The Red Keep, King's Landing, 112 AC

The 9th year of King Viserys the Peaceful's rule

_

Dragons still ruled the skies.

The flap of heavy, leathery wings could be heard approaching them, a 'boom' that resounded in her ears like the beating of her heart. The air shifted, their carriage creaking as a gust blew onto them. Across from her, the young girl with a dress the color of the morning sky poked her head out the door eagerly, squealing in delight.

"She's back!" Alicent watched the great golden beast land, a cloud of dust blowing at them. Amalia reached out to keep her seated, giving the dust a moment to settle before they emerged. Her sister's delicate curls had been braided back for today, to keep them clean and tidy as they rushed to the Dragonpit for Princess Rhaenyra's morning ride.

Amalia fanned her face, the carriage stuffy. Her own curls had been hastily pinned up to try and brave the heat. She never had time to style her hair. There was too much to do, and it was more important that Alicent's be neat when she was to be most proximal to the ladies of the court, and especially the Princess. People saw her growing now, soon she'd be receiving wedding proposals. It would not be right for her to be discussing grown matters with the ladies with her hair resembling a rat's nest.

She noticed a bit of red on Alicent's hand as the girl swept a stray strand behind her ear, "Again, Alicent?" She reached out to take it, examining the bloody cuticles she'd only just opened. "My sweet girl, have the teas not helped?" Only a fortnight ago, Grand Maester Mellos had begun giving her an herbal mixture to ease her nerves, for she grew anxious without her sister and Rhaenyra's company.

"I do feel less nervous," said Alicent, scrunching up her nose as a small mound of dust drifted in. Amalia fanned it away. "But I still don't realize I'm biting until it is too late."

"Perhaps we ought to try a more ancient method," said Amalia. "We'll do what Mother did with me... a firm smack if she caught me, a delicious tart if I refrained." She wiggled her eyebrows. "You do enjoy your apple cake."

Alicent grinned. "Between you and Rhaenyra smacking my hands, I'm not sure I'll have anything left!" At last, she slipped out of the carriage to greet her friend. At five-and-ten, Alicent stood tall, curious brown eyes searching for the silver-gold braid of Rhaenyra, swirling down the back of her dragon riding frock as she dismounted from Syrax.

"Welcome back, Princess," said Ser Harrold Westerling atop his horse. "I trust your ride was pleasant."

"Try not to look too relieved, Ser," teased Rhaenyra, removing her gloves with her teeth.

"I am relieved," he replied cordially. "Every time that golden beast brings you back unspoiled, it saves my head from a spike."

Rhaenyra laughed it off, striding back to the carriage. "Syrax is growing quickly," observed Alicent, leaning herself out and holding onto the door. "She'll soon be as large as Caraxes."

"That's almost large enough to saddle two," offered Rhaenyra, wiggling her eyebrows.

Ever shy, Alicent shook her head, "I believe I am quite content as a spectator, thank you."

"Nonsense," said Amalia with a wink. "I imagine an hour a day in the sky would rid you of all your worries. It's no wonder Rhaenyra likes it so much. Princess, we ought to get going. We promised your Queen mother that we'd see her before your father's session. We've yet to arrive due to..." The girls giggled knowingly, "Unexpected detours. Let's not keep her waiting."

Rhaenyra slipped in, plopping herself down beside Alicent. Amalia shut the door, still fanning at her face as the carriage rocked and began to move, the girls already gossiping about things Rhaenyra had seen on her flight– two lovers kissing in an alleyway, a boy stealing bread and slipping away from the Gold Cloaks, a cat napping on a rooftop. The sort of things girls their age could talk about at length.

Through the screen of the carriage, she saw the Dragonkeepers had put Syrax away, yet were emerging anew to collect buckets of water. They did that each time they were meaning to clean the Pit, most often for the purpose of welcoming a dragon back. She knew what that meant– her father warned her that Daemon was set to return any day now for the Heir's Tournament. Likely, that day would be today or tomorrow.

While her sister and the princess worried not at all about his impending arrival, Amalia hid her gritted teeth with the fan. Daemon was a nuisance. Each time he came, he only did so to cause trouble then disappear again to gods-knew-where. They called him the Lord of Flea Bottom, for he so often spent his time in the Street of Silk or wreaking havoc on the streets of King's Landing. She no longer pitied him for his losses or his forced marriage– he constantly spit in the face of duty and the rest of them paid the price for it.

