#spottiewrites

Nyssa, your handmaiden, enters, winding her hands, no doubt having heard your yelling from outside the door. You take a deep breath and flash her a calming smile, turning your back to your husband. Still unable to believe he is going to do this. “I’ll need a gown, suitable for outside. Could you prepare me one, a cloak as well?” Head and voice still low, she nods, eyes cast down to the rug. “Do you require anything else, my lady?” “Make sure that the carriage is ready and then meet me at my son’s rooms, please. I will change there.” She curtsies and hurries out as Baelor finds his voice, although hesitant. “My love, you should stay in the castle, the babe-“ You shoot him a cold look, one that would probably mean beheading it it were directed towards anyone else. “If you are going to be idiotic and take part in the trial, I am going to be stubborn and watch you take part in that trial.” One hand on your hip and one on your belly, the babe gives a vigorous kick against your hand. “And it seems our babe agrees with me.” You toss your hair over your back and venture out to your son’s chambers, where Nyssa is hopefully waiting. You need assistance with your gown, and you certainly are not going to accept help from your husband right now. He’ll need the time to get ready for the Trial.

***

You watch with bated breath as the horses charge, hooves pounding the earth. You hold your breath as the forces slam together, lances breaking, men falling off horses, others riding away for another pass. Squeezing Valarr’s forearm tightly, you see your husband kick his horse forward, your breath catching as you lose sight of him in the chaos.

As you watch with bated breath for a glimpse of your husband. The hold you have on Valarr tightens and gives you a gentle look. “Father will be alright. He is aiming for the Kingsguard, they are sworn not to harm him.” Your smile is more of a grimace when you try to thank him, trying to will the brimming tears away. Even if you were angry with him for his decision, you know it was the noble and right thing to do. But things go wrong in tourneys, and you wish to keep your husband on this plain as long as possible, until you are both old and grey. Shaking, still fighting tears, your hand brushes on your stomach, a desperate gesture to soothe the babe inside as another wave of pain rolls through you.

Digging a few sugared dates out of your hidden pocket, you pop them into your mouth, hoping the food will chase the pain away, as it has done in the past hours. But now, the pain only builds. You manage to hide most of your wincing in worry for your husband as he battles, but as the crowd cheers for Aerion landing another hit, you cannot keep still anymore. You stand, taking a few staggering steps just to see your husband land on the ground, your heart stuttering with worry.

But it is quickly chased away by another wave of pain, and Valarr rises too, coming to your side, brows furrowed in worry. “Mother?” He asks gently, glancing back at the field to see his father on his feet again. “Father is standing, he is fighting well. Do not fear for him.” He mistakes your pain for unease about the fight, worry for your husband. You try to breathe evenly, willing your lungs to work properly. "The babe, Valarr. The babe is coming. Now.” You whisper, squeezing his arm for support, tighter and tighter. Valarr's eyes widen as he gestures a few guards closer, trying to be as discreet as possible, glancing around at the curious Lords and Ladies.

They drop their gazes when they meet the prince’s eyes, but still peek at what is happening from under their brows. “What is it?” The guards are glancing around for any danger, anything that might threaten the young prince and the heavily pregnant future queen. “The babe. Mother says it is coming.” Valarr speaks in a hushed voice, and the guard's eyes widen in shock as the other, elder one dashes away. You pray it is for a maester. “Are you sure, my lady?” “Am I sure? This is my third child. Of course, I am sure. One does forget this pain.” You groan as another contraction hits, nails now digging into Valarr’s forearm as he slowly escorts you out of the stands, having to almost carry you down the steps.

The maester meets you at the bottom as the guards are heatedly discussing amongst themselves. “Perhaps we borrow a carriage-“ “There is no time for carriages, the babe is coming soon.” You groan, hand dropping to your stomach, Valarr still supporting you by your elbow. Maester Yormwell glances at you and nods. “We need to find a place for her to give birth. Secluded. Easy to guard.” “The Lannister tent?” One of them suggests, and you shake your head vigorously. “My child is not going to be born under Lannister red.” Glancing around, you spot a secluded tent, dark in colour. “There.” “M-My Lady, that is the w-whore’s tent.” One of them, seemingly the youngest, stutters, and you roll your eyes. “The working women know how to keep their linens clean. Some of them must have given birth before, and I need someone with womanly sense with me, if, gods forbid, something goes wrong.” You groan, your knees buckling. “But you'd best get me into a tent before I am forced to birth my child here. On the grass.” The guards hurry towards the tent, pushing their way in to prepare it for your arrival.

Valarr half-carries you some of the way, your legs growing weak with the pain as you are escorted towards the tent. The women inside stare with wide eyes as a panting princess, a young prince, and a maester enter the tent. “My mother is giving birth,” Valarr states simply, not knowing what else to say, what else is required. A beat of silence passes before the eldest of them women claps her hands together. "Alright. Girls. Clean linens, boiling water, plenty of it. Here, princess, let’s get you lying down.” “Oh, thank the gods, there is someone with sense here.” Your words end with a moan, as your legs finally give out, Valarr scooping you onto his arms and laying you to rest on the bed, which the woman gestures towards. “I require some herbs, if you have any.” One girl ducks away with the maester’s words and returns with a wooden chest in her arms. “Good. Now, everyone out.” The women rise to leave, but you grasp the eldest’s hand. “Not you. I need you here. To be my sister.” Her gaze warms with understanding. “Of course, your highness.” You roll your eyes. “I think you should call meeaugh-!” You’re cut off by a cry of pain, and she risks a smile. “Quite hard to pronounce, my lady. My name is Helena.” You manage one in return, but it turns into a grimace, your hand flying to your stomach again. “I feel them, they are coming.” The maester checks you, and Helena smiles. “The babe is ready to enter the world, my lady. You must push now.” Her smile is warm, but your insides grow cold.

The images of Matarys’ birth flashing in your mind, the blood, the pain, the screaming. The fear. Your babe, limp and cold, before the maesters were able to breathe life into him. Your body so weak that you’d needed a week’s rest before you could even hold and feed him. The sunken and worried eyes of your beloved Baelor, the dutiful husband, kneeling by your bedside, night after night, refusing to eat or sleep. Muttering endless praises and assurances, drowning your skin with kisses.

Horror flashes through you. The babe is coming now? “A-Already? I- I cannot.” “You must, my lady.” The maester insists, jolting when he sees Valarr still in the tent. “My prince, leave us, please.” Valarr nods, hesitantly. He was barely old enough at the time to have some memory of his brother’s birth, but not old enough to understand the full picture. He still feels uneasy as he turns to leave.

But before he can, you grasp his wrist. “Your father. I need him. I cannot- I won’t… do this without him.” You stare up at him, showing the maester’s hand away from you. “My lady, we cannot delay.” He is almost begging now while Valarr stares at you, your wide eyes, brimming with tears. The strong woman he knows is buried under all the terror. “Valarr. I am frightened. I need him here with me.” The words are arduous as you force them out, breath hitching. “The trial-“ “Please.” You whisper, a tear running down your cheek, and he glances at the maester, the urgency in his eyes as he mixes herbs into water. “I will bring him.” He promises and pulls his hand from your hold. It is hard, tearing himself away from you, but he is glad to be out, away from the maester’s pleading, from Helena’s coaxing.

***

The way to the tourney grounds feels shorter, only a few steps long. Valarr takes in the carnage before he finally spots Baelor, fighting side by side with Ser Lyonel against Maekar. Without thinking, he starts making his way through the battle, ducking past battling people and over bodies littering the ground, ignoring the calls and shouts from the stands. “The young prince!” “He should not be down there.” But he cares little, your plea ringing in his head.

Valarr hears Aerion scream, his cousin clearly in pain, as he battles the giant knight, and sees Maekar’s blows gather strength. “My boy! My boy!” His desperation is evident in his voice, struggling against the strength of two men, who push him back. Valarr is closer now, able to see the snapped antlers of Ser Lyonel’s helm, the intricate pattern of his father’s cloak.

