A.N.: Forewarning. Non-descriptive childbirth and Jonsa.
Valyrian Steel
60
Jon's Honour
Bloodcurdling screams ripped through the frozen air, shattering the silence, tearing at frayed nerves. The sounds echoed hideously off the ancient stone walls and sent shudders skittering down the spines of battle-hardened warriors. These were not the screams of wounded soldiers in agony on blood-soaked battlefields. These were women's wails. The chorus of childbirth.
Maids and maesters bustled in and out of the chamber as Larra and the others lingered beyond the threshold. Jon remained absent; Arya scowled in the shadows and Sansa paced to conceal her anxiousness. Larra admitted it freely to herself; the sounds were horrifying.
They would have been enough to frighten her to death about her own impending labour, had she not known just why Daenerys Targaryen was in such a state. It had little to do with her labours and everything to do with her own mind, her own terror that her body was rebelling against what her mind had convinced itself.
For hours, Lady Targaryen had been screaming bloody murder – in fact, her Unsullied had hurried to her chambers fearing she was being attacked by assassins.
It was Missandei who had noticed her mistress' waters had broken all over the rushes before the hearth, sent a maid hurrying to the solar to inform them. It was Missandei who, days ago, had informed them that her lady's belly had dropped in preparation for impending birth. They were prepared. Even the child itself was prepared.
Lady Targaryen, even until the moment maesters and midwives had bustled into the room, denied she carried a child in her womb.
Her confusion – and her terror – was palpable.
She refused to believe she was with child and thus her labour pains…her pains bewildered and terrified her.
And the sound of her terror set Larra on edge.
The fear had drawn her into Lady Targaryen's chamber, though. Seeing her sprawled on her bed, pale hair shimmering in the meagre light, eyes wide with fear, pupils blown, chest heaving like a wounded animal, her belly enormous, screaming in agony as her mind refused to acknowledge what her body was trying to tell her… It had reminded Larra too sharply of Queen Aemma. The fate of that gentle, wise woman – and that of her child – had provoked Larra to act, as nothing else would.
Because in that moment, Larra had looked down at Daenerys and feared not for the life of the woman before her but for the babe in her belly. She had never sympathised with King Viserys more than in that horrifying heartbeat when she had considered turning to the maesters and telling them to do whatever was necessary to save her brother's child, regardless of the mother, for whom she cared not at all.
Her brother's child. It was Jon's child in Daenerys' belly, Jon's child struggling to come into the world – perhaps as if she already knew she was not wanted and determined to come into the world regardless, defiant. Her mother refused to acknowledge her and her father could not love her.
But Larra… It was for that innocent child that Larra had sat calmly on the edge of Daenerys' bed, drawing her focus as she heaved and panted, collapsing against pillows after a wave of contractions had ripped through her. Daenerys had screamed through them, her face brilliant red, her eyes mutinous – rioting against her fear even as it overwhelmed her better sense.
"Daenerys," she said quietly, wincing as Daenerys hissed and contorted, her fingertips white as she clutched her belly, panting. Sweat shone on her face, her usually pristine hair dank around her flushed, sweaty face, swollen from exertion. Gently, she prompted, "Dany."
She had not been called that in years. But the shock of being called that ancient nickname drew her gaze to Larra's face and she seemed to settle, just for a moment.
"Dany, your body is preparing to give birth," she said calmly, her voice low and steady. Larra felt far from steady, far from calm – she had no experience of childbirth. She knew violence – she understood gruesome injuries and pain and the even more perilous healing journey after sustaining wounds…but she had yet to experience childbirth. Not long now… It was the most precarious moment in their relationship. It would define how things were between them going forward. Daenerys would always remember how Larra treated her now. She had no wish to scare Daenerys when she was already mindless with terror. Larra had no love for Daenerys Targaryen but she was not without compassion: she would not terrify a woman already mindless with fear.
Yet if they did nothing to break her from the hold that terror had over her, Daenerys risked her own life, as well as that of Jon's child. "If you do not listen to your body, you will die. These people are here to help you. That is all they want to do."
"I cannot have a child," Daenerys grimaced, puffing hard.
"You are having a child," Larra told her quietly. "Please let them help you. After all you have survived, will you let your fear be the thing that kills you?"
Larra had helped Daenerys sit up, moving to a more comfortable position – ignoring the maesters who protested, while the midwives clucked and cooed encouragement. Through her pains, Larra had remained, grimacing as Daenerys squeezed her hand so tightly it felt as if her fingers might break. Yet Daenerys was tiring. She had spent so long fighting her pains, putting all her strength into screaming and resisting, that when she needed it, she had little strength to bring forth the child.