She knew, as well, that the castle was merrier without Daemon. Once he was there, servants were yelled at, her father was angrier, the King became anxious and upset dealing with his brother's antics, and her own young brothers were easy targets for Daemon to maliciously tease or humiliate in the yard. She preferred it to be just her, her family, and the King's family. A handful of the court could stay, but in her ideal world, Daemon was never present.

Once the carriage reached the Red Keep, Amalia ushered the girls to Maegor's Holdfast, lifting her skirts to dart behind them as they ran ahead to have Rhaenyra dress hastily– she was already late to the Small Council meeting, though her father would not scold her for it. She waited outside Rhaenyra's room until the Princess was ready, then led the way to the Queen's apartments.

Queen Aemma was as pretty as ever, though weakened by her great swollen belly and reclined on a couch where handmaidens and ladies-in-waiting bustled about trying to keep her comfortable. "Ah, Rhaenyra," said the Queen, well-aware where her daughter had been. "You know I don't like you to go flying while I'm in this condition."

Rhaenyra replied, "You don't like me to go flying while you're in any condition."

"Your Grace," greeted Amalia, curtsying. Alicent repeated after her, "Your Grace."

"Good morrow, Amalia, Alicent," said Queen Aemma with a kind smile. Rhaenyra sat with her mother, inquiring, "Did you sleep?"

The Queen replied simply, "I slept." Rhaenyra pressed, "How long?" Her mother gave her a significant look and tilted her head, "I don't need mothering, Rhaenyra."

"Well," said Rhaenyra, "here you are, surrounded by attendants all focused on the babe. Someone has to attend to you."

"I assure you, I am attended to," said the Queen. She held her daughter's hand. "You will lie in this bed soon enough, Rhaenyra. This discomfort is how we serve the realm."

Rhaenyra shook her head. "I'd rather serve as a knight and ride to battle and glory."

Queen Aemma chuckled. "We have royal wombs, you and I. The child bed is our battlefield. We must learn to face it with a stiff lip. Now, take a bath. You stink of dragon."

"Would that she had the time, Your Grace," said Amalia, nodding to Rhaenyra. "Your father is expecting you, Princess. Alicent, please escort the Princess to the Small Council chambers."

Rhaenyra dipped down to kiss her mother, promising to return later. She darted past Amalia, grabbing Alicent's hand and leading her away. Amalia swept forward, taking her place beside Aemma. "You needn't hold a stiff lip with me, Your Grace," she said. "How are you truly feeling?"

Amalia knew little about child bearing, given she'd yet to undergo the process herself. She remembered her mother giving birth to the twins and Alicent, she remembered sitting here while the Queen endured stillbirths and miscarriages.

The most recent babes, Amalia had wrapped in a shawl herself before their deaths. She'd been the one to sit by the Queen's bedside cleaning her face and giving her milk of the poppy with her teas. Sometimes, when she was too weak to feed herself, Amalia spoon-fed her until she felt better.

Without Alyrie, Aemma had been alone. The other ladies of the court were not well-known to her, not the sort to allow into her birthing suite. They gossiped too much about how the Queen had yet to give the King his long-desired male babe.

It fell to Amalia to comfort her. This was more than anyone else had managed, it seemed, for the King seldom came to see his Queen during the day, and Amalia never made her feel ashamed or upset. The Queen knew she could be honest with her, for Amalia would remain faithfully at her side listening to the maesters give instruction and attending to her every need.

The Queen sighed wearily. "Each pregnancy is more difficult than the last. You'll come to understand that once you've a babe of your own. But alas, it is not my first time enduring this, and so I can tolerate it." She rubbed her stomach, a faraway look in her eyes. "This one does not bother me quite as much as others. As Rhaenyra did. How she would kick! I've felt a few kicks from this babe, perhaps the gods are being kind. My back continues to ache, one moment I sweat and the next I shiver, my appetite remains low."

