Chapter Text
I have the editing skills of a potato, so don't mind the edit. Left Baelor show/Right Baelor canon
King’s Landing, seventh moon of the year 206 AC
That night, after her confession, after the trembling words and the quiet comfort that followed, she had slept as she had not slept in years, deeply, without interruption. No shadows had crept into her thoughts, no imagined footsteps had stirred her awake, no lingering dread had coiled in her chest.
She had not once reached for the candle, had not once startled at the dark. When she woke, it had taken her a moment to understand why. It was Baelor’s strong arms wrapped around her, his broad palm settled on her slightly swelled belly, that made her smile.
She had gone about her day with a lightness that felt familiar and entirely welcome, moving through the Red Keep with her ladies at her side. They had gathered in the Queen’s court as they so often did, passing the hours with cards and idle gossip, speaking of marriages, of gowns and jewelry, whispered scandals that traveled faster than ravens and carried twice the intrigue.
Viserra had listened, contributed when it pleased her, and allowed herself, for once, to simply exist within it without the constant edge of vigilance that had once defined her every interaction. By the time luncheon approached, she had found herself thinking of Baelor.
And so she had arranged for food to be brought to him in the Tower of the Hand, where he spent so much of his time buried beneath the weight of rule, and she had gone to him, stepping into that space of parchment and ink and quiet tension with the ease of one who belonged there.
He had looked up when she entered and smiled. It was a small thing, perhaps, but it never failed to warm her. They had eaten together, the meal simple compared to those served in the great halls, but no less satisfying for it, and she had taken her place beside him, speaking lightly, drawing him away from the endless matters of governance if only for a short while. A musician was playing soft tones in a corner, the sweet voice of the minstrel accompanied him, the mood in the solar relaxed.
Baelor had just finished a bite of capon, the spices from Dorne lending it a warmth that lingered faintly in the air, when he glanced toward her, something thoughtful in his expression. She hated the scent of those spicy peppers from Dorne, nearly making her retch.
“I recall you mentioned you had dogs at Summerhall,” he said. “Does my brother keep them for something other than hunting?”
Viserra wiped her lips delicately, her expression shifting almost immediately into something more mischievous.
“My sire is not fond of them. He does keep hounds, of course, though they are not meant for idle affection,” she paused, her lips curving slightly. “I once expressed a desire to pet them.”
The Hand’s brow lifted faintly. “And?”
“He sent me to bed without supper,” she said simply.
Baelor regarded her for a moment, then a faint smile tugged at his lips.
“And you obeyed?” he asked amused.
Viserra’s smile widened, her eyes gleaming.
“Of course,” she said sweetly. “I heeded his words entirely. I did not go near the kennels… and I certainly did not inform the kennel master that he was urgently required elsewhere, nor did I take it upon myself to feed the dogs the finest capon from the kitchens.”
The Prince of Dragonstone let out a quiet laugh. “Did Maekar discover this? I should think he would not have been pleased.”
Viserra laughed lightly. “It was not he I feared most,” she admitted. “My septas were far more… diligent in their discipline. A thin cane, applied with precision. One learns quickly how to earn forgiveness rather than asking for permission,” there was a playful note in her voice now. “I cried very well and my sire could never stand my tears,” she added with satisfaction.
I have my mother’s face, he could not look at me if I cried, she mused.
The heir hummed thoughtfully, his gaze lingering on her. “I wonder,” he said after a moment, “if such charms would work on me.”
Viserra scoffed lightly, as though the notion were entirely absurd.
“Why would I waste tears?” she asked, lifting her chin slightly. “When I can pull up my skirts and have you rut inside of me with gusto.”
Her husband just happened to take a sip of his watered wine, but he choked on the drink, covering his mouth as he coughed a few times. Viserre got up and patted his back with a smile.
“Have I rendered you speechless, my Lord Hand?” she purred.
Her husband gazed up at her, drawing breath. “Perchance next time you will speak such filth, you will have mercy on your poor husband and let me know not to drink.”
“Aww,” she cooed and then kissed his clean-shaven cheek. “Besides, why would I waste tears when I can simply ask, and my husband will provide?”
Baelor reached for her hand then, his fingers closing gently around hers as he lifted it, pressing a soft kiss to her knuckles.
“A fair point, my joy,” he murmured. “Though I believe your lord husband would prefer some manipulation from time to time.”
“Oh my,” she gasped, scandalized. “How unseemly, my Lord Hand. Shall I manipulate you now?” she batted her pale eyelashes at him. His eyes darkened.
“Leave us.” He did not look back at the musician and minstrel to know his presence was no longer required. Two grown men, blushed as he bowed and took their leave. Once the door shut, her husband spoke again. “That is, if you want something, my joy,” he murmured.
Viserra hummed, tapping her chin as Baelor dealt with her skirts red and black, working one hand under them, running his warm palm up and down her stockings, going up, up, up, until she yelped as he cupped her between the legs. The Princess shook her right slipper off and put the sole of her right foot on his groin.
“I want the hammer,” she declared with a broad smile, looking down at him, already feeling her smallclothes damped as he ran his thumb over her covered cunny.
Her husband chuckled at her candor. Viserra yelped then giggled as he brought her onto his lap. Baelor kissed her neck and murmured, “Your word is my command, my joy.”
“King Daeron would faint if he heard I command his heir,” she said with cheek.
