My mother prayed I'd be everything she wasn't.
Maybe that's why we will never know peace. 

100 AC

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The night stretched endless, thick with shadows and the coppery scent of blood that hung heavy in the still air. But the YiTish girl on the narrow cot, despite it all, could not help the faint smile that touched her lips. She had done it. Against all odds, she had survived her labour, early as it came, and though she had been alone—utterly, wrenchingly alone—now she was no longer. Now, she had company. The warmth of the small life cradled in her arms was a salve to her wounds, though her limbs felt cold, her breath growing more shallow with every rise and fall of her chest.

She knew something was wrong. It should have hurt more, shouldn't it? Yet the pain had receded, leaving in its wake only a numbing peace. But for a brief moment, none of that mattered. The babe—her babe—lay nestled against her breast, the soft glow of moonlight filtering through the grime-smeared window onto the child's cherubic face. A girl. She had a girl.

The mother wept. Silent, tearless sobs shook her frail body as her gaze locked onto the child's mismatched eyes—those strange, lovely eyes, inherited from each of her parents, that opened to meet her own. The first thing the babe saw was her, and that was enough.

The child squirmed, her mouth stretching wide in a wail that pierced the silence, as though she, too, could not bear her mother's sorrow. Shuddering, the girl pressed trembling fingers to her daughter's lips, her heart breaking at the thought of stifling such a tiny, innocent voice. But silence was needed, if only for a little longer. The world had yet to intrude, yet to tear them apart. Tomorrow, the men would come. Tomorrow, they would take the babe away, and the girl knew they would drag them down paths of separation and pain, as men often did. But for tonight, in this fragile cocoon of starlight, they belonged to one another.

When the babe fell silent once more, the girl drew her closer, planting a tender kiss on her blood-smeared cheek. Her lips brushed against the warmth of shared life, tasting the mingled iron of their blood, still tethered together by the cord that bound mother to child. She had not yet cut it, and she would wait. There was still time.

"Jia," she whispered, the foreign tongue slipped from her lips like a sacred secret. "My darling Jia."

No one would ever know her true name. No one would ever call her by it, and in that way, a piece of the babe would remain hers, and hers alone—a quiet defiance against the world that sought to claim everything. It was a mother's right, after all, to name her child in the fleeting moments before others could lay ownership. Outside, men would boast of lineage, of bloodlines and heritage, but in the hushed sanctuaries of motherhood, a babe belonged to the woman who bore it, who bled for it, who would die for it.

"Jia," the girl murmured again, and the child cooed, as if answering her, as if agreeing to the secret pact between them.

More tears flowed down the girl's cheeks. She had never thought it possible, not for her. Not a daughter of her own, one that did not belong to the church or the High Priest, not like she had. She dared to hope—just a little—that if the gods had any mercy left, they might spare this child. If they had even a scrap of pity, they would let her escape the same fate that had ensnared her mother. The babe had been born of love, after all—an impossible one, yes, but love nonetheless. Perhaps that would be enough. Perhaps because she did not come from corruption, she would be spared the poison of their bloodline. 

Tomorrow, someone would arrive—her captors or her saviours—but either way, they would take her away. Tonight, the young mother whispered prayers to every cruel and indifferent deity that her daughter would find her father, that he might protect her from those who would twist her into something unrecognizable. She did not expect him to keep the child; she knew him better than that, but at the very least, he would see her safe. If only—if only the babe could reach him in time.

With what remained of her strength, the girl reached for a blade of obsidian, jagged and cold in her grip. Her hands shook as she severed the cord between them, the final tie of flesh and blood that had made them as one. Then she cut three tallies into the skin just above her own heart—the blood for this next task had to be fresh, unsullied—and used it to paint the babe's already carmine skin with symbols, mouthing the words to a familiar incantation. Both a blessing and a curse; a tether that would last several lifetimes. This child would return to her, and in another plane of existence, she would be able to keep it. It was the only useful thing she had learned from the High Priest. He had bound her to him in wretched selfishness, but she liked to believe she did it to her daughter out of love alone. 