At a certain point, and Larra was not certain why, she was banished from the chamber by a gaggle of wizened midwives. To be present for childbirth was one thing: to be an expectant mother herself, as yet inexperienced in the true, grisly nature of it, was quite another. They banished her apologetically from the chamber, promising it was best that she not be present for what was now occurring in the birthing-bed. Larra could only imagine – and did not wish to.
"Arya," she murmured grimly, and her sister perked her head up, her grey eyes gleaming. "Find Nester Maegos."
"The surgeon?"
"I would have him consult with the midwives," Larra said quietly. When it came to childbirth, there was no maester alive who could truly understand what was happening. Midwives were exceptional resources for information and knowledge, wisdom passed down through generations. It was them Larra trusted more than anyone in that chamber with Lady Targaryen. And it was Nestor Maegos she trusted to interpret the information the midwives could share with him, to help as only he had the skill to.
Had he been there, Larra would have trusted Maester Luwin implicitly. Not so these strange maesters who favoured books to real experience when it came to healing. From what she had learned of and discussed with Nestor Maegos, he did things very differently than were taught in the Citadel, or indeed anywhere else – things that made other surgeons and maesters raise their eyebrows and make snide comments, until they were proven wrong by Maegos' skill. He had studied and experimented and crafted surgical methods of his own invention, applying them combined with a high standard of cleanliness – boiling instruments between uses, keeping himself meticulously clean while attending to patients – and strict instructions for care post-treatment. He had conducted studies amongst pregnant women on exercises to increase flexibility and strength and thus increase the likelihood of uncomplicated births and improved survival rates. He had an incredible working knowledge of internal female anatomy – which he had shared with Larra when she confessed to understanding little about what was actually happening inside her own body – and he had used it to tremendous effect the last few months, both to prevent miscarriage and or to induce it when necessary – or desired – and to repair damage after traumatic births. He had already saved many lives with his knowledge: Larra felt confident supporting his endeavours to train apprentices.
Being unceremoniously banished from Lady Targaryen's side, Larra felt it necessary to call Nestor Maegos to the birthing-bed. Larra was not surprised the maesters had not summoned him: they looked down on anyone who had not studied from the books of the Citadel, thought him a strange foreigner who took risks they would never dare. He was an ingenious healer: most of the maesters felt threatened by his knowledge and skill. Excluding him, when he was Larra's favoured healer, was a statement.
Larra inviting him to intervene was another.
"Sansa...you need to go to Jon," Larra said quietly, watching the heavy Northern oak door shrewdly. She had been removed from the room out of the midwives' fear for her – that she would fear her own impending birth due to whatever she witnessed inside that chamber. Some things an expectant first-time mother did not need to know about the birthing-bed. The times it went wrong.
If it went wrong – if it was going wrong – the implications were…
Truly, it would simplify things. With the Dothraki divided and the Unsullied given to the Drowned God it would make no difference if Daenerys died. She no longer had armies to command from dragon-back.
If Daenerys died tonight, the world would breathe a sigh of relief.
If the child died… It would be a sad thing. Denied even the opportunity to thrive from the moment they were conceived. But Daenerys would not have the leverage of Jon's child to hold over him, to hold over the North. Jon would not be put in a position either to reject the child as his progeny, deny them outright and deny Daenerys that leverage, or acknowledge them, and accept all the risk of claiming a child with Daenerys.
Larra did not know what she hoped for. She would not pray for anything, either way. She was not Lady Catelyn. She refused to condemn her own blood purely for the sake of its mother. She refused to wish the child dead. In her heart, she knew what the ideal scenario would be.
Let the child live, she thought, even though she had already lived the life this child would be condemned to. If its mother lived, it would be a pawn. If Lady Targaryen died, it would be the King's bastard.
"He will not come," Sansa murmured to her, as a scream ripped through the air. Sansa glanced over her shoulder at the door, visibly shuddering.
"That's not what I said; go to him," Larra said quietly. "He needs someone with him."
"You should go," Sansa said.
"No. Not this time," Larra sighed, glancing at Sansa. "In this, there is only you who can understand how Jon is feeling, what he must be thinking." Sansa's shrewd sapphire eyes glowed in the light flickering in the sconces on the walls.