Her husband ran his teeth over her jaw. “I believe he would be proud, for you are his granddaughter. The blood of the dragon is made to give commands,” he snaked his hand into her bodice and fondled a teat.
“And to be fucked,” she added with a moan.
Baelor chuckled on her skin, “That too. More than anything else, I wager.”
Viserra sat comfortably, her appetite renewed after their intense coupling. She ate with a certain eagerness, breaking into the crust of the lamb pie with delicate insistence, savoring the rich filling within, while across from her husband did much the same, though with more restraint, his posture still composed even in such private moments, though the quiet satisfaction in his expression nor his relaxed shoulders did not escape her notice.
Viserra swallowed her bite and let out a small, contented hum before glancing toward him, mischief flickering faintly behind her gaze once more.
“My maidservants will surely not be scandalized,” she remarked lightly, “by yet another ruined pair of smallclothes.”
Baelor huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head slightly as he set aside his cup. “I believe they have grown accustomed to such… occurrences.” There was no embarrassment in his tone, only a mild amusement that spoke of comfort rather than impropriety.
Viserra watched him for a moment longer. What she liked most, what she had come to cherish without fully realizing it, was the way he looked at her, not as one might regard a duty or an obligation, but as though she were something singular, something irreplaceable.
“I wish to have dogs, domesticated ones to keep around and entertain me.”
Baelor glanced at her, attentive immediately.
She set her plate aside as her hands moved instinctively, gesturing lightly as she spoke. “Not the great hounds kept for hunting, but smaller ones. Companions. Creatures meant for comfort rather than sport. They would not roam the grounds unchecked,” she added quickly, as though anticipating some practical concern. “They would have their own space, a proper kennel, or perhaps even chambers suited for them within the household. I would see to it myself. And a master, of course. Someone to train them properly.”
Baelor listened without interruption, his expression thoughtful, his gaze steady upon her.
“I already know the breed I desire,” Viserra went on, a hint of excitement threading through her words. “Lady Cerenna, cousin to Lord Damon Lannister, spoke of them once. She’s the wife of Admen Marbrand, Lord of Ashemark. She called them ‘corgis.’”
Baelor’s brow furrowed faintly, the unfamiliar name drawing his curiosity.
“She claims they are loyal, clever, and affectionate,” Viserra continued, clearly invested now. “Though she did warn they have a tendency to nip at heels if not properly trained. She showed me a painting once, a small one, kept tucked within her favorite book. It was of her dog, Alysanne.”
Baelor’s expression shifted slightly at that. “She named her dog after a Targaryen Queen?”
Viserra laughed softly. “I found it strange as well. But she insisted the name suited her. She told me that once, when two great hounds began fighting, her little Alysanne simply walked between them and barked. Just once. And the fight ended.”
Baelor shook his head faintly, though there was amusement in his eyes. “I do not believe our ancestor was known for such tactics.”
“Perhaps not,” Viserra admitted, smiling. “But there is something charming in the thought, is there not?” She paused, then held her hands apart, indicating a size. “They are no larger than this. And short of legs.”
“Something I am fond of,” he mused and she made as if she did not hear him. “So small?” Baelor added, studying the space between her hands, his brow lifting slightly.
“Small, yes, but lively. Intelligent. Capable of learning many tricks. And Lady Cerenna has a litter. Her dogs are well-bred. She spoke highly of them.”
Baelor considered her words for a moment, then nodded slowly. “Then I shall speak with Lady Cerenna.”
Viserra shook her head quickly, her smile returning in full. “There is no need. I have already done so. I told her that I would inform her when you were ready to send for them,” she explained. “She is prepared to send them herself, should it please you. With proper escort, of course.”
Her husband let out a quiet breath of amusement. “You seemed remarkably certain of my decision.”
Viserra lifted her chin slightly, a smugness returning to her expression. “What can I say? I have my charms.”
Baelor leaned back slightly, laughter escaping him then, the sound filling the chamber in a way that warmed it further still. Viserra smiled in response, pleased with herself, until the smile faltered, her hand moving instinctively to her belly.
A sharp breath left her, her husband was on his feet almost immediately, the laughter gone in an instant, replaced by concern.
“Is something amiss?” he asked, stepping toward her. “Shall I summon the Grand Maester?”
“I think-” she began, her voice catching slightly. “I think I felt something.”
“What do you mean?” he asked, quieter now.
Viserra’s gaze lifted to his, her deep violet eyes wide, searching. “A flutter,” she whispered. “I felt a flutter.”
“Truly, my joy?” his whisper was filled with awe.
The Princess nodded, her hand still pressed to her belly. The words seemed to settle deep within him and without warning, he lifted her from her seat with ease, drawing her into his arms as though she weighed nothing at all, turning once, then again, the motion smooth and controlled despite the strength behind it. Viserra let out a startled laugh, her earlier discomfort forgotten entirely in the rush of it.
“Baelor!” she exclaimed, breathless with amusement.
He set her down gently a moment later, his hands steady at her waist as he leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to her lips.
“My joy,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “You have made me the happiest man in the Seven Kingdoms.”
Viserra’s eyes shimmered faintly, her laughter softening into something more tender as she leaned into him, returning the kiss with quiet warmth. Her husband’s hand moved once more to her belly, resting there with a reverence that spoke more clearly than words. She was forever in awe of how tall he was compared to her tiny self.
“I should have said it sooner,” he continued, his gaze lowering briefly before returning to hers. “But I did not know how.”
Viserra stilled slightly, listening.