"Perhaps this babe will grow to be a serene child, much like his father," she offered kindly, knowing Aemma needed some optimism. "They call him Viserys the Peaceful. Or, perhaps," She wiggled her eyebrows in a tease, "The babe is saving their energy to be wild once they emerge. Rhaenyra will need to be chasing it down the halls."

Aemma managed a laugh. Amalia could see the glimmer of hope in her eyes– the poor Queen was exhausted. She wanted more than anything to have an end to this pain, for this babe to at least survive. Amalia knew what she didn't say– she could not bring herself to do this again. If this babe did not live, if it was not a boy... she would not submit herself to another pregnancy.

The Queen had been wed to her sixteen-year-old cousin Viserys when she was but eleven years old. She'd already lost several babes before Rhaenyra's birth, when the Queen was fifteen. One had been a son who died in the cradle, named Aemon for Viserys's uncle.

Amalia couldn't imagine being bedded as young as twelve, the same age she'd been when she came to live in the Red Keep. Now a woman of three-and-twenty, she'd yet to marry anyone, and as such yet to bed anyone.

"Amalia," said Aemma, placing her hand over hers. "Have you given any thought to what we spoke of?"

The day before, she'd told Amalia that Borros Baratheon would soon receive a marriage proposal from Lord Royce Caron of Nightsong, to wed his daughter Elenda. The possibility still stood for them to wed, as her father had wanted before. Additionally, with Lord Lyonel Strong as Master of Laws, his young Ser Harwin Breakbones stood as a candidate of Amalia's same age. The Queen had asked her to consider it, for Borros and Harwin both would drop any other intended for the chance to marry the eldest daughter of the Lord Hand.

Amalia pressed her lips into a thin line. "I... I did consider it. I don't know how I feel about it. Alicent remains anxious, the trait won't fully leave her."

(If Alicent were not so, if she were well, then... Amalia would have no excuse to stay behind. She did try to help her sister, genuinely, but was silently grateful that Alicent showed no improvement. Her duty now was to continue raising her siblings, not wed and leave her family behind. Her brothers still did not wish her to leave, and she worried that Alicent would lose her mind if Amalia were gone. She had a standing agreement with her father– she would not consider any of his marriage proposals until Alicent was of age.)

"Alicent has known you as a mother longer than she knew Alyrie as a mother," noted Aemma. It was true; Amalia had always taken care of Alicent since her birth, and had raised her alone from the moment her mother died, when Alicent was six. Nine years had passed since then, nine years where Alyrie's memories slowly faded in Alicent's mind. She probably wouldn't have remembered what her mother looked like if she and Amalia didn't bear such a resemblance.

"I worry for her, always," replied Amalia. "I worry what will happen if I go anywhere. I am happy here, Your Grace."

"You may think you are, my girl. You like being needed, you enjoy watching your siblings grow. But I worry that you are convincing yourself that service means happiness. That is not the case. You deserve your own life, where you are free to explore a new part of the realm and have someone love you as dearly as you've loved your kin. I swear to you, if you wish to go... if you are ready to leave them to finish growing alone... none would blame you. I could find you a good husband in a beautiful place. I could give you a choice in the matter."

She half-smiled. "I've thought of it at times, Your Grace. But I do enjoy being here. I like knowing I can see Gwayne grow into the knight he always wanted to be. I continue to keep the twins out of mischief. Alicent, I see her thrive alongside Rhaenyra. My father needs me, he does. He must have an ear lent to him and mine is that. I am glad to do my duty to my family."

"You've known nothing else. Perhaps if you did, you might realize that... there is more to this world. Would that I'd had the chance to explore it. I love my husband, I love my daughter, I love this castle. Yet I always wonder what it would have been like for me to grow an Arryn, not a Targaryen. To be a falcon flying into a new and exciting adventure. You are a Hightower, yes... you light the way for those who must be guided and uplifted. Yet you are also a Florent. You are a fox who yearns for adventure, for independence. I know your mother wanted you to have a choice, a chance for love. Do not neglect yourself that."

"I will ponder on it further, Your Grace," she assured her. Really, the thought of it terrified her. Things might be so different. What would she be if she was not the caretaker of her family? What would her days be like without someone relying on her? Was the Queen right? Might she really be happier away from them? "Perhaps now that the Heir's Tournament will be held, I might see a handsome knight that catches my fancy. Borros Baratheon will be here... I may like to see what he is like."

