#maegor

He was all the way across the Narrow Sea when the word reached him. You had gone into labor during his absence, and the birth had been difficult. The letter detailed exactly how it went, from the labor lasting a full day, the babe coming out the wrong way, and the amount of blood you lost. Due to the distance between Westeros and the Free Cities, the message arrived three days after it was sent, and by then only the gods knew what became of you. Your condition was left uncertain, and for Maegor Targaryen, uncertainty was a cruelty he did not endure well.

His advisors begged him to remain and finish the negotiations. He ignored them all, commanding the talks be concluded in his name before mounting the Black Dread and turning him toward Westeros.

During your years of marriage, you borne him five strong sons. For every one of them, Maegor was present in some fashion, more involved in some than others. This time, duty dragged him across the Narrow Sea. You were angry when he told you he was leaving, but he brushed it aside, claiming duty came first.

Fool he thought bitterly now.

The journey back was torturous. Miles of open sea stretched endlessly beneath Balerion’s shadow, offering no distraction. His thoughts returned to you again and again. The wife he had come to cherish in his own guarded way. The wife who had taught him gentleness and love, things that had been uncommon to him before you. The image of you bleeding, suffering…..dying without him at your side filled him with a mix of rage and unfamiliar fear.

Maegor’s grip on the reins tightened until his knuckles turned white.“Faster,” he roared, unsure whether it was an order or a plea.

Balerion felt it, the Black Dread flew faster than Maegor had ever pushed him, massive wings beating the air with punishing force. Ships below rocked violently as they passed, sailors surely believing a storm had found them.

When they landed, Maegor did not bother to fully dismount. The instant Balerion’s talons struck stone, he leapt down and strode toward the keep. Guards attempted to address him, but he shoved past them without slowing. Servants yelped courtiers before scattering immediately as soon as they saw him pass. No one dared interrupt his path once they saw the look on his face.

He took the stairs three at a time, barely feeling the burn in his muscles.

Please he begged with every step. Please, gods. Let her live.

It was strange, he never truly prayed to the Seven. His faith had always been performative, simply a tool to keep the Faith placated. He never cared whether they listened. Now, for the first time, he wondered if they would refuse him outright for the sins he committed, the sacred laws he shattered. If this was his punishment, he would pay any price to undo it.

When he reached your chambers he didn’t waste time entering prepared for whatever he was going to be faced with.

And there you were.

Seated in a chair near the hearth, a swaddled babe cradled in your arms.

He paused.

For a long moment, he could only stare. You looked smaller, weaker, exhausted, but unmistakably alive. Candlelight softened your features, catching on the faint smile you wore as you rocked the babe gently. Even after everything you’re still able to hold such deep love for your children.

He shed the rest of his armor and approached slowly, as though afraid you might dissolve if he moved too quickly. He lowered himself onto one knee before you, violet eyes searching your face, tracing every line and shadow seeking proof that you had truly survived.

The back of his hand brushed your cheek tenderly. A gentleness that had taken him years to learn.

His mouth opened then closed it. He struggled, as he always did, to name what he felt when it was not anger.

“I am fine,” you said quietly, sparing him the effort.

“I should have been here,” he replied at last.

“And what would you have done if you were?” you asked, not accusing or mocking, but being practical. Something you had, funny enough, learned from him.

“I would have summoned every maester in the realm,” he said. “Would have cut down any man who failed you.” His hand fell from your face, fingers curling into a fist. “Would have held you as you bled dry.”

You did not tell him how close to the edge you had truly been. Even now, your body felt foreign, hollowed, but there was no sense reopening wounds already sealed.

“It is a girl,” you said instead. “Our first.”

The words landed heavier than any blow Maegor had endured during his years of wars and tournaments.

A princess, not another son forged for war or the throne. Something he had never truly considered. Something he believed the gods had never seen fit to give him before.

His gaze lowered, her head barely peeked from the blankets, but he could already see echoes of her mother’s beauty in her face. He opened the swaddling more to look and scoffed quietly at the fact that the babe was already dressed in gold and white, lavish even now, but still soft enough for a newborn.

“She is small,” he stated. “How does one keep something so breakable alive?”

Being his wife for so long, you knew he did not say it with malice. What he truly asked was how he was meant to raise a daughter when he had only ever known sons.

You smiled faintly. “You underestimate her, she has your temper. She refuses every wet nurse but me, would rather starve than yield.”

A corner of his mouth twitched into a small smile. “Then it is your stubbornness she has inherited, wife.”

Still, his eyes never left her and after a moment he leaned pressing a gentle kiss to her brow lingering there for a moment. When he looked back up at you, his expression had hardened into something you knew better than to defy.

“You will rest,” his tone firm. “You will have meals more frequently, and the maesters will remain on watch until I am satisfied with your full recovery.”

He rose with the idea of freshen himself for both relief from the long journey and to be clean enough that he could properly hold her.

“What of her nameday. We could not do anything without the king present.”

“She will not be paraded,” his voice low. “She will not be gawked at or claimed by banners and alliances before she can speak her own name. We will have our own celebration, in private.”

You smiled. You had always hated nameday celebrations. They were too loud, too much for a child who did not even know it was for them, nor would remember it. Worse still were the lords and ladies, their fake smiles and obvious attempts at securing alliances. The gods knew it would be far worse for her, given she was the first and only daughter of the king. You already knew you would struggle to hide your disgust when a lord presented his son, hairline already receding, for your infant daughter’s hand one day.