“I love you,” he said simply, as if it were a fact rather than a confession. “I have, since the moment you came into my solar and demanded a place at my side,” a faint smile touched his lips. “You are a gift. One I never expected, yet cannot imagine living without.”
Viserra’s breath caught. Her hands rose, cupping his face gently, her fingers brushing against his tan skin with quiet certainty.
“I am yours,” she said, her voice steady despite the emotion behind it. “And you are mine. And I love you, more than my heart can take,” she added, softer still.
Baelor smiled then, not the restrained, measured smile of a prince, but something freer, before leaning in once more to kiss her, sealing the words not as a promise, but as a truth already lived between them.
King’s Landing, tenth moon of 266 AC
Life for Viserra Targaryen had changed in ways she had once only dared to hope for in the quietest corners of her thoughts, in those fleeting moments when she allowed herself to imagine a future not bound by fear, not dictated by the looming shadow of a fate she had never chosen, and now that shadow was gone, banished as thoroughly as a nightmare chased away by the rising sun, leaving in its wake a reality that felt almost unreal in its safety, in its warmth, in its undeniable sense of belonging.
She often found herself reflecting on it in idle moments, her mind drifting back to the uncertainty that had once plagued her, the suffocating dread of being promised to a monster, and each time she returned from those thoughts, she felt a quiet, steady gratitude settle within her chest.
Now father cannot betroth us, she thought to herself, her hand resting instinctively upon the swell of her belly, her fingers splaying gently as though to shield what lay beneath. Not when I am already wed, and to the second most powerful man in Westeros.
The thoughts carried a faint trace of pride, though it was tempered by something deeper, something more personal than mere status or position, for Baelor was not simply power to her, not simply a title or a name, but a presence that had reshaped her world entirely.
Still, as she sat in the Queen’s garden, surrounded by trimmed hedges and soft blossoms swaying in the mild air, she could not help but feel the weight of her condition pressing upon her in ways that were far less poetic than her thoughts.
Her belly had grown considerably in the past moons, stretching the fabric of her gowns, altering her center of balance, changing the way she moved, the way she sat, even the way she breathed.
At times she felt less like a princess and more like some great, cumbersome creature, and she had once, half in jest and half in frustration, compared herself to the strange beasts she had heard described in distant lands, creatures large and unwieldy that lumbered through frozen shores. Large as a walrus, she oft said.
Now, as she shifted in her seat, attempting to find a position that did not send a dull ache through her back, she exhaled softly, her lips pressing together in mild irritation.
Fatigue clung to her constantly, a slow, persistent heaviness that made even the simplest tasks feel like burdens, and worse still were the moods that seemed to rise and fall without warning, leaving her bewildered by her own reactions.
One moment she would laugh, the next she would feel tears prick at her eyes for no reason she could name, and then, just as suddenly, irritation would take hold, only to fade again into something softer, something almost dreamlike.
It was exhausting. And yet, through it all, Baelor remained. The thought of him brought a faint smile to her lips despite her discomfort. He had shown a patience that bordered on the miraculous, meeting each shift in her temperament not with frustration, but with quiet understanding, adjusting to her needs with a gentleness that never once felt forced or strained.
When her back ached, he had been there, his hands steady and careful as he eased the tension from her muscles. When her feet swelled painfully, he had knelt without hesitation, tending to them as though it were the most natural thing in the world. As thought it wasn’t the future king kneeling in front of his walrus-like wife. When sleep eluded her, he read to her in that calm, soothing voice of his until her eyes finally closed.
And when her moods turned sharp or unpredictable, he did not retreat, nor did he challenge her in ways that might worsen it, but instead remained steady, grounding her without making her feel foolish. She did not know how he managed it. At times, she wondered if any other man in the realm could have endured such constant change with such quiet grace.
Perhaps not. Perhaps that, more than anything, was why she had chosen him. Why she had pursued him as only a princess could, and she thanked the Seven that he had enough Targaryen taste in him to want his niece as wife.
Her gaze drifted across the garden, where her small court of ladies had gathered, their presence meant to bring comfort and companionship, though even that felt distant today, as though she observed them from behind a veil.
Her relationship with the queen had cooled in recent moons, not in any overtly hostile manner, but in subtle ways that were perhaps more telling than open conflict would have been. Courtesy remained, politeness was never abandoned, but beneath it all lingered something else, something unspoken, a quiet tension that Viserra could feel in the older woman’s gaze. Mistrust.
She did not know whether it stemmed from the manner in which she had secured her marriage, or from something else entirely, and though she recognized it, she found that she could not bring herself to care as much as she might have once.
If the price of her freedom had been a measure of disapproval, then it was a price she would pay without regret.
Better to be envied and cursed than dead and loved, she mused, her lips pursing slightly as she leaned back against the cushioned bench.
The discomfort returned quickly, a dull ache spreading through her lower back, growing steadily until it demanded her full attention, and she shifted again, her hand pressing instinctively against the source of it, her breath catching faintly. It was becoming harder to remain seated for long, harder to maintain composure when her body seemed intent on reminding her of its limits at every turn.
She drew in a slow breath, steadying herself, but the pain did not ease. Instead, it deepened, sharp enough now that it brought moisture to her eyes, and she knew she could not remain where she was much longer.
Darla was at her side almost immediately, her expression attentive, concerned.
“Cousin?” she asked gently.
Viserra shook her head faintly, though the motion was careful. “I must stand,” she said, her voice quieter than she intended.