When Maekar raises his mace for a hit, Valarr springs into action, tackling his uncle out of his way, knocking him off balance. His uncle hadn’t seen him coming, his mace aiming for Baelor, but now, he is face-first in the mud as Baelor and Ser Lyonel stare at the young prince in stunned silence, even as the fight rages on around them. “Valarr-“ Baelor’s voice is breathless and surprised as he stares at his heir in the middle of the fight, devoid of armor and armed with only a dagger. “Mother, she is giving birth.” The words burst out of him in desperation, the young prince panting as Maekar pushes himself up, enraged, shaking mud off his helmet. “Boy! You cannot intervene, it is against the god’s will, the laws are absolute, it is-“ The horn blows, signaling the end of the Trial. Ser Duncan is standing, Aerion splayed on the ground, and Maekar’s shoulders fall. The gods have given their judgment. The area is still, the air somehow fresher, lighter now. The people start to cheer, although it is stunted at the stands, the Lords and Ladies have been loud supporters of the prince, sure of his victory.

But Valarr cannot feel any of it, desperation flowering heavy in his veins, tears pooling into his eyes as they meet his father’s. “The babe is coming.” He repeats, grasping his father by his shoulder, trying to tug him along. “What?” Baelor shakes his head, his head trying to understand. He was just battling. How can the babe be coming? He pulls the helmet off, throwing it to the ground, blinking hard. “Mother is asking for you, she won’t push, the maester worries for their health. The babe is coming! We must go.” Valarr all but begs, voice bordering on desperate, glancing around. Baelor goes white as freshly washed sheets as he begins to realize the severity and the reality of the moment. The babe is coming, and you might be in danger.

Valarr manages to catch the reins of two horses, slapping a pair into his father’s palm. He hoists himself up onto the other smaller one, and the elder prince follows him, slower, stiffer, and tired from the fight. And before he can right himself in the saddle, foreign under him, Valarr’s voice booms over everything.

“Open the gates!” The people don’t think to question him as they ride out, the horse's hooves squelching in the mud, splashing it around. They leave behind the bustle of people, the shouts of the arena. “Where the fuck is the Maester?” “My horse!” “What in the gods' name is going on?”

***

Valarr pushes his horse harder. It is tired from the Trial, but luckily, the road is not long, only a few moments, especially on horseback. Baelor is stunned when Valarr pulls his horse to a stop in front of a dark, unassuming tent, a few familiar Targaryen guards guarding the door. But when he hears your stunted cry inside, he doesn't think or hesitate, he ducks in without a word. Valarr remains outside, starting to pace back and forth in front of the tent. The young prince is shaking, but whether it is nerves or fear or dropping adrenaline, he doesn’t know.

Helena blinks as the crown prince storms in, but the man is not the collected image of royalty he has always seemed to be. For he is a worried husband now, frenzied in his panic. “My love.” Baelor breathes, falling to his knees next to your bed, tears in his eyes, squeezing your hand tightly. “You came.” You breathe, relieved, slumping down onto the pillows, Helena’s hand on your shoulders, tightening as she helps you sit upright. “Of course,” Baelor whispers, wiping your hair from your eyes, pressing a kiss to your sweaty temple, “you asked for me.” His voice is soft with promise, your fear ebbing into the background as his hand comes to rest at your lower back. No matter what happens, he is here. “My lady. Please. Push.” The maester begs, and you shudder, grasping Baelor’s hand tighter as you feel another contraction approaching, gathering your strength. “Push, my love,” Baelor whispers into your ear, pressing kisses to your cheek. “I am here.”

And you finally push with a scream, your hold on his hand crushing, your whole body shaking. But he remains steadfast next to you, and the maester doesn’t even have time to think of the propriety of it all.

It is only moments later when bright cries ring over yours, the babe pulling their lungs full of air for the first time. “A girl.” The maester breathes, handing the babe to Helena as he checks you, pressing down on your stomach, your complaint only a small whimper. “A daughter?” Baelor stills, blinking rapidly. “Y-Yes.” Helena eyes the prince with caution as she cleans the babe. She has heard good things about the prince; surely, he won’t be angry that the babe is a girl?

Her fears are proven futile as she mutters about the babe being cold, and the prince, wordlessly, pulls his cape free from his shoulders, the expensive fabric ripping before he hands it over. With the babe bundled up and warm, Helena brings her to you as the Maester inspects her at a glance. “Perfectly healthy girl, my lord. My lady. I will take my leave, I believe I have duties to attend to at the trial grounds.” He bows shortly before hurrying out. Helena bows too, gathering a bundle of fabrics before making her way out, speaking with a low voice to the guards outside.

Silent, you both stare at your daughter, delighted that she is here, swaying her gently in your arms. Wrapped in his father’s cloak, the swirls of silver on it so like her hair, of pure Targaryen blonde. But as she opens her eyes, your husband’s mismatched colours meet yours, making your breath hitch. “She has your eyes.” You laugh, but settle when you feel the tear drop to your neck and slide under your gown. “My heart, why are you crying?” You coo, pulling his head to rest against your shoulder. “You have given me a daughter. She looks just like you. And she is so beautiful. More beautiful than I could have ever dreamed.” “She-“ “She might have my eyes and my father’s hair, but her nose, her cheeks, her chin? She is so like you.” He breathes, another tear falling from his eye and onto your skin.

You fall into a comfortable silence again before Baelor’s voice jolts you out of your thoughts. “I am sorry. I should not have left your side, not to fight, not when you were so close to birth.” Temple resting against yours, his arms around you, chin on your shoulder as he watches the babe, asleep now. “It does not matter now, my heart. You came when I needed you. When we needed you. That is all that matters.” You press a kiss to his jaw, pulling him to sit next to you, and you move your daughter into his arms. He smiles down at her. Your little girl is sleeping, and you rest your head on Baelor’s shoulder, tired but so blessed, just to have this moment, the three of you.

The flap parts, and Valarr peers in, the silvery streak of his hair glowing in the sunlight shining outside. His gaze is hesitant as he takes in the scene in front of him. His shoulders fall as he sees you sitting up. “Are you alright?” He asks and casts a hesitant glance at his father, who nods, allowing him to approach. “I am healthy, as is the babe.” You breathe, tapping the bed on your other side, and he slumps down on it.

You pull him into his arms, squeezing tight, and his eyes slip closed, nose burying itself into your shoulder as he gently embraces you back. A breath escapes him, feeling safe and tranquil, just like when he was a child. Baelor’s arm slides along your back and onto Valarr’s shoulder, as they tuck themselves closer to you, Baelor bringing the babe to rest against your chest, sealing your little family into a cocoon of love. This little moment with them, with no guards or lords or servants present, is priceless. Baelor’s and Valarr’s responsibilities demand so much of his time that you barely have time to be a family. You wish Matarys were here, but he was too sickly to travel to Ashford for the tourney. But he will meet his new sister soon, too.

*****

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As you meet his gaze, Baelor can see the exhaustion in your eyes, but the smile you give him is still filled with love nonetheless. “You did not have to rise.” Your voice dropped to a whisper, and you allowed yourself to appreciate the shirtless form of your husband. Muscles shaped from sword fighting and riding, a light brushing of dark hair on his chest, and trailing down his stomach. “I did not want you to be alone.” You jolt out of your sensuous thoughts, blinking up at him. “I am not alone.” You gesture to Valarr, who is finished eating, now teetering on the edge of sleep and awakeness.

Baelor huffs a gentle laugh as he bends to pick his son up, settling him into his crib, tucking him securely under his blanket. You yawn widely as you correct your shift, making your way to bed. You all but collapse onto the plush mattress, hoping sleep will claim you soon so you can get as much sleep as possible before Valarr will inevitably wake again.

As you bury yourself amidst the blankets and furs, Baelor makes his way back to bed too, pulling him to “Sleep late on the morrow. I will take care of Valarr.” He whispers against your temple, and you hum, already half asleep.

*****

Baelor watches Valarr stack the blocks with meticulous focus, as the lords drone on about taxation and profits. Maekar is tapping his fingers on the table, staring up at the ceiling, and Dyanna cannot take her eyes off Valarr. The young prince handles the blocks with surprising dexterity for his age, and that bodes well for his arms training, as said by the Master of Arms, to your rising horror. He is merely a babe, surely, there will not be any arms training for ages?

