Chapter Text
It is storming as Jena labours, her screams echoing throughout the halls, rivaling the thunder and crash of waves on the rocks of Blackwater Bay. She begs and pleads for her husband, his name a prayer on her lips. The Maester makes tsks sounds with his tongue, the birthing room is no place for men, he says. The midwife, Mathilde, glares at him.
“The birthing room would not be needed if men did not put their stock on the fallacies of succession.”
Jena screams louder, Baelor’s name escaping her. “Something’s wrong.” Jena pants, her body sinking down into the bed. “Something’s wrong.” Her head is shaking back and forth; her hands curled into the bloodied sheet beneath her. Blood, there’s so much blood.
“My Lady,” Mathilde says, her voice gentle and calm, her hand cool against Jena’s warm cheek, “you must be strong. It is almost time; your babe will be here.”
Jena sobs, “I cannot.”
Mathilde looks at one of the maids, hands full of bloodied sheets and she moves her head towards the door. “Get His Grace, Prince Baelor.”
“Madam,” the Maester starts, his voice, taking on an undertone of shock, “the birthing room-”
“Your future queen may not make it past this fucking bed.” The midwife hisses. “If she wants her husband, the prince, then so be it. And if you cannot work beside me, then leave.”
The door opens and Baelor slips in, eyes wide when his eyes land on Jena, lying prone on the bed, whimpering. “My love.” He whispers, he takes off his cloak and lays it on a chair, sitting beside Jena and holding her hand, interlacing their fingers. “I am here.”
“Baelor.” Jena whispers, her mouth dry, so dry, she tangles her fingers with his, holding them as tightly as she can. “I am so tired.”
“I know you are.” He says into her temple, “you are so strong, you are almost there.” He looks at Mathilde and the Maester, a question in his eyes. His eyes look would look steady to anyone else, but Mathilde and the Maester have been here before, they know the frantic desperation etched in his mismatched eyes.
They both turn their faces at the same time, unwilling to give an answer they are not sure of.
“My Lady,” the midwife says, “you need to push. Now.”
Jena pushes, teeth gritting, scream lodged in her throat. She lets out a defeated breath, and she sinks back into Baelor and sobs. “I am sorry. I am sorry.”
“Do not.” He says immediately, his voice strong like iron, “be sorry. You are the strongest person I know. You can do this. Please, my love. Please be strong. I cannot…I cannot….please, Jena.” There is a sense of urgency, a sense of fear as if the anguished cries and smells of the birthing room suddenly make it known that she could die here.
There is silence in the room, almost like an acknowledgement that no one breathes a word about the vulnerability Prince Baelor exhibits. The maids lower their eyes and turn their heads, busying themselves with anything else, other than watching their crown Prince bend on his knees, begging his wife.
Jena looks at him, and her hand cradles his face, and nods.
Mathilde answers with a nod of her own, looking over at Maester who stands next to her. She takes a breath. “My Lady, I have been with you for the births of Prince Valarr and Prince Matarys, and I will see you through this birth, do you understand me? What have I told you before? What do we tell the Stranger if we see him?”
Jena huffs a laugh. “Fuck off.” Her laugh breaks into a sob. “We tell him to fuck off.”
If the Prince is shocked by his wife’s language, he does not show it, and instead he continues to press his lips to her temple, whispering things into her ear that no one in the room is privy to.
“I can see the head, my Lady. I need you to push, as hard as you can.”
And so, she does. The thunder drowns out her screams, as she feels her baby slipping from her body.
A loud baby’s cry answers the thunder that announces its birth.
Mathilde and the Maester work together to clean up mother and child, the prince never leaving Jena’s side, hands intertwined, and waiting anxiously for their child.
Mathilde hands the child to Jena, a soft but exhausted smile on everyone’s faces. “A girl, Your Graces.”
Jena’s smile is tired but beautiful, eyes shining as she stares down at their daughter, a finger trailing down her forehead, and nose and tiny lips, pouting already. “A girl.” She lets out a watery laugh. “Lucera.” She looks at Baelor. “I wish to name her Lucera.”
Baelor leans forward, his hand gentle against the crown of Lucera’s head. “Then Lucera she shall be.” He sucks in a deep breath, chest tight, “welcome Lucera, we have been waiting for you.”
The tides rise and slam against the rocks, as the rain meets the windows of the keep with ferocity, and the wind howls between stone and wood, thunder clapping.
The Maester and Mathilde go to the corner, cleaning tools in loaded silence.
“An ill omen to be born on such a night.” The Maester remarks quietly.
Mathilde takes a deep breath. “In case you forget, Prince Baelor was born on such a night.” There is a pause. Mathilde does not believe in superstition, she believes in medicine. She believes in nature, but there has been an ill-feeling this entire night, shadows that clings to the walls, waiting to envelope babe and mother in their tight grasp. “But yes,” she concedes, “some say it is an ill omen to be born when thunder eclipses the first cry of life.” She looks at the Maester, “you will ensure their health and come to me for any complications.”
She looks back at Lady Jena and Prince Baelor, cooing over their daughter, as she sucks at her mother’s breast, eager for her mother’s milk. Lady Jena smiles at the wet nurses, thanking them for their services and tells them she will call if necessary.
Mathilde smiles and slips out of the room quietly, her bag at her side, steps quickening to leave the room and castle, where shadows and darkness linger.
Once outside, she huddles into her cloak, as if it would protect her from the raging storm.
She stares out towards Blackwater Bay, where it seems like the Gods, old and new, have made it their battleground, thunder and lighting lashing and dancing around each other, while waves lift and break against the rocks, battering the docks. She can see ships tip and tilt and if she strains, she can almost hear the shouts of sailors and townspeople.
She takes a deep breath and glances back at the castle, thinking of Lady Jena and the daughter she has brought into this world. “You are not welcome here this night, Stranger.” She pauses and watches the night sky illuminate. “Fuck off.”
The thunder answers her as if laughing.
As if reminding her, the Gods belong everywhere and nowhere, and to no one and everyone.
Across the land, the storm rumbles through Summerhall, where the castle stands erected between meadows, forests and a lake. A boy of three with sand coloured hair, and bright violet eyes, opens his eyes and breathes.
He looks to the corner of his room and shakes his head, eyeing the shadows that trail along the walls. “No. Fuck off.” He says quietly, and he knows his mother would scold him, he knows his father would pretend to be stern, but the laughter would hide behind his eyes, until his mother turns her ire on her husband, reprimanding him about language in front of the children. Summerhall is a happy place, filled with laughter, stories and food. “You are not welcome here, Stranger.”
Maybe one day, he will tell his mother and father about the dreams he has, about the shadows he sees dancing along the walls, beckoning him to play.
But for now, he goes back to sleep, and he dreams of water coming up to meet him, dragging him down into the deep and a name crosses his mind before succumbing. Lucy.
Always Lucy.