I was awoken early in the morning by the hurried shuffling of feet and the low, anxious murmur of voices beyond my door. I dressed at once and stepped into the corridor, where servants and soldiers alike whispered of the deeds Daemon and his Gold Cloaks had carried out the night before.
They spoke of Flea Bottom—of criminals dragged from the shadows, of rapists maimed, of thieves left bleeding in the streets. I cannot say I am particularly fond of Flea Bottom, nor of those who dwell there. Cutthroats, whores, and vermin thrive in that place, and so I found little cause to mourn them. Crime in King's Landing has grown wild and unchecked since Father ascended the Iron Throne. He is not a man of hard hands, nor does he favor rule through fear or brute strength.
If there is anything troubling in Daemon's actions, it is their timing—so close to the tournament. Still, I cannot complain overmuch. The Gold Cloaks have proven themselves effective, delivering justice swiftly, if brutally, and at least the coin spent on them has shown results. Yet a part of me wonders still whether this is more than duty—whether Daemon seeks power for its own sake, or means to forge a private army within the city. I have not dismissed the thought entirely.
From all reports, the Gold Cloaks are fiercely loyal to Daemon. That loyalty may prove either a blessing or a curse. His ambitions for the throne are well known within the court, yet while Father sits the Iron Throne, I doubt Daemon would dare make a move.
The council meeting that followed passed swiftly. Daemon was spared punishment and retained his position as Commander of the City Watch. As expected. Father could never bring himself to be cruel to his brother, though such mercy has driven a wedge between him and certain members of the Small Council.
---
A few days later.
The day of the Heir's Tourney had arrived, and the air itself seemed alive with anticipation. Stalls were raised along the streets, banners unfurled, and visitors from every corner of Westeros poured into King's Landing to witness the spectacle.
Knights and their lords arrived early to prepare, each seeking honor, glory, and renown. The Red Keep had been abuzz for days, servants and courtiers alike scrambling to prepare both the tourney and the celebration to follow, all in honor of the heir soon to be born.
I spent those days overseeing the tournament lists, helping design the grounds, and greeting the nobles who came to court. When time allowed, I stayed close to Ashara and my mother.
I could feel my mother's fear beneath her calm smiles. She has lost too many children already, and I know she cannot bear another loss. I did what I could to comfort her, showing her my progress in alchemy and medicine. She listened with pride in her eyes, though worry never fully left her face.
I wish I could say I felt joy for this event, yet a bitter taste lingered in my mouth. A sense of dread clung to me, unwelcome and unrelenting. The past has taught me to temper hope with caution. Truthfully, I do not pray for an heir—I pray only for my mother's safety.
When it comes to succession, I know the burden will fall upon Rhaenyra and me: marriages arranged, bloodlines preserved, heirs produced. The thought of enduring what my mother has suffered sends a shudder through me.
Such is the duty of royalty.
---
"Come along, Lady Vhaehra," Ashara laughed, tugging gently at my arm. "We do not wish to arrive late for the tourney."
Her laughter rang bright as she pulled me through the crowd toward the stands. She wore a gown of white and purple, the colors flattering her so well that she seemed to glow beneath the sun.
"I am coming, I am coming," I said, quickening my step as we wove through the throng and finally reached the royal box.
We were met with smiles—and a few relieved sighs—as we took our seats. A blush crept across my cheeks when Rhaenyra nudged my arm.
"You had us worried, Vhaehra," she said lightly. "Some of the lords had already begun wagering on whether you would show at all."
I laughed softly. "You make it sound as though I am always late. I was delayed only this once."
I turned toward Father. He smiled and nodded before rising to address the crowd.
"Be welcome to King's Landing," he proclaimed. "You have traveled far to attend these games, and I swear to you, you shall not be disappointed by the knights who ride this day."
His speech was met with thunderous applause. Then he announced that the Queen had begun her labors. Cheers erupted at the prospect of a long-awaited heir.
Without thinking, I clenched the armrest of my seat. Whether from fear or nerves, I could not say. Ashara squeezed my hand, offering a gentle, reassuring smile.
"You worry too much, Vhaehra," she murmured. "The Seven smile upon us today. All will be well. Come—enjoy the spectacle."
I thanked her and forced a smile, pushing my fears aside. Yet the unease remained, gnawing at the back of my mind like an unhealed wound.
"Look!" Ashara cried. "They begin!"
Lances crashed together, splintering into shards as knights were hurled from their saddles. The roar of the crowd was deafening, excitement crackling in the air.
"Who is that knight?" Rhaenyra asked, leaning forward with interest.
"Ser Criston Cole," I answered. "His first tournament."
He saluted the royal box before riding on.
"I have never heard of House Cole," Rhaenyra said.
"Because there is no such house," I replied. "He is common-born."
The tourney continued until a maester entered the royal box and whispered into Father's ear. Father nodded and rose at once, departing with two Kingsguard in tow.
She has begun, I thought. Mother, please… be safe.
The unease returned in full force. I stood abruptly, drawing curious looks from Rhaenyra and the ladies-in-waiting.
"Vhaehra?" Rhaenyra asked. "Where are you going?"
"I only need some air," I said, forcing a sheepish smile. "All this blood and noise has unsettled me."
It was a lie. I meant to return to the Red Keep—to my mother.
"Shall I come with you, Princess?" Ashara offered at once.
I shook my head. "No, enjoy the tourney. I will return shortly."
As I left the stands, I felt the weight of curious gazes upon me, particularly from Lord Corlys and his wife. I reached the stables, mounted a horse, and rode hard for the Red Keep, dread tightening its grip around my chest.
The streets were choked with revelers, slowing my progress to a crawl. I shouted for them to clear the way, but it took nearly an hour to reach the castle.
If only I had Bahamut, I thought bitterly. I would already be there.
Once inside the courtyard, I dismounted and ran, skirts gathered in my hands, straight for my mother's chambers.
---
Viserys
I burst into the chamber, my wife's screams tearing through me like blades. I turned to Maester Mellos, dread heavy in my chest.
"Tell me what is wrong," I demanded.
"The babe is breech, Your Grace," he said quietly. "We have failed to turn him."
I looked to Aemma, her cries growing weaker, her strength fading.
"Give her milk of the poppy," I ordered.
"We have given all we dare," Mellos replied. "She is strong, Your Grace—but I fear it may not be enough."
His words struck like a hammer. I knelt beside her, clutching her hand.
"Aemma, I am here," I whispered. "You are not alone."
At last, her screams faded, leaving only shallow breaths. Mellos drew me aside.
"Your Grace," he said gravely, "there are times when a king must make an impossible choice."
My blood ran cold.
"You ask me to choose," I said hoarsely.
Mellos nodded. "There is a chance to save the child… but the Queen will not survive."
I looked back at Aemma, broken with grief, and made my choice—for the realm, for the crown.
"Do it," I said. "Save the heir."