The meeting has been going on for what feels like ages now, but the pile of present issues doesn’t seem to have shrieked at all. “The Riverlands write of excellent wheat production, and -“ Valarr’s tiny hands slam onto the table, sending the blocks scattered around the table, a few falling to the floor. Baelor doesn’t even blink, just shifts his son to his other knee before he picks up the blocks, setting them down in his son’s reach again.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

You wouldn’t believe how much noise a small child can cause with a wooden block meeting a wooden table. The advisor’s voice is drowned out as Valarr slams the block into the table repeatedly, delighted in the ruckus he causes. “He clearly is the son of the Hammer,” Maekar grumbles, glancing at his brother, who rolls his eyes. Baelor grasps Valarr’s wrist gently and guides his hand to stack the block on top of another.

The young prince forgets the fun of making noise as he busies himself with another tower, and Baelor gestures for the advisor to continue. ”My Prince, could your wife fetch him?” One of the Lords suggests, but Baelor’s eyes don’t rise, they remain on his son as he stacks another tower, his father handing him blocks one by one. “My wife is resting”. “We have many important matters to discuss, and the delays are not serving us well…” He trails off as Baelor’s head rises slowly to meet the Lord’s eyes. He doesn’t speak, one of his eyebrows rising just a fraction. Valarr, oblivious to the tension, throws one of the blocks across the table, the clatter like a thunderclap in the now silent hall.

The silence stretches for a good while before Baelor breaks it. “You were speaking of Riverlands?” He asks the advisor, who blunders for a moment, frantically tracing his notes. “Yes, my prince.” The conversation commences, but the Lord from before remains very quiet in conversation.

***

On the other side of the castle, the growing pressure of your breasts has woken you from your slumber. The sleep has done wonders, you are rejuvenated and well rested. But now, you must hurry to your son, as you are sure he is hungry, if the uncomfortable feeling in your chest can give you any indication.

You step into the hall, the guards at the doors bowing and announcing your presence as you sweep into the room, the conversation dying as you enter. A warm smile tugs the corner of Baelor’s mouth as he watches you step in, head held high, your gorgeous gown of red and black sweeping the floor with your movements. You seem better rested now. The tenseness of your shoulders eased as you leaned to press a kiss to his cheek. “Pardon for the interruption, I simply came to fetch Valarr. We will be on our way.” With that, you duck out of the room, Valarr happily giggling in your arms, tiny hands wound to the neckline of your dress.

When the meeting finally finishes, he finds you and Valarr in the garden, your son sitting on a blanket, his tiny hands grasping the stems of flowers in wonder. You are embroidering the dragon of House Targaryen into a bodice of a dress you have been sewing as you watch your son gaze around the bright colours of the gardens in amazement.

Baelor doesn’t speak for a moment, just watches the two of you silently from the doorway. He hears the twittering of birds in the trees, and when he steps forward, he spooks one of them, it taking flight in a flurry of feathers. Valarr follows it with his gaze, leaning back, but it proves too much for his balance as he tumbles over onto his back. He is silent, blinking in amazement at his new position and the view opening in front of him. You set your work down with a warm laugh and help him sit back up. “Up we get, my little prince.” You dust off your dress, sighing deeply.

Baelor steps into your line of sight, grasping your hand. He twirls you around into his arms, pressing a kiss, filled with affection, to your lips. “Evening, my love.” His voice rumbles through his chest, the timbre gentle and warm, and you cannot help the smile that rises to your face. “Evening, my sweet prince. How was the meeting?” He doesn’t answer, not with words, just sighs heavily. “I am sorry that you had to have Valarr there. I could have looked after him…” You trail off as he shakes his head. “You required rest, and Valarr could sit with me without causing much issue. Valarr is my son, second in line to the Throne, the Lords will have to grow to accept his presence.” He assures you, fingers trailing absentminded patterns on your skin, not even noticing he was doing it. You are silent as you watch Valarr entertain himself with his hands, content in the warm summer’s breeze.

As Baelor’s hands rub absentminded patterns on the skin of your hips, you feel heat rising to your cheeks, even if you try and will to cool and your thoughts to stop running. “What is on your mind, my love?” His tone tilts in curiosity as he pulls back to see the full expression on your face. The heat on your cheeks rises. “I am simply just… thinking.” You try to dodge, but he knows you too well for such diversions to work. “Thinking of what?” You let the breath escape your lungs, silently as you bide for time. “Have you thought of having another?” You respond with a question of your own, instead, and confusion flashes in him, but only for a moment.

Because when he sees your eyes trailing to your son and the rising heat on your cheeks, he understands. “Another child?” His chest presses against your back, and you nod, unable to meet his gaze. “My love, I am dying for another”, he breathes into your ear, “I simply didn’t want to push you too soon after Valarr.” Shivers run along your spine as your whole body shudders as his large, warm hands trail along your figure. “I-I am sure that Dyanna wouldn’t mind watching Valarr for a few hours…” Baelor’s laugh rumbles in his body. “I do not think a few hours will be enough.”

Let’s just say Matarys is born nearly nine months later.

*****

A/N: Do you hear that? The faint screaming in the distance? Yeah, it’s my ovaries!

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You sigh. The weather has been wonderful the past week, but you have not had the opportunity to step outside the walls of Dragonstone a single time. You long to feel the wind on your skin, but in your current state, it would take you half the day to get down the stairs so you could even peer outside. Perhaps when the matters Baelor needs help with calm down, you can take a short walk. Just the two of you, without any duties or others to take your focus away from each other (except the guards that are always lurking about).

You settle for watching the view from the window. It is stunning, from this high up. The sun is setting, painting the sky warmly with shades of red, orange, and pink. You lean on the windowframe as you admire the sky as it reflects off the sea. The waves are calm today, and you see some of the last ships making their way to port as the daylight disappears, hauling in the last shipments of fish or perhaps crabs. The babe kicks, and you wince, rubbing your hand on the spot. “Settle now, darling. I am told it is getting tight there, but kicking truly hurts. But do tire yourself out now if it means I get to sleep peacefully without interruptions for the upcoming night.” You speak out loud, mostly thinking to yourself, glad to be alone. You do not need the servants or the maester gossiping that the future queen has lost her mind and is talking to herself.

The babe continues kicking, and you continue to rub the spots with a fond smile, absentmindedly admiring the view. You rest your stomach on the windowsill, the wood softly supporting the bottom of it, heavy with the child you are carrying. It will not be long now, the maester is insistent that the babe may decide to arrive as soon as next week. The arrival of your firstborn fills you with elation and dread, and you run your hand along your stomach as you hum gently, feeling the small kicks they give against your hand.

You watch the seagulls flying atop the rocks and get lost in your thoughts, running your hands along your stomach gently as the child kicks. You’d planned on finishing the book you had been reading, but after sitting in meetings all day, it feels good to stand. Even if your back is already starting to ache. You’d taken on more and more of your husband's duties as his father is in poor health at the moment, and Baelor is forced to shoulder his duties in turn. Raised in a smaller house with a smaller history, you have taken it upon yourself to educate yourself on the other houses of the kingdom as well as the matters of House Targaryen, slowly hoping to gather information that might help you not want to fall asleep in the meetings. Mostly, you (or originally Baelor) are needed there to make things legal and official, but your participation is rarely required outside of the few nods you’ve taken to giving.

The door opens, and Baelor steps in. You take a moment to admire him. Tall, dark-haired, broad-shouldered, and handsome. And yours. Wholeheartedly and fully yours. He looks at you warmly and softly as he approaches, inspecting you with a sweeping look. “How are you feeling, my love?” His kiss is a soft brush of his lips against your cheek as he settles behind you, arms sliding to your waist. “Quite well. Your child is heavy to carry, my back aches.” You sigh, shifting to straighten it, settling your body against his. “You are so strong for carrying them.” He leans down, pressing his cheek to yours, beard scratching your skin. His gaze is filled with adoration and love as he hums and presses himself closer.

