73 AC, King's Landing
The chamber was dim, lit only by the wavering glow of three candles and the embers in the hearth. Shadows breathed across the stone walls with each flicker, long and thin as the gasps that tore through Queen Alysanne's throat. Sweat glistened along her temples, darkening the fine hairs at her hairline. She gripped the edge of the sheet until her knuckles turned white, another wave of pain cresting through her body like the sea against Dragonstone's cliffs.
"Breathe, my queen," murmured the midwife, a woman with silver hair and tired eyes who had helped deliver each of her children.
"Slowly, now. The babe comes steady."
Alysanne obeyed, though her breath came ragged. Each exhale felt like it scraped her ribs raw. The air was thick with the smell of blood and wet linen. Somewhere beyond the window shutters, the city slept beneath the stars.
Within these walls, time had folded into the rhythm of her own suffering , the world reduced to pain, breath, and the low murmur of women's voices.
Her back arched; she let out a low sound, more frustration than scream. She had known this pain before, too many times. Some of those nights had ended in silence. She could not bear another silence.
"Nearly there," the midwife whispered. "One more, my lady. One more."
The words barely reached her, muffled beneath the roar in her ears. Alysanne drew in one last trembling breath and pushed, a cry breaking through her lips , and then the room filled with a new sound. A high, thin wail.
The midwife caught the child, her practiced hands sure even as her shoulders sagged with relief. The sound of crying pierced the heavy air, sharp and fragile and blessedly alive.
Alysanne's head fell back. For a long moment she could do nothing but breathe , harsh, uneven breaths that slowly steadied. The midwife's murmurs blended with the soft splashing of water, the rustle of linen.
"A boy," someone said, quiet as a prayer.
Her eyes fluttered open. She was too weak to lift her arms at first. The child's cry softened to a whimper, then to tiny sighs as he was wrapped and placed against her chest.
Warm. So small, and warm. His skin flushed red with life. Alysanne blinked, dazed. The world narrowed to the weight of him , the steady, fragile beat of his heart beneath the thin cloth, the faint scent of birth clinging to him.
Alysanne brushed her thumb against his cheek. "Gaemon," she whispered, her voice breaking halfway through the name. "My sweet Gaemon."
The name came without thought. It had lingered in her mind for weeks, waiting. Jaehaerys would approve. It was old and proud, but soft upon the tongue.
Outside the chamber, King Jaehaerys stood in the antechamber, his hands clasped behind his back. He had stood so for hours, long enough for his shoulders to stiffen and his mind to dull. He hated waiting. He had ruled armies, judged lords, rebuilt roads and laws , but this waiting, with no command to give and no control to assert, was something else entirely.
The door creaked open. The midwife stepped out, curtsied low, her face lined with exhaustion.
"My king," she said softly, "the queen is safe. A boy, and strong."
The tension in him broke like thawed ice. He let out a slow breath and nodded, curt but sincere.
"And the queen?"
"Weary, but sound. She'll need rest."
He dismissed her with a nod and stepped into the chamber.
The heat met him first , the stifling warmth of childbirth, heavy with the scent of herbs and sweat. Alysanne lay against the pillows, pale but alive, her eyes half-lidded in exhaustion. The babe was swaddled against her breast.
For a moment, Jaehaerys said nothing. He only looked.
Alysanne lifted her gaze to him, a faint smile ghosting across her lips. "A son," she whispered.
He stepped closer, the firelight catching in his silver hair. He was not a man given to grand shows of emotion, but a soft sound , something between relief and reverence , escaped him. He reached out, hesitant, and brushed his fingers over the child's head.
"He's small," he murmured.
"They all are, at first." Alysanne's smile grew faintly. "But he's strong."
Jaehaerys nodded. "Then he'll do well enough."
He straightened, already retreating into the measured reserve that ruled him. Duty had been satisfied: a child born, mother alive. The realm would be steadier for it.
But as he turned to the hearth, his eyes lingered once more on the two of them , the queen, the child, the fragile curve of his family's future , and he allowed himself one deep breath, slow and steady, before speaking again.
"Rest now," he said. "The realm can wait."
The chamber emptied soon after. The midwife and attendants withdrew to clean the basins, whispering softly among themselves. The candles burned low. Alysanne drifted between waking and sleep, her arm curled around the swaddled bundle beside her.
The baby slept soundly, his tiny chest rising and falling against her skin. Each breath seemed a miracle.
She thought of the others , the little ones who had come before and gone too soon. The ache of their absence never left her, though it dulled with time. Tonight, that ache was tempered by this fragile warmth against her heart.
The world felt so small within these walls: her, the babe, the rhythm of breathing. For once, she welcomed the smallness.
"Gaemon," she murmured again, as if speaking the name would keep him anchored to the world. "My Gaemon."
Her eyelids fluttered. The candlelight shimmered through her lashes. She drifted into sleep with her child pressed close, the air around them still heavy with the hush of survival.
Dawn came quietly to the Red Keep. The light crept across the chamber floor, touching the cradle that now stood near the hearth.
