Archive of Our Own

Lyanna spends a great deal of her time soaking in the pools lamenting the fact she is too pregnant to journey with Baelor and Valarr to Sunspear. She has a sneaking suspicion she’s carrying twins, but she’s been trying not to dwell on it.

The Spring Sickness has largely abated in Westeros, so she’s hopeful once the babe is born, they’ll be able to go home. She’s never actually been to the Red Keep before, but it is to become her home, as well as Dragonstone, another location she’s never visited. She’s heard Stark’s don’t prosper in the South, but look at her, the furthest South she can get and she’s doing just fine.

If Lyanna survives this, she decides she’s not going to tempt the gods ever again!

The peace of the Water Gardens has been shattered by the ringing of a bell, and she can already hear shouting and fighting in the distance as she struggles to get up from her seat reclining in the sun beside the pool.

“Lyanna, hurry!” Maekar exclaims, as her good brother rushes through the entranceway. He offers his hand and when she places hers into his, he hauls her up without delay.

“What’s happening?”

“Fucking Blackfyres!” Maekar says, dragging her along. She tries to hurry after him, but she’s far too pregnant for this sort of thing. She wishes Ser Duncan were still here, he’d have picked her up and carried her along, like he did Rhaella in the fire.

“Maekar!” she calls, suddenly pulling against his hand as she feels a sudden pressure in her middle release, and where before her bare feet were standing on dry stone, now they’re covered in water. “No, no, no, no,” she exclaims, even as Maekar curses and spins to pull her up into his arms. “No, no, no. No.”

“Too late, Lyanna,” Maekar grunts, as he runs through the hall.

“Uncle?!” she hears Matarys call from somewhere, and then her youngest goodson is running at their side. He’s already managed to get himself bloodied somehow.

“Are you injured?” she asks, reminding herself that he is not Aegon. Aegon never got to grow to this age. Never got to learn how to hold a sword, let alone swing one.  

“It’s not my blood,” Matarys promises, before he rushes forward to clear their way, sword swinging with the same confidence as his father.

“Where is Baelor?” she demands, looking around for him even though she knows exactly where he is. He’s at Sunspear, or on his way back from there. He’s not here. “He-he promised,” she whispers, pressing her hand over her stomach. “No, no, he promised. He promised.”

“In here, quick!” Matarys exclaims, ducking into a room. Maekar follows, for lack of having any idea where else to take Lyanna.

“Where is Baelor? He promised. He promised. He promised. Where is Baelor?”  his good sister asks, having grown increasingly agitated the further they moved through the halls.

“Lyanna,” Maekar pleas, settling her down on the bed, before rushing to help Matarys barricade the doorway. He’s never thought he’d wish to be in King’s Landing as much as he does in this moment. At least there he knows the strength of Maegor’s Holdfast. The Water Gardens, though? Gods, he has no idea!

“Go to her uncle, I’ve got this,” Matarys says, shoving a table in front of the door. Maekar breathes in, then hurries back to Lyanna’s side. Behind him, Matarys is busy stacking whatever other furniture he can find before the door.

“He promised I wouldn’t have to do this again, not like this, Maekar. Not like this. Where is he? He promised.”

“What do you mean?”

“I dreamed, Maekar. I dreamed!” Lyanna exclaims, hysterical in her fear. Her hand wildly flying through the air until he grabs it, squeezing tightly. She sobs, her gaze barely meeting his own. This is the first time in their entire acquaintance that she’s ever made him think of Daeron, but she does now. She reminds him of his eldest, caught in the grip of the worst of dreams.

“I was all alone and there was fighting outside and I was so, so, so pregnant. My babe came regardless, and I lived… just long enough to give him to my brother and I made him… I made him promise. He had to promise," she stills, looking up at him with tears in her steel grey eyes. "My baby is dragon spawn, they're gonna kill the dragon spawn!! You have to promise me, Maekar. You have to protect him. You have to. My baby. Save my baby, Maekar. Save my baby! Promise me. Promise me!”

“Lyanna, I promise. You’re not going to die. I promise. Your babe will be fine. I promise,” he says, squeezing her hand, but she doesn’t seem to hear him, just keeps begging him to promise her. He’s almost relieved when she seems to pass out. Her eyes rolling to back of her head as she slumps into the blankets.