Diana moved to her other side without hesitation, her presence calm, reassuring, and together they helped Viserra rise from her seat.
The motion was slow, her balance shifting awkwardly as she found her footing, and when she began to walk, it was not with her usual grace. She made her way toward the Queen, each step requiring more effort than the last, and though she attempted to maintain her composure, the discomfort was evident in the tightness of her expression.
As she approached, she began to lower herself into a curtsy, but the queen raised a hand immediately, stopping her.
“There is no need for that, Princess,” her voice was gentle, though still carrying that quiet distance that had come to define their interactions. “What would you have of me?”
Viserra offered a small smile, though it was strained by the effort of remaining upright.
“Her Grace is most kind,” she chose her words carefully. “I seek your leave. I must lie down. The babe has tired me so.”
For a moment, the queen studied her, and something softened in her gaze, something that perhaps transcended whatever reservations remained between them.
“Go, child,” she said at last. “Do not strain yourself further. I shall visit you later.”
Viserra inclined her head in gratitude. “Thank you, Your Grace.”
With that, she turned, allowing herself to be guided away by Darla and Diana, her steps slow and uneven, her hand resting once more upon her belly as though drawing strength from the life within.
“Do you wish for the litter?” Diana asked gently as they moved through the garden paths.
Viserra hesitated only a moment before nodding, the effort of walking already beginning to overwhelm her.
“Yes,” she admitted softly. “Please.”
Ser Roland Crakehall followed at a respectful distance, his white cloak pristine, his presence steady and unwavering, a silent guardian to her slow progress. Viserra exhaled, her shoulders lowering slightly as she allowed herself to lean more fully upon the support of her ladies.
Once again, she found herself whispering a quiet prayer, simply for strength.
That same evening, after a supper that had been as rich and generous as any served within the Red Keep, Viserra found herself lying upon her side, propped carefully among a fortress of pillows arranged by attentive hands, her belly supported, her legs cushioned, and yet none of it seemed enough to ease the strange and persistent discomfort that clung to her.
The fullness in her stomach felt excessive, almost unbearable, as though she had eaten for four rather than for one and the life growing within her, and the sensation left her restless, irritable, and wholly dissatisfied despite the care taken to provide her comfort.
She shifted slightly, or attempted to, though even that small movement required effort, her breath catching faintly as she settled once more into stillness, her brow furrowing as irritation rose within her with little cause and even less restraint.
Her slipper lay somewhere near the edge of the bed, discarded earlier with little thought, and though the idea formed in her mind with surprising clarity, she knew she could not reach it without assistance, which only served to deepen her frustration further. Of course, the Grand Maester told her that with the size of her belly, there might be two inside of her. After all, Dyanna had a set of twins too, and she was her mother’s daughter.
Her gaze flicked toward Baelor.
He stood nearby, as he so often did, a quiet presence that seemed ever watchful, ever attentive, his calm demeanor unshaken even in the face of her shifting moods, and though there was no fault in him, no misstep she could truly name, she found herself bristling nonetheless, the irritation seeking an outlet as her husband praised her for her beauty and grace, as he oft did whenever he laid eyes on her.
“Cease speaking to me as though I have lost my sight,” she huffed, her voice edged with frustration as she glared faintly in his direction. “I am as large as this entire bed, Baelor.”
The Prince of Dragonstone did not respond immediately. He regarded her quietly, his expression neither wounded nor defensive, but thoughtful, as though he weighed her words not for their tone, but for what lay beneath them.
Viserra turned her gaze away, her lips pressing together tightly.
“I am a walrus draped in silk and lace and jewels,” she muttered bitterly. “Nothing more.” Without warning, her chin trembled. The shift was sudden, as so many of her emotions had become, and before she could stop it, tears welled in her eyes, spilling over despite her best efforts to contain them, her frustration turning inward, twisting into something far more fragile.
“I-” she began, but the words faltered, dissolving into a soft, broken sound as she turned her face slightly into the pillow, ashamed of the tears even as they came.
Baelor stepped closer to the bed until he stood beside her, the soft fabric of his white night tunic brushing lightly against the edge as he leaned slightly forward.
“Why do you speak so of my lady wife, hm?” he asked gently, his voice low. “Such words are unworthy of her.” There was a faint hint of something else beneath his tone. “I believe I must hold a trial,” he added softly, the corner of his lip lifting. “For such crude accusations.”
Viserra let out a weak, uneven breath that might have been a laugh under different circumstances, though now it trembled with the weight of her emotion. Baelor reached for her, his hand steady as he cupped her chin, guiding her gently to face him, his touch warm, grounding.
“What shall her punishment be?” he murmured, his gaze steady upon hers. “A kiss, or a cuddle?”
Viserra’s composure broke entirely then. Her shoulders shook faintly as the tears came more freely, her breath hitching as she struggled to make sense of the storm within her.
“I am so-” she began, then faltered again, her voice cracking. “I do not even know what I want.”
The heir’s expression softened further, any trace of playfulness fading into quiet understanding. “Easy,” he murmured, brushing his thumb lightly beneath her eye, catching the tears before they could fall further. “I know. I know. Both it is then.”
He did not rush her. Did not press her to explain what she could not yet name.
“Would you have me read to you?” he asked after a moment, his voice gentle, offering rather than insisting.