Alysanne stirred awake to the sound of faint cooing. The boy's eyes , dark with a hint of Targaryen violet, like Blackwater under moon , blinked up at her. She smiled, tired but full, and reached to lift him. Her arms ached, but she welcomed the ache.
The midwife returned briefly, checking the bandages, murmuring her approval. "He feeds well," she said, smiling in her reserved way.
"You're fortunate, my queen."
Alysanne nodded, too weary to answer. Fortune. Yes, perhaps.
When the woman left, the room fell into that pleasant stillness again , the hum of quiet life. Viserra's faint wail echoed from the nursery down the hall, and Alysanne could almost laugh. Two babes now. Two hearts to guard.
She pressed a kiss to Gaemon's temple and closed her eyes. "You'll have to share me with your sister, sweet one," she whispered. "She won't like that much."
The boy made a small, gurgling sound in reply, as if in protest, and she chuckled softly.
Later, when Jaehaerys returned, he found her sitting up by the window, the babe nestled against her shoulder. The morning light caught the strands of gold in her hair, damp from the heat of the room.
He paused at the door , not wishing to intrude , and for once, the sight made him still.
"How fares my queen?" he asked finally.
"Weary," she said with a faint smile, "but I'll mend."
"And the boy?"
Alysanne looked down at him. "Healthy. Greedy."
"Good."
He approached, resting a hand on the back of her chair. He didn't ask about the name, not yet. Some things didn't need announcing. They lived quietly between them, as the candlelight did , small, steadfast, and unseen by most.
When he left, Alysanne watched him go with that same small smile. Then she looked back at her son, tracing a finger along his cheek.
The child yawned, his tiny mouth opening like a kitten's. His eyes fluttered, unfocused but full of life.
"Gaemon," she said again, softly enough that only he could hear it.
And for the first time since the labor began, she allowed herself to believe , truly believe , that both of them might live through this.
She leaned back, the morning air cool against her damp skin, and held him close. The day stretched ahead, quiet and unassuming, as all precious days do.
The air in the queen's chamber smelled faintly of milk and herbs now, no longer the sharp iron tang of blood. The rushes had been changed twice since the birth, and the clean scent of crushed lavender lingered beneath the heat of the hearth. Morning light slanted through the narrow windows, gilding the folds of linen where Alysanne lay propped against pillows.
Gaemon stirred at her breast, his tiny mouth searching. His weight was little more than a handful, but her arms trembled all the same. The ache of labor had faded into the dull pull of healing muscles, the slow reminder of what her body had endured.
The wet nurse hovered discreetly nearby, ready if needed, but Alysanne waved her away with a gentle motion. "He'll have enough from me."
The woman dipped a curtsey and busied herself with folding cloths by the fire.
Outside, faint sounds carried through the thick door , servants' steps, a cry from Viserra in the nursery down the corridor, the soft clatter of trays. The castle was waking.
Alysanne looked down at her son, tracing the delicate curve of his ear with one finger. His skin was smoother now, less red, the faintest down of pale hair catching the light. "Strong, aren't you?" she whispered. "You've lasted longer than they expected already."
She hadn't meant to say it aloud, but the thought clung to her mind every time she felt the steady pulse beneath his ribs. Babes were fragile things. The maesters spoke of fevers that came without reason, of nights that ended too soon. She knew the risk better than most queens should.
The door creaked. "He's hungry again?" a familiar voice asked.
Alysanne smiled faintly without turning. "Always."
Septa Edgella entered with a basin of fresh water. The septa's face was lined with care and years of service, her hands sure. She set the basin down and looked the queen over. "You should rest between feedings, my lady. The body needs quiet."
Alysanne nodded but did not relinquish the child. "Quiet's a rare thing in this keep, Edgella."
The septa's smile was small and knowing. She busied herself with tidying the bedside table , a habit born of long habit, perhaps comfort found in order.
By afternoon, the chamber had warmed enough that Alysanne asked for the shutters to be opened. The breeze smelled faintly of the river and the smoke of cookfires below. She shifted, careful of the soreness in her sides, and laid Gaemon in the cradle beside her bed.
The cradle had been carved for another child long ago , fine oak, worn smooth by years and small hands. She ran her fingers along the edge, remembering names that no longer filled the halls.
From somewhere beyond the door came a familiar toddling sound , uneven steps, a muffled giggle.
"Viserra," she called softly.
The door opened and the little girl stumbled in, her nurse following close behind. The child's hair, pale gold, curled damply at her temples; her cheeks were flushed from play. She tottered straight for the bed, tugging at her mother's sleeve with a bright "Mama!"
Alysanne laughed, surprised by the surge of warmth that rose in her chest. "There you are, my wild thing. Come see your brother."
The nurse hesitated, wary of letting the toddler too close to the cradle, but Alysanne lifted Viserra onto the bed beside her. The girl peered into the cradle, brow furrowed, expression caught between curiosity and confusion.