Gods, but Baelor should be here. A fucking maester should be here! Instead, they’re cowering in some gods bedamned bedroom while the Water Gardens are under attack.

The time spent in Sunspear has been nice. It has been amazing to see where his mother had grown up. He’d seen it once, as a child, but he hadn’t really appreciated it at the time. Now, his mother is gone, and these little things are all that he has left of her, so he embraces them. 

Still, he wishes he were at the Water Gardens with Lyanna and their unborn babe. He’s sure the babe will come any day, but the maesters say it’s far too early for that, yet even Lyanna looks sceptical when they say that to her. As the only one of them all who has had a child before, he takes her word for it over their own. Their child is going to be born any day now and he is not there. He promised he would be there, that the maesters would be there. That her labours wouldn’t be like they were with Aemon. That she wouldn’t be all alone, left with no choice but to pass her baby off to her brother because there had been no one to tend to her, no one to stem the blood.

He needs to return to the Water Gardens as soon as possible. He wishes Ancalagon were large enough to ride, not that he’s yet figured out the difficulty of dragon saddles for a growing dragon, but if he could simply climb atop Cala’s back, he’d not be so worried.

“Baelor!” his father’s voice calls him and he turns, setting aside the letters he hasn’t really even been reading to give his father his full attention when he bursts through the door. “We must go. Immediately.”

“What’s happened? What’s wrong?”

“The Water Gardens are under attack,” his father says, the words like a sword through Baelor’s heart. Then, he’s scrambling, panic controlling him instead of the other way around. “Calm, Baelor!” his father commands, reaching out to grip Baeloer’s shoulder, squeezing and shaking him until Baelor’s gaze finally settles on his father. “Leave everything here that isn’t of import, we’ll have it sent for later. For now, armour up, and find your horse.”

“Yes, father, of course,” Baelor replies, forcing himself to put his panic aside. It is only useful if he can control it, if he can channel it elsewhere and he can’t right now.

Lyanna suddenly wakes with a gasp, Maekar turns to her at once.

“Lyanna?”

“Baelor,” she breathes, and for a moment Maekar is worried she’s going to start the hysterics again, but she just sucks in a breath and shakes her head. “They know about the attack. They’re leaving now.”

“Well, that’s some good news, then. It’s about a two hour ride, so we just have to outlast them,” Maekar says, looking at the doorway Matarys has barricaded and then sat himself beside. His nephew looks somehow both like the little boy Maekar remembers trying to teach the mace, but at the same time, he looks like the image of a knight. Both small and big at the same time, it’s so very confusing.

“How do you know, mother?” Matarys asks, not looking up from the sword resting across his lap. “That father is returning?”

“I skinchanged a rat in the walls,” Lyanna answers, before she groans and squirms in the bed. “How long was I out?”

“Perhaps ten minutes,” Maekar answers, not touching that info about skinchanging rats with a ten foot pole, no thank you. He doesn’t want to get involved in all that Old Gods mumbo jumbo, he had a hard enough time trying to understand it all when it had been Dyanna trying to explain it all to him.

“Have either of you delivered a child before?” Lyanna asks, Maekar shakes his head, Matarys pales and shakes his head. “Great. Baelor, you’re a fucking liar,” Lyanna says on a low, pained groan.

“Did you dream of this?” Maekar demands to know, looking about them. “We could have stopped this.”

“Not this,” she answers, shaking her head, sweat has already started to form on her brow. “Not this. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”

“Alright,” Maekar soothes, before she can get lost in the loop. “What do we do?”

“You’re going to be seeing a lot more of me than any of us ever actually wanted,” she warns, but Maekar has accepted that already, in that moment in the hallway, where he’d realised her waters had broken. Matarys, on the other hand, has gone so, so very pale. His nephew had absolutely no interest in the female form, and even less when that form belongs to his father’s wife. “It’s alright, ‘Rys,” Lyanna says, pressing her hand over her stomach and breathing through what must be another contraction. “You can just let me hold your hand. Your uncle can take care of everything else.”

“Thank you, so much,” Maekar grumbles, Lyanna laughs, then moans.

“You should… you should know that this might be it for me,” she says looking between the two of them.

“I know,” Matarys whispers. Jena had died in the birthing bed, as had Dyanna. It wasn’t an uncommon occurrence. They were all prepared for such a thing, or as prepared as one can be, and Lyanna… she’d dreamed of dying that way too.

