obey her whims. Carrying blooded linens or disposing of dirtied water.

The Maester was miffed at having to follow a woman’s orders, but you’d made it plain he was to listen. Or Lyonel told him he could fuck right off back to Oldtown.

He glares at Anrea as he leaves. She sights his scowl and scoffs at it. “Doddery idiot. What good is wearing a fucking chain around your neck like a damn nanny goat. Bunch of know it all cunts.” She mutters as she shuffles to the side.

No doubt pummelling some foul green ingredients into a paste with a pestle and mortar, for that tea she spoke of, for you. Aswell as having made some balm for between your legs, to ease the sting. Cold compresses would help too. And ice baths.

“Can I hold him?” Lyonel asks. “She didn’t give me any instructions.” He speaks out the side of his mouth. Whispering conspiratorially.

“Do you dare move.” You tease.

He frowns. “I have a decent stake in his creation. Be fair.”

You chuckle. He fusses a little, but lyonel makes sure that enough of his skin is on display for the babe to feel. That wiry chest hair of his falling against the babes skin. Feeling the slow dub of his fathers heart too.

You smile. Shuffling him over into his waiting arms. As Anrea had coached him. (More line terrified him into the correct hold) supporting the head, back and neck.

Easy arms around him. He’s a baby. Man. Not a fucking mace. Loosen your grip. She’d snapped.

“So. My Lord storm-“ you begin.

Leaning over and smoothing over his little wiggling foot as he squirms. Spit wet cries coming from his mouth. Belly no doubt full of milk you’d just fed him. That should buy you silence for a little while.

“What shall we name him?” You decide. Laying your head on his arm. Watching the turn of his chin as he looks down at him. Salt and pepper hair flopped in his tired eyes.

“What was that name you liked-the one from House Swann, you told me about. The one from one of the old sailor songs.”

Your face must be a picture. You tilt your head. Amazed he even remembered that. He learnt of it at his time as your betrothed, at Blackhaven after the Ashford Tourney. The song was about a sailor who fell in love with a syren. Story was she gave him lungs to breathe in the sea. And they ruled together under the tides as gods. Jorys & Eyla.

“Jorys.” You ask.

Lyonel grinned. You saw the weight of it settle in his eyes. The choice laying shape. “Aye. That one.”

Bouncing the babe a little in his arms as a yawn cracked across his scrunched face. Gummy eyes closing. Arm waving around.

He knew babies were supposed to be beautiful; and maybe so in the eyes of the beholders and parents they were. But at this stage he looked like a wormy, wriggly thing, that was as wrinkled as a week old piece of fruit.

When the words leave him about the name, the babe grumbled an odd sleepy, gurgle of a noise. One that sounded like agreement.

“See-“ He laughs. “He approves already. Anointed by none other than himself.”

“Jorys Baratheon.” You hum. “I like it. It sounds elegant. Learned. But youthful.” Smoothing a fingertip over that ink dark Baratheon hair. Like wisps of spun cotton.

You both watch as you toy with playing with the whorls of them. Pushing them back and following the wave.

“I thought you’d want something from your house. Orys. Or Ormund. Borros. Those battle-scarred, bold names that echo through bloody rebellion and Baratheon sieges.” You seek. “Please don’t suggest we name him Argilac.” You hope.

“I’d ask to be slain if my parents gave me that name.” He remarks.

He lays those stout, heavy names aside. Endless petitions from cousins and relations. Harren. Durran. Hal. Randar. Borrath.

Time to remind this first born child and heir, and all the rest of the toadying cunts, that he came from Baratheon and Dondarrion stock. All too easily these days he sees how a mothers house infulence is squeezed out of a child when they’re born, like oil from a rag.

He doesn’t want that. He wants this little stag to wear lightning bolts and be proud of it-

“We’ve plenty of time for those overdone stag names. Maybe the next one…” He turns and catches your eye. You spy the glimmer that sat there. The wicked one.

“Next one?” You raise a brow.

“Lyonel. I love you very much. With all my heart. But right now, in this bed. My answer has to surely be fuck right off.” You declare. Leaning over and kissing his cheek.

“Fair.” He grins. All dimples and cheeks.

You hear Anrea chuckle dryly from across the rooms. Like grated metal. As she pummels something in her stone mortar. “Good woman.”

Though where you’d leaned to kiss him, he does turn and catch your mouth with his own. Presses on you a slow, lippy kiss that absolutely shouldn’t have stirred you as much as it did.