The reasons did not really matter in the end. Blood did not betray blood, and as the threadbare sheets beneath the entwined bodies grew sodden with crimson gore, the young mother stuck her bloodied thumb into the infant's mouth to suckle. Let her consume, and be consumed. let them be one. 

Soon, the sun would rise, casting its golden light upon the room. It would reveal a dead mother and the blood-crusted babe still clinging to her bosom, its small body pressed close as if seeking the warmth that had long since left the girl's cold limbs. The child would cry out again, hungry and afraid, but the mother would not rise. She would not wake to kiss her daughter's cheeks or whisper her lost name.

And so the name would fade, forgotten like the girl who had bestowed it, swallowed by the silence of the dawn.

⋇⋆✦⋆⋇

Prince Viserys Targaryen stood in the opulent chambers of Crown Prince Zhong Ren, gaze locked onto the man before him who held a small bundle in his arms. The room was grand and richly decorated, adorned with silk tapestries and gilded statues, but all Viserys could see was the desperation in his friend's tear-streaked face.

The air was thick with the scent of incense, cloying and sweet, but there was a heaviness to it that weighed down on their shoulders. This was his second time accompanying the Sea Snake to the Golden Empire of Yi Ti, and he had spent a pleasant few months enjoying the lavish hospitality of the emperor and his oldest son, but now on the last day before his journey home, he had been blindsided. He had never seen the YiTish prince like this. In the years since they had struck up their unlikely friendship—born of diplomacy and strengthened by shared letters, gifts, and mutual respect—he had always known Ren as poised, dignified, and composed. Yet here he was, pleading, his face streaked with the unmistakable remnants of grief. His long dark hair was in disarray, and he was still in his robes from the night before, as if he had been cloistered in his chambers all day. 

"Ren, I cannot. This—this is impossible."

Ren's grip on the babe tightened, his knuckles going white as he lifted it closer to his chest, as if shielding her from some unseen threat. His voice cracked, but his resolve did not falter. "I am not asking you as a prince, Viserys. I am asking you as a friend. As a father. You are a father too, you understand. Please, take her with you."

"I cannot."

"You must know how difficult this is for me. You have a daughter, do you not? The girl must be three by now. How would you feel if you had to send her away? But you would do it if it meant protecting her?"

Viserys blinked, the refusal dying in his chest. The reminder of his child was an effective tactic, and immediately he thought of Rhaenyra, with her starkissed curls and wide innocent eyes. His heart clenched at the thought of sending her away, of parting with her under such dire circumstances. Yet here was Ren, a man who had always seemed unflappable, begging him to take his child across the seas.

"You were not even married, last I heard," he argued, trying to regain some semblance of control over the conversation.

Ren shook his head. "I was not. I didn't even know until it was too late. I—" He trailed off, his eyes lowering to the child in his arms, her hand peeking out from the swaddling, reaching blindly toward her father.

Rubbing a tired hand over his face, Viserys sighed. "So, it's a bastard, then? All this fuss over a mere bastard. How do you even know it's yours?"

The YiTish prince's face softened, his gaze filled with something bordering on reverence as he looked down. "Of course she is mine. How could she not be? Look at her. She has my eyes, Viserys. And her mother's lips. I know she is mine as surely as I know my own name."

"That doesn't change what she is, Ren. She is a bastard."

Ren's response was immediate, his tone rising with a fervour that surprised him. "She is my daughter—the only daughter I will ever have. The shamans have read my fate in the stars. They have declared it. I will only have sons. Five concubines and sons aplenty, much to the satisfaction of my father. But she—she is my only daughter. I cannot forsake her."

Viserys almost rolled his eyes at his despair. Oh, what must that be like, to be told that you would have all the sons your heart desired? 

"And yet, here you are, asking me to take her away from you. To a foreign land, no less," he scoffed. "You're no different from the lords back home who send their bastards away to avoid scandal. Is that what this is? Sending her off so no one will ever know she existed?"

"No!" Ren's spoke in an urgent whisper now, his eyes darting to the door as if expecting someone to overhear. "No, Viserys. I am not abandoning her. I am protecting her."