His hands gently massage your back, the warmth of his hands almost searing through the fabric of your dress. “I am sore as well as large.” You complain, sliding your hands atop his to guide them back to cup your stomach. He does so, the warmth of his hands settling to your abdomen, his thumbs rubbing gently patterns there. “You’re beautiful,” he assures you, “radiating. Carrying our child.” His hands gently lift your stomach up, and you groan, dropping your head to his shoulder. He jolts in surprise and releases your stomach. You whine, your head rolling as you stare at him pleadingly. “Why did you let go?” You pull his hands back, settling them back under your belly. “Did I hurt you?” He’s cautious as his hands smooth around your stomach, gently lifting it again. “No, it feels wonderful.” You sigh, eyes closed in bliss.

The birth was long and grueling. You remembered only flashes: the muttered voices of healers and chambermaids, the searing pain, and the curses you hurled towards your husband, who was pacing the other side of the room, but heard every single one. You threatened his head, well-being, and cock, and a cold shiver ran down his spine. Your words were spoken with so much conviction that a small fraction of him was thankful that he was not in the room. He winced with your cries of pain and wished to be there to comfort you, but the young Lady Baratheon was not one to be taken lightly. One assassin had tried and received a comb, stabbed right into their eye.

Your son was born a little after midnight, and you cried with happiness as you finally held him. Lyonel was allowed in, and he hurried to you, seeing your tears. He felt a small grip of fear until a small hand appeared out of the bundle. “My sweet.” He breathed out in awe as he laid eyes on his son for the first time. “Lord Lyonel Baratheon, future Lord of Storm’s End. Meet your son.” You announce with a wavering voice and gently hand him over. Lyonel takes him, slowly, gently. “What do you think of as Ormund for a name?” He asks, eyes on his son, not quite able to believe that he is here. “Ormund, the son of Lyonel. It is perfect.” You sigh deeply, the tiredness starting to reach you in deep waves. “He is perfect. And so are you.” He assures you and gently leans in, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

You yawn, sleep threatening to take over. The healer had assured that it would be good to sleep, if you could. “Lyonel, you’ll hold him?” Your eyes are already closed. “Of course, my love. You rest.” With that, your eyes close and you slip instantly into a steady, dreamless sleep.

Lyonel is left alone with his son as you rest, and can take him in with greater detail. His son’s eyes mirror his own, and so does his dark hair. But he sees your nose, perfectly miniaturized on his son’s face. The boy shifts, and Lyonel gently alters his grip. “You’re big one, huh? Planning on outgrowing your father already?” Lyonel bounces him gently, feeling as if he could burst full of joy and pride. He remembers how he felt when he outgrew his father. “You have a lot of growing to do. But you’ll be a hulking beast of a man soon.” He assures, hand brushing the babe’s hair. “You’ll be able to take anyone with a sword or lance. We’ll hire the best masters of arms, and they will teach you everything. And what they don’t know, I will teach you.” He vows, glancing at your sleeping form.

A young maid peeks her head in, and you jolt awake. Lyonel throws a dark glare in her way, and she blushes deeply, voice dropping to a mutter. “My lady, I can take the young Baratheon to the wet nurse now if-“ “No.” You interrupt, shaking your head. “I will nurse him myself.” Your words are final, but the girl still glances at Lyonel. “My Lady has spoken. She’ll nurse him.” He responds evenly, presence collected and stately. What you say will happen, end of discussion. The wet nurse enters the room, still, but only to aid you in nursing.

Lyonel returns the babe in your arms and watches from the foot of your bed, your hand in his, as the nursemaid assists you. “He may not latch on the first try, but do not be discouraged, my lady.” She assures you, but your son is apparently adamant to prove her wrong, or is just hungry, as he begins suckling immediately. “He is a hungry one.” The nursemaid laughs, giving you a warm smile. “Of course he is, have you seen the size of him?” Lyonel boasts from his spot, and you give his hand a squeeze while keeping your eyes tightly on your son. “Your son is a big baby, my lord. And healthy as a horse. He’ll grow into a strong boy and man, there is no doubt.” The nursemaid is quick to assure, and you swear you see Lyonel glow with pride. “Lady Baratheon. Do not hesitate to ask if you need assistance. I am here.” Her words settle the nerves in your heart, as she settles into the side of the room, pulling out her knitting and starting work on it.

Lyonel leaves to make an announcement to his father, the current Lord of Storm’s End, as well as the people in the city. You can hear the cheers from the yard, and can only imagine the celebration your husband is going to throw.

*****

You couldn’t have imagined the celebration, even in your wildest dreams. On the second day, when you finally feel well enough to participate, Lyonel is boasting to everyone within earshot that your son will grow into a bouldering man and that he will beat them all in jousting, sword fighting, and archery. He’ll be the heartbreak of maidens and knights alike, and he will grow to be the Lord of Storm’s End, just like his father.

The celebration would have gone on longer, but the Ashford field tournament is fast approaching, and you set your way there. Lyonel had sternly refused that you and young Ormund remain home. “He is my son, I want to show him off! Tell tales of the man he will become!” You laugh softly and wince as the carriage drives over a hole in the road. You are still not fully recovered from the birth. The healers and the elder ladies had warned you that you would be sore for a while, especially with Ormund being such a big baby.

The road to Ashford had been long, and you settled down to rest for a moment before the celebrations started. Lyonel tells you that he will take the baby with him to see the other lords. You agree, knowing he is burning to show off the future lord of Storm’s End and his heir. (There has been some light banter about him not having one, despite his age.)

When you wake, you venture on a search for them. When you finally do, you feel as if your heart has stopped.

As he, your son, is sat atop a horse. He is supported by your husband’s hand, who is laughing, as his son giggles with his pudgy fist in his mouth. But he is sitting atop his father’s war horse, who was not a child’s pony, and definitely not suited for a baby. “Lyonel! What in the gods’ name are you doing?” You didn’t bother with lowering your voice or making your tone even. “What? You know Acorn, she’s a sensible mare.” Lyonel laughed, handing your son over as you reached for him. “Much more so than her rider.” You huffed in indignation, inspecting your son over. He was a happy baby, taking after his father, quick to smile and laugh.

*****

In the Baratheon tent fitted for visitors, the air is heavy, and the noise is loud. Your son’s hand finds your pinky and grabs a tight hold of it. “Have you ever seen such a warrior’s grip before?” Lyonel roars, pounding a neighboring man into the back, gesturing towards his son. “It’s as if he were born with hands ready for a sword!” The man roars back, and they end up in a loud, alcohol fueled argument over long words and maces, which you desire not to listen to.

After a while of entertaining your son, you excuse yourself to find conversation with a few other ladies who have young children to search for kinship, leaving Lyonel with the baby.  He is boasting about his size and strength with such intensity that you are not sure he is able to breathe in between.

Lyonel spots Dunk hesitantly making his way around the tent and waves him over. As soon as he has stepped to the front of the table, Lyonel holds Ormund out to him. "Look at him, you wall of a man!” Lyonel all but thrusts his son into Dunk’s face, who takes a step back at the sudden movement. “Were even you so big as a babe?” Lyonel’s words are proud, and he hoists his son even higher, so his eyes are in line with Dunk’s now. “I-I don’t believe so.” Poor Dunk is stunned. He just wanted some supper, and now there’s a baby in his face. “He’s going to be such a jouster. Feel his grip.” With one hand, Lyonel pushes Dunk to sit, and with the other, he sets his son in the arms of the hedge knight, who stiffens. He’s never held a baby before. Let alone Lord’s baby, their firstborn. Lyonel doesn’t notice this, or even think of it, and presses Dunk’s pinky into the baby’s grip. Ormund closes his fist immediately around him, and Lyonel pats Dunk on the back. “Feel that? He has the grip of a warrior.” He’s brimming with pride, his son watching with bright eyes. “He s-sure does, my Lord.” Dunk agrees. The baby indeed has a strong grip, and with what he knows of babies, is quite big. “Stay there for a moment, aye? I have a matter to see to.” The “matter” is of him needing a drink, but Dunk doesn’t need to know that.

And like that, Dunk is alone with the baby. Who is looking at him with large eyes, much like his father’s. The babe’s grip remains steady on Dunk’s finger, free pudgy hand in his mouth. “Please do not cry. Please do not cry.” Dunk is praying, sure that if he makes his son cry, Lyonel will have him executed. Which is not probably not far from the truth.