The baby fussed in his hold. Little arm whacking out to brush against his fathers chest.

“Now. Little stag. I was here first. Those tits belong to me first of all.” He leers.

“Hit him harder, Jorys. For your mother.” You ask.

“He wouldn’t dare face my wrath.” Lyonel answers. Pecking you softly on the lips again. A slow, melting kind of kiss.

“Oi. Any more of that nonsense. I’ll have you gelded. She needs to heal for two months before you can even think of producing a second heir.” Anrea fairly shouts from across the room.

Lyonel breaks from you. Wets his lips. Tries not to look too cowed.

“Should we tell her that nonsense is the reason she’s stood here?” He quips.

Anrea puts her hands on her hips. Danger.

“She’d make a terribly good advocate for those who wish to remain chaste.” He mutters.

“Behave. Or she’ll make you stand out in the hall like a naughty boy.” You tease.

He looks pleadingly into Jorys face.

“See what I put up with? I hope you know I’m being ganged up on, here, my lad.”

“Does you no harm.” Anrea puts in under her breath.

You hide your chuckle into Lyonel’s shoulder. Though your whole body shakes with laughter. You wipe away tears. Blessed day indeed.

The memories of your sons name day make you grin. It feels years ago, as opposed to mere days. Only just this week gone. The celebrations still bleed through the walls like sea salt.

A tourney is being prepared. Poor Willard is flung under the wagon as you are still much too feeble to help plan much beyond feeding schedules and the glories of colic cures.

Pavilions are being raised. Game and pigeon pies, salted pork and cod, wine and mead, ordered in by the wagonload. Rooms prepared. Games announced. Bannermen called to celebrate. A caravan train from Blackhaven and Highgarden will soon arrive. Family gathered to toast to the child of the laughing storm. All laden with name day gifts for your son. Some will bring gold or trinkets. Others fine weapons or books. Some may come with the hope of future alliance to a daughter stuffed in their pockets.

Lyonel wants to put a small circlet crown of deer horns on his babes head. Smother him in gold too. He’s had the castle seamstress make him up a little cloak, embroidered with black stags. You’re sure a gown of excellent black and yellow velvet is being designed for you. Plenty of stag gold ornamentation to ply upon your persons. A comb for your hair. A belt, or a new clutch of yellow jewels.

You’re sure he’ll don his own antler crown too. In a couple of weeks time, when you’re well enough to leave the bed, you’ll welcome all stormlanders across your threshold to revel in the joys. Tables groaning with food. Knights ready to joust. Lord, Lady, and baby Storm at the head of it all.

You shuffle up in bed. Mouth dry. Eyes still iron heavy. Body feeling like a bag of stones. You were told it will be a while before you’re batting at full strength again. To take it easy in the mean time. Manage the feeding. The cloth changes. The cries that come at night.

An excellent nanny, Bertha, one who’d tended you years ago, had been readily employed come take him to the nursery to soothe when you needed rest. Anrea was hanging around too. She was loathe to be gotten rid of quite so soon. Lyonel wants to give her a parcel of land and a sainthood as thanks.

You turn to spy a breakfast tray left for you. A pot of Anrea’s green tea left steaming. Porridge layered with fruit, and salted, fried fish on the side. Hearty bacon and boiled eggs. She was trying to stuff you with food and iron already. Healthy mother. Healthy milk. Healthy babe.

You watch serenely across the room in the pleasant morning light. Lyonel’s song reached across the flagstones like whispers of hot honey as he sang. Low. So as not to wake you. But truth be told your ears pricked the second you heard Jorys shift and unsettle.

“Whispered and tossed on the tide coming in…” He sang gently.

Leaning down and plunging his hands in the crib. Plucking the weight of his son out. Cradling him close to chest. Big ringed hand cupping the back of his little head. Blankets flopped over his black tunic clad arms.

Still singing as he takes the babe to the window. Bares him to the morning light. Lets him hear the sounds to which he’ll grow up on, like daily bread, gulls, tides, storms that roll in.

Though Jorys is more interested in sleeping against his fathers shoulder, eyes closed as he slumps into his hold. Still milk wearied, full and sleepy.

Lyonel is speaking to him like he was wide eyed and able to see the span of his sea stained lands.

“See this my little stag…This will one day be your kingdom. You can rule over the tides and the sky. Look after all our dour, weather hardy Stormlanders.” He lovingly pats his sons back. Chuckling as he regales him the tale.