"Baby," she declared solemnly.
"Yes," Alysanne said, smoothing the child's hair. "Your brother. Gaemon."
Viserra's small fingers reached out, brushing the blanket. The boy shifted but did not wake.
Alysanne watched them , one dozing, one blinking in wonder , and felt something in her chest loosen. The noise, the mess, the unending need of them both…it was life, simple and imperfect, and for a moment that was enough.
By evening, her strength had waned again.
The children slept , Viserra curled against her nurse in the adjoining room, Gaemon in his cradle beside the fire. The queen lay awake, listening to the crackle of wood.
She thought of Jaehaerys. He had not come since morning. The council would keep him , petitions, disputes, the endless scrolls of governance. She did not begrudge him; it was the shape of his life. Still, she missed the quiet weight of his presence at the door, the reassurance that he, too, remembered how thin the line between life and death could be.
Her hand drifted toward the cradle. Gaemon's fingers twitched in his sleep, tiny fists opening and closing. Alysanne smiled, exhaustion softening her features.
She whispered a prayer, not loud enough for the septa to hear , to the Mother, perhaps, or simply to the still air itself: Let him stay.
Then she let her eyes close.
Days blurred. Pain eased. The midwife declared her strong enough to sit for meals again.
When Jaehaerys visited that afternoon, the room was brighter. Alysanne sat near the window with the babe in her arms, sunlight warming her skin.
"You look better," he said.
"I feel better."
He stood a moment longer than he might have, studying her. The faint lines of fatigue around her eyes were easing, her color returning. He nodded, satisfied, and reached to touch the child's head. "He grows fast."
She smiled. "You've not been here to see it."
"I've seen enough babes to know their pace."
His tone was even, but the corner of his mouth softened briefly.
"You might try seeing your own a bit more."
He raised an eyebrow at that, half amusement, half reproof. "You think I've leisure to linger in nurseries, wife?"
"Perhaps you should make leisure, once in a while."
A beat of silence. Then he exhaled through his nose , not a sigh, exactly, but something close. "You sound like Septon Barth."
"Then perhaps the septon's right."
He looked at her again , truly looked, and for a moment the mask of the king slipped enough to show the man beneath. "You're mending well," he said at last. "That's what matters."
He left soon after, duty tugging him elsewhere. Alysanne watched the door close and shook her head, half fond, half exasperated. "Always the king," she murmured to the child. "Never just Jaehaerys."
The boy blinked up at her, untroubled by such things, and she laughed softly.
That night the keep was quiet save for the rain whispering against the windows. Alysanne sat awake, rocking Gaemon as he fussed. The fire had burned low, throwing long shadows across the walls.
Viserra stirred once in her sleep, then settled again. The wet nurse snored softly by the hearth.
The queen hummed an old song under her breath , a lullaby her mother had once sung, half-remembered Valyrian words woven with Westerosi melody. The tune filled the chamber, gentle as breath.
Gaemon's cries softened. His tiny body relaxed, eyelids fluttering shut. Alysanne traced the curve of his brow, marveling at how small he seemed against her palm.
When she finally lay him down, she stayed a while, simply watching.
Jaehaerys's POV
The king returned late from the council chamber, the hour near midnight. The keep slept; the torches along the corridor guttered low. He moved quietly, boots soft on stone.
He paused outside the queen's door. From within came the faintest thread of sound , her voice, low and steady, singing.
He hesitated, hand on the latch, and for a moment he did not enter. The melody wound through the crack of the door, fragile as a candleflame. He could picture her there: hair unbound, child in arms, the glow of the hearth turning her skin to gold.
Something in him eased, a knot uncoiling. He had seen too many queens die in childbed, too many heirs named only to be buried within the month. Yet here, in the quiet, he heard life continuing.
He turned away at last, leaving her to her song. The corridor swallowed the sound as he walked.
By the week's end, Alysanne could stand long enough to pace the chamber. Viserra toddled beside her, clutching at her skirts, while
Gaemon dozed in the cradle near the window. The light from the gardens spilled over them, soft and green.
"Two of you now," she murmured, glancing between them. "Seven help me."
Viserra laughed, oblivious to the weight behind the words.
Alysanne smiled and bent to lift her daughter, holding her against one hip while she looked down at her son. For the first time since the birth, she felt truly steady.
The Red Keep hummed beyond the walls, its endless life continuing , the chatter of servants, the clang of the yard, the bell from the sept. Yet here, within her small chamber, the world had narrowed again to the things that mattered most.
She pressed a kiss to Viserra's cheek, another to the sleeping Gaemon's head. "Grow strong," she whispered. "Both of you."
And as the breeze stirred the curtains, carrying with it the scent of rain and river air, she felt a quiet certainty settle in her chest: for now, at least, they were safe.
The chamber was quiet when the maids withdrew, their footsteps fading down the corridor until only the whisper of the hearth remained. Alysanne lay still, her body limp from the long strain of birth and the sleepless nights that had followed. The babe at her side made a small sound, the soft complaint of hunger or dream. She turned her head to look , to make certain he still breathed , and the sight of him both steadied and hollowed her all at once.