This seemed to please her. "A wonderful opportunity. I know that Alicent worries you, Amalia. She is not as strong-willed as Rhaenyra, but... she will never be ready for you to go if you continue to stay. She's had you all her life, without interruption. But one day, inevitably, she will marry and be without you. It will be a good example for her to see you moving into that phase of your own life. Let that tourney be the battlefield where you aim to find the finest knight. Perhaps you'll like the winner."

Amalia had to fight back a grimace, thinking of Daemon, who often won tourneys and was known for his fighting prowess. No, she thought she might prefer second place. But for the Queen, she only smiled, for she knew how much Aemma needed it.

The rest of her day consisted of Rhaenyra and Alicent, for Gwayne, Norman, and Bryndon were stuck running jousting drills in preparation for the tourney. Gwayne was like to be chosen to participate, but Norman and Bryndon were still a bit young. Still, it was good that they learn to joust, for it was one thing to wield a lance atop a horse and another to wield the sword. Some men were good at both, some only at one.

The girls were excited with all the talk of the tourney, though she could see Rhaenyra's eyes were forlorn. She thought of the brother her father wanted, the tournament being held for an heir that wasn't born yet. All this celebrating wasn't for her.

Still, she was set to enjoy it, for she did with most things Alicent was involved in. The girls were already discussing which dresses they'd wear. Rhaenyra had let slip that Daemon was back, and had brought her a Valyrian steel necklace she might choose to wear for the first day of the tourney if it suited her dress.

In the evening, she made her rounds about the Tower of the Hand. Gwayne was in desperate need of a bath, which she'd had drawn for him while she helped him out of his armor, listening to him explain how well he'd done. Several of the Kingsguard had praised him, thinking him more than capable to make his name well known at this tourney. She'd left him to clean himself while she went to fetch some more food for him, his supper not enough.

Norman and Bryndon had shown less promise for the tourney. The boys were both brave, though Bryndon was far more reckless than Norman. Still, bravery was not all it took to do well in a tourney. Bryndon reacted impulsively and Norman took too long to assess the situation and lost his key moments. Neither would help them against seasoned knights. Once they'd bathed and scarfed down their helpings of food, Amalia sang to them, both shy to admit they still enjoyed their elder sister tucking them in and giving them each a kiss on the forehead.

"Good evening, Father," she said, once she'd put Alicent to bed with another soothing tea. To her father, she brought a different mixture to ease his mind after such a long day. She wondered if he would choose to drink it or not, for the stack of parchment beside his inkwell seemed larger than usual. She dipped down to kiss his cheek. "Rhaenyra told me of Daemon's return, though I was not given the displeasure of his company."

"You are better for it," said Otto as she sat across from him. "I was told that Ser Harrold witnessed Daemon seated on the Iron Throne. An act of treason, yet the King will not see it."

Viserys seldom saw anything when it came to his brother. He preferred not to know of any issue until it was resolved. She understood sometimes being blissfully ignorant to younger sibling mischief, but often she felt he let it go too far. "This does not surprise me," murmured Amalia. "Daemon avoids Runestone as if it carries plague, yet His Grace does not encourage him to do his duty. Though, I am sure the Lady Rhea is happy to not have whelped his cursed dragon children."

"To be sure," he agreed. He did not look up at her as he said, "Our tourney guests have brought many of their young and eligible sons to participate. Perhaps you might give them a moment of consideration."

"Her Grace the Queen said much of the same," she said, not eager to have this conversation a second time. "I promised her I will look. Should someone catch my eye, I will be sure to inform her, as she is eager to arrange me a good match." She tried to change the subject, "Gwayne will be participating in a few of the tilts on the first day. He is quite excited."

Otto raised his brows, not even aware that Gwayne had been interested in such a thing. He didn't often know what her brothers and sister did on a daily basis, for she only brought him concrete news when it became available. There was no sense in telling him that Gwayne had been training for weeks. Otto Hightower preferred facts and certainty. "Do you believe he will do well?"

"Yes," she said. "He's a clever boy and good with the horses. He's as calculating as you, only he applies it to his physical prowess."