“They’ll adore you. I dare say. You’re strong and loud, judging by the way you cry at night. Which is a good thing. We are not designed to fall gently on the world. No Baratheon can ever be counted as meek. Certainly not one blessed to have a mother like yours, either.”

The next words bloat and warm your weary heart.

“She’ll give you all that I can’t. Little storm. She’ll teach you patience. Negotiation. The wherewithal to grow into a good, kind boy. A temperate one. And an even better man. To hold yourself tall and never falter. All the boring minutia of running this place that she somehow takes and turns into sense. How to read someone at ten paces. I still don’t know how she does that. Fucking witchcraft, I tell you.”

“And need I say, she will show you how to be so stubborn, you’d have a better chance of wooing iron islands rock. Lord only knows how I won her over. I must be a very lucky bastard.”

You smile. His little spiel so heartfelt it makes you grin. Tears swimming to your eyes. You watch as Lyonel turns his head. Kissed his scalp. Sweet soft black hair tickling his lips and scratchy beard.

“I’ll teach you about the finer things. Like fishing and sailing. And most importantly, hunting. Hawking. Making merry…” He decides. “We’re good at that around here. Got to have something bright to do when winter storms roll in.”

“We can go raise tents in the Kingswood and hunt for boars or deer. When you’re old enough, I’ll take you out on shipbreakers bay. The shipwright can make you a little brig all your own. I’m having it called ‘Stormchaser.’ I hope you’ll like it. You’ll dance through the waves one day. I know it.”

“I hope you’re not influencing our son with dangerous hobbies. Lord Storm.” You speak up. Reaching over to the bedside for your cup of tea.

Lyonel spins to you. Jorys bounced in his arms. Squirming little. Sleeping lots. A stocky, lumpy weight in his arms. That smelled like sweet warm milk and lilacs from the laundered blankets.

“Simply having a heart to heart with my boy. He needs to know how things will work around here.”

You hold your teacup and saucer in your lap. Having supped it. “At one week old, he may still be a little young for sailing and ships.”

Lyonel’s huge, beaming smile reminds you of the sun.

“I chartered my first sailing course at nine.” He tells you proudly.

“Don’t wish him grown too fast.” You ask. “Savour the littleness. Being able to hold him like that in your arms. Before we know it he’ll be bowling around us. All antlers abd bluster.” You remark. “Then he’ll be a boisterous hormonal lad and gods help us then.”

“You’ll temper him. I’ve no doubt. With that same wilful look you give my cousins when they behave like the arse end of a mule.”

“Well they do.” You remark. Cutting. “Especially Hal. You’d think he was raised by Wildlings.”

He chuckles. Crossing to the bed. “You must be feeling a little recovered. If you’re able to spar with me and correct Hal’s behaviour.”

“Hal’s behaviour is never not in need of correcting. Besides, I’m on the mend. Just don’t ask me to sit a horse anytime in the next month.” You compel. Easing out the covers. Your belly still bloated from the birth. You’re told it will ease over time.

“Anrea said to rest. Bed rest. And I’m far too scared of that witch woman to disobey her whims. She’ll put a curse on me if anything happens to you.” He warns you. Moving to where you stand.

You wrap yourself in your brocade gown. Lightning silver. Shuffling your feet into slippers. Your hair is loose down your back. You’ll need a bath soon. As you suspect, will Jorys.

“Let me stand up. I’m sick of laying down. Being fed on every two hours like a milk cow.”

“You’d make a lovely bovine. My sweet wife. The best in the barn.”

“You do know how to charm your way into your wife’s heart.” You surmise archly.

Coming to meet him in the middle. Stood by the fire. Light bleeding its smooth way onto your silks. You hook your hands to his elbow.

He turns his head to kiss you. You’ve found he kicks up a royal Baratheon tantrum if you kiss the babe, before him. You splay your hand across his back. Kiss him til your legs feel weak.

“Morning bab.” You coo lovingly. Kissing his sweet head. Breathing in the smell of him. Lilacs and warm soft milk. An irresistible wash of powdery baby skin. His face twitches, tongue lolls from his lips, but he doesn’t wake. Milk drunk.

You both look at him. Drunk on the combination of love, awe, and lost sleep.

He tended him a couple times in the night when he fussed. Though he lacked the tits to be able to calm him properly. A walk down the halls and a hushed cuddle seemed to do the trick.