Gaemon's skin glowed with that fragile pink of new life. His hair was platinum blonde, like Jaehaerys's had been once, and his mouth twitched in the faintest mimicry of a smile. He seemed impossibly small beneath the folds of linen. She brushed one finger along his cheek and felt the warmth there, startling and real.
The Keep was half-asleep beyond the walls, muffled by night. Somewhere, a guard's step echoed, a far-off clang of metal meeting stone. The sound should have comforted her , proof of order, of safety , but it only deepened the quiet inside her.
She had not wept since the birth. Not when the maesters declared mother and child sound, not when the servants carried word through the Keep, not even when she first held him.
She had smiled, even laughed softly, because that was what one did when a child lived. Yet the laughter had felt thin, as if it belonged to someone else.
Now, with no one to see, the stillness pressed close.
Alysanne tried to breathe past it. She thought of Jaehaerys's letter left unread on the table, of the council's murmurs beyond her walls, of the endless lists of duties waiting for her once she rose. All of it seemed far away, blurred by the rhythm of Gaemon's tiny breaths.
Her chest tightened.
She sat up, slowly, cradling him close. "There, my love," she whispered. "There's naught to fear."
But her own voice trembled, thin as parchment.
He stirred, a soft cry beginning and then fading again. She rocked him gently, but her arms began to shake. The tremor ran up through her shoulders, her throat.
Not now, she thought. Not when he needs me.
Yet the thought only made the trembling worse.
The first tear came without warning. Then another. Soon they blurred her vision, hot and relentless. She tried to swallow them back, to quiet the sound in her throat, but the effort broke something open.
She bent over the child, sobbing into the scent of milk and linen, and for a moment feared she might never stop. All the moons of strain , the stillbirths, the sleepless nights, the weight of expectation , rushed through her like a tide. She pressed Gaemon closer, terrified that her grief might somehow spill into him, taint the newness of his life.
"I'm sorry," she whispered against his skin. "I'm so sorry."
He made no answer but a small sigh.
Alysanne tried to remember the other babes, the ones who had come and gone too soon, but the faces blurred. Only the silence remained , the long hours after the midwives had carried them away. She had told herself she was strong then, that a queen must be more than her sorrow. But strength, she realized now, had only been a pause between storms.
Her tears soaked the linen at his back. She rocked and rocked, until the movement became something desperate, a plea to whatever gods might still listen.
The candlelight trembled across the walls. The air grew thick, heavy with the salt of her breath.
"Stay," she murmured, not knowing if she spoke to the child or to herself. "Please stay."
The words broke on a sob.
For a long time she stayed like that, the babe's soft weight anchoring her to the world.
Gradually, her breathing slowed. The tears came less often, tapering into shuddering sighs.
When she finally lifted her head, her eyes burned, her throat raw. Gaemon had fallen asleep, utterly peaceful, his tiny hand curled against her gown. The sight of him stilled her , shame and love mingling until she could not tell one from the other.
She wiped her face with the back of her hand and drew the blanket higher around them both.
The room felt different now: the same fire, the same shadows, yet gentler somehow. The storm inside her had spent itself, leaving only quiet.
She leaned back against the pillows, holding him close, afraid that if she set him down the silence would return too soon.
The fire had burned low. Only a single candle still held its flame, guttering each time the wind pressed against the shutters. Alysanne sat awake beneath it, her hair unbound, her gown loosened at the throat. The silence after the storm felt strange , not peace, not yet, but a kind of hollow calm that frightened her almost as much as the crying had.
Her eyes found the cradle beside the bed, the little carved dragon heads at its corners. It was a gift from Jaehaerys' own hand, shaped months ago when hope had felt like an indulgence. She had thought she would never see it used. Now the wood gleamed faintly in the candlelight, and she felt again that aching, bewildering mixture of gratitude and fear.
Gaemon stirred in her arms. She rose, slow and careful, and laid him inside. His tiny hand groped instinctively at the air before settling against his cheek. The sight nearly undid her again.
She sank into the chair near the fire. Her whole body ached; even the spaces between her bones felt weary.
She tried to steady her breath, to think of something ordinary , of supper, or the color of the dawn, or the way Viserra's curls refused to be tamed no matter how the nurse fussed. She thought of her eldest girls, their laughter in the corridors, the sharpness of their questions. The memory steadied her for a moment. Then it, too, slipped away.
All that remained was the sound of Gaemon's breathing and the slow tick of her heart.
She had not meant for it to happen, the breaking. It had been crouching at the edges of her mind for weeks, waiting. She had told herself she could bear it , as she had borne the stillbirth, the fevers, the long absences when Jaehaerys had been lost in rule and duty. She had thought endurance was the same as healing. Now she knew better.
She pressed her palms together until the knuckles whitened. You are not weak, she told herself. You are alive.
Her gaze drifted toward the window. The first hint of pale light was softening the black edge of the sky. Dawn.