"Protecting her? From what?"

"From those who would harm her. From those who would see her as a—something to conquer...because of her blood. I do not know the extent of it, but this is all I have been told, that she cannot remain here. We are too close to Asshai, too close to those who dabble in the dark arts. She would not be safe here."

Viserys recoiled, his lips curling into a sneer. "So you bedded a sorceress, then? Is that how this happened? Some dark magic tricked you into her bed?"

Ren's expression turned stricken. "I did not bed her. I loved her. I was going to marry her."

"You fool!" the Targaryen spat. "You know our duty comes before all else. You knew you were betrothed since birth. We are not free to marry for love!"

"I...I could not help it."

"So you deluded yourself into thinking you could escape your fate?"

"I know my duty." Ren's shoulders slumped. "I know I am to marry another. But my daughter, Viserys... I must protect her."

"And you think sending her away with me—across the Narrow Sea, to a place where she will have no one—is the way?"

"She will have you. You are the only one I trust. If my betrothed or her family knew of her existence, they would have her killed. My family might even do the same, for the sake of the succession. The throne of Yi Ti is a prize that invites doom, for sons and daughters alike. My girl would not survive here, and I do not wish a life of bloodshed and a death of indignity for her."

Viserys was silent, the words settling over him like a shroud. He thought again of Rhaenyra, of how he would do anything to protect her, to keep her safe from the dangers of the world. Could he really refuse another father's plea, knowing exactly what it would feel like if his girl was the one in danger?

"You ask too much of me."

Ren took a step closer, his eyes pleading. "I know it is a great burden. But you have a castle, a home, a family. She would be safe with you. Raise her as you see fit, but please, take her."

"And what am I to say to my wife?"

"Your Lady Aemma is a good woman. Tell her that the babe is an orphan or even a stray you took pity on. Tell her she has no other home, no one to call her own." As he spoke, fresh tears streamed down the crown prince's face, as if it physically pained him to declare such things about his child, one he cherished above all else. How cruel to say that she had no one to call her own, when he would spend the rest of his life missing her. 

Viserys looked down at the babe Ren placed in his arms, her small face peeking out from the blankets. She was so small, so fragile, and yet there was something unmistakably familiar about her. She had one of the YiTish prince's eyes, and she was unmistakably his daughter. Viserys knew this as surely as he had known that Rhaenyra had been his from the first moment he had held her. 

"And what of her mother? What became of her?"

Ren's face crumpled again. "She is gone, I am told. I did not even...I do not know when, or how, or where. All I know is her child—our child, who was brought to me only this morning."

"I—I am sorry. For what it's worth, I am sorry for your loss."

And he meant it. He could not imagine the pain the crown prince must be feeling, losing both the woman he loved and his daughter. If Aemma and Rhaenyra were no longer in his life, he would not know what he'd do. 

"How do you expect me to care for the infant during our journey back to Westeros? It is a long one, you know this."

The YiTish prince looked up at him with a glimmer of hope, and momentarily his face transformed with relief, reminding him of how young he truly was. Fatherhood was a heavy tribulation for the strongest of men, and Ren was just a boy. A few weeks shy of eighteen, he was a few years younger than Viserys himself, and close to the age the Targaryen prince too became a father to a daughter. 

"You will take her?"

"I will take her Ren, but how am I to care for her."

"She would have a nursemaid of course. I would not expect a prince to know how to care for an infant."

"And if she does not survive the journey? Children are fragile creatures, and the sea has a way of extinguishing even the most experienced of soldiers."

"My girl is strong," Ren brushed a thumb down her cheek. "She will survive it. If you take her away from here, she could survive anything."

"You seem far too certain."

"I have to be. What other choice do I have?"

"Very well," Viserys relented. "I shall take her. I shall take her to Westeros. Only the gods know what my wife and my father, not to mention the entire court will say and the king himself will say, but for you, I shall do this."

The dark-haired prince let out a shuddering breath, his relief palpable. He took his companion's hand and grasped it tightly. "Thank you, my friend. You do not know what this means to me."