Viserra gave a small, uncertain shrug, her lashes still damp, her breathing uneven. Her husband leaned closer then, pressing a soft kiss to the tip of her nose, then to her forehead, her cheeks, her chin, each touch unhurried, as though he sought to piece her back together one gentle gesture at a time. Despite herself, a faint smile began to form through her tears.
“Stop,” she murmured weakly, though the word held no real resistance.
Baelor hummed softly in response, placing one final kiss against her lips, brief and warm.
“Then tell me,” he said quietly, settling himself comfortably at her back. “What would my lady wife hear?”
She hesitated only a moment. “Tell me your stories,” she said at last. “Anything you wish.”
Her husband inclined his head slightly, accepting the request without question and got in bed behind her. He moved, one arm resting lightly along her side as his hand found her lower back, his touch careful as he began to ease the tension there. Viserra let out a soft, involuntary sound as relief spread through her, the ache dulling beneath his steady hands, her body relaxing despite the turmoil of her mind.
For a time, he said nothing. Only continued the slow, rhythmic motion, allowing her to settle fully.
“When I was younger,” he began, his voice reflective, “I trained under the same master-at-arms as Daemon, Ser Quentyn Ball, or Ser Quentyn Fireball as everyone called him. Daemon was younger than I, by a year. Yet he was stronger. Faster. Better, in many ways that mattered to those who watched.”
There was no bitterness in his tone. Only quiet acknowledgment. Viserra was suddenly curious. He did not call Daemon a Blackfyre or bastard, as her sire usually did when contemptuously speaking of the rebel. Did he hint at the fact that Daemon also looked very much Targaryen?
“I heard their praises, often redirected at Daemon,” he went on. “Spoken openly, without restraint. And I heard their whispers as well. They said I was no true dragon. That my mother’s blood had weakened me. That the fire of our house had been… diminished by my birth.”
Viserra frowned faintly, her brow tightening. “That is foolish,” she murmured.
Baelor gave a faint, almost amused breath. “Perhaps. Yet it was said often enough that it became familiar to speak so at court during Aegon IV’s reign and what remained of it. My grandsire did little to silence such talk. At times, he encouraged it. My grandsire was not a good man nor king.”
“That is treason,” she said amused, trying to lighten the mood.
Baelor leaned slightly closer, pressing a soft kiss against her shoulder.
“Kessa,” he murmured. “And yet, he wore the crown. For all his faults, none could oppose him openly. Power allows for many things.”
There was a brief silence. Then, more quietly still, he added, “I have told no one this. Daemon was a good man with a noble heart. It is a pity that he was surrounded by those who fed him poison until it took root.”
The heaviness in his voice did not escape her. Rarely did anyone speak of Daemon in such a manner. Her father spoke of him only with contempt, that he was bastard-born and a sin brought upon their house.
“Were you two close?” she asked carefully.
Baelor was silent for a time. Long enough that she wondered if he would answer at all. She looked to the side table where a candle had burned a time ago, but no longer. She smiled.
“Though the court would have made us enemies,” he said at last, “we were anything but. He was my friend. He would extend his hand to me whenever I fell during training,” Baelor continued, a faint hint of something softer threading through his tone now. “And I fell often enough.”
Viserra huffed a quiet laugh at that.
“He never allowed others to mock me,” Baelor went on. “He was charismatic and at times full of himself, true. But he was also noble, honorable and chivalrous, more than many who claimed those titles.”
Viserra listened in silence, the earlier turmoil within her easing as his voice carried her elsewhere, away from her discomfort, away from her restless thoughts and soon enough her eyes closed.
King’s Landing, twelfth moon of 266 AC
Her belly, full and heavy with life, had become the center of Viserra’s world in a way both wondrous and burdensome. It stretched the fine fabrics she wore, reshaped her posture, demanded space and care in ways she had never before considered. Heat clung to her skin more persistently now, a warmth that no open window nor attentive handmaid could fully dispel, and her breath came shorter with even the smallest exertion, as though her body worked twice as hard to sustain both herself and the child or children she carried.
Fatigue lingered always at the edges of her strength, waiting patiently to claim her, while a steady ache had taken residence in her lower back, flaring sharper at times, dulling at others, but never truly leaving her. It was an unrelenting companion, one that no cushion nor careful positioning could entirely soothe.
And with it came sacrifice. The things she had once delighted in, the simple freedoms that had filled her days, had been set aside one by one, not by choice, but by necessity. As her time drew nearer, the customs claimed their due. Confinement had become her lot, as was expected of a woman of her station nearing her labors. It was boring.
She could not risk her waters breaking in the midst of court, nor before men not bound to her in blood or marriage. Such things were not done. And so, she remained within her chambers.
No more riding through the Kingswood with the wind in her hair. No more hawking beneath wide, open skies. No more sailing upon Blackwater Bay, the salt air teasing her senses. No more wandering paths beside Baelor, speaking of trivial things that somehow felt important in their simplicity.
And no more visits to that quiet clearing where the world had once seemed to narrow to just the two of them beneath the open sky, where laughter and closeness had intertwined so effortlessly with the freedom of the wild. Where her dragon had claimed her over a dozen times.
Even the Tower of the Hand had been taken from her. She could no longer appear at Baelor’s solar, could no longer disrupt the solemn weight of his duties with laughter and music and her irreverent charm. Those moments, once so frequent, now belonged to memory.