It seemed impossible that the world could begin again so easily.
She rose and went to the window, pushing the shutters open. Cold air rushed in, carrying the smell of smoke and salt from the bay. The city below still slept , roofs glimmering faintly with frost, the streets empty.
For a long while she stood there, breathing in the chill. The tears had left her hollow, but in that hollowness was space , for air, for the faintest stirring of resolve.
Behind her, Gaemon whimpered once. She turned, and her heart softened at the sound. Crossing the room, she lifted him again, pressing him to her shoulder.
"Hush now," she whispered. "It's only the morning."
He quieted almost at once, nestling against her collarbone. The warmth of his small body seeped into her. She swayed gently, not from habit but from need , to feel movement, life.
Her thoughts wandered unbidden to Jaehaerys. He would be in council now, or sleeping at his desk, head bowed over some petition. She imagined him hearing of her tears and not knowing what to do with the knowledge. He had always been kind, but kindness did not always know how to reach her.
Still, she hoped he would come tonight, even if only to sit in silence.
She turned her face slightly and kissed Gaemon's hair. "We will manage, you and I," she said softly. "We must."
The words surprised her , not for what they promised, but for how certain they sounded in her own mouth.
The candle burned down to a stub. Outside, the city began to stir , faint shouts, a distant bell, the murmur of the waking keep. Alysanne laid Gaemon back in his cradle, smoothed the blanket once, then drew her shawl tighter about her shoulders.
She sat on the edge of the bed and watched the light grow.
It crept across the floorboards, caught the edge of the cradle, then climbed the wall like a slow benediction.
Her eyes burned, but she did not weep again.
For the first time since the birth, she felt something almost like stillness. Not joy, not yet. But the kind of quiet from which strength might one day return.
When the maids came at last to tend the fire, they found her sitting there, face turned to the window, the newborn sleeping soundly beside her. She spoke softly when they asked if she would rest.
"In a moment," she said. "Let the light come in first."
And she stayed there until the sun cleared the roofs, its warmth brushing her cheeks like a promise she did not yet believe but was willing, finally, to try.
Morning came grey and thin, spilling across the bedchamber in a wash of quiet light. The fire had long gone to embers. Alysanne woke not from rest, but from the ache of her own body remembering the shape of sleep. For a moment, she thought she still heard the echo of last night's tears , that fragile sound that had hollowed the room. But there was only the hush of dawn and the faint rustle of linen as she shifted.
Gaemon stirred beside her breast, a small sigh escaping his lips before he settled again, mouth open just a little. The rhythm of his breathing steadied her heartbeat by degrees. She let her eyes rest on his face , the fine flutter of lashes, the round softness of his cheeks , and thought, He does not know any of it.
Beyond the shuttered windows, the Red Keep was waking. She heard the distant clang of a bell, the shuffling of boots along stone. Her arms felt heavy, but she pushed herself upright. There were duties, as there always were. She had promised herself the night before that she would not let the grief make her smaller than she already felt.
She moved through the motions in silence. The basin's water bit at her fingers , cold, bracing , and she welcomed it. The mirror caught her reflection faintly: pale, eyes ringed in shadow, but alive. She adjusted her gown, then lifted Gaemon, careful of his soft neck, pressing her cheek briefly against his hair. His warmth clung to her.
"Come, my love," she whispered. "We have the day ahead."
Viserra was in the nursery when Alysanne entered, a tangle of curls and mischief. The little girl had escaped her nursemaid's attention long enough to attempt climbing the low stool near the hearth. When she saw her mother, her face lit up with the reckless joy of discovery.
"Mama!"
The word was clear now , a recent triumph that Alysanne never tired of hearing.
"Yes, sweetling." She crouched and caught Viserra before she toppled forward, laughter trembling at the edge of her fatigue. "You've grown bolder overnight."
Viserra giggled, one hand clutching at Alysanne's sleeve while the other reached toward her brother. "Baby!"
"Baby, yes. Your brother." Alysanne lowered Gaemon so Viserra could inspect him properly. Small fingers brushed the infant's blanket, curious but gentle. "He'll not play with you just yet."
The nursemaid murmured apologies as she hurried in, but Alysanne waved them off. "It's no matter." For the first time in many days, she let herself linger there , in that simple moment of her children's faces so near , and felt something ease within her. Not peace, not yet, but a lessening of the weight.
When she left the nursery, the corridors outside hummed faintly with activity. Servants bowed as she passed; she nodded in return, keeping her steps measured. It was strange, how the Keep felt both unchanged and unfamiliar after just a moon indoors. The air held the scent of roasting bread and damp stone , the rhythm of daily life that continued, indifferent to grief or birth alike.
She paused at the great window overlooking the courtyard. The sky had cleared; faint sunlight touched the walls like a promise. For the first time, she did not flinch from its brightness.
Jaehaerys found her there not long after.
He entered quietly, as though unsure of his welcome. His hair had grown longer, threaded with early silver at the temples; the sleepless nights had marked him too. He looked at her a long while before speaking.