“Alright, wake me in another ten minutes. I’m going to check on Baelor,” Lyanna says, lying back down.

“Wake you? You’re in labour!” Maekar exclaims, Lyanna laughs.

“Sweet, innocent Maekar,” she coos at him, and he scoffs. “This is the slowest part, the babe probably won’t make an appearance until Baelor does.”

“What?”

“You’ve had six children, Maekar. How do you not know this? The first part of labour is just waiting around.”

“For what?!”

“For the birth canal to be big enough to hopefully shove a whole baby through without splitting its mother in half!” Lyanna snaps at him and he probably deserves that, actually. He’s never really considered that but… yes, that’s a good enough reason to just… wait. “Wake me in ten minutes,” Lyanna commands, before her eyes roll back again.

Baelor finds his horse in a particular mood today. Eager, prancing in his stall, seeming unable to wait for Baelor to get on the road already. He pauses, a thought suddenly coming unbidden to his mind.

Lyanna had mentioned, oh so many months ago now, that in her first life, she’d bonded to her horse. It was part of how she rode so well in the Tourney. Her bond with her horse causing them to almost become one.

“Easy, easy,” he murmurs, bringing his hand up to cup Carraxes’ face, looking into his eyes, there’s a spark of something he can’t name in the horse’s eyes. “Lyanna?” he asks, the horse whinnies, pressing against his hand. “Gods, Lyanna. We’re coming,” he promises, as the horse whinnies again, then that something else fades, and his horse settles in his hand, sniffing at his hair like he always does. 

“Are we there yet?”

“No! There’s no fucking we! Stop fucking asking!! If I could trade places right now, Maekar Fucking Targaryen, you’d be about to experience pain!!!”

“Alright, sorry I asked.”

There are times on the ride to the Water Gardens that Baelor recognises as Lyanna slipping into the mind of his horse. He’s never thought himself a bad horse rider, but somehow, when Lyanna takes over his seat becomes the steadiest it’s ever been. Carraxes no longer listening to his commands but instead obeying Lyanna’s will.

He always knows the moment the connection has faded. He finds himself waiting, praying for the next connection, something tangible that will tell him that his wife still lives.

In the distance, there is a black plume of smoke that they ride closer to with every moment. He doesn’t know what awaits him at the Water Gardens, but he prays his son, his wife, his brothers will be alright.

“Father?” Valarr calls, slipping into place at his side, yelling to be heard over the roaring wind.

“Yes?”

“Is… mother skinchanging your horse?” Valarr asks, Baelor huffs, trust his son to notice. The bond with Jenaera has done wonders on his son’s observational skills. Baelor has even started to wonder if there’s an aspect of skinchanging involved. Sometimes, when he sleeps, he thinks he dreams he’s Ancalagon.

“Yes.”

“Well,” Valarr mutters, dropping back slightly. Baelor huffs and urges his horse faster.

“Alright, Maekar,” Lyanna says, panting for breath.

“Alright?”

“Alright,” she says, pointedly. He startles, his mind suddenly connecting the dots with their ongoing bickering the last few hours and he stands, then sits down. Not sure what to do. Lyanna huffs a laugh at him, the sound barely more than a whisper.

Outside, the sound of fighting continues. Someone had tried to beat down the door earlier, before they’d been killed or scared off. Maekar figures he’ll never be sure which.

“What do I do?” he asks, nervousness setting in, like the night before a great battle.

“Matarys?” she asks, his nephew suddenly appearing at her side, ringing his hands.

“Mother?”

“You will need to climb in behind me, to support me. It will likely not be comfortable,” she warns, even as his nephew is already clambering up onto the bed. Lyanna sits forward, then when Matarys is settled, she leans back to rest against his chest. “Maekar.”

“Yes?”

“Sorry,” she says, with a heavy sigh, appearing so very small all of a sudden. “Gonna have nightmares.”

“You let me worry about that,” he mutters, she hums.

“There’s gonna be a lot of blood, and screaming,” she says, frowning at him. “If you can… once the babe is here… wait a minute before you cut the cord.”

“The cord?” he furrows a brow, he’s heard about a babe’s cord, but he still has no real fucking clue what the hell it is.