She had made a habit of it. Of arriving without warning, bringing with her not only herself, but entire performances crafted on a whim. Minstrels summoned to compose verses at her bidding, poets coaxed into crafting lines under her playful scrutiny, musicians encouraged to weave melodies that she would then boldly accompany with her own voice, often bending the words to her liking.
She smiled faintly at the recollection.
Baelor’s expressions during those moments had been worth every bit of mischief, the way his composure would strain beneath the weight of her antics, amusement and the subtle warning glances he would send her way when her words strayed into territory less befitting a princess, particularly when she laced her songs with High Valyrian phrases that carried meanings far more scandalous than their elegant sound suggested.
And she, in turn, had ignored those warnings entirely. It had become something of a ritual, her own way of easing the burdens he carried, of reminding him that beyond the parchments and councils, there existed joy, however fleeting.
In time, her efforts had grown. She had become a patron to those who created beauty in all its forms - poets, painters, musicians, minstrels, jugglers, mummers, actors - drawing them into her orbit, encouraging their work, fostering their talents not merely for her own amusement, but for his as well. There had been days when they sat together for portraits, still and composed, yet sharing quiet smiles that no painter could fully capture as she sang The Hammer and The Anvil for him in shushed High Valyrian. Other days had been filled with music in the gardens, melodies from across the Narrow Sea mingling with the softer strains of Old Valyria, sounds that seemed to stir something deep within Baelor, something ancient and unspoken.
And then there had been the plays. Small, intimate performances crafted entirely for him. She had delighted in them most of all. Taking the lead roles herself, she had brought to life tales drawn from the histories she devoured, moments of the Valyrian Freehold reimagined with her own flair, or scenes from court exaggerated just enough to coax laughter from even her serious Baelor.
Her portrayal of Visenya had been a particular favorite. She smiled at the memory of it, recalling the way she had stood, imperious and unyielding, addressing other actor-lords with a sharpness that had sent Baelor into quiet laughter despite himself, especially when she had turned her attention to the unruly Westerosi, speaking about the might of the blood of the dragon, delivering lines with exaggerated disdain that only made the performance more delightful.
He would forever praise her, for her talents, for her smile and voice, and he would buy her all her heart wanted, and at night he would worship her body as only he knew how to.
All of it was gone now. For a time. In its place remained stillness.
Her days were quieter, slower, filled with smaller comforts. She read often, losing herself in stories when her body allowed it. Her ladies kept her company, their presence a constant, their conversation a welcome distraction when her thoughts grew too heavy.
Shiera visited frequently, her sharp wit and knowing glances offering a different kind of companionship, one that required little explanation and even less restraint. The Queen herself came at times, her demeanor courteous, measured, though Viserra could still sense the distance that lingered between them.
Her grandsire Daeron had been happy about how well the pregnancy progressed, saying that he was excited for more grandchildren. The King had been an ally whom she knew she could rely upon, for he was the one to agree with the match.
Other ladies of the court sought her favor, appearing with careful smiles and polite words, while the wives of Rhaegel and Aerys visited with varying degrees of warmth. Lady Alys Arryn came often with her twins, whose presence Viserra found unexpectedly soothing, their laughter lightening the atmosphere in a way few other things could.
Valarr and Matarys visited too, their youthful energy filling the chamber with a different kind of life, one that reminded her of what was to come. Though she was one nameday older than Valarr, him and his brother Matarys always treated her with respect and at times too much seriousness, which was easy to dispel in them.
The best part of her day had become a ritual so cherished, so deeply anticipated, that Viserra found herself measuring time not by the tolling of bells nor the shifting light beyond her windows, but by the moment her dragon would cross the threshold of her chambers.
And he never came alone. Today, he wore a black long-sleeved, long-lined doublet, with padded shoulders, over a red tunic. She knew because she informed her servant to inform Baelor’s squire. The doublet had the front laps patterned with scales, the collar in the color of blood red. On his breast was stitched the three-headed dragon. He wore black breeches and tall black leather boots inlaid with red scrolling.
The soft, eager rhythm of paws against polished stone always preceded him, a light, rapid tapping that stirred her attention before he had time to pass through the door himself, followed swiftly by the unmistakable sound of small barks echoing into the chamber.
Viserra’s lips curved instantly, her entire demeanor softening as she lifted her hand from the bed in welcome.
“Oh, my valiant dragons,” she cooed warmly.
Vermithor and Silverwing burst forward with unrestrained enthusiasm, their compact forms moving with surprising speed, their joy untempered by dignity or decorum. Vermithor, with his rich brown coat and white underbelly, carried himself with a touch more gravity, yet even he could not fully contain his excitement as he reached her, while Silverwing, pale as fresh-fallen snow and far less restrained, scrambled eagerly toward her outstretched hand.
Viserra laughed softly as their affection came in the form of eager licks and soft whines, her fingers curling into their fur, delighting in the simple, unguarded warmth they offered.
“Darla,” she called gently, her gaze still fixed upon them, “bring me the covers.”
Her cousin moved at once, ever attentive, drawing the blankets more securely around Viserra as Baelor stepped forward, lifting Silverwing with practiced ease and setting her carefully upon the bed.
The small dog wasted no time in making herself comfortable, pressing close to Viserra and specifically, her gigantic belly. Vermithor, in contrast, remained below, seated at the bedside with a composed patience that gave him an air almost solemn, though his wagging tail betrayed him.
Viserra giggled as Silverwing’s coarse tongue brushed her hand again and again.