Just as Dunk feels as if he might survive this, the baby begins squirming, face scrunching. “Oh, you’re okay.” Dunk shushes, or rather begs the baby to be quiet. “Be still now, everything is okay.” He is getting desperate, searching for Lyonel with his gaze, but the Lord is nowhere to be seen.  

Dunk’s savior appears out of nowhere. “Ser Duncan. Why do you have my son?” Your steps come to a halt as you see Ormund in the grasp of the giant knight. “Lord Lyonel handed him to me and went to take care of some business. I mean no harm to him, I swear-“ You cut him off. “I am sure he is quite safe with you. My husband just … left him to you?” Your words are indignant, your brow raised high. “Yes, my lady. He said he had some business to attend to, and-“ Your huff interrupts him yet again as you pluck the babe from his arms. He stops talking, breathing in relief as you settle your son into your lap. “Business to attend”, you say with a roll of your eyes, “he’s been pouring pint after pint, boasting how he made a big baby. It is as if I have two children.” You sigh, hand rubbing your temple, bouncing your son gently. Ormund laughs with delight, flailing his hands, and Dunk doesn’t know how to respond. “I-I see.” You swivel your head, glancing in the direction from which you hear his distinctive laugh coming. “Could you hold him for just one short moment more? I’ll fetch my husband, and then I’ll take him right back.” Dunk accepts the boy with hesitation and freezes when the boy smiles at him. He responds in kind, allowing the child to grasp his finger again. “I’m sure you’ll grow great and strong, just like your father.” He gently assures the boy, who giggles, kicking his legs. You return soon, as you promised, with your husband’s ear in your hold. “My sweet, that is - OW!” You release him, and he rubs his ear, settling to sit in his seat with an almost childlike glare.

Lyonel is boasting again, the embarrassment of being fetched back like a child long forgotten. “I’ve never seen a more handsome baby. And I made him!” Your husband slurs, holding his son out and up again. Dunk nods in agreement, but you kick Lyonel’s chin in retaliation.“What do you mean you made? I am the one who pushed that very big baby out of a very small hole in my body. I can barely sit comfortably!” You snap, settling Ormund against your chest after stealing him back from your husband. Dunk blushes deep red upon your words. Lyonel throws his head back in his loud laughter. Luckily, your son is well used to this uproarious man in his life, and simply giggles, hands flailing again.

Only when your son fusses slightly, his hand finding the chest of your dress, do you decide that your evening has to come to a close. You lay your hand atop your husband’s shoulder, bringing his attention to you. “I think it's best that Ormund and I head to sleep. He is getting hungry, and I am feeling quite tired.” You speak to your husband, and he opens his mouth to argue, but sees the steely look in your eyes and decides it would be best for his heart to join you. “Good sers, I am afraid we must retire now.” He mutters, swaying slightly, but his voice is even. The knights and men alike around boo, and he shoves a few of them away. “You’ll understand when you all have wives. And a baby.” He waves them off and escorts you out with a hand on your lower back.

Your smile dims as Matarys trips over his feet, tumbling to the ground. You hear him sniffle as he stares at his hands. At your approach, he looks up, his eyes filled with tears, and you coo softly. “You are alright, my brave little knight.” Brushing his hands gently to see there are no cuts, you lift him to his feet, brushing the sand off his clothes. “Shall we go and find your father? He said he has a surprise for you.” The boy perks up instantly, nodding enthusiastically as he begins tugging you by your arm towards the castle. Not big with words, his eyes plead you to follow as the training yard returns to its normal hustle and bustle, with the prince now gone.

Baelor had returned from a diplomatic mission late last night, and your sons were in deep sleep when the party arrived. He’d been tired and almost fallen straight to bed when you’d assisted him out of his clothing, but first making sure to wrap you into his embrace. You’d been slightly confused. Usually, he’d waste no time in reuniting with you in a more … physical way. But he’d been tired even before he’d left, the difficult birth of Matarys had weighed on him for a long time after the birth and up to your full recovery, which took time, too*.

****

As the winter slowly turns into spring, the cold moving aside and bringing out the sun and warmth, you still feel detached from your husband. Baelor is his usual charming self, kissing your cheek with every opportunity, escorting you on his arm everywhere, but something is missing. You cannot quite find a way to describe it, but it feels as if he is pulling away even if he is right beside you.

It is only when you hear the ladies of the court start whispering about the diplomatic mission and the Lord who offered his daughter’s hand to him, quite brazenly, as he knew Baelor was married, that you start to worry. Could he be growing bored with you? You are not a young maiden anymore, your body shaped by two sons. But he’s assured you that you are beautiful to him, especially after bearing him his sons. Had that all been verbiage, pretty words to keep you satisfied? Could he be considering the offer, weighing the opportunity for a younger wife?

As the doubt sets in your mind, you start looking and seeing proof of his boredom with you everywhere. The way he looks at you after greeting the women in town. The way he pulls his hand out of your hold when he greets the lords of the court. And you begin to pull into yourself, spending more and more time with your sons in their rooms, dodging his invitations to meetings and events, even private walks, with lame excuses. The whole court can see the change, seemingly holding their breath as the formerly loving couple turns to stone when they are close to each other.

Baelor misses you so much that he feels physical pain. He misses your touch, your love, your hand in his. But he cannot chase the images of you, pale in the bed, face ashen, and the maesters unsure whether you would wake again. Matarys is healthy and happy by then, even after being lifeless in birth, now energized and kicking his legs. Loud giggles ring in the chambers as Baelor sits by your bedside, unable to sleep at or drink, holding his infant son*.

He cannot be the reason you are brought to the brink of death again if something goes wrong again. He’d love another child with you, as many as you’d give him, but the thought of losing you to the child bed terrifies him to his core.

****

Maekar sees the way you shrink into yourself as Baelor approaches the other ladies of the court. Your eyes watch the exchange with intensity, studying every move, every gesture, as if it would give you the opportunity to solve all the hunger in the kingdom. He sees you flinch when Baelor smiles at one of them, stance polite with his posture stiff. Your shoulders fall, still, and you excuse yourself quickly, returning to your rooms with tears in your eyes. Whatever you have convinced yourself is full horse shit, Maekar knowing that Baelor loves you more than anything, unsure of why his brother is acting so. But there is a change in Baelor, too. He seems dull, emotionless as he serves his duties, attends and leads meetings, takes care of this and that around the kingdom. But it seems as if he has lost something in him, like some pieces are missing.

Maekar seeks his brother out, hunched over a towel of papers, scrawling signatures with an impassive expression. “Why the fuck are you acting like this?” He doesn’t knock, doesn’t announce himself, but goes straight to the issue. “I do not know what you mean.” Baelor’s head doesn’t rise, his tone even. “You’ve been prowling around the kingdom for weeks now, snapping at everyone. And when your lady wife graces us with her presence, you turn to stone.” His brother doesn’t respond now, just scratches another signature.

Sighing, Maekar runs his hand over his face. How is it that he has to be the voice of reason? “Talk to your wife, she has convinced herself that you do not love her anymore. She spends so much of her time with the children, the people are starting to gossip.” Maekar stares down his older brother, but he has long stopped listening to what he has to say. “You do not have the power to tell me what to do.” Baelor barks, and Maekar blinks in surprise. He’s never heard him use such a tone before, but his brother returns to his papers and gestures to him to leave before he can say anything else. From experience, he knows it is no use in trying to get more out of him, and Maekar takes his leave, but he is not finished with him yet.

If that is how Baelor wants to play this, Maekar will go to the person who has the power to make Baelor do as said. Their father, the King.

*****

You fiddle with your fingers, nervous as you approach the small meeting hall. You’d received a letter from the king himself, requiring your presence urgently. Leaving your children with their mentors, you’d hurried across the halls, your steps echoing in the halls.

You enter, and to your surprise, it is not your father-in-law, whose face you meet, but your husbands. His mismatched eyes meet yours, his brow rising as you peer into the room, not seeing the king anywhere. You stand there, silent for a moment. Unsure what is happening, why you have been called here, but your head keeps coming up with terrible scenarios. Horrible injuries in the family, a rebellion breaking out, the people's crop gone in a fire. But mostly, it concerns your husband and his want for a new wife.