“Gods, Septons and Septas are so fucking useless!!! So, so fucking useless!!” Lyanna yells, Matarys rubs a soothing circle into her arm, and she sighs. “When the babe comes, there will be a cord connected to their belly button. You will need to clamp the cord with something and then cut the cord. But… if you wait a few moments, the baby is stronger for it later.”

“Alright, I can do that.”

“Go-ah!” Lyanna presses back against Matarys, her fingers clenching in the bedsheets. “I don’t think this babe is going to wait any longer.”

“We’re ready!”

“Stop saying we!!!” Lyanna yells, bearing down. She pants for breath and Maekar doesn’t dare say anything else, though Matarys is murmuring encouragements in her ear.

“Gods, I fucking hate Baelor!! I fucking hate him! I’m gonna fucking kill him!!” Lyanna screams, between alternated pants and pushes. “How could he do this to me?”

It feels like an entire age goes by, listening to Lyanna scream and curse out his brother before Maekar finally gathers his courage enough to look and gods. He is never going to look at another vagina the same way ever again. No, never, never, never, never! How the fuck did Dyanna agree to go through this six fucking times? And godsdamned Good Queen Alysanne!! Nope. Never. Never again.

“You’re doing good, Lyanna,” he grunts, forcing the words from his throat so he won’t consider throwing up or fainting instead. “Baby is almost here,” and almost like that was what the baby was waiting for, it slides free of its mother in a rush of blood. Maekar all but leaps forward to grab the babe, cradling them in his arms as they open their little mouth and scream like he’s murdering them. “It’s a boy,” he says absently to Lyanna, while he tries to figure out what he has to clamp the cord. In the end, he ends up using a hair ribbon, and hastily cuts the cord with his boot knife, assuming enough time has gone by while he was fucking about with the ribbon.

“Let me see him,” Lyanna commands, her voice slightly hoarse. Maekar steps around the bed to show her and she hums. “Emrys,” she murmurs, reaching out a shaking hand to stroke the babe’s face. “Emrys Targaryen,” she whispers, Maekar furrows a brow trying to place the name, but he can’t.

“That’s not Valyarian, thought it seems it,” Matarys says, straining to look over Lyanna’s shoulder at his new baby brother. He’s no longer the youngest of Baelor’s children. Baelor's youngest son has a mixed head of hair, Velyrian white mixing with Lyanna's dark. 

“It’ s a very old name, in Old Tongue. It means immortal or divine one,” Lyanna says, before she promptly passes out, her eyes rolling back. A scream strangles itself in Maekar’s throat as he cradles the babe close to him and reaches out for his goodsister.

“Mother,” Matarys calls, frantic hands brushing over her skin, trying to shake her awake, to no real avail. “Mother!”

Baelor has only just dismounted when he sees that spark of something else in Carraxes eyes. He reaches for Carraxes, then hastily steps back when the horse seems intent on biting his fingers. His horse is enraged, but no, that’s wrong. Lyanna, Lyanna is enraged.

“I’m coming!” he exclaims at his horse, before he turns to join the others. One of the gardens is on fire, and there is screaming somewhere nearby. He can hear swords clashing against each other from almost all directions. “Father, Valarr, stay with the dragons,” he commands, then rushes forward.

“Baelor is here,” Lyanna exclaims, as she comes to consciousness. She struggles to push away the fog of exhaustion that weighs on her mind. She’s not done yet, she knows. She suspects there is another babe, and the pressure she still feels in her middle would say that she’s right.

“Thank the gods for that!” Maekar mutters, he’s settled down beside her on the bed, a little bundle in his arms. She’s pretty sure he’s wrapped her baby up in his own cloak, otherwise she doesn’t know where the black and red fabric has come from. “Your little one is strong.”

“Good, he’ll need to be,” she mutters, tilting to look up at Matarys. “And how are you?”

“Fine,” he answers, though he sounds anything but. She hums, feeling a pressure dissipate as discharge flows between her legs.

“Good, because we’re not done yet,” she mutters, digging deep for her strength.

“What?”

“There’s another babe,” she mutters as they both start cursing. She huffs. “Anyone would think you two are the ones trying to bring these babes into the world,” she says, before she presses back against Matarys and bears down. Then all thoughts are lost in the waves of pain.