She left Larra by Lady Targaryen's door, passing Arya with the colourful, handsome Nestor Maegos with his thoughtful, curious face, as she stalked through the halls and bustling corridors. Upstairs, Lady Targaryen's screams had driven most of her neighbours to the far corners of the castle, leaving the chambers empty but for those who were bedbound. The rest of the castle was bustling. Sansa knew where Jon would be, if he was not in the solar. When he was overwhelmed, he went below.
Sansa was surprised by how calm Larra had been, how vigilant she was, guarding Lady Targaryen's door. She had frowned when Larra sent Arya for the foreign surgeon but, she supposed, though Lady Targaryen was indeed their enemy, she was also a woman who needed help and support. The life of her child – Jon's child – depended on it.
Larra would not condemn a child for its mother.
Realising that, Sansa knew why Larra had sent her to find Jon. To Larra, that child was their blood, no matter who its mother was. Nothing else mattered. She would do what was best for Lady Targaryen because it was what was best for Jon's child.
But Jon…
She found him in the crypt, as she had many times over the last few weeks, as more and more ravens appeared seeking confirmation about the proclamations that had been disseminated around Westeros. Larra had given a handful of the lords a stern talking to and they had spread word around the castle that nothing was to distract them until the war against the Night King was won. It did not prevent discussions about the Iron Throne, succession, the Last Dragon, the tragic heroine Lyanna Stark, true heirs and political coups, but at least they did not bring up the topic during war councils. They remained focused: every day, they drilled an ever-changing sequence of strategies tailored to a multitude of near-unimaginable circumstances.
Larra had asked their advisors to account for everything. The very worst things that could possibly happen. "No-one should ever have to waste time thinking what to do next. Anticipate. Every one of us – every commander, every soldier – must know these strategies by heart, able to switch tactics without warning. Soldiers must be able to take the place of commanders should they fall."
"Are we so expendable?" one of the Knights had blustered indignantly.
"In this war, we are all expendable," Larra had replied quietly.
Larra remained devoted to preparations for the war. As did Jon: strategy meetings and war councils, tours of the siege preparations, observing the pyromancers' efforts, all served to distract him from the proclamations and the imminent birth of the child taken from him against his will.
He stood before Father. The set of his shoulders was painfully tight. She could feel the tension and despair and impotent grief rolling off him in waves like cold radiating from ice.
"This is the only place I can find peace," Jon murmured to the statue as Sansa approached. She tucked her cloak around her, glad of her many layers, her fur-lined skirt and quilted petticoats.
"I fear you'll find none today," she sighed, sidling up to Jon and gazing at Father's sombre, tired face. Jon's breath plumed before him, illuminated by the candlelight, as he sighed heavily.
"Has it come?"
"No. Larra has sent for Nestor Maegos," Sansa informed him gently. "The midwives banished her from the room."
"That sounds ominous," Jon muttered. Sansa nodded her silent agreement. Quietly, Jon admitted, "I don't know what I'm supposed to hope for."
Sansa gazed at Jon, his profile illuminated by the flickering candlelight, illuminating his thoughtful grey eyes, the scars puckering his cheek and over his eye. He had earned those scars, and so many others, betraying the woman who loved him, and whom he had loved. He had betrayed her because no matter what he felt, his sense of duty was stronger than anything else. Jon was a man accustomed to making the hardest choices a person should ever have to make.
She could never understand that aspect of Jon's life, his life as a brother of the Night's Watch. It was too abstract, too unsettling; it belonged to ancient legends.
But this…
Standing before Father, overwhelmed about the future, all his hopes and dread bound to one tiny life, Sansa had never understood Jon more.
"Every time I bled," she said quietly, "I thanked the Old Gods and the New and whoever else was listening. Most married women are disappointed by their moon-blood. It gave me hope. Every time I bled, I was reassured that his seed had not taken root inside me. That I did not carry his child… To bear his child, to be forced to allow it to draw strength from mine own body as it grew like a parasite, to risk my death to bring it into the world – knowing that the moment I produced a son, I sealed my own fate. I prayed that if I ever bore a child, I would die in the birthing bed – for living would be a fate worse than death. Forced to raise a child I could not love for fear of its father, forever terrified of how they would be hurt. How they would be used to hurt me. Held prisoner out of fear for what would be done to it to punish me… Worse than all that, to watch it grow and become its father."
The tension in Jon's shoulders disappeared. He slumped, his moon-bright eyes closing as he sighed. His relief was palpable. Tears trickled silently down his scarred cheeks, disappearing into his trimmed beard. Tucking herself close, Sansa reached up, tenderly brushing away the tears, lingering to caress his cheek.