One thing no one warned you about. Was how much love you’d feel in looking at the baby you’d made. You’d kill or bleed for this little lump. He tore you open. Both heart and body. Made you see that such stirring love was possible. It seemed a wretched, powerful, terrible thing. That it could exist so strongly. You’d never known a thing like it, save for the way you loved Lyonel.

“I’ve been thinking.” You start. Stroking his little head.

Lyonel urges you on. Eyes meeting your own.

“What I said. The day he was born… about there not being another.”

“Oh?” He buoys a dark brow. Looking insatiably curious. But half wary Anrea would burst out of the nearest shadow and whack him in the balls for daring to think where this is headed.

“I think I may have spoken too rashly. On the subject.” You remark.

Watching with rapt and beautiful adoration, the way your sons tiny hand, clenched in a chubby fist around Lyonel’s fingertip.

“Given time, think I would be open to another. Can’t have Jorys being lonely. We do have a lot of cavernous Storms End to fill…” you add. Hoping.

He smiles down at you. “You’re serious, my savage storm?” He checks.

“Deadly.” You nod.

Lyonel scoops you close. Free arm banded across the back of your waist. Body pressed to his. This awe inspiring body. The one that’s born his child. And nourished him. And still you’d throw yourself into the bloody fray and risk another. Just like that.

He kisses you like his namesake. All smirk and passion. Darkly and happily humming into your mouth. Hand sliding up your brocade silk back. Getting lost in the hair at the nape of your neck.

When he pulls back, Jorys is clamped between you, like a little Stormlands barnacle, to his fathers chest. His forehead nudged to yours. Nose to nose.

“Maybe it’ll be a girl next time-“ You dare to hope.

His smile makes your knees weak. You gently cup the side his sharp jaw. Greying bristles under your fingertips. Jorys babbles. Your finger goes to his soft, waving little fist. He curls around you like a little limpet. You feel so whole and happy, you don’t know how you’ll ever stop.

“A tiny version of you…” He laughs. Voice all charm and heavenly gravel. “Now that’s dangerous.”

Forgive the random tags but I’m Tagging some phenomenal akotsk babes whose fics gave me life. Let me know if you want on/off the list. I’m new to AKOTSK so forgive my presumptions @the-darklings @jintaka-hane @mynameistocool @lovebugism @maekarsmistress @pearlessance @noxiiousstrawberriies @ingystark @oakleafing @marsrambles @just-some-random-blogger @vhagars-dementia @escapic-mezzanine @tearsweetenedtea @adumbgirlinloove @moonlitmaester @silens-oro @feral4youu @whatislovevavy @happinessisaloadedgun @faelinda @crayonbug @celestrys @sallymaywritings @captainfern @theprophaecy @multyfangirl @angstybadger @asterionex @liliac-dreamer @rotseria @stainlesssteelbedframe @mags-writes

"Ma'am, can I get you anything? A pillow, some water?"

The flight attendant — young, neat ponytail, name tag that said Cara — was already reaching for the overhead compartment before Reggie could answer, and Reggie kept her face as composed as she could manage, which was getting harder by the minute.

"Water would be great, thank you," she said, and her voice only caught slightly on the last word because the contraction that had been building for the last thirty seconds chose that exact moment to crest, rolling through her lower back and down into her pelvis with a deep, grinding force that made her press her thighs together under the blanket.

Cara set the cup on the tray and moved on down the aisle without a second glance, and Reggie let out the breath she'd been holding in a long, controlled stream. "Hoo... hoo hoo... hhhh."

"How far apart now?" Dax asked from the aisle seat beside her, not looking up from his phone.

"A minute forty," she said through her teeth. "Maybe less."

He set the phone face-down on his thigh and turned to look at her then, and she knew that look. She'd known it for twenty years, had catalogued every version of it, and this particular version had nothing to do with worry. 

His eyes moved from her face down to the enormous, low-hanging globe of her belly, round and gravid and pressing heavily into her lap even with her knees drawn up as far as the seat would allow, and something in his expression settled into that private, focused attention that made her want to hit him and also made her stomach flip despite everything.

"You're fine," he said.

"I know I'm fine," Reggie said. "I'm just telling you how close I am."

Three rows ahead of them, their older three were out cold in a heap of travel pillows, the eldest with her mouth open and her neck at an angle that was going to hurt later. Nobody back here was awake. 

The nearest passengers were a row up on the opposite side, both wearing noise-canceling headphones, completely sealed off from the world. The back of the cabin was dim and close and, for the moment, theirs.