She thinks she hears the cry of a babe before she passes into oblivion, but she really couldn’t be sure.

“Gods!” Maekar exclaims, hastily settling little Emrys down on the bed beside his mother, then he rushes to the foot of the bed, to wait for the new babe, and gods, he really and truly is swearing off all cunts. Never again. Nope. Not even if his fucking life depends on it. No more whores for Maekar Targaryen. No more ladies. Never. No, no, and fuck no, thank you.

Lyanna is a lot less aware during the second time. The first, she’d been able to hold somewhat of a conversation, even if it was just about Baelor and how much she despised and disliked him. Now, she barely even seems aware of their presence at all. She’s still set on her dislike of Baelor, but beyond that, it seems she’s just consumed by pain.

Lyanna gives one last, heaving cry before she falls limp into Matarys arms. The babe comes in a rush of blood, but it brings with it a rush of terror through Maekar as well. Two babes. Not one. Two. Two perfect little daughters, one with their little hand wrapped around the foot of the other.

There is so much blood.

“Gods, Lyanna! No! Oh, gods, Lyanna!” Maekar isn’t even sure what sounds are coming out of his mouth as he hastily tends to the newborns, clearing their lungs, and dealing with their cords, and wrapping them in whatever clean fabric he can find. He plops them down beside their brother and then he’s really panicking. Trying to stem the blood flow, unknowing if it’s normal or if something has gone so terribly wrong, the way this whole day has. “Please, you can’t die. Lyanna, please, you can’t,” he’s not even sure what language he’s speaking as he pleads with her to live. "Lyanna, please!" he's not sure Baelor could survive losing her. His brother has been the happiest Maekar remembers seeing him since Jena's passing. "Please."

“Uncle, Uncle, I will go find a maester,” Matarys says, scrambling out from beneath Lyanna, gently resting her on the blankets. “The fighting has died down enough now, I should be alright. I’ll get the master.”

“Go,” he commands, he follows Matarys to the door, just long enough to see too resetting the barricade, then he’s back at the bedside. His three new nibblings scream their little heads off, like they know their mother is dying and he doesn’t know what to do. “Gods, Lyanna. Please!”

Baelor long ago stopped thinking. Just gave himself into the bloodlust, raise sword, swing sword. Move on. Dodge. Duck. Swing. Move.

“Father?” he stills, turning towards the sound and finds Matarys rushing towards him, pale as a sheet and covered in blood. “Gods, father! Where is Yormwell?”

“I am here, my prince,” the maester calls from somewhere behind them. He’d been an early acquisition through the halls. They’d found him tending to a dying soldier and prompty brought him along with them.

“You have to come, Yormwell!” Matarys exclaims, rushing forwards to grab Yormwell’s arm, pulling him along, back the way Matarays had come. “You have to.”

“What’s happened, my prince?”

“Mother!” Matarys exclaims, Baelor’s heart freezes in his chest. Not Lyanna. Please, gods, please, not Lyanna! “She went into labour, maester! Uncle and I did what we could, but there’s so much blood! And the babies, maester!“

“Babies?” Baelor manages to choke out, forcing himself to follow behind his son and his maester, his sword held useless in his hands. He relies utterly on their sworn men to defend them.

“Triplets!’ Matarys exclaims, a brilliant smile forming on his face that dies so quickly it’s like it never was. “Gods, so much blood!”

Matarys leads them through the maze that is the living quarters of the Water Gardens and over to a nondescript doorway. It looks like all the others they’ve passed, but Matarys doesn’t even hesitate before he’s hammering on the door.

“Uncle! Uncle! Let us in. I have father and Yormwell!” he son bellows.

“About fucking time!!” he hears Maekar snap from the other side of the door, then he hears furniture sliding across the floor, the sound of his brother grunting. Then the door is swung open. Baelor almost swoons at the sight of his brother, standing there covered in blood. “Get in here, Yormwell!” his brother yells and the maester doesn’t waste any time rushing past them. Baelor goes to follow, but Maeker holds out his bloodied hand, pressing against his chest plate, leaving a smear of blood across the dragon there. “Brother-“

“Let me see her. I need to-“

“No, brother. Let the Maester work,” Maekar says, his voice gentle and Baelor hates it. Hates it. Hates it! Gentle Maekar means something has gone fucked up. “Matarys, bring one of the babes,” he commands, Matarys nodding then racing past them. His youngest, no, not his youngest anymore. His second eldest rushes back with a little bundle in his arms.

