Jeyne rushes off to inform the Mother, while Dalla quietly sets to work cleaning the blood and fluids from the floor. The room smells of sweat, pain, and birth, but Joana barely notices.
She remains in bed, cradling her son against her chest, unwilling to let him go. The babe whines softly, a tearless cry escaping his lips as he turns his head in search of something. Joana looks up at the midwife with silent confusion.
"He wishes for a feeding, Consort," the woman explains with a fond smile. "Here, let me help you."
Joana hesitates as the midwife gently pulls down the neckline of her shift, exposing her pale breast, heavy and full of milk.
They had somehow gotten bigger, and her nipples were brown and somewhat bigger, too.
When the babe latches onto her nipple, Joana flinches at the unfamiliar sensation.
It doesn't hurt, not exactly, but it is strange, foreign — a tugging, pulling feeling that stirs something deep within her. The boy suckles with surprising strength, his tiny chin moving rhythmically as he feeds.
"There you go," the midwife says with quiet satisfaction before stepping back to tend to her other duties.
Joana leans her head back against the pillow, her eyes never leaving the child in her arms. He feeds greedily, a dimple appearing on his round cheek as he draws nourishment from her body.
"I'm doing it," she whispers, as if she cannot quite believe it.
The midwife nods but says nothing more, leaving Joana alone with her thoughts. The chamber grows quiet, save for the faint sound of the babe suckling and the soft rustle of Dalla scrubbing the floor.
When the boy finally opens his eyes, Joana feels her breath catch in her throat. His eyes are a pale, shimmering violet — the unmistakable mark of his Valyrian heritage.
They are bright and beautiful, glowing softly against the warmth of his flushed skin.
Tears prick her eyes at the sight of him, at the reality of what she has brought into this world.
She never wanted him to be a boy. A girl would have been safe. A girl would have been spared the burden of legacy, the curse of power. But fate, as always, is cruel. The gods have given her a son, and now the world will seek to destroy him — as it does all sons of power.
For a fleeting, terrible moment, the thought crosses her mind: she could end his suffering now. Smother him with a pillow. Spare him from the brutal fate that awaits the sons of emperors. And then, with the same bedsheet, she could hang herself and follow him into the afterlife, where no crown nor throne could harm them.
The thought horrifies her. She banishes it from her mind as quickly as it comes.
This child trusts her. He needs her. And she cannot — will not — fail him. If she is to survive, if he is to survive, she must be stronger than she has ever been. Her life is no longer her own. Her grief, her fear, her loneliness — none of it matters anymore. The world has changed.
It is no longer Joana against the world.
It is them against their enemies.
---
"Where is she?"
A soft voice echoes from the corridor, pulling Joana from her thoughts. The door opens, and the Mother enters, followed closely by Aegon. They move quickly, their eyes wide with anticipation, but as they see Joana in bed with the babe in her arms, their expressions shift to relief and joy.
Aegon's smile is soft, warmer than she has ever seen it. His dark eyes shine with quiet pride as he steps to her bedside.
"Your Majesty," Joana murmurs, her voice weak with exhaustion. "I'd rise and curtsy if I could."
Aegon chuckles, shaking his head. "Do not worry about such things."
His gaze drops to the babe, and with gentle reverence, he reaches out to touch the soft, damp hair on the child's head. "How is he? Well? Strong?"
"Feeding like a calf," Joana replies with a tired smile.
"What a happy day," the Mother says, her voice filled with joy. "Another son, another blessing."
As if to mark the moment, the babe's mouth slackens and he releases Joana's breast, turning his head to rest against her chest. His tiny body is warm and heavy against her, already slipping into sleep.
"Let me take him," Aegon says softly, extending his arms.
Joana hesitates for only a moment before carefully passing the babe to his father. She knows what he intends to do — to whisper the child's name into his ear, where only the gods and the babe himself will hear it first. It is an ancient tradition, meant to bind the soul of the child to his destiny.
Aegon moves with ease, cradling the infant as though he were born to it — and perhaps he was. This is his fourth child, after all. The babe stirs and whines at being taken from his mother's warmth, but Aegon soothes him with soft shushing and gentle rocking as he steps away from the bed.
Joana watches as her husband bends his head and whispers into the child's ear, his words too soft for any of them to hear. The babe flinches slightly, a sign that the soul has accepted the name.
Joana feels something shift within her — a strange, quiet peace.
Aegon lifts his head and turns back to them, his expression solemn as he speaks.
"We will call him Jaehaerys," he declares. "The name of two emperors... and my brother."
The Mother smiles, though her eyes glisten with sorrow at the memory of her firstborn son, lost to war and betrayal. Yet, there is hope in her gaze as she looks upon this new child, this new beginning.
Joana's eyes soften as she watches Aegon hold their son — their Jaehaerys.
Her heart swells with something she cannot name.
She will fight for this child.
She will win the throne for him.
For Jaehaerys.