Were she a boy, she was sure she'd have taken heavily after her father, who would have likely saddled her with mountains of readings to prepare another Hightower worthy of a place on the Small Council. She always thought she might've done well as Master of Laws, for she knew much about them already from her father. She was careful in her speech, realistic yet able to twist words gently as one might need to do with a king like Viserys.

"And Alicent? Does her habit continue?"

"Yes, but I am working to mend that. She's been accompanying me to prayer more often, and I hope the Maiden will instill in her the awareness she needs to stop herself before she begins to pick. She is diligent at the sept, kind to pray for all. She even prays for Daemon to be less shameless and lustful, for the sake of Princess Rhaenyra and her family. She is sweeter than me, for I often wish that the Warrior and Stranger find him a battle at last."

Otto's lips twitched into a smile. "You have the right of it. Daemon's bloodlust would bring us to ruin. He would be a second Maegor or worse. It would be best if His Grace were at last given a rest from the headache that is his brother. I should hope your future husband will be nothing like Daemon."

"As do I hope." She lifted herself out of her chair. "If there's nothing else, Father, I will retire for prayer and sleep." When he only nodded, she kissed his cheek again and swept off, the hour growing late. She'd need to rise early on the morrow, for Rhaenyra wished to take a trip to the Street of Flour to sample cakes at a new bakery.

But the night brought her no sleep, tossing and turning, imagining Gwayne at his first tourney, Daemon roaming around the castle, Aemma trying her hardest to hide her pain from her daughter.

Gods, please, let this babe be a boy. Mother, bless her with a male child so she might never need to do this again. Warrior, lend her your strength. Father, give the King this child and let him give our Queen her rest afterwards. Smith, mend her body and mend the child within her so it might be healthy when it is born. Crone, give me the wisdom to bring her tranquility. Maiden, give me patience as I do what she's asked of me to keep her from worrying. Stranger, do not take this babe, I beg of you. You have enough. In the last five years alone, she's had two stillbirths, two miscarriages, and one babe die in the cradle. Do not bring her more pain, I beg.

She almost dared to add another prayer, to invoke them and ask that they take Daemon's life if it would help bring Aemma a male child. Let the cruel Rogue Prince die for a young boy to be born in his stead, the heir that Viserys so desperately wanted. But she dared not to do it, not so bluntly. Her mother wouldn't have liked that.

(Still, at times, she thought of Daemon dead and it brought her peace.)

Her father was upset the following morning, the guards preventing Rhaenyra from exiting the Red Keep at all, for there was trouble in the city. Apparently, in the night, Daemon had taken it upon himself to command the City Watch in slaughtering criminals left and right. Rapers had been made eunuchs, thieves had had their hands removed, many bodies had been loaded into carts when men were either outright killed or succumbed to their wounds.

Daemon claimed to have been enforcing the laws and preparing the city for their visitors, who needed to be safe while indulging in the Heir's Tournament. At the Small Council meeting where he'd been confronted for his actions, he'd dared to call Lady Rhea his 'bronze bitch' and stated that men were more like to fuck the sheep in the Vale, for they were prettier. When her father had insisted he do his duty, Daemon made a comment about Lady Rhea warming the Lord Hand's bed, since he seemed so concerned with her.

She'd been as angry as her father, who ranted to her and even seemed ready to shed tears. In nine years, he'd never once forgotten her mother. He loved her still and would never again take a wife, that she knew for certain. Alyrie had left an emptiness in the two of them, a void so deep in him that Amalia could never hope to mend it the way she did with her siblings. Daemon's insults against her mother's memory continued to infuriate her. Were she a man, she'd know how to use a sword, and she would have driven it through his mouth to silence him permanently.

_

Amalia had neglected attending the tourney the moment Aemma began to show signs of entering her labor. The Queen had been insistent that she go out and speak to the young knights, but Amalia refused to leave her alone. The King and Princess would not be at her side; the least Amalia could do was linger there with her.

(It would free Amalia from having to see Daemon prancing around the tourney as if it was being held in his honor. She hated his face, his little sneers, the way he rolled his eyes, and especially the way he held onto his sword. Smug cunt.)