“Here, father,” Matarys says, offering up the bundle. Baelor can’t help himself from reaching forward to take them. The babe has pale skin, the Valyrian silver hair, and when they open their little eyes, they have their mothers steely grey. Baelor sucks in a breath, pressing a kiss to their head. “This is one of the girls,” Matarys says, beaming at him. “There’s another, and then there’s Emrys. He was born first.”

“Emrys,” Baelor mutters, his sluggish brain trying to find the meaning but all he settles on is that it’s not a Valyrian name.

“She said it was Old Tongue,” Maekar grunts, turning to look behind them, then back at Baelor. “Said it means immortal or divine one.”

“And the girls?” Baelor asks, looking down at his daughter. He has a daughter! He has two daughters!

“She… wasn’t conscious enough to name them,” Maekar answers, Baelor swallows thickly, looking back down at his daughter.

Unbidden a thought enters his head and he laughs. He laughs and he laughs and he laughs, unable to stop himself.

“The dragon must have three heads,” he says to his concerned brother and son. “The dragon must have three heads!”

Sometime later, after the hysteria has passed and Yormwell has cleared Lyanna and the babes to be cleaned up and moved, Baelor finds himself settled in his and Lyanna’s chambers. The grime of travel and the fighting have been removed, as well as his armour. Maekar and Matarys have been sent away, to cleanse themselves and now it’s just Baelor, Valarr, Lyanna, and the babes.

“What did Yormwell say of mother?” Valarr asks, sitting in the chair beside Lyanna’s bed, his youngest sister cradled against his bare chest.

“She will live, he thinks. There was some tearing that he’s repaired, and he says the placentas came out whole, so there shouldn’t be anything left in the womb to fester,” Baelor answers, so very exhausted for all that he is grateful. He doesn’t have the strength at the moment for joy, but he knows it will come.

In his arms, Emrys and the eldest girl rest against his own bare chest. Yormwell had told him that skin contact was important. He’s never heard of that before, but Yormwell had insisted. He said that usually the mother or the wetnurses satisfied the need, but Lyanna isn’t capable currently, and they are still searching for a wet nurse. So, he and Valarr will have to serve.

“We got lucky,” Valarr says, brushing a hand against his littlest sister’s head. “So very lucky.”

“Yes,” Baelor agrees, he’s already commanded the placentas of the babes be taken and left in the roots of the weirwood. It was something Dyanna used to command be done after her births. He’s not sure if that’s a proper practice in the North, but Lyanna would tell him when she could. Still, he feels he needs to make that offering to her gods in thanks for sparing her. For sparing the children. He’ll pray in the sept later, but for now, this is something he can do.

“She’s to remain abed for at least week, but likely more,” he says, knowing they’re going to have hell keeping his wife in bed once she starts to feel better. Maybe he’ll have some chance, given he’s planning not to leave her side unless he truly has to.

He’d promised, when she’d finally told him what he’d already figured out, when she’d finally told him she was pregnant, he’d promised it wouldn’t be like it had been with Aemon. Had promised he would be there and the maester would be there, and she wouldn’t have to do it alone.

The gods have made a liar out of him, but still they’ve saved her and the babes. Next time, he’s going to ensure she has an army of midwives and maesters. She’ll probably be so sick of them they fight about it, but he can’t risk otherwise. What happened today can never happen again.

Lyanna wakes. She’s surprised by that, given she hadn’t expected to ever wake again. Perhaps, if she had expected it, she was expecting to wake in the roots of the godswood in Winterfell, a child once again. A failure once again. But no, instead she stirs to a fog lingering on her mind, the telltale presence of Milk of the Poppy. She huffs, she hates that godsdamned drug.

“Lyanna?” Baelor’s voice calls form beside her, she struggles through to fog to turn her head, finds him lying beside her, his eyes wide with worry.

“B’lor,” she mumbles, trying to reach out her hand to touch his face, but her limbs feel like lead. She whines, pressing her head back into the pillows instead.

“I’m here, Lyanna,” Baelor says, pressing a kiss to her temple. She hums and closes her eyes. “Rest, you’ve earned it, love.”