“How is my sweet dragon?” she murmured fondly. “Did you greet my father? Did you behave yourself? Or did you scandalize him entirely?”
Baelor’s voice came, calm and even as ever. “He wondered why his daughter had purchased grumkins.”
Viserra gasped, her head snapping toward him in mock outrage. “They are not grumkins,” she insisted, her tone filled with dramatic indignation. “They are clever, affectionate, and prone to cuddling dogs. How, precisely, does that resemble a grumkin?”
Baelor’s lips twitched faintly, though his composure held.
“Peace, my joy,” he said mildly. “Your sire has always had a talent for… bold commentary.”
Viserra huffed lightly, though her amusement lingered just beneath the surface.
“Oh,” she added suddenly, as though remembering something of great importance, “lord husband, it is good to see you.”
The Prince of Dragonstone inclined his head slightly, his tone smooth, almost teasing as he spoke the Old Tongue. “Wife, I see I have been replaced in your affections by Silverwing.”
Viserra pouted at him, though the gesture lacked any true severity.
“There is room enough for all of you, do not grow jealous,” then, more softly, more sincerely, “Has my father arrived?”
Baelor stepped closer, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to her brow, eyes kind, his touch lingering just a moment longer than necessary.
“He has,” he confirmed in a lilted Valyrian tone. “I received him myself. That is why I was delayed.”
“I know. The page informed me.”
Baelor’s hand moved through her silver hair, smoothing it back with quiet affection, his gaze lingering upon her face. “They are settling into their chambers now. They will come to see you shortly. I have instructed them to keep their visit brief, so as not to tire you.”
Viserra glanced toward Darla then. “Wait outside.” Her cousin curtsied at once, understanding without question, and withdrew from the chamber, leaving them in a more intimate quiet.
Viserra’s fingers resumed their gentle motion behind Silverwing’s ears, though her thoughts had shifted. The corgi nuzzled her belly.
“Is he here as well?” she asked, her tone carefully neutral.
Baelor nodded once. Viserra’s hand stilled for a fraction of a moment before resuming its motion, though the ease in her posture had subtly changed.
“Will you stay with me?” she asked, her voice quieter now.
Her husband’s answer came without pause. “You need not ask, I shall remain by your side.”
And he did, when later the door opened once more and Ser Crakehall announced the members of their family.
The first to enter was little Dragon Egg who burst through the doors with all the enthusiasm of youth unchecked, his energy filling the space before any formal greeting could be offered. Daella and Rhae followed close behind, their steps more measured, though no less eager, while Aemon entered with a quieter composure.
Aerion came after, his presence colder, though he was all smiles and charm, followed by Daeron, her twin, whose mood seemed clouded, and finally Maekar, whose stern expression softened only slightly at the sight before him.
Egg wasted no time. He darted forward, his attention captured first by Vermithor, whom he embraced with immediate affection before turning his wide gaze upon Viserra.
“You’re huge, Vis!” he declared with blunt honesty.
Maekar’s hand came down swiftly upon the back of the boy’s head. “Mind your words. Your sister carries a child. Is that the way to speak to her? Apologize, now.”
“I apologize, Vis,” Egg winced, rubbing his head, though his enthusiasm was undiminished as he approached her more carefully this time. He took her hand with surprising gentleness, lifting it to press a small, earnest kiss against her fingers.
“Vis,” he said, his voice bright, “you look as radiant as the sun at Summerhall. I missed you dearly.”
Viserra’s expression softened immediately, her arms opening as far as her condition allowed, drawing him into a careful embrace.
“And I have missed you,” she murmured, her voice warm with genuine affection, eyes filled with tears. She touched his shoulder-length silver hair lightly, smoothing it back as she studied him. “How have you fared?”
Egg straightened slightly, his grin returning in full force.
“I am well,” he said proudly. “And I shall be a squire soon.”
“Not yet, Aegon,” said her sire tiredly.
“As soon as kepa will allow it.”
Viserra smiled at that, though before she could respond, he leaned closer, his voice dropping slightly as though sharing something of great importance.
“If you have a boy,” he said eagerly, “will you name him after me?”
Viserra laughed softly, the sound gentle and fond. “There can only be one perfect Aegon. I fear the realm could not withstand two.”
Egg considered this for a moment, then nodded solemnly, as though accepting a great truth.
One by one, she greeted her sisters, her expression softening as she exchanged words with Daella and Rhae. Aemon kissed her knuckles and cheeck, speaking of his scrolls and tomes, while Daeron’s eyes lingered more than the others, her twin’s gaze more difficult to read, clouded by thoughts he did not yet voice.
And through it all, the dogs remained. Silverwing lay comfortably upon the bed beside her, content and unmoving, while Vermithor sat below with quiet dignity, both creatures seemingly unbothered by the sudden influx of people, until Aerion stepped forward.
Silverwing’s body tensed beneath Viserra’s hand, her relaxed posture stiffening as a low, warning growl began to build in her throat. Vermithor followed suit, his ears pulling back slightly, a deeper, more deliberate rumble echoing from his chest as his gaze fixed sharply upon the approaching prince.
Maekar’s voice broke the moment, edged with irritation. “Why do you not take these grumkins away, so that we may speak without fear of crushing fleas beneath our boots?”
Viserra turned her head toward him, her lips curving into a polite, practiced smile that did not quite reach her eyes.
“Silverwing has done nothing to the others,” she replied smoothly. “Perhaps she simply does not take a liking to my little brother.”