The more you try and push those thoughts away, like you’ve been doing for the past weeks, the more you are forced to think about the matters as they invade your head. The official request of the king, Baelor’s rigid posture, the way he cannot seem to be able to look at you, avoiding your gaze as he has been doing. The rumors of the castle, the ladies whispering that stills as you enter.

The reality of life without him begins to solidify in your mind, your heart breaking at the thought of not being able to hold him whenever you can. His warmth on the cold winter days, his love on the days you need it the most, his laugh as he plays with your sons.

The simple thought of not being his tears you apart inside. You try to stop the tears from falling, but the fear you have been trying to control all morning mounts, and tears spill from your eyes. You try to keep quiet, head downcast, gently wiping them away with a handkerchief, but the first sniffle alerts him.

Baelor steps closer, reaching to take your hand into his, and you are still as his warm palms wrap around yours. His heart clenches as he sees your tears, a spark of anger lighting inside of him, too. Had someone hurt you? “What is the matter, my love?” You shake your head, tears falling, still not looking at him, turning away as he tries to brush the tears off your cheek. “Has someone hurt you?” He demands, and your eyes rise to stare at him, for a moment.  He has not seen such a look in your eyes before, and his brow furrows. “I do not know.” “You do not know if someone has hurt you?” He is incredulous and confused, trying to get a better sense of what you are feeling. “Have you hurt me?” Your question almost knocks him back, horror flooding him.

Baelor does not remember hurting you, always holding you with the utmost gentleness, always making sure not to pull you too harshly when dancing, making sure that you do not even graze walls when he escorts you, assuring you that- “Have you been thinking of taking a second wife?” His frantic thoughts grind to a halt. “W-What?” “I know Lord Lannister offered you the hand of his eldest. I am growing older, and I have given you two sons, my body is not what it used to be. Are you growing bored of me? I must know, I will leave on my own accord, I cannot bear you taking another wife, you disrespecting me in such a way.” Your chest heaves as you finish, and he stares at you, horrified. How could you think of such things? His tone is even as he stares deeply into your eyes. “My love,” he sees you flinch, and tries to hide it. The gesture pains his heart more than any punch or slap you could have dealt. “I would never take another wife. I would never disrespect you so.” He vows, one knee on the ground as he kneels in front of you, your hands in his.

You see the earnestness in his gaze, and the doubts in your mind crack as you study his face, the promise in it. “Then why…?“ So much is packed into that simple statement that trails off, questioning his behavior of the days past. “I was afraid, after Matarys’ birth. Seeing your almost lifeless body terrified me. I cannot bear to think of losing you. Of being the reason for your death. So I forced myself to be away, to give you the chance to live, even if it hurt. I didn’t realize how it would hurt you, too. I am a fool.” His voice is low, only barely above a whisper, love pouring out with every word, held back for too long. His arms pull you into a tight embrace.

Relief floods you so your body feels warm, and you laugh, beside yourself. “My honorable fool of a husband.” You coo, hand rising to his jaw. His eyes slip closed at your touch, and he feels his knees buckle as your thumb brushes his cheek.

“I am alright. Matarys is healthy and happy, and I do not intend to die with our next child.” His eyes flash with surprise as they snap open. “N-Next?” “Of course.” You breathe, laughter surfacing again. “I think the gods would not give me such a handsome husband if they didn’t intend for us to have plenty of children.” Your fingers trail on his arms as you peer at him from under your lashes, smiling softly. He returns the gesture, pulling you closer, allowing himself to relax fully for the first time in a while. The warmth of your body against him, the smell of your perfume wafts over him, chasing away the dreaded images that threaten to surface.

*****

*Interest in a oneshot about Matarys’ birth and the aftermath? Aka broken!Baelor is at his wife’s bedside with a newborn and Valarr to take care of. I’ve written quite a lot about it in passing in other fics, but I am kind of tickled to write a full, kinda angsty, piece, too.

***

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The convoy has made its way inside the gates. The people stop their chores to applaud and welcome them back home. Lyonel has dismounted Acorn with a groan and is stretching his back when he hears it. “Lyonel!” A sharp, bright call of his name, and he sees the guards jump aside before his eyes land on you. For the first time in too long a time, he can caress his gaze with your body, so beautiful in the Baratheon golden gown and the circlet of intertwined antlers.

He cannot fathom much more of you before you slam into his arms with force. You shriek a laugh as he spins you around before claiming your lips in a deep, passionate kiss. His arms hold you to him tightly, his presence overwhelming yours. The kiss is deep, without hurry, as he sets you back down onto your feet. “By the Gods, my dove, how I’ve missed you.” He breathes, now pressing endless kisses against your lips, your breath mixing. “I’ve missed you, too, my love.” You assure him as you cup his cheek, thumb tracing the line between his beard and cheek. “How was the tourney?” You ask, and frown when you note the faint remnants of a black eye. “I’ll tell you later”, he promises, a dark shadow flashing over his eyes, “how have things been here at Storm’s End?” Glancing around, he sees nothing amiss, but he never thought there would be.

Lyonel has never had any issues in letting you help run things, even if some lords keep telling him that women should not do such things. Unlucky for them, Lyonel is not a good listener. And also doesn’t care. “Some problems with the rents, but the guards I sent are settling the matters.” You assure him steadily, inspecting him in a glance. “Were you terribly injur-“ Your words are cut off by a shriek that feels like it could cut glass. “Papa!” Your girls appear in gowns that match yours exactly. Their dark curls bounce as they bound down the last steps and head straight to their father.

Lyonel scoops them up, one on each arm, peppering their little laughing faces with kisses. “My little fawns, I missed you greatly. Have you been good to your mother?” He lets their presence soothe away the horrors of the tournament, meeting their gazes, so similar to his own. Sometimes he wonders how he get two daughters who look exactly like him. Surely one of them should have inherited your traits, too? “Yes!” “Of course, papa!” They promise, eyes shining bright, even if they are stretching the truth a little.

Lyonel hesitantly sets them down, but they cling to his legs as you return to his side. Smiling widely, you press a gentle kiss to his lips, your girls “eww”ing in unison. You love how he is with his girls, always ready at their beck and call. They have him wrapped tight around their fingers. “I will have the servants run you and your … companions baths?” You have only now spotted the tall knight and the lanky, bald boy, probably his squire, behind him. “Ah, yes. Gents, this is my wife, Lady Baratheon, the light of my life and mother of my daughters, Gowen and Delia.” His hand trails to your waist as he pulls you to his side, strong and possessive, before he gestures to his legs, which the girls are now hiding behind. Delia, younger but braver, risks a small wave. “My loves, these are Ser Duncan the Tall and Egg, his squire.” He gestures to them, and they give you courteous bows. “My Ladies.” You nod, your curiosity rising. “I am waiting to hear the story of how this friendship came to be. But I think it is perfect for dinner. The kitchens are preparing a roast, the hunting party brought back a boar this morning. There is a perfect time for baths before we eat.” You gesture them to follow, and they do, Lyonel with difficulty, as there are still two young Baratheon girls clinging to him, one on each limb, giggling as he tumbles his way towards the castle.

*****

The following morning, you frown when you do not find Lyonel’s warm body next to you as you wake. You stretch, still able to feel the warmth of his hands and lips on your skin from the night past. A small, satisfied smile rises to your lips as you begin your day, knowing where you can find him. Because there is only one place he would rather be than with you.

You push open the door to the girls’ playroom, following the giggles sounding from inside. Your smile widens. Lyonel is sitting around the girl's tiny table, a small wooden teacup in hand, his hair tied into dozens of small pigtails with ribbons. “My my, don’t you look handsome.” You tease softly, leaning down to press a kiss to his temple. He grumbles slightly, but it is replaced with a bright smile as his daughter turns to him, raising the tiny teapot in his direction. “More tea, papa?” “Of course.” “And you, Ser Duncan?” “Please, Lady Baratheon.” The girls giggle simultaneously, the tall knight sitting folded in half. A tiny antlered crown rests on his head, and he is delicately sipping from the tiny teacup. Egg looks like he is having the time of his life. “You didn’t decorate Ser Duncan’s hair with ribbons?” You ask, mischievous glint in your eye. “They tried, but my hair is too short.” Ser Duncan seems to be thanking the gods for that streak of luck. “I was deemed worthy to wear the crown instead.” You laugh warmly, bending down to kiss each of your girls on their cheeks. “You look pretty, mama.” Delia trills, her fingers running on the hem of your dress. “Thank you, my love.” “You always do,” Lyonel assures you while accepting another pour of tea from Gowen.