"I do it for the sake of the camaraderie we share, and the hospitality you have showed me. I swear to care for her as my own, to raise her as she would have been, had you been able to raise her."

"Then let me swear an oath to you too. Yi Ti will always welcome you and your kin with open arms, and should your daughter, or any of your blood, ever need assistance, I will be the first to answer the call."

Viserys snorted. "Yi Ti is terribly far away, Ren. I doubt you would even hear of our troubles all the way here in your gilded palace."

"But I shall do my best."

"You know, my prince, such alliances are built on marriages and exchanges of far greater value."

"Nothing is of greater value than my daughter, Viserys. Nothing at all."

"Your heart has always been your weakness. It shall be your downfall."

"But as long as it still beats, it shall be indebted to you."

Viserys looked down at the babe again, fast asleep now, despite the commotion around her. "What is her name?"

"I do not know."

"You do not know your own daughter's name."

"Her mother gave her one, no doubt," the prince looked ashamed. "But I was not there to hear it, and I will not dishonour her by giving her another. Her true name shall remain the one uttered by the woman who birthed her, but you may name her in the customs of your people if you wish. Or perhaps you might give that honour to her next mother, the next woman who will raise her."

If the occasion was not so sombre, the Targaryen prince would have chuckled. His companion had always been an idealistic romantic, which was a misplaced trait in the future emperor of an empire as vast as Yi Ti, but this is how they had come to be friends after all, both of them much preferring the parchment scent and ink stains of a library and histories of mankind to the gruelling politics of ruling. 

Maybe they were both imbeciles, concocting plans and scheming for a future neither of them would live to see, but the vows made in friendship would never be forgotten, carried forth in the blood of their offspring. 

⋇⋆✦⋆⋇

The sea, a never-ending stretch of grey and blue, seemed as endless as the thoughts that plagued Viserys Targaryen's mind during the voyage home. The Sea Snake's ship groaned and creaked beneath him, its wood swelling with the saltwater mist, but all his focus lay on the tiny creature nestled in the cabin below—a fragile, fretful babe who had yet to know peace.

When she was not crying, she lay in eerie stillness, her breaths shallow, her skin chalky and pallid. Zhong Ren's insistence that his daughter possessed strength had begun to sound like a desperate father's delusion to Viserys. The girl spent more time wracked with fever than in good health, and none of the ship's maesters could explain her ailments.

Viserys had tried to reason through it. Logic was something he usually prized—he was no fool swayed by sentiment. He could see a path as clearly as anyone: conceal her birth, silence those who knew of it, and see the babe sent to some distant part of the realm where she might be safe in obscurity. The nursemaid Zhong Ren had sent with her could be paid handsomely, bribed into silence, and kept away from court. The babe could disappear, just as so many others had before her.

Yet, for all his supposed wisdom, he knew he could never do it. He was not ruled by logic, but by something far more perilous. He had a father's heart—accompanied by a father's weaknesses— and in that heart, he had already made room for the child, despite how ill-advised such feelings were. Every time his gaze fell upon her, he thought of Rhaenyra safe in Westeros. The two girls had the same small hands and the same curious eyes that, when open, seemed to peer into the deepest corners of his soul.

And so, the child became his charge. The thought of her being raised in a forgotten corner of the realm, her birth a secret lost to time, unsettled him. No, bastard or not, Ren's daughter was still a princess by blood, and she would be raised as such, in front of his eyes so he could honour his oath to protect her. He had already begun to fashion a narrative. He might even declare her his own—naming her Waters, as was the custom for bastards born in the Crownlands. She would not threaten his future son, when the gods blessed him with one, for she was a girl, and girls, in the eyes of the Westrosi court, were rarely seen as a danger. But she would have a life, a future, one that honoured her regal father.

The journey felt longer than it had ever been, the sea a hostile, unrelenting companion, but Viserys found unexpected solace in the small joys that the babe brought. Her wails had, at first, driven him mad with frustration, but as the days turned to weeks, there were moments when she laughed, a sound so pure it pierced the haze of his thoughts. And when she smiled, albeit fleetingly, it stirred in him something he could not name.