Aerion chuckled at that, the sound light, almost charming, as though the tension meant nothing at all.
“Sweet sister,” he said, stepping closer, “I am not so little anymore. I shall soon be knighted.”
Silverwing rose fully then, her small frame taut with unease, her lips pulling back just enough to reveal her teeth as the growl deepened, unmistakable now.
Maekar’s gaze flicked toward Baelor. “Are you not meant to do something about that?”
Baelor regarded the scene with a calm that bordered on deliberate, his gaze settling briefly upon Aerion before returning to the dogs.
“Dogs are often excellent judges of character,” he said evenly.
The words were mild. The meaning was not. Aerion’s smile did not falter, though something in his eyes shifted ever so slightly.
Baelor’s tone remained composed. “Though,” he added after a moment, “it may be best that they are returned to their chambers.” He glanced toward Viserra then, his expression softening. “What say you, my joy?”
Maekar grimaced visibly. “For the love of the gods, must you call her that in my presence?”
Viserra let out a faint breath, the tension pressing at her patience.
“Yes, husband. Have their master take them.”
Egg needed no further prompting. With a burst of enthusiasm, he darted toward the antechamber, eager to be of use, his footsteps quick and unrestrained as he vanished beyond the door to summon the dogs’ keeper.
As Vermithor turned to follow, he paused just long enough to snap lightly at Aerion’s heel, not enough to harm, but enough to make his displeasure known. Aerion stepped back instinctively, his expression tightening for the briefest of moments before smoothing once more into practiced charm.
“It seems they require firmer handling,” he remarked lightly.
Baelor’s reply was quiet. “They have their moods.”
Aerion said nothing further. Instead, he stepped closer to Viserra, and he reached for her hand, lifting it with a grace that bordered on theatrical. He pressed a kiss to her knuckles, then her cheek, his words flowing easily, praising her beauty, her radiance, her strength.
All the while, Baelor remained at her side. His presence calmed her. His hand rested lightly at the back of her head, fingers threading gently through her silver hair in a gesture that was both comforting and unmistakably possessive. She felt the babe or babes shift inside of her, as if also sensing the threat.
Maekar stepped forward next, his presence filling the space with a different kind of weight altogether. His gaze fell immediately upon Baelor, narrowing.
“Must you stand so close to her at all times?” he asked bluntly. “She is capable of breathing without your constant presence or consent.”
Viserra sighed softly, the fatigue she had held at bay pressing closer.
“Kepa, please. Not now.”
Maekar huffed, though he did not argue further. Instead, he leaned down, his movement abrupt as he pushed Baelor’s hand aside just long enough to press a firm kiss to Viserra’s forehead, his touch lacking the gentleness of her husband’s, yet not devoid of care.
He seated himself carefully at the edge of the bed, mindful of her condition, though his gaze did not soften when it returned to Baelor, who had already resumed his place, his hand once more settling behind her head as though it had never been moved.
Maekar’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing. Instead, he turned his attention to his daughter.
“How do you fare?” he asked, his tone shifting into something more grounded. “Have the pains begun?”
Viserra’s hand moved instinctively to her belly, her fingers spreading lightly across its curve.
“They have. Two days past. The Grand Maester says they herald what is to come.”
Maekar frowned slightly. “What do you mean?”
“Babies,” Viserra hesitated only a moment.
“Babies?” Maekar repeated.
Egg’s voice burst through immediately. “There are two of them in your belly?”
“Quiet, Aegon,” Maekar snapped. Then, more controlled, “Are you certain, mine daughter?”
Viserra nodded. “The Grand Maester believes so. As do the midwives. And aunt Daniela Dayne.”
Maekar leaned back slightly, his hand rising to tug at the collar of his doublet, discomfort flickering across his features, though whether from the news or from memory, it was difficult to say.
“It was difficult for your mother,” he said after a moment. “The birth of you and Daeron,” his gaze shifted briefly, then returned to her. “But it could yet be one,” he added, as though attempting to anchor himself in uncertainty.
Viserra reached for his hand then, her fingers closing around his, noting the tension there, the tightness he had not quite managed to hide. “We shall know soon enough,” she said softly.
Maekar nodded, though the concern remained etched into his features. Then, as though seeking distraction, his gaze snapped once more toward Baelor.
“And you allow her to keep those flea-ridden creatures?” he demanded. “Have you entirely lost your senses?”
Baelor’s reply came without hesitation. “They have no fleas,” he said calmly. “They are attended by the Grand Maester himself. Washed regularly. And they do not leave the confines of the Red Keep.”
Maekar scowled. “Then you keep them for no purpose at all?”
Viserra rolled her eyes, a flicker of her earlier spirit returning. “They are for my enjoyment and I would ask that you not speak so of them. They are dear to me.” She paused, then added with pointed softness, “Unless you wish to see me weep.”
Maekar’s expression shifted and he looked away. “No,” he muttered.
Viserra hummed and soon winced, then looked at her little siblings. “Come, feel them, they’re kicking, they wish to greet you,” before she could finish Dragon Egg materialized breathless next to her, splaying his hands on her belly.
He gasped. “Gods, they are strong. Papa, feel this!” Aegon took their father’s hand and put it on her belly. She could swear she saw her father’s eyes redden as he felt the kicks too but he said nothing, simply nodding, as he retracted his hand. It was then Aemon, Daella and Rhae who came to her side and began speaking to her belly, all of them making promises to the babes. Or babe.