Your fingers ghost along his cheek as a thank you, and he inspects you in a quick glance. “What brings you here, my dove?” Lyonel asks as he blows a ribbon off his face, the long ends dangling over his eyes. “I was going to read through the payments of rents this morning, and wondered if you could help me, but I see there are more important things on your agenda today.” You eye around the room, meeting his gaze with a warm smile. “Of course I’ll assist.” Lyonel shifts to stand, making the girls release a chorus of pleas and whines for him to stay, coming to hang on his arms. “We haven’t even had cake yet! You promised, Papa.” Gowen tugs at his sleeve, eyes wide and pleading. “No, no, you are clearly busy.” You glance at the young squire who is leafing through a book. “Egg, could you lend me a hand? I am sure Ser Duncan can spare you for a moment.” You quirk a brow as Duncan nods stiffly, not wanting to drop the tiny crown from his head. Egg jumps up, instantly energized, folding his arms behind his back. “Of course, my lady!”

The door has almost closed behind you when you stop in your tracks and peer back in. “Oh, before I forget. A raven arrived to enquire about a possibility of a group of fabric traders making a visit here.” You could see the gleam rising in your girl's eyes, and bit your lip as they swarmed their father, releasing a tidal wave of pleas and ‘please’s. The man was helpless, of course, he was, he had never been able to say no to them. You were sure you could spot tears in Gowen’s eyes. Gods help the lords they married, already very skilled in wrapping men around their fingers.

A/N: Lyonel is a girl dad, and that is canon. Also, his girls all have his curly hair. 

*****

And then there is silence. Unnerving, frightening silence. Lyonel freezes in front of the door, ears straining to hear. The door opens with a creak, and he blinks, waiting to hear news. He thinks he hears your quiet voice, but cannot be sure, the voices getting lost in the steps echoing inside, people moving back and forth.

Finally, the door opens, a pale face peers into the hallway. “M-My lord.” One of the young healers slips out and approaches him, solemnly, and Lyonel feels as his world has collapsed. No. “L-Lady Baratheon, she is tired.” A lurch of fear, a breath of relief. “And what of it?” Lyoner was primed as an arrow, ready for launch, emotions wound tight. “The babe, it is positioned in a way that it is making it difficult for her to push. Their straight is waning.” He explains hesitantly, winding his hands. “So give her herbs, give her strength. I will not lose my wife!” Lyonel barks, and the healer jumps. “The-The others, they say they can save the babe. But…” He swallows. “But the mother will p-perish.” He feels so small when the lord glares at him. “My wife will not die!” Lyonel is yelling now, but he doesn’t care, a memory of the time before the birth of your firstborn, flashing in his head, raw and painful.

*****

“If something goes wrong in the birth, I want you to tell the healers that they should save the babe.” You’d told him, one night, as his hand ran along your growing belly. “You- you cannot ask this of me.” He’s shocked, almost insulted. How little do you think he loves you? “I am. I will. And you must promise. Promise me.” “My love-“ He cannot even think of entertaining such a thing.

But your mind is set, has been for some time. “Promise me, Lyonel.” You squeeze his hand, eyes filling with tears. “I must know-“ your breath hitches as tears run down your cheeks, “I must know that you will care for our babe if something goes wrong.” “How- How can I make such a promise? I cannot imagine caring for the babe without you. I cannot imagine life without you.” Tears are running down his cheeks, too, now. “The birth is my battle. Yours is tourneys and wars, and I will advise you on what to do, but the choice is yours, in the last breath. And this choice is mine, as this is my battle, as it has been for all the women before me.” He sees the set of your jaw, and he knows that your mind is made, even if it pains you. And him. “I promise.” He whispers, praying that the seven never make him face that promise.

*****

But it seems the moment is here. Inhaling a deep breath, he speaks, voice now raw with emotion. “Let me see her.” “It is not proper, I-“ “You are saying that my wife is dying, so fuck proper. Let me see her.” The healer swallows and enters the room. There are raised voices, and Lyonel’s patience is running low. He is ready to break the door and storm in, damn the consequences. But the door creaks open before he can, and the healer peeks in. “Come in, my lord.”

The heavy iron smell hits him in a nauseating wave as he enters. Blood. He staggers, but forces his head straight with a shake. He cannot falter now, you need him to be strong. He hurries to your side, heart growing cold when he realizes how pale you are. “My love, I am here.” He whispers gently, and your eyelids flutter as they open, a feverish sheen in your gaze. Relief floods you as you see him next to you, eyes soft, as he gently pets your hair. “Lyonel. It hurts.” Your voice is barely a whisper, your breath catching, and he coos at you. “You are so strong, my love. You must push now.” Your eyes close, and you swallow. “I don’t think that I can”. You confess, and the healers shift uncomfortably. Lyonel pays them no mind. “You can. I know you can. You are the strongest person I know, and I know you can do this. We’ll be able to hold our beautiful daughter, and I’ll hold you and never let go.” He vows, and you shift slightly, glancing at the healers. “We’ll try again. But if I fall unconscious…” You trail off, meeting Lyonel’s gaze, who closes his eyes.

The healers settle into their positions, pulling your legs into place and pressing on your stomach and back to guide the babe into a better position. “I promised.” He reminds you, and himself, in a breath. Tears rise to his eyes, but he wills them away. He cannot show his fear to you, not now. So, he forces a smile on his face, and yours is so warm in return, even when you are exhausted. With his help, you heave yourself upright in the bed to get a better advantage to push. “Push, my lady!” The eldest healer commands soon, and you do with a shriek. Again and again.

Lyonel is on his knees next to the bed, forehead resting against your mattress. His hand clutches yours tightly, as your fingers digs into the back of it. But he barely feels it, his eyes closed as he prays to The Mother, the words and endless mantra, flinching with every one of your screams.

This goes on for what feels like forever. But soon, the healer’s tones change into ones of hope, their frantic movements slowing. The youngest cheer out loud when, with a final piercing scream, your child enters the world. “A daughter.” The eldest healer announces, quickly beginning to dry the small figure. “Why is she silent? Why is she not crying?” You whisper, fighting exhaustion as the healers feed you herbs and honey, desperate to raise your energy, to keep you conscious. “Lyonel.” You plead. You do not know for what. Lyonel shushes you, gently, with love in his eyes before he hesitantly rises and steps closer to the healer.

But a cry, sharp and wailing, breaks the stillness of the room, and everyone breathes a sigh of relief. “She is not pleased to be out. Strong lungs, perfectly healthy girl.” The healer holding her announces, and full ease settles over the room. “She clearly did not want to leave.” You manage to breathe a laugh, your eyes slumping. One of the healers taps your cheek, briskly and not gently in the slightest. “My Lady! Drink this, then you may rest.” You take the cup, and down it in faltering swallows. A drop escapes and runs down your chin, and Lyonel wipes it away as you grimace at the taste. “Rest, my love.” He breathes gently, softly, finger brushing your cheek. “I will look over our daughter.” You settle into sleep with that, and Lyonel lowers his voice. “Fetch the wet nurse. Lady Baratheon will want to breastfeed once she wakes, but I think the babe is hungry now.” The girl is now sniffling, the healers having calmed her cries slightly.

Hesitantly, he approaches the healer, still holding her. “May I have her? Until the wet nurses arrive.” Her eyes soften as she looks upon him, seeing a man trying so hard to be strong when he, too, is tired and almost broken. She hands the tiny girl over, and Lyonel takes her very gently, as she was made of the finest porcelain. The baby watches him, eyes brimming with tears, and his knees lurch when he realizes that she has your eyes. She’s smaller than his sons were, as he was told, and she feels more fragile, somehow. He loves his sons dearly, but he knows now, already, that he would go to war for her.