"I always feared I would father a bastard," he said hoarsely. "What I have done is much worse. I have condemned this child… If she lives…if she accepts this child…she will use it."
"How so?"
"To get what she wants."
"This child is her blood, too. She considers herself more god than girl; she will likely believe the same of this child," Sansa said. "Especially as she believed she could bear none. This child…anyone would think it miraculous. Larra thinks…"
"What does Larra think?"
"Larra believes Daenerys rejects the child because acknowledging it would undermine everything she has convinced herself about her life, her destiny. This child would force her to question everything she thinks she knows. She is incapable of shattering her own illusions. But I do not believe – I hope – that she would use her own child."
"I can assure you, she will. It will be hers or mine depending on her mood, her needs, her whims, her health, her breakfast," Jon scowled. "Whichever way the wind is blowing. I have not given her a child… I have given her a weapon for her to murder us with."
Sansa sighed, taking Jon's hand, and stood close enough to feel his heat, smell his scent.
"Then the best possible outcome in this," she sighed softly, "is for the child to live, and Daenerys to perish. Then the child is ours alone."
"The best possible outcome for all…is for neither to survive," Jon said grimly. "The child is not wanted by Daenerys and I – I cannot force myself to love it, as it deserves to be loved. It will always…"
"The child will always remind you," Sansa said quietly. She knew better than anyone what Jon felt when he saw Lady Targaryen. The pure dread and the sheer panic that it would happen again, that they were powerless to stop it, that they had no choice or they risked everything they cared for.
"It's not fair," Jon murmured, looking heartbroken. "The child is faultless in this yet it is the one being punished for being born."
"I hate her for doing this to you," Sansa said coldly. Jon was the best man she knew. Clever, stalwart, dutiful, deeply loyal, shrewd and humorous, courageous, devoted, wise, merciful and kind. Daenerys Targaryen had brought to life his worst fear and was already using it against him.
She wanted to go to that birthing chamber and send all the maesters and midwives and Larra's clever surgeon away. Let inaction do what guest-right prevented them from doing. Let her die. Let her die. Let that monster disappear, nothing more than a memory. What use was she without her armies? What was she, without her dragons? A leader? No. A commander – of armies she had lost, of people who had rejected her when she abandoned them. A vengeful woman hell-bent on getting what she wanted, no matter what she sacrificed to do so.
All Jon had built, he had done so on his own merit. He had no dragons or armies. Only his sword and his word and it was the latter that had united so many. The former, he used to protect, cautious about unsheathing it but resolute when he did, the fiercest fighter in any conflict, not hovering miles above it, untouchable, removed – above everyone and everything else. What was Jon without armies? A great man who was also good, who nurtured loyalty and mutual respect amongst his allies as well as his enemies, who made the hard choices that benefited others, often at the cost of his own personal safety. He had risked his life time and again for others. Made impossible choices so that those who would never even meet him or know his name to thank him would remain safe. Sacrificed his honour, his reputation, the woman he loved, so that others might live.
"I am glad only that it is I who must endure it, and not you," Jon said, turning those glowing grey eyes on her. He sighed and leaned in, resting his brow against hers.
"Why must it be you?" Sansa asked thickly, her eyes stinging. "Why must you continue to endure? Do the gods believe you are strong enough to take it?"
"Not strong," Jon sighed. "Hard, perhaps."
"You are not a hard man," Sansa breathed, blinking at him in bewilderment. "A hard man is incapable of feeling. And you feel so deeply, Jon. You always have. Not even death has changed that."
"It's changed me," Jon said quietly. "It took something of me. I feel it. I know it in my heart, I am changed. For I never before would ever have…have considered abandoning my own blood."
Sansa stared, frowning. "What do you mean?"
"If it lives, the kindest thing I can do for that child…is do nothing," Jon said miserably. He sniffed, turning his gaze to the statue of Father. "Ned Stark pretended to have sired Larra and me to protect us. To protect this child – my child – I must pretend that I did not."
Sansa realised what Jon must be thinking. Daenerys could not use the child to punish Jon…if Jon rejected the child as his. Even though all knew it was. She murmured, "Hostages only have value that people give them."
"As you well know," Jon muttered. She nodded in silent agreement. After a long moment of quiet contemplation, Sansa sighed.
"I should return," she said regretfully. Jon grunted softly. Her cloak whispered against the ancient, worn stones as she turned toward the shadowy staircase. Before she reached it, she turned, agitated by something Jon had said.