By the time they reached the shores of King's Landing, he had made up his mind. The city's great towers loomed in the distance, a familiar sight, and yet he knew that nothing would be the same after he set foot on its soil again. His decision had already been cemented, whether it had been born on the turbulent seas or in those rare, quiet moments with the child. The bond was formed. The girl was his, in spirit if not in blood, because she was also Ren's.

When they finally docked, the Targaryen carried the child himself, a sight that shocked every onlooker at the port. The streets hummed with the whispers before he had even left the docks. Prince Viserys with a babe in his arms? It was an image none could fathom, and yet here it was, plain for all to see. The rumours swept through the city like wildfire, making their way to the Red Keep before he could even begin to explain.

And how could he explain that on that long, arduous voyage, the girl had slithered to rest between his ribs, just as Rhaenyra had? How could he explain that it no longer mattered whose decision it was—his or hers—because they had chosen one another?

Aemma would understand. His gentle wife always forgave him, even for his gravest errors, and he hoped she would do so again. 

⋇⋆✦⋆⋇

Aemma Arryn lay listlessly upon her chaise, the world around her distant, muffled, as if it were happening behind a veil. Grief pressed down on her, heavier than the swollen belly she had carried for nine long months, heavier than the loss that now hollowed her out. The linen beneath her fingers was cool, but nothing could soothe the burning in her chest, the searing emptiness that filled her womb. She had not yet turned her eyes toward the bed—the one where her blood had soaked through the sheets three nights ago, where her babe had slipped away from her before she had named it.

The maids had done their best. The bedclothes had been changed, the stains scrubbed away, but the loss remained—festering like an open wound that refused to heal. Another child gone, another grave added to the catacombs of her heart.

The quiet of her chambers was broken only by the occasional whisper of footsteps beyond her door, but those, too, faded into nothingness. Until, at last, came the news she had been dreading. Your husband has returned.

What would she even tell him? That she had failed yet again, that she had not brought forth a son, but a corpse? And then there was rage as well, because where had he been? His voyage had taken him across the Narrow Sea, and while he had been away, Aemma had bled and bled and bled. She had almost died, had begged for him in her feverish delirium, but he had not come. 

She heard the door open before she saw him. 

"Aemma, I—"

But she could not bear to hear him speak. The tenderness in his address was like a knife twisted into the wound that had already wrung her dry. She stood, though every muscle in her body protested, though her legs trembled and her abdomen throbbed with the ghost of the life she had carried. She stood because her wrath demanded it. Because her desolation was too vast to bear alone, and someone had to answer for it.

Viserys took a step toward her, cradling Zhong Ren's child as if she were the most delicate thing in the world, as if she would break with a breath. He looked at his wife with confusion, but she would not meet his gaze. She could not. Not yet.

"I hear you have sired a bastard."

He flinched as though struck, lips parting, words struggling to form, but he spoke with the kind of earnestness only a man who still hoped for forgiveness could muster.

"It is not—Aemma, I have not—"

"Do not lie to me!" Her voice cracked, the tears rising unbidden, threatening to spill over. She shook her head, blinking furiously to keep them at bay. "You owe me the truth, at least. You owe me the truth when you have been gone for so long, while I—" Her breath chafed in her lungs as the words tangled within her malfunctioning vocal cords. 

"I am sorry...I—"

"We had a babe....we had a babe, and it—"

Viserys leaned forward, his eyes widening in hope, in fear. "A son?" The question, full of yearning, hung in the air like a prayer. Had the gods finally granted him the son he had so longed for, the reward for his loyalty to another man's child? But if that was so, why did his wife look as though the gods had cursed her?

"We had a girl."

Aemma watched the hope drain from his face as she spat the words at him, her outrage too raw to temper. "Another little girl, Viserys. And she died—she died before she ever took her first breath. She died without you. While you were away on your grand adventures with Lord Corlys, it was your father who arranged the funeral, who sent her off. Not you!"

The prince reeled as if struck. His mouth opened and closed, words faltering, failing. "A girl?" he whispered. "You were—Aemma, I didn't even know you were with child. You never mentioned it in your letters."