“I knew we shouldn’t have flown to see your mother.” Reggie said bitterly through another tightening. 

Theo stirred against her side and she guided him back to her breast without thinking about it, and he latched and settled immediately, his fat fist curling against her with the total confidence of someone who had never once in his eleven months worried about anything.

"Get the leggings down," Dax said with a wry smile. 

Reggie stared at him. "We are in economy, lest you forget."

"And you are about to have a baby in economy," he said so calmly, it’s getting into her nerves, "so get the leggings down and keep the blanket over your lap, and nobody is going to see anything."

She hated that he was right. 

She hated it with a specific, well-worn bitterness that had been accumulating since the seventh month when he'd first floated this whole scenario as though it were perfectly reasonable, but hating it didn't change the fact that not only their fifth baby currently lodged in her pelvis had a non-negotiable opinion about its arrival but she also deep inside love this whole idea. 

She worked the leggings and her underwear down her thighs in the cramped space, shifting her hips, and got them free of one ankle and bunched around the other before she pulled the blanket back over herself.

She pressed her palm between her thighs and felt the swollen, taut heat of herself, her labia already full, bulging and aching, the baby's head bearing down so far into the birth canal that even the light pressure of her own hand sent a sharp wave of sensation flooding up through her core.

"It's right there," she said, and her voice had gone very low. "Dax. The head is about to come…hoooo–hooo hooo hoooo–” 

He reached over and lifted the edge of the blanket just long enough to look, and she watched his jaw tighten in a way that had nothing to do with alarm.

"Yeah," he said, and let the blanket fall back. "It is." He grabbed his own blanket and set it over his thighs, too, trying to cover is growing bulge there, too. 

The next contraction didn't give her a warning. 

It arrived hard and low, seizing her from the base of her spine and driving straight down with a force that shoved the baby’s fat head forward against her hand, and she crammed her face into Dax's upper arm and bit down on the sound that tore up her throat.

"MMMPHH — nnHH — oh god —hooooooooo–hooo hooo hoooo–" She ground her teeth into his sleeve, her fingers pressing desperately against her vulva, feeling the head surge against them with every pulse of the contraction. Her perineum burned, already stretching, the whole front wall of her vagina pushing outward. "HhhhNNGH — Dax, it's pushing through, I can feel it pushing —"

"Don't fight it," he said, low in her ear.

"I'm trying to slow it down, if I just —" She shifted her hips and immediately regretted it because the movement brought the baby down another fraction and the pressure from her movement and the toddler she was carrying went from enormous to total. "HHMMPHH — okay, okay —hoooo hoooo hooooooo—"

"Stop trying to slow it down, Reggie."

"There are people on this plane," she hissed, lifting her face just long enough to say it.

"Half of them are asleep and the other half have their headphones in," he said, perfectly level. 

She pressed her face back into his arm and bore down because her body had already made that decision, and she felt her labia spread around the advancing head, felt the deep hot stretch of her perineum pulling taut as the baby worked through her cervix and down through the last of the birth canal with the focused, patient insistence of a fifth child who had done this before.

"HhhhNNNGGH — MMPHHH —" The sounds came out in bursts against his sleeve, each one half-swallowed, pressed into the warm bulk of his arm. Her free hand fisted into the blanket. "It's coming through, I feel it coming through —"

"I know you do," he said, and his hand came up to press against the back of her neck, heavy and unhurried. His breathing had changed, she could hear it, the way it had gone slightly uneven, and she knew exactly what that meant.

"You are such an ass," she breathed into his arm.

"Head down," he said.

She put her head down on his arm. 

Her palm cupped against herself felt the shift — the teardrop shape of the head pressing outward between her folds, small and firm and wet, pushing against the stretched ring of her labia with a force that made her clitoris ache from the inside out. The skin of her perineum was pulling to its absolute limit, and amniotic fluid was already leaking steadily over her fingers and soaking into her leggings beneath her.

"HHhhNNGH — MMMPHHHH —" She pushed into the next contraction, long and grinding, and felt the head advance another fraction and hold, lodged at its widest point with her labia stretched in a burning, stinging ring around the crown. "Ohhhh — MMPHHH — it burns, it burns so much —"

"Breathe through it," Dax said.