Her voice rang out clearly in the darkness. Jon turned from the candlelight, which caught in his grey eyes, glinting off his gorget and pommel, glinting off of Longclaw's ruby eyes.
"You say you would never have made this choice before you were killed… But that is not true. If it came down to it, your place in this child's life versus them having a life, you know what you would have chosen, even before," she said firmly, returning to stand before Jon. She had to crane her neck, he was so tall. She often forgot how tall he was, weighed down by so many cares and worries. Jon started to shake his head, denying her. She persisted, "You would have sacrificed so that they might live. You would have. You know you would have! The same way you sacrificed your place at Robb's side to defend the Wall with your brothers. You have always made the hard choice. Especially when it comes at the cost of your own suffering." She sniffed and wiped her eyes, frustrated for him. "You say you cannot love this child but…isn't sacrifice the greatest declaration of love there is? You can love the child and hate its mother for what she has done to you both. You can love it…even if no-one will ever know."
Jon stared at her, his eyes vivid, glowing silver in the firelight, full of turmoil and relief. Cradling her face, he leaned down and pressed a kiss to her lips. Gentle yet simmering with emotion she felt warring inside his body, barely leashed. She gasped, startled, and leaned into him, a tiny moan escaping her lips as he drew an arm around her waist and pulled her closer. Cradling her face, gazing deep into her eyes, Jon traced his thumb over her cheekbone, and when he leaned in to press his lips to hers a second time, Sansa met his kiss.
Fiercely passionate and tender, their kiss lingered. She had never been kissed like this – never kissed like this, her body alive, full of energy, as if light was dancing through her veins, making her fingers tremble.
Jon broke their kiss, looking aghast. He stared at her, stunned, as if suddenly remembering who she was – who she always had been to him, but wasn't. Not truly. What they had been raised as no longer mattered. Too much time had passed; they had both endured far too much for it to matter, especially now that the truth was known, and by more than just them.
"Jon – "
"I love you," Jon gasped, staring at her. "I love you. I will not keep it secret. Not from you."
Sansa blushed. Visibly flustered, Jon moved to step away. She reached up, cradling his neck, and drew his face to hers. She pressed her lips firmly against his, confidence growing with each kiss, with each tiny sound Jon made as they embraced, every time his hands moved over her body, every time he squeezed her close as if he could not help it, and she sighed and moaned with every press of his lips against hers, gasping as he slid his tongue against hers, clinging to his shoulders on tiptoe, desperate to get closer.
Locked in tight embrace, they kissed until Sansa was shaking and Jon panting, his breaths pluming, caught by the candlelight. The rest of the world was forgotten: it was his taste, her scent, their heat, her heartbeat fluttering against his tongue as he kissed her throat, his enormous hands so gentle as he held her tight to his body. Bewildering – and freeing. She had never felt safer. He felt his blood singing in his veins, alive as he had not felt alive in ages.
Swollen lips concealed by the darkness, Sansa hid her smiles as she strode through the castle. The very kisses that had excited them had then calmed them: Jon had left her to return to the solar, intent on working until supper, while she went to check on Lady Targaryen. After supper, they would… Well, Sansa did not know. An hour spent kissing in the crypt was something, she just did not know what.
All she knew was that she loved Jon. And she would do anything to protect him.
Jon would not incur the wrath of the gods by causing Daenerys Targaryen harm under their roof, their protection…but there was always a way around things. If they were denied the freedom to act then inaction was their only weapon.
It was too late, she learned.
The chamber door stood open: Sansa entered, frowning to conceal her apprehension. What would she find? Nestor Maegos, his shirtsleeves pushed up past his elbows, his hands and forearms splashed with blood and who knew what else, was gathering up queer-looking steel instruments. The maesters were huddled in a corner, muttering to themselves, watching the foreign surgeon with something close to awe. All but one of the midwives had left the chamber and the one that remained watched Lady Targaryen carefully, a slight frown on her face.
Lady Targaryen herself was reclined on the bed on fresh linens and a pile of pillows, her face puffy. Her hair had been combed but fell loose about her shoulders rather than bound in elaborate braids. Her eyes were stark, brittle in a way Sansa recognised from her first true horrors as a prisoner in her own home. The nature of Lady Targaryen's delivery had been traumatic: she seemed to be in a state of shock, dazed.
There was no sight of Larra. No sound of a babe crying.