"Because I thought you would return before the birth! Because I did not wish to worry you while you were gallivanting across the Essos. Because despite everything, despite your absence, I still cared for the well-being of my lord husband, even if he cares nothing for mine."

"No...no, that is not true. I—"

"Then why have you brought home a bastard?" The words were like venom on her tongue. She saw the hurt flash across his face, but she did not care. Not at this moment. She was too angry, too broken. Even as she spoke, there was a part of her—a cruel, vicious part—that wanted to seize the child, to fling her from the window, to rid the world of her, to punish Viserys for his betrayal.

But as she stepped forward to reach for the babe, her husband did nothing to stop her. He simply stood there, as if he knew in his heart that she could never do such a thing, knew that despite her fury, she could not harm the innocent child.

And he was right. The moment Aemma's eyes fell upon the infant—so eerily still, with dark silken hair and delicate and distinctly YiTish features—her irritation faltered. She had been around enough children to know that this one could not have been older than a few moons, the length of a single sea voyage. It was as if the tiny creature before her had somehow siphoned away all the hatred she had in store, and instead, what arose was sorrow so deep it stole the breath from her lungs.

A sob tore from her chest, raw and guttural, and before she knew it, her legs gave way beneath her. She sank to the floor, clutching the child as if it were a lifeline, her body wracked with the kind of torment that left no room for dignity. She wept, her tears soaking into the babe's swaddling, the sound echoing in the quiet of the chamber. The walls seemed to close in around her, and for a moment, she was drowning. 

These were tears of resignation, not just despair, because the child in her arms was unlike the deformed babe she had birthed only days ago—a babe who had existed just long enough to remind her of the gods' cruelty. Another tragedy in a line of misfortunes, another wound carved deep into her heart. Yet this new thing was different, healthy where hers had been frail, with skin like alabaster and hair that swallowed all light and gleamed obsidian.

Perhaps it helped that this little girl bore none of Viserys' telltale features. There was no proof of his indiscretions on her face, no unmistakable sign that this was the fruit of his wanderings. The babe's eyes—one a vivid blue like the skies that blanketed the Vale, the other a dark charcoal—held no malice, guilt, or shame. She was untouched by the transgressions of her father, too young to understand the cold world she had been born into, and as Aemma gazed upon her, she found it impossible to summon any loathing.

The babe did not answer any of her unspoken demands—how could she? She was too young to speak, too young to even understand words, but she understood a mother's heartache almost too well, and her lips parted, her screeching cries an echo of Aemma's. 

Without thinking, as though guided by some unseen force, she pulled the child into her chest, but neither mother nor babe would cease their keening. Meanwhile, Viserys stood over them helplessly, watching as the woman he loved was consumed by the grief he had not known. His heart was heavy with the knowledge that he had never even seen his daughter, that she had died while he was away chasing the winds, but there lay a greater despair in knowing that his chance of having a son had slipped away once more. 

 "Why does she not quieten?" Aemma lamented. "Why will your cursed babe not be silent?"

It was a rhetorical question, not meant to be answered, but Viserys—fool that he was—tried anyway. "I am told she is a colic babe. She has been like this ever since I have known her."

"And her mother?"

"...Dead I am told."

"Did you see her? Were you with her when she..."

"The babe is not mine, Aemma, I swear it."

"You word means very little to me right now, lord husband."

"I swear she is not—I would never dishonour you in such a way—I—"

"Stop it! Please, I am begging you, stop it!"

The child's shrieking had finally halted, a momentary calm in the storm, and Aemma pressed her lips against her temple. 

"Give her to me."

"What?" Viserys was startled at her demand. He expected her to send the child away, to want her banished to Winterfell, or some further corner of the realm. 

"Give her to me. You have made a mistake, but she should not suffer for it. Legitimize her, give her your name, and then give her to me."

It was fate—cruel and merciless, as fate often was—but fate all the same. The gods had taken one babe from her arms only to place another in them, and who was she to deny this chance? She was a mother who had lost her daughter, and here was a daughter who had lost a mother. Was there a pairing more divinely entwined than the two of them? This child was not hers by blood, no, but in the ways that mattered, in the ways that transcended lineage and the whims of men, she would be hers nonetheless. 