The wet nurses enter. The elder, who was with you after your first son was born, is now too old to nurse, but is there to guide her successor. Lyonel hesitantly hands his daughter over before making his way next to your bed again. He rests his chin atop your mattress, holding your hand, listening to them mutter. The younger maid is nervous, especially with him present, but the elder is quick to assure her and get the baby to latch.

*****

Evening crests before you wake, and as you blearily blink your eyes, Lyonel storms to the door, almost tripping in his haste. “She’s awake!” He calls out to the length of the hallway before making his way back to you, shaking with relief. Your daughter is safe against his chest, stirring as his movements wake her, too. Shifting the stirring babe around in his arms, he looks at you, smiling warmly. It feels foreign on his face. “How do you feel, my sweet?” He whispers, a hand oh-so-gently trailing your cheek. “Tired. Sore.” You ponder for a moment. “Hungry.” Lyonel barks a relieved laugh, frayed at the edges. “That is an excellent sign.” The healer laughs too, having just entered. “Are you bleeding, still?” You shake your head, but the healer still gestures for Lyonel to leave the room. He feels his breath hitch, fear creeping up again, but he steels himself and rises. “I’ll be just outside.” He assures himself more than you. And he paces the hallway outside until he is allowed back in. All the while bouncing his baby girl, breathing deep and even, willing himself to be calm.

It doesn’t take long, yet it feels like an eternity for Lyonel, before he is let back into the room. “Your wife is perfectly healthy. Plenty of rest and some herbs for strength, but she’ll be alright in a week or two.” Lyonel nods stiffly, eyes dead set upon you, as he settles the babe into your arms wordlessly. He feels empty when she leaves his chest.

And when he sees you coo and smile at your daughter, he breaks. His knees buckle, and he manages to catch himself upon your bed, heaving himself to sit beside your feet. The healers make themselves scarce as you wave them off with urgency. Lyonel’s sobs shake his whole body, and he slumps forward on the bed, his hand grasping yours with an almost desperate strength. His head rests on your knees, and you card your hand through his hair, shushing softly, as you do for your sons when they’ve had a nightmare. “I’m alright, my love.” You coo, and he tries to answer, but he cannot. All his fear and relief flood out, and he can only sob, holding tightly onto you.

It takes a moment for him to calm, and he still keeps his head pressed down when he is finally able to suck in a full breath into his lungs. If the Lords could see Lyonel Baratheon now, face wet with tears and hair a mess, clutching his wife as a child does their toy. “I’m sorry-“ “Do not apologize,” you cut him off, “you are allowed to feel too.” “I-“ He sighs, “I was afraid. For you. For her.” He glances at the sleeping babe. “I promised you that I would let you go if it came to that, and it hurt. It hurt, I felt I was barely able to breathe. I don’t think-“ He swallows. “I don’t think I could have been able to live with myself if I’d let you go.” He confesses, lifting his head to finally meet your gaze. You cup his cheek, and his eyes slide closed, your touch cool on his feverish skin. “You would have, I know it. Because you promised me. And you never go back on your promises. But I am alright, and so is our daughter. We have our full lives to look forward to.” You kiss his forehead.

The room is filled with silence as you both watch the babe sleeping soundly against your chest. “Have you thought of a name?” You ask quietly, giving an another kiss, to his cheek this time. “Gowen.” His eyes are calmer now, his demeanor more like himself. Your kiss on his lips brings out his grin. “It is perfect.” “You’re perfect.” He simply responds, leaning in for a deep kiss.

He opens the door, and they bustle in, silent as they hurry to the edge of your bed. “Hi, mama.” Robert smiles, throwing his arms around your neck. Ormund, not wanting to be left out and in the shadow of his younger brother, kisses your cheek. “You look pretty.” It is an absolute lie, you know it, still sweaty and exhausted after the birth, but Lyonel nods in agreement nonetheless, pressing a kiss of his own onto his cheek.

Your daughter whimpers in the bundle of blankets, eyes opening with a yawn. Lyonel's grin is so wide as he stares down at her, you worry for the corners of his mouth. “She’s so small,” Ormund whispers, gazing at her with wonder. “When can she do sword fighting with us?” Robert asks, eyes glowing with the prospect of having another playmate. “She’ll perhaps not want to play swords with you,” Lyonel tells the boys, as they peer even closer. “Why not? Playing with swords is fun.” Robert shrugs, and Ormund shoves his shoulder. “It’s not when you cheat.” “Do not!” “Do too!”

The shoves they give each other grow in strength, and your bed jolts, making you grimace. “Boys. Best behavior.” Lyonel’s words shut them up effectively, and they tuck their chins down, arms behind their backs again as they settle down to stand by your bed again. “Sorry.” They say in unison. “No harm done,” you assure them, “but Dowen is trying to sleep.” Girl in your arms yawns, nuzzling deeper into her blankets again. “We'd better leave my ladies be, they need to rest. I am sure Ser Manfred will take you riding if you promise to be on your best behavior.” The boys nod in unison, hands tucked behind their straightened backs. Lyonel barks a familiar laugh, warm and loud. Eyes moving from one Baratheon to the next, you sigh affectionately. “For the love of gods, please be careful.” With your words, your husband dismisses them with a nod. “We will!” Your eldest promises as they tumble out of the room, their bickering over which gets the bigger pony audible long after they have disappeared from sight.

Dowen has Lyonel wrapped tight around her tiny finger. A mere peep, and he comes running, and is fussing and making sure everything is alright with her. As you embroider golden fawns onto a small dress, the one you’re making for your daughter to wear as you officially introduce her to the court and people, Lyonel twirls your daughter around. She giggles, one of his curls clutched tight in her tiny hand. “It is unfair how much she likes you.” You mutter with a faux-glare, but your voice is jovial as you watch Lyonel bounce her. “Of course, she likes me, she has excellent taste. Such as her mother.” He gives a roguish wink, and you roll your eyes, affectionately, as heat flushes your cheeks. Damn him and that smile.

You watch them in silence for a moment, finishing up the last stitches on this embroidered fawn. “Have you started the preparations for the feast yet?” Tightening a loose yarn, you watch your husband move around the room, his eyes still tightly on the babe. “Of course! This will be such a feast, it will be talked about for years. People will eat until they cannot anymore, cider and ale will flow like rivers.” His presence is soft, his voice dropped to a gentle coo as he speaks. “And we’ll dance until our feet bleed and legs ache. There will be song and dance as you’ve never seen, and every one of your name days we’ll throw an even bigger feast, until the Targaryens themselves can hear us feasting from their fancy castle.” He twirls his daughter around. “And I’ll kick the arse of every young lad that comes vying for your hand.” “Lyonel! Watch your language around the baby.” You scold, but it’s made feeble by your laugh.

*****

Your daughter charms the entirety of Storm’s Edge. She’s mere weeks old now, but she has (in addition to her father) wrapped the whole court around her finger. The feast of her welcome is in full swing, people of Storm’s End seemingly invigorated with the return of their Lord, and they drink, dance, and be merry as Lyonel holds court at the end of the long table, you by his side. His familiar booming laugh right over the people as you watch your joys weave between the dancing people, stuffing pastries into their laughing mouths as they try to catch each other.

In the field of your vision, you see one of the ladies of the court cooing over your daughter as her husband congratulates Lyonel on yet another healthy heir. “Of course she is. The boys are perfect, so is she. And the next one will be too.” Lyonel laughs, loud and booming, his hand squeezing your arm gently, fingers brushing atop of Dowen’s head as she sleeps in your arms, tired from all the attention. “The next one?” You quirk up a brow as you return your attention fully to your husband again. “How many children are you planning on us having?” His grin turns wicked as he shoots you a wink, not bothering to lower his voice for his answer, despite the numerous people around. “As many as you’ll give me”.  Ser Duncan chokes on his wine. “Insatiable.” You scold him, cheeks blazing hot, and he shrugs. “Irresistible.” He accuses back, brushing your nose with his finger as he dives in for a deep kiss.

*****

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