284 AC The Red Keep, Maester's Chambers
Cersei Lannister
The stench of blood clung to the chamber like smoke after wildfire. Sweat pooled at Cersei's brow, damp strands of golden hair sticking to her temples as she clenched her teeth against another wave of pain. Her cries echoed off the stone walls of the maester's room, guttural and raw, as the storm of childbirth raged through her.
"Your Grace, I can see the head," Grand Maester Pycelle said, peering between her legs with a shaky confidence. "Just one more push."
"One more push," Jaime echoed, gripping her hand tight. His voice, low and soft, was a poor balm for the fire that tore through her body. "Cersei, come on, just one more. You've got this."
Cersei screamed again, the sound almost inhuman. Her back arched off the sweat-soaked sheets as she pushed with the last strength she could summon and then, mercifully, it was over. The room fell into a brief silence before a baby's wail broke through the air.
"A boy," Pycelle declared. "Your Grace it's a boy."
Cersei's head fell back onto the pillow. Tears welled in her eyes as Pycelle placed the newborn in her arms. He was tiny, red-faced, still slick with birth but alive, and screaming, and hers. She cradled him close, pressing her lips to his soft head.
"My baby boy…" she whispered, her voice cracking.
Jaime knelt beside her, his face soft with awe. He reached out, brushing a golden curl from her damp forehead. "He's beautiful," he said. "What's his name?"
Cersei looked down at her son. The moment he opened his eyes, she felt her breath catch deep blue, like the summer sky above Casterly Rock. Not green like hers. Not gold like Jaime's. Blue.
"Damon," she said softly. "Damon Baratheon."
Jaime hesitated just for a second, but then smiled. "A strong name."
Damon's little fingers reached up toward the light.
289 AC The Red Keep, Throne Room
Robert Baratheon
Gods, this damn chair… Robert shifted his weight on the Iron Throne, grimacing. It was a monstrosity uncomfortable, jagged, forged from the blades of fallen enemies and made, it seemed, to punish whoever dared sit on it. No wonder Aerys went mad in it.
"…bandits along the Blackwater, Your Grace," the lord before him droned, face as dull as the complaint he was reciting.
Fuck this king shit, Robert thought bitterly. This throne hurts my ass. Curse you, Jon, for making me king. Curse you, Ned, for not taking this godsdamned chair when you had the chance. Damn the Mad King for being mad and damn Rhaegar most of all, for taking my Lyanna.
He shifted again. Was this chair made of daggers or just spite?
Jon Arryn, bless his old bones, finally raised a hand to interrupt the latest noble fool. "That will be enough for today. His Grace has other duties to attend to."
Robert didn't wait for another word. He stood, stretched his aching back, and descended the steps two at a time. Ser Barristan Selmy fell in beside him as they exited the throne room.
"I'll be in the prince's chambers," Robert said over his shoulder.
He stalked through the Red Keep's gilded halls, eager to escape the weight of the crown, the throne, the court all of it. The moment he neared the nursery, his steps quickened. The Kingslayer stood at the door, arms crossed, expression unreadable as always. Robert gave him only a glance before pushing open the door.
There, in the center of the room, sat a small boy with black hair and a wooden hammer in his hands. His blue eyes lit up as soon as he saw his father.
"Dada!"
Robert laughed, all the weight lifting off his shoulders in an instant. Damon stumbled to his feet and ran to him. Robert swept the boy up into his arms and tossed him gently into the air, catching him again with ease. Damon shrieked with joy.
"You're getting big, lad," Robert said, grinning. "Soon you'll be strong enough to lift a real hammer, and when that day comes, I'll be the one to train you."
Damon giggled, brandishing his toy like a true warrior.
It was the happiest Robert had felt in days weeks, maybe. He didn't care that the boy had Lannister blood. He didn't even care about the throne. Damon was his. His son. His pride.
But the moment was broken when a maid entered, eyes downcast. "Your Grace. A council meeting has been called. Lord Arryn requests your presence."
Robert groaned. "What now? More squabbling about tariffs?"
"I don't know, Your Grace," she said. "But he said it was urgent."
Robert sighed, then knelt to set Damon down.
"Dada, where are you going?" the boy asked, tugging at his sleeve.
"I have to count coppers," Robert said, brushing the boy's hair back. "But I'll be back soon."
He gave his son one last smile, then turned and left.
Small Council Chambers
The mood in the room was grim. Jon Arryn stood near the table, a scroll in hand. Stannis brooded at the far end, arms crossed, jaw clenched. Pycelle muttered something to Varys, who gave a theatrical sigh in response.
"Alright, you fuckers," Robert said as he entered, "I'm here. What is it, Jon?"
Jon unrolled the scroll. His face was pale. "Lannisport has been attacked," he said. "Burned by the Greyjoys. Balon Greyjoy has declared himself King of the Iron Islands."
Robert blinked. "Greyjoy?" The name echoed in his skull like a battle cry. Slowly, the rage boiled up inside him. That old fire he hadn't felt since the days of the rebellion flared again.
He slammed his fist onto the table. "Then we'll give him a king's justice. Call the banners, Jon. We're going to war."
Jon nodded without protest.
War again. Robert didn't even feel tired but he felt alive.
Winterfell
Eddard Stark
The snow was falling lightly across the godswood, blanketing the trees in white. Ned stood in his solar stating out his window, watching as his children played in the fresh snow.
Robb was the fastest, always charging forward with his little wooden sword, Lyarra not far behind him, shrieking with laughter as she dodged and lunged. But it was Jon who held Ned's gaze and Jon who is always quiet and focused, with that serious look that never quite fit a child so young. He fought like he was older, practiced like he had something to prove.
And maybe he did.
Ned's heart twisted. He could still hear her voice Lyanna's voice and it was faint and desperate.
"Promise me, Ned. Promise me."
He had promised. Gods help him, he had kept it. He had lied to his wife, his king, his best friend. He had buried the truth with a name, and each time he looked at Jon, it was both an act of love and a wound reopened. The boy smiled sometimes just like Lyanna but those eyes, those unmistakable purple eyes…
Rhaegar's eyes.
He was so much like her, but marked forever by the blood of a man Ned had once sworn to kill.
"My lord," came a voice behind him. Maester Luwin. "A raven from King's Landing."
Ned took the parchment, his fingers already numb. His eyes moved quickly down the page, and then stopped. He read it again, slower.
"Robert has called the banners," he said aloud. "The Greyjoys have rebelled."
Luwin nodded solemnly. "Shall I begin preparations?"
"Yes," Ned said. "Call the banners. Winter is coming for the Iron Islands."
The maester bowed and turned to leave.
Ned looked back out at the children.
Jon was helping Lyarra up from where she'd fallen, offering her a hand without hesitation. Robb shouted something about the Night's Watch, and Jon grinned at the jest.
They don't know what's coming, Ned thought.
His hand clenched tightly around the parchment. He remembered Ser Arthur Dayne's final words at the Tower of Joy.
"I wish you good fortune in the wars to come."
It seemed that war would never leave him. No matter how many he fought, another waited beyond the horizon.
And now, once again, duty called.