"To legitimize her would mean—"

"I will forgive you if you give her to me."

The thought seemed almost absurd the moment it formed—how does one withhold forgiveness from a prince? As if her absolution mattered in the great design of things, as if a man like Viserys truly needed her permission. He was born into a world where power bent to his will, where men could sire as many bastards as they liked without fear of reprisal. She had heard tales far worse than her own—a lord husband taking his mistresses under the same roof as his wife, or worse, the endless parade of wives butchered in their husband's pursuit of an heir, a son.

Viserys had not done that. Not yet, at least, she thought bitterly, but the truth still stung her—despite his fervent prayers and wishes for a son, despite the years of disappointment, he had not turned to another woman for a wife. Perhaps she ought to be grateful. There are far worse fates for wives in this world.

But gratitude, like forgiveness, felt like a duty she was expected to bear, and Aemma found herself unwilling to carry it. She had grown weary of carrying dying things. Her chest tightened with all the things she was supposed to feel, all the quiet sacrifices a wife was meant to make. She should have been able to forgive him. Duty demands it, she told herself, as she had been told since she was a girl. A wife bears her husband's sins as she bears his children, and remains silent through it all.

There was a part of her that wanted to believe him, to take his word as truth. After all, he was a prince—he had no need to lie. If the child was his, he could have said so, declared it openly, and what choice would she have but to accept it? Women endure, she reminded herself, though the words felt like ash in her mouth. Such was her lot in life. 

Even if she did believe him, what difference did it make? She could forgive him a thousand times over, and it would not fill the empty cradle, it would not bring her any of her dead children back.

⋇⋆✦⋆⋇

Later that very night, Aemma paced the nursery, her feet moving in time with the rocking of her new charge. The hour was late, and the warmth of the fire flickered faintly against the walls, casting shapes that danced around the room. She held the infant close, feeling the small rise and fall of her chest, the weight in her arms both comforting and unbearable at once. There had been an additional cradle prepared for this day, an extra space made for the child she had long hoped for, and the sight of it brought tears to her eyes. Another empty cradle. Another funeral pyre. 

Aemma swallowed the lump in her throat. It had been her smoothest pregnancy yet—no pain, no complications, no ominous signs to warn her that this time would end like all the others. Even the maesters had spoken with hope, but hope was a fragile thing, easily broken. At least the bed would not go to waste now, and Rhaenyra would finally have a companion to share her room with. 

Her firstborn toddled after her in agitated steps, her small face scrunched with frustration. The three-year-old had always been willful, a child born with fire in her veins, and she refused to go to bed without her mother's lullaby. It was long past her bedtime, but Aemma could not bring herself to sing with the bawling babe in her arms, whose cries pierced the quiet of the nursery, echoing off the tapestried surroundings like the shriek of some unseen creature. The midwives had offered to take the child, to dose her with opium as they did with restless babes, but Aemma refused. She could not let her daughter out of her sight, not even for a moment. What if she vanished the moment she let go?

She had nursed her, rocked her, whispered every soothing word she could think of, but the child refused to be calmed. Even now, she whimpered like a drowning kitten, trembling as if some unseen force was squeezing the life from her. Earlier in the day, Aemma had discovered strange markings on the infant's skin—three scabbed-over tallies above her heart, and peculiar symbols burned into her shoulder blades. The sight of them had filled her with cold dread, and though she should have summoned a maester, she didn't. She was too afraid—what if they took her away? What if this child, like the others, was stolen from her before she could hold her properly? Before she could love her?

Finally, the babe's cries quietened and she grew still in Aemma's arms. The woman sighed in exhaustion, sinking onto the divan near the cradle, her limbs heavy and aching from the endless hours of marching. Rhaenyra, sensing the moment, quickly climbed into her mother's lap, curling against her side with a possessive need that only a child could have. She pressed her face into Aemma's chest, her small hand gripping the fabric of her pale blue nightgown as if she too feared being forgotten in the wake of a new sibling. 