“B’lor,” she says, before she drifts back into oblivion.

“Quiet, little one, you must let muna and kepa rest, they’ve had a very trying day,” she stirs enough to make out the voice, Daeron. Her goodfather. She hums at the sound. “Oh, see, little one? I told you that you’d wake them up,” the voice continues as she blinks open an eye.

“Your grace,” she murmurs, smiling at the affronted look on his face.

“Dear child, you’ve given me three new grandchildren. I’m sure you can call me father by now,” he says with a huff, as he sits down beside her. It’s then that she notices the bundle in his arms.

“Father,” she murmurs, he smiles, shifting so he can show her the child. It’s not Emrys, she doesn’t think. Well, most babes look the same, but she’s sure this one isn’t her eldest.

“This little one wouldn’t stop fussing unless someone was holding her,” he says, Lyanna brain stutters.

“Her?” she asks, Daeron nods.

“Her. You birthed a boy and two girls,” he explains, she blinks at him. Then she starts laughing and she doesn’t think she’s ever going to be able to stop.

“The dragon must have three heads!”

“Gods, but father was doing that before, too!!” Matarys’ voice calls from somewhere nearby, but she doesn’t try to find him. Instead, she just laughs as the darkness swoops in to reclaim her.

“Maegelle?” Maekar offers, cradling the youngest girl in his arms, Baelor makes a face.

“No.”

“Visenya?”

“No,” Baelor says with a sigh, as he adjusts the eldest in his arms. His father had told them to figure out names for his youngest granddaughters, and so Baelor has set to the task, though his heart isn’t it. Lyanna should be the one choosing. She did all the work.

“Rhaenys?”

“Gods, brother, no!” Baelor snaps, suddenly unable to stop thinking of a little dornish girl pulled form beneath her father’s bed and stabbed half a hundred times.

“Didn’t realise you were so apposed to the name, but alright,” Maekar mutters, rolling his eyes. “I’ve got Rhae and Daella, but it’s not like our family has been unique with names before, anyway.”

“True, but I don’t think either of them are a Rhae or a Daella.”

“Hmm, true.”

“Rhaenyra?”

“No.”

“You’re so picky, brother.”

“Only the best for my daughters,” Baelor rumbles, but in truth, he has no idea what names would suit.

“Matarea,” Lyanna’s unexpected voice cuts in. He turns towards the sound instantly, finds her frowning up at the ceiling. “Matarea and Maekarra, for their brother and their uncle who ensured they would make it into the world.”

“Oh!” Maekar exclaims, flushing. “I thought there wasn’t a we?”

“Alright,” Lyanna agrees without hesitation. “Matarea, and-“

“No, no, no, I didn’t mean that,” Maekar says, hastily interrupting before Lyanna can say something else. “Maekarra is a fine name! A good name. A strong name!” his brother declares to the babe in his arms. Baelor smiles at them, so relieved to have this.

“You’re feeling better then?” he asks his wife, when she and Markar have finished their bickering.

“Define better,” she answers grumbling. “But I don’t feel like I’m going to die, so there is that.”

“Thank the gods!”

“Yes, you’ll need to take the placenta-“

“To the tree? It’s done,” Baelor answers, nodding. “It was one of the first things I had done, when they confirmed you would be well.”

“Good,’ Lyanna says, satisfied. “How is everyone?”

“They’re fine,” he promises. There had been casualties amongst their household, but none of their family were among them. Ser Duncan and Egg, of course, were still on their journey through the hedges. Rhaegel still won’t come out of his rooms with his wife and children, but the maesters have already confirmed they are all well. Aerys, Aelinor, and Aemon had apparently just barricaded the door in the library and then carried on debating some theory one of them had found in a book, and they hadn’t even realised the fighting was over until Maekar had gone searching for them. Daeron and Kiera had been visiting the heart tree and had simply stayed there when they heard the fighting. Baelor really doesn’t know how much his family’s miraculous survival today has to do with them and their offerings of blood upon the roots of the tree. He’s grateful for it, anyway.

“Can I ask?” Maekar starts, getting Baelor and Lyanna’s eyes on him. “What’s with this three heads business?” he asks, Lyanna bursts into laughter and Baelor can’t help it, he follows her down. “That wasn’t informative, just so you’re aware.”