"You're awake early."
"I've had my fill of lying abed."
He inclined his head. "So I see." There was a faint stiffness in his stance , that familiar reserve that had always stood between his tenderness and his sense of duty. He hesitated, then came closer. "You should have called for me last night."
Her breath caught at the mention. She turned from the window. "You were tending to the council's petitions. I knew better than to,"
"You think I'd rather sit through parchment than be at your side?" His voice softened at once, as if he regretted the sharpness. "Alysanne… I would have come."
She studied him , not as a queen her king, but as a woman seeing the man she'd once run barefoot beside in the gardens of Dragonstone. "You did come. After."
He frowned slightly, uncertain how to answer.
The silence between them stretched thin, the air thick with all they hadn't said since the birth.
Then he said, almost quietly, "I saw Gaemon this morning. He looks strong."
"He feeds well."
"That's good."
The exchange was simple, almost banal , yet it was the first thread of ordinary speech between them in weeks.
Alysanne exhaled. "I thought I might bring him to the solar later. The air there is gentler than in this hall."
"You should." His tone softened. "He'll know his mother's voice before long."
Something in her chest loosened at that , the faintest smile ghosted across her lips. "And perhaps his father's, if his father will linger long enough to be heard."
A brief spark flickered in Jaehaerys' eyes , humor, rue, affection tangled together. "Perhaps I shall."
For the first time in what felt an age, the silence that followed was not strained.
Alysanne's hands trembled faintly as she adjusted Gaemon's blanket later that afternoon. The baby lay nestled in the crook of her arm, drowsy from feeding, his small fingers curling and uncurling against the linen. The solar was quiet, sun-warm and filled with the faint scent of parchment and beeswax. She sat near the open lattice, watching the wind toy with the curtains.
The soft murmuring of the city beyond the walls drifted upward , a low hum of life that neither asked for nor granted permission to pause. Somewhere, a bell tolled from the sept.
Gaemon stirred again, and she traced the shell of his ear with her thumb. "There now," she murmured. "No need for tears."
He didn't cry. He rarely did. Sometimes she wondered if that calmness was simply her imagination, something she had invented to make the long nights feel steadier. But as she watched his small chest rise and fall, she found she did not want to think in comparisons , not to the children she had lost, not to the quiet between her and Jaehaerys. Just this. This small, steady life in her arms. Time passed by like that.
The door creaked softly. Jaehaerys stepped in without his crown, his hair tied back loosely. He carried a scroll under one arm, but when he saw her, he hesitated again at the threshold.
"I was told you were here."
"I wanted the light," she said simply.
He crossed the room, unrolling the parchment absently before setting it aside. "The council grows restless," he said, almost as if to himself. "The repairs in Gulltown will cost thrice what was promised. And Lord Baratheon has written twice this week asking when we'll send riders to inspect the new garrison. I told him,"
She looked up, one brow arched faintly. "You came here to speak of garrisons?"
That earned her a soft huff of laughter. "No. I came because I wanted to see you."
It was not a grand declaration, but something in the plainness of it disarmed her more than any flattery might have. He drew a chair near and sat, his hands resting on his knees, posture careful.
Their gazes met then, quietly, the way they had before all of this: in shared, unspoken understanding. For a long while neither spoke. The air felt still enough to touch.
Finally Jaehaerys leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees. "You frightened me, Alysanne."
Her heartbeat faltered. "Last night?"
He nodded. "You've always carried so much, but I'd never seen you," He stopped himself, searching for the word. "Break," he finished, almost a whisper. "I should have known sooner."
She looked away, out toward the sky, now streaked with pale orange. "It wasn't a breaking. It was… a remembering. It happens to mothers, sometimes. The body heals faster than the mind."
He said nothing, but she felt his gaze on her, the weight of it gentler now.
"Don't pity me," she said softly.
"I don't."
"You sound as though you do."
"I only wish I could have helped."
She smiled then, faintly. "You help by being here. And by not speaking of it again."
That drew a quiet breath of laughter from him , the first she'd heard in days. He reached across the space between them, hesitated, then placed his hand over hers. His palm was calloused and warm.
"I missed this," he said.
"This?"
"Speaking with you as if we were still ourselves."
Her fingers shifted under his, not quite clasping, not withdrawing. "We're still ourselves," she said. "Only…grown."
He nodded once, as though that settled something in him. The silence after was companionable.
As dusk crept into the solar, Alysanne set Gaemon in his cradle. The boy stirred once, mouth forming a small 'O' before sleep reclaimed him. She lingered, fingers smoothing the blanket one last time, then turned to find Jaehaerys still seated, watching her with a softness that carried both admiration and apology.
She moved past him to the window. Below, the courtyard was painted in gold , stablehands leading horses to water, a few children chasing each other near the kitchens. The sight struck her with a strange ache. Life goes on, she thought, whether we are ready for it or not.