"Hoo hoo hoo — hhh — hoo hoo —" She panted through the worst of the stretch, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes from the sheer searing heat of it, her fingers spread wide against her perineum to ease what pressure she could. Her vulva was swollen and flushed and stretched fully open around the baby's skull, the shape of the head clearly visible to her own touch, every ridge and curve of it pressing against the taut walls of her vagina as it inched forward.

Through it all, her toddler suckled and slept, milk-drunk, it seems, on her engorged breasts. 

Down the aisle, Cara passed through again with a drinks trolley and Reggie felt her go past without looking up, face pressed into Dax's arm, the blanket pulled high, breathing in hard controlled bursts through her nose.

Cara paused.

"Is she alright?" she asked Dax, keeping her voice low.

"Migraine," Dax said, without missing a beat. "She gets them on long flights. She just needs to stay still and keep her eyes closed."

A brief pause, and then the trolley moved on.

Reggie would have laughed if there had been any breath left in her body to do it with, but another contraction rolled in on the heels of the last one and she pushed, hard, bearing down with everything she had left, and felt the head inch forward into a full crown — fully out, fully free, sitting heavy and wet and slick in her cupped hand with amniotic fluid running in a warm, gushing stream down her inner thighs and pooling in the leggings beneath her, catching on the hem of the blanket.

"HHNNNN — MMMPHHHH —" The sound tore out of her muffled and desperate, her whole body trembling, and she felt Dax's hand press harder against the back of her neck. "Haaaahh — haaaah — okay — okay, the head is out, Dax, the head is —"

"I know," he said. "Keep going." at this point, he looked around and brought a hand under his blanket to reach inside his sweatpants, giving his hard and leaking cock a few pumps. 

She snorted at what he did but bit her lip and stroked her thumb over the wet hair plastered against the skull between her legs, feeling the baby shift and rotate under her fingers, the presenting shoulder turning into position. 

She knew this feeling. She loved this feeling, even now, even here, pressed into the back row of an economy cabin thirty thousand feet over the Pacific with her husband's arm as the only thing keeping her from making a sound that would wake every sleeping passenger from here to the galley.

She genuinely, in her bones, loved this.

“Dax,” she whispered hoarsely, and he looked down on her, eyes glossed over, hand pumping himself as discreetly as he can. 

“Yeah, babe?” 

“Kiss me…” 

He didn’t need to be told twice. He leaned down and kissed his wife as he continued to pump himself, feeling his balls start to tighten a bit as they made out. 

The next contraction built and she pushed into it, and the first shoulder eased through with a long, wet, squelching resistance that pulled a sharp, muffled cry from her throat.

"HHNN — MMPHHH — there — that's it —"

“Let me see, Reg.” He tells her and she sat back and slightly lifted the blanket just enough for him to see it. 

“There you go—Mmmmpphhh—haaaaaah–hooo hooo hooo–” 

One more push, shorter and decisive, and the second shoulder came free with a slick, gushing rush, and then the rest of the baby slid out into her waiting hands in a warm, wet flood of fluid and relief, trailing the last of the amniotic sac, and Reggie pulled her daughter up against her chest under the blanket and held her there, next to the nursing toddler. 

Dax made a grunting sound as he came into the blanket draped over him. 

“F–fuck yeah…” 

Cara came back through with a stack of napkins six minutes later and stopped at their row again, looking at the blanket-covered situation with eyes that had gone rather wide.

"Oh my god," she said, keeping her voice very low. "Is that — did she just —"

"She did," Dax said, entirely unbothered.

Cara stood very still for a moment. Then she said, "I'm going to get the first aid kit and the senior attendant, and I'm going to need you to not move," and she was gone before Dax could answer.

Reggie looked at the babies on her, one toddler now milk-drunk and deeply asleep and the newborn just latching, her hair sticking to her forehead, her new daughter warm and breathing against her chest.

"You know she's going to file a report," Reggie said.

"Probably," Dax agreed.

Reggie looked down at the babies, then back up at her husband, and she laughed — short and exhausted and completely helpless, the sound muffled quickly against the top of her daughter's head.

"You are so lucky I actually love doing this," she said.

Dax's mouth curved, slow and satisfied. "I know," he said. “I can’t wait for us to do it again.” 

-fin

------

If you love what you read and want even more, consider joining The Preggo Fantasy Vault!

For just $5 a month, you get a brand-new, original birth story every week, plus exclusive bonus stories every now and then, meaning you’re getting way more than four exclusive stories a month—stories you won’t find anywhere else. 

So, if you’ve been on the fence, now is the perfect time to join!

Much love,