She'd given Gwayne a tight hug and wished him well before ushering Norman, Bryndon, and Alicent behind their father. She hoped that by the time they returned, the babe's cries would be filling the castle, loud and healthy. She hoped he would be a boy.

"Last I saw, Rhaenyra's hair was pinned up beautifully," said Amalia, holding her hand and walking with her as the Queen paced the room anxiously, breathing heavily and waiting for the babe to come. "Alicent braided it into a tight coil. She chose the red dress with the pattern of dragons, the same one she brought in last week." And she wore the necklace Daemon gave her, Alicent said so. "She's a vision of beauty, Your Grace, I'm sure every young knight will be wanting to ask for her favor."

Aemma gave a breathy laugh, rubbing the side of her belly anxiously. "My mother was never a great beauty, Amalia. They called her sweet and pretty, not captivating. Somewhere in all that, Rhaenyra received the charm that Daella Targaryen lacked. Perhaps she has more of Alyssa in her, and certainly much of Alysanne. My Rhaenyra, my sweet girl, she is everything the Good Queen wished my mother was."

Amalia knew how much the Queen had lamented not knowing her mother, who had died afraid from complications on the birthing bed after being pressured to marry young by her father, King Jaehaerys. How could it be that the two of them should be so cursed on the birthing bed? She feared for when Rhaenyra's time came.

The Queen gave a groan, leaning onto the wall. "Maester. Maester, it is surely almost time." An hour already she'd been in agony; the tourney was probably underway by now. With Amalia's help, she laid herself on her bed, Grand Maester Mellos coming with his assistants to examine her.

"Something does not feel right," groaned Aemma, who tightened her grip on Amalia's hand. Her forehead was beaded with sweat, knuckles white from clenching at the sheets. "It must come out, it must."

"It is not time yet, Your Grace," concluded Mellos. "Your body will be ready soon."

"It feels ready now."

He shook his head. "Not at present, Your Grace."

Amalia sat with her, offering her a cup of water. "Breathe, Your Grace. Let me tell you a story about a young dragon who discovered a magic chalice in Old Valyria..."

The hours dragged on, afternoon gaining on them. Aemma could no longer rise from the bed, groaning and gripping the sheets as she shouted. The pain was increasing, yet Mellos insisted her body was not ready to deliver. Amalia kept having to bark at him to come back, to assess her again, for certainly the Queen knew when her body felt ready if she'd done this before. At one point, she'd begun to push against the Maester's advice, squeezing Amalia's hand so hard she nearly yelped.

"No, no, no, no!" Aemma blubbered, shaking her head. "No, it does not feel right, it must come out now!"

"Maester," begged Amalia. "It's been hours. Her last labor took half this time." The babe had been stillborn, but even so. "What is happening?"

"Each babe is different," said the maester. "One cannot always expect them to follow the same timing."

"Examine her, again. I beg of you, Maester. If she believes something is wrong, something is wrong."

She'd already asked it of him so many times, he didn't seem eager to keep at it. He seemed to think he knew his craft better than Aemma knew her body. He was knowledgeable, yes, but he would never know what childbirth actually felt like. In the end, he resorted to another examination, though this time he kneaded his hands over the Queen's belly.

Amalia saw him freeze. She saw his eyes widen. "What is it?" she demanded immediately. "What have you felt?"

"Your Grace," he said as calmly as he could, "it is imperative you do not push. Please, refrain as best as you can."

Aemma moaned, her voice breaking as she asked, "Refrain? The only thing I feel capable of doing at this present moment is pushing. I cannot do this, it has to leave, it has to go!"

"The babe is not oriented well. It cannot emerge. I will try to turn it, but until then, you cannot push."

The Queen's cries echoed through the halls as the maester began to press his palms around in a circular motion, attempting to coax the child's head downward. Amalia soothed her as much as she could. She sang and dabbed her forehead with a warm cloth, she assured her that she was strong, that soon her son would be born. Aemma was thirsty and starving, having had nothing proper to eat since the labor begun.

An attendant had gone out to fetch the king. Maester Mellos seemed unable to turn the babe, no matter what he tried. Amalia hoped that King Viserys would make haste here; how could he be enjoying the tourney with his wife in this state?