"He'll need a wet nurse soon," she said quietly. "I can't keep at this pace, not with Viserra still so young."
Jaehaerys rose. "Choose whom you trust. I'll see to the rest."
It was a simple answer, but it was the kind she'd always valued , practical, steady. For a moment, she almost reached for him again.
"Do you ever think of Dragonstone?" she asked suddenly.
He glanced at her. "Often."
"I miss the sea."
"I miss the quiet."
They both smiled faintly. "Perhaps," he said after a pause, "when the court has settled, we could take the children there. For a season."
Alysanne let the thought rest between them like a small, distant light. "Perhaps."
The sky deepened into violet. From somewhere below came the faint laughter of servants sharing supper. The sounds of the Keep shifted into evening's rhythm , slower, calmer.
Gaemon sighed in his sleep, as though sensing the stillness.
Jaehaerys stepped behind her, not close enough to touch, but near enough that she could feel his presence , a quiet acknowledgment, not a claim.
"Rest," he said. "You've done enough for today."
She turned slightly, her eyes meeting his. "So have you."
They held each other's gaze a moment longer, and though no great reconciliation passed between them, there was something gentler there now , a space mended, not erased.
When he left, the door shut softly behind him. Alysanne remained by the window until the last of the light faded from the stones. Only then did she sit, the hush of the solar wrapping around her like a cloak.
She looked toward the cradle, at the sleeping child who had brought her so near to breaking and, somehow, had steadied her again.
"Goodnight, little one," she whispered. "You've done enough for today too."
The candles guttered low, and for the first time in many nights, she felt the quiet not as absence, but as peace.
The mornings had grown gentler again.
The sharp ache in her belly had dulled to a soreness she could bear, and the ache in her breast had eased with the moon's turning. Her milk had dried, though she had wept the day it did , quietly, alone, so the maids wouldn't whisper. There had been something sacred about feeding him, even if only for a short while. It was proof that she could still give, that her body could still create and sustain life after so much had been taken. Now, when Gaemon fussed, the wet nurse took him, and Alysanne only watched , not resentfully, but with that distant tenderness of one who has learned to let go of something she loves.
The babe had changed. His cheeks were fuller now, his eyes clearer, and there was a new strength in the way he kicked and wriggled in her arms. He would curl his fingers around her thumb, his grip surprisingly firm. He would make small sounds, half-coos and half-grunts, as though speaking some secret tongue only babies understood.
He was normal in every way, and she thanked the gods for it. She remembers the saying. Whenever a Targaryen is born, the gods flip a coin.
Viserra, toddling unsteadily at her feet, would tug at her skirts and demand attention in shrill, imperious bursts. She had Jaehaerys' eyes, wide and watchful, and her mother's hair, fine and pale as snowmelt. The child's moods came and went like summer rain , laughter, then fury, then laughter again , and Alysanne followed her with patient exhaustion, always just one breath away from laughter herself.
It was a life made of small repetitions: feeding, washing, soothing, sleeping. There were no grand moments, no omens in the sky, no courtly intrigues to pierce the rhythm. The Red Keep itself seemed to exhale. Servants moved with less apprehension, the maester visited less often, and the courtyards filled again with the smell of rosemary and wet stone.
She had missed such ordinary peace.
There were still nights when she woke to silence so deep it frightened her , when she would half expect to see the cradle empty, the child gone. But Gaemon's soft breathing would answer, steady as waves lapping against a shore, and she would draw the coverlet higher and let herself breathe again.
She found herself thinking often of Silverwing. It had been moons since she last saw her , the great she-dragon with wings like dawn's mist. There had been a time when Alysanne visited the pit near every fortnight, when Silverwing's low hum would calm her restless thoughts.
Now she could not bear the distance nor the smell of the pits. She told herself it was because of the children, the demands of the household , but in truth, she feared that Silverwing would feel her grief, that the dragon would sense how small and tired she had become.
One afternoon, as she sat near the window with both her children , Gaemon asleep on her lap, Viserra playing with a carved wooden bird , a soft knock came at the chamber door.
"Enter," she called, adjusting the babe.
It was Jaehaerys.
He had grown thinner these past moons, though it was not illness but care that wore him. His eyes were clear, his movements measured as always, but there was a heaviness in his shoulders that she had not noticed before , or perhaps she had been too consumed by her own weariness to see it.
He lingered at the threshold, as he often did, as though testing the air before stepping closer. The chamber was warm, scented faintly with milk and lavender, the kind of domestic space he never seemed to belong to.
"How fare you?" he asked quietly.
"Well enough," she said. "Better than before."
He nodded, eyes flitting briefly to the cradle, then to the window beyond. "I have asked the maester to prepare the letters. It is time the birth was announced properly."
She felt her heart catch , not in fear, but in the strange weight of formality. The naming had been theirs alone, spoken softly between them in the candlelit hours after birth. Gaemon. A name chosen in memory, in reverence, in hope. But to share it with the realm was to make it real, to bind him not only to them but to history.
"Gaemon Targaryen," she murmured, tasting the sound. "Our son."