The door creaked open, and Aemma tensed instinctively, praying it was not Viserys. She wasn't ready to face him—not tonight, but when she looked up, it was not her husband who entered the room, but his father. Baelon Targaryen, the Prince of Dragonstone, was a loud and boisterous man by nature, but tonight he moved with an almost comical caution. He lingered in the doorway, his broad frame casting a long shadow across the nursery floor, his eyes scanning the room as if he were unsure of where to step.

Rhaenyra was the first to react. She lifted her head from Aemma's bosom, her violet eyes lighting up as she caught sight of him. "Grandsire!" she cried, wriggling from her mother's grasp and rushing toward him.

Aemma winced, immediately glancing down at the babe in her arms, half-expecting the disturbance to wake her once more, but the child remained mercifully asleep.

Baelon scooped his granddaughter into his arms with the ease of a man accustomed to handling children, his large hands gentle as he pinched her cheek with affection. "It seems my son has caused quite the commotion," he remarked.

When his daughter-in-law began to rise, out of respect for the heir to the Iron Throne, Baelon shook his head quickly, offering her a placating smile. "No, sit, Lady Arryn. You've gone through enough these past few weeks."

Despite his words, Aemma stood anyway, her spine stiff with the weight of her grief and duty. She tipped her head compliantly, though her eyes remained guarded.

Baelon's gaze shifted to the azure bundle in her arms and his brow furrowed in disapproval. "Is that it? The creature my son brought home?"

Aemma's gullet burned with bile at his choice of words. The creature. It was not the first time the babe had been referred to in such a way, but hearing it from him struck her harder than she expected. She nodded, unable to find the words to defend the child.

The older man stepped forward, his eyes narrowing as he took in the sight. For a long moment, he stood there, as if contemplating what to say, his lips pressed into a thin line. "You should not keep her. It would only bring you pain."

Before she could respond, the babe stirred, as if sensing the tension in the room. Her eyes blinked open, the faint light from the fire reflecting off the strange hues, and the Prince of Dragonstone froze. His earlier warning was forgotten as the child sniffled, the first hints of a wail building in her throat. And then, with a low, incredulous laugh, Baelon spoke again, though this time his voice was softer, tinged with something that sounded almost like nostalgia.

"She has Alyssa's eyes," he murmured, his fingers twitching at his side as if he longed to reach out and touch the irises himself to assure himself that they were real.

It was a lie, of course. Alyssa's eyes had been green and violet, and the babe bore no resemblance to the woman he spoke of, but in his perpetual mourning, he saw what he wanted to see—an anomaly that was an echo of a woman he had loved fiercely, long ago.

"Have you named her?"

The question caught Aemma off guard. She had never really thought about it. Fathers often named their children as was the custom, but she had refused Viserys that right. A babe always belonged to their mother first, and though Aemma had not bled for this one, though she had not carried her for nine agonizing moons, she was her mother. 

"Naerys," she whispered, thinking of the name she would have liked to have named her dead daughter. "She will be called Naerys. Naerys Targaryen."

If Aemma had her way, she would be Naerys Arryn—a complete erasure of Viserys's infidelity—but that name would remain in her heart. It was enough for her to be Naerys. Just her Naerys. 

Instead of the yowling that was expected from her, the babe babbled gleefully, as if in agreement to this arrangement between them. And from that moment forward, Naerys belonged to Aemma Arryn, her lady mother, her eventual queen, her goddess in mortal flesh.

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A/N: We hate Viserys but he is a girl dad (he gets it from Baelon who is a girl granddad lol). Anyway, I know we've been waiting for this one for quite a while, so it's finally here. I am sorry if there's no Gwayne until maybe another chapter or two, just tryna build the character dynamics a little before we get to the romance, and I wanna spend a little time with my beloved Aemma before we lose her :( Anyways, stream Cradle by Paris Paloma cuz it's definitely Naerys' song.

As usual, don't be a ghost reader. I live for yalls comments/questions/concerns/reactions, even a keyboard smash is highly appreciated and encouraged!