“Gods,” Lyanna wheezes, then she starts laughing again, only to pause, moaning in pain.

“Lyanna?”

“Fine. I’m fine. Gods, that hurts. Oh, ow. Don’t make me laugh, Maekar!” she whines, wriggling in the bed. “Worst goodbrother,” she mutters, Maekar huffs, rubbing his nose against Maekarra’s and making the little one give him a gummy smile.

“The three headed dragon is a prophecy,” Baelor finally answers, looking back at his brother.

“Ah, and what’s so funny about it?”

“It’s not, really,” Lyanna answers, frowning up at the ceiling again. “It’s a tragedy, actually…” she trails off, obviously thinking of her first life. Aemon, Rhaenys, Aegon. Three heads of the dragon who never got to live. Well, perhaps Aemon did, but for Lyanna, he’ll forever remain that babe she passed into her brother’s arms before dying.

“Forget I asked,” Maekar mutters, pressing a kiss to little Maekarra’s head. Baelor is pretty sure Daenora has been ousted as his brother’s favourite niece.

“Where is Emrys?” Lyanna asks, frowning between the two of them.

“Father has stolen him away,” Baelor says with a long sigh. His father has refused to be parted from the babes. If he isn’t carrying Emrys around, then it is Matarea or Maekarra. It doesn’t matter to him, so long as he has one of the babes in his arms. There are three babes, his babes, and Baelor has been fighting his own family to be able to hold them. Matarys is going to be even worse now, when his second eldest son learns his little sister is named for him.

“Knew I shouldn’t have given in and called him father, now he’s stolen my boy!” Lyanna grumbles, Baelor snorts. It has been an ongoing debate in the family, when Lyanna would finally give in and call him father, as he’s been so set on hearing from her since the day he arrived at the Water Gardens. Lyanna has stubbornly refused, always calling him ‘your grace’, ‘my king’, ‘goodfather’, anything else but father. Until now, it seems.

“I’m sure we can’t hold anything you said or did while under the Poppy against you,” Maekar says.

“Stupid Poppy Milk,” Lyanna huffs. Her displeasure with the drug well known, thought she’s never bothered to explain why. “I suppose I shall rest then, until the king deigns to bring my child back to me. Oh, alas, that I only got to see him while I thought I was dying,” Lyanna says, sighing dramatically.

“I told you, you aren’t fucking dying!” Maekar snaps, startling Baelor and Lyanna both. Maekarra sniffs in his brother’s arms, and her face scrunches up like she’s about to start crying. “Oh, oh no, little one. Uncle’s sorry, he didn’t mean to frighten you,” Maekar exclaims, peppering the little girl’s face with kisses, before cuddling her close. She doesn’t start crying, so his efforts apparently bear fruit.

“Maekar,” Lyanna whispers, looking at Maekar like she’s only just now realising he’s there. “I’m sorry,” she says, Baelor frowns between the both of them.

“What did I miss?”

“I… well, I was a little bit hysterical when I realised that I was in my labours, the keep was under attack, and you weren’t here and there wasn’t a maester,” she answers, giving him a pointed look. He grits his teeth, nodding for her to go on. He knows he failed to keep his promise, that the gods have made a liar of him, but next time will be better. “Well, I don’t actually remember all that I said but I think I did make Maekar swear to save our child, if I died.”

“You made me promise to protect the dragon spawn,” Maekar mutters.

Baelor flinches, a sword through his heart as he pictures little Rhaenys and baby Aegon again. Suddenly, he wants Emrys back in his arms, an irrational terror filling him that some demon has come for his children, laughing about killing dragon spawn. He cradles Matarea close and wills the terror away. Robert Baratheon isn’t going to even exist for quite a long while yet, if ever.

“I’m sorry. That was a lot to put on you,” Lyanna whispers.

“Just don’t die,” Maekar pleas, his eyes taking on a suspiciously wet shine.

“I have no plans of it. Been trying to do the opposite, really,” Lyanna answers. “Thank you, brother.”

Lyanna surfaces through the fog of sleep just long enough to make out the arguing voices around her.

“Ha! Mother likes me best! She named our sister after me!”

“Yeah? Well, she gave me a dragon!”

“Well-“

“Boys!”

“Sorry, kepa.”

She smiles and slips back into slumber. They’re going to be just fine.