"Our son," he echoed.
For a moment, the air between them softened. Then Viserra threw her wooden bird, and it struck his boot with a hollow thunk. The king blinked, startled , and the queen laughed, quiet but true, as she bent to retrieve it.
"Your daughter declares her disapproval," she said.
It was the smallest thing, but it eased something inside her , that spark of shared amusement, that old, wry cadence of their early years together. He did not stay long after that; he rarely did. Duty always tugged him away , letters to read, decisions to weigh, bridges to mend between men who thought themselves wiser than they were. But before he left, he stepped closer to the cradle and looked down at the sleeping child.
"He grows," Jaehaerys said softly, almost to himself.
"He does."
"May he continue to."
That was all. He turned, and was gone.
Jaehaerys
The council chamber was stifling. Even with the windows open, the autumn air carried little relief, and the weight of parchment and petition pressed on him like armor that could not be removed. His councillors spoke of tariffs, of fleets, of the repair of the Dragonpit's lower vaults , but his mind strayed.
When he had first become king, he had thought of peace as an achievement. Now he knew it was maintenance , a thing that needed tending, feeding, guarding. Peace was not a sword won in battle; it was a field to be tilled every day.
He thought of Alysanne often. Not with yearning, but with the quiet steadiness of one who recognized her strength as the other half of his rule. They had shared both love and loss. And though he could not always be what she needed , his nature did not lend itself to soft comfort , he trusted her to endure.
The child had her eyes. He had seen that now.
When the time came to sign the letters, he paused before his quill touched parchment. To the Lords and Ladies of Westeros, His Grace Jaehaerys of House Targaryen, First of His Name, and Her Grace Alysanne, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, joyfully announce the birth of their son, Prince Gaemon Targaryen…
The words felt heavy with expectation. He had lost too many children to think such joy unqualified. But still, he wrote. Still, he sealed it. It was his duty , and perhaps, in some quiet way, his prayer.
Alysanne
The days that followed were lighter.
Gaemon began to smile, small and fleeting, a twitch at the corner of his mouth that made her laugh aloud the first time she saw it. Viserra, jealous, would clamber into her lap and declare herself mama's big girl, and Alysanne would hold them both until her arms ached and her heart felt too large for her chest.
In the evenings, when the torches burned low and the city's hum softened beyond the walls, she would sit by the window with Gaemon in her arms and hum an old lullaby from her girlhood. The tune had no words, only a rhythm that matched the beat of her own heart.
Sometimes she would glance out toward the horizon, where the Dragonpit's silhouette lay dark against the dimming sky. Silverwing slept there, or perhaps she watched, or perhaps she simply existed as dragons did , vast and unknowable.
Alysanne no longer feared visiting her. Not yet, but one day soon, she would. When the ache had turned fully to memory, and when she could meet the dragon's gaze without the sting of loss.
For now, she had this. Two children. One life that had almost slipped away. A king who still shared her silences even when he could not share her days.
The wind moved through the chamber, carrying the faint scent of the sea. Gaemon stirred, his eyes opening , clear and soft, reflecting the firelight.
Alysanne smiled, her voice barely a whisper.
"Welcome to the world, little one."
And for the first time in many moons, the words did not feel like a plea or a prayer.
They felt like truth.
When the heavy bells of the Red Keep rang the next morning, all King's Landing heard them. Their sound rolled over the city like sunlight breaking the heavy fog,clear, bright, and full of official, empty promise.
The Great Hall had been meticulously dressed in crimson and gold and black. Streamers hung from the galleries, and crushed rose petals stained the stone. It smelled like a perfume house. Alysanne entered on Jaehaerys's arm, pale and exhausted but radiant, her long hair loose save for a single braid. In her arms she bore Gaemon, swaddled in silk the color of dawn.
Every eye in the hall turned toward them. Lords and ladies bowed as one. The heavy smell of perfume and roasted boar filled the air, mingling uncomfortably with incense from the sept's own censers. It was a day for ceremony and necessary display.
Jaehaerys raised a single, commanding hand. "My lords and ladies," he began. "The realm has known many great gifts,peace and plenty. Yet today, the Seven grant us one more. We are blessed yet again. The line endures."
He looked at his wife. "A son," he said simply, his voice cracking with emotion, "born healthy of the Queen, named for the old line,Gaemon Targaryen. Hear his name and remember. Remember the history."
The hall thundered with applause. Cups clashed, banners rippled, and voices rose in a joyous cheer. "Long live the prince! Long live the young dragon!" they shouted.
When the heralds finished, Septon Barth stepped forward. "By the light of the Seven and the divine grace of the gods," he intoned, "we bless this child. May he grow in wisdom and in strength, and may his fire burn only for the good of this realm, and not for its destruction. Protect him."
He dipped his fingers in holy oil and touched the babe's brow. The crowd erupted in cheers.
Alysanne held him close. And when the noise faded, only Gaemon's soft breathing remained,proof that life, for now, endured.