Sansa approached Nestor Maegos. Larra trusted him in matters of medicine. He glanced up, his instruments clattering and ringing musically as he dropped them into a gleaming steel tray. "Lady Stark," he said politely.
She cleared her throat uncomfortably. "What has… Where is my sister?"
"Lady Larra has returned to your private rooms," Nestor Maegos told her. He gathered his things in a structured leather bag buckled at the top and gestured to the door. "May I have the privilege of escorting you back on my way out?"
"You may," Sansa replied. She glanced over her shoulder at Lady Targaryen, who did not so much as stir as the maesters also left the chamber, talking amongst themselves. The single midwife remained, sat by Lady Targaryen's side. Keeping a close eye on her.
She had survived the labour.
But what of the child?
Jon had said the best thing for all involved would be for both to perish. And failing that, that Lady Targaryen did not survive. Yet Lady Targaryen had lived. If the child had died… That did make things simpler.
Nestor Maegos did not speak until they were well away from the rooms given over to Lady Targaryen's advisors and servants.
"The child lives," he told her without preamble. "A good weight, long legs. Dark hair. Strong lungs, too. She settled easily, too, as soon as Lady Larra embraced her."
"She? It is a girl?" Sansa asked, somewhat startled. In all the agonising about Jon fathering this child, none of them had actually considered the implications of the child's possible gender. A son would have claim to Jon's throne after him, something Lady Targaryen could have used in the future. But a daughter…
"Yes. She's healthy and strong, despite the odds," Nestor Maegos said, somewhat grimly.
"You said Larra held her?"
Nestor's face fell, his eyes darkening. He sighed, pausing in the corridor, and turned to look at Sansa. "Lady Targaryen struggled with the birth. When the babe was presented to her, she refused to hold it. Screamed for it to be removed from her presence. I have never seen a new mother so furious."
"What?"
"It may be the trauma of the birth. Once the shock wears off, Lady Targaryen may think differently," Nestor told her grimly, "but until then, I… I feared for the safety of the child in her proximity. When Lady Targaryen rejected the babe, screamed for it to be removed, no-one knew what to do… The babe cried and that made Lady Targaryen worse… Lady Larra took the babe in her arms and she gentled. She took the babe away. That is all I know."
Nestor Maegos bowed his departure and left Sansa, who hurried to their private rooms.
Hearing deep voices and chaotic conversation, she burst into the solar. Jon stood rigid and pale by a window, sweating in the heat of the chamber, as lords and knights and maesters argued by with Lord Tyrion and Missandei and Ser Jorah, who all argued amongst themselves. Lord Tyrion cast his glance over at the hearth, his expression unreadable. Sansa stopped, staring. It was the first time she had seen Larra sit so close to the fire; she hated to be overly hot, while Sansa could not get close enough to the flames.
Gendry sat beside Larra, enormous and sturdy and protective, and Sansa was stunned to see him offer his pinkie-finger to the small bundle in Larra's arms, wrapped in thick quilts and furs. More stunned to see tiny fingers reach up and clasp the end of his finger. Even over the noise, she heard a baby's tiny coos and whimpers. Standing behind the settle, peering over Larra's shoulder, was Larra's new cyvasse partner and trainer, Darkstar. His pearl-silver hair gleamed in the firelight as he gazed own at the bundle in Larra's arms, wrapped in thick quilts and furs, and for a heartbeat, the expression on his face reminded Sansa inexplicably of Jon.
Jon looked stricken as he stared out of the window. Sansa reached to squeeze his arm then drifted through the solar, sidestepping a belligerent Greatjon arguing with Lord Tarly and Bronze Yohn, to stop before Larra, just as she looked up at Darkstar, who was saying, "If you are to claim her as yours, you should name her."
"What?" Sansa blurted, staring at Larra. She glanced up. It was odd to see Larra holding an infant, even more so because she had to navigate the child around her own swollen belly. It was even more absurd watching Larra gaze at the baby.
Love poured from Larra's amethyst eyes, so fierce and so pure Sansa might have wept. It reminded her too vividly of her own mother and the last time Sansa saw her alive – bidding her goodbye in the courtyard, clasping Sansa's face in her hands, wondering how she would have grown by the time they saw each other again. Had anyone ever looked at Larra with that much love in their eyes? Perhaps her own mother, before she had drifted away. No-one since, though. Larra had no memory of being looked at like that – of being held, the way she now held that infant. As if they were the most precious thing in the world. The most beloved.
Larra raised her gaze to Sansa, and Sansa thought in that moment that