Small doses of milk of the poppy were given, but at last they reached their limit. There was nothing new to be said. Aemma's screams were beginning to sound hoarse, her body trembling. If the babe could not be turned, if it refused to come naturally, then it might have decided it would not come at all. Amalia's head was filled with prayers, but none were answered.

At last, the king was escorted in. "What's happening?" He found Aemma still screaming, Amalia barely able to feel her hand. She'd been trying to tell the Queen about the tourney and her predictions, but Aemma was wailing so often now that she couldn't get words out.

"The infant is in breech, Your Grace," explained Mellos. "All attempts to turn the babe have failed."

Viserys flinched at the sound of Aemma's next scream. "Do something for her!"

"We've given her as much milk of the poppy as we can without risking the child. Your Queen is a strong woman. She's fighting with all her might, but it may not be enough."

He came to her side, leaning over her. "Aemma. Aemma, I'm here."

She muttered deliriously, perhaps not truly seeing him, "Help me, please."

Amalia stepped aside to give them space. Viserys took her hands, "I'm here, it's alright."

Aemma sounded as though she might cry. "I don't want to do this." She sobbed it, she begged.

He tried to encourage her, "You're going to be alright... you're going to be alright." He didn't seem to believe himself. At the very least, her husband's presence seemed to calm the Queen, her breathing shallow but steady. Viserys kissed Aemma's hand, then stepped aside to speak to Mellos.

It was difficult for Amalia to know what they were whispering about. She wondered if they spoke softly to give the Queen peace or to keep a secret. Aemma's eyelids fluttered as if she was fighting the urge to completely fall asleep. She looked so tired and weary, it might be possible.

Gods, she feared the day this became her life. How could she want what the Queen pushed her towards? She liked helping her family, for how could she sit and wallow in any sort of grief when there was work to be done?

Was that how it had all begun? Her own inability to face pain? Was she afraid to marry and begin bearing children because she'd endure the same things her mother and the Queen did? Was it easier to help others rid themselves of their own pains and neglect her own? Was it simpler to pretend her mother was not gone by stepping into her role and supporting those who were not as strong as her?

Amalia was strong, or so she liked to believe. She'd held the family together, she'd managed them all for years. But now she wondered if the burden truly fell onto her lap or if she simply accepted it to be free of her own thoughts. Sometimes, her thoughts scared her, particularly on the days Daemon infuriated her enough to imagine him dead. Perhaps becoming the caretaker had granted her respite. Protection from her own mind.

The king and maester kept glancing at the queen. At last, they began to approach. King Viserys would not meet Amalia's gaze. "Viserys," murmured Aemma weakly when she sensed him near.

"Yes?" he whispered. She smiled faintly, attempting to stay conscious. "They're going to bring the babe out now. I love you."

Amalia's expression dropped. In a split second, she understood this was not happy news. She felt two hands on either shoulder beckoning her away from the queen, handmaidens attempting to usher her aside as others moved pillows from the bed. Aemma was tugged to the edge of the bed, startling her, "What's happening?"

"No, it's alright," said the king, still holding her.

"No," she pleaded. "What is happening?" They lifted her dress, exposing her belly. "Viserys, what–? What are you doing?"

"They are going to bring the babe out," he insisted. He nodded to one of the handmaidens. "Please escort Lady Amalia out."

She couldn't help but exclaim, "Your Grace! The Queen–"

Her voice went unheard. Realizing what was about to happen, Queen Aemma began to panic, muttering over and over that she didn't understand what they were doing as they tied her down, a blade prepared and oriented towards her belly. Amalia began to shout in protest, but she was dragged away all the same, choking on her own words.

When the door was shut in her face, she banged her fists into it, begging them to leave the queen be. Her throat ran raw screaming for the gods to stop this, for the king to listen. But all she heard back were Queen Aemma's horrible, painful cries. They became so loud that Amalia heard them continuously, a piercing in her ears that filled her body with terror.

Then, the voice faded. The vacancy was filled with the crying of a babe, but there was no gentle voice to soothe it, no hint at Viserys congratulating his wife or telling her that she'd done well. When the door opened to let a handmaiden run out, she saw Aemma lay with her belly cut open, buckets of blood soaked into the mattress.

The babe in Viserys's arms was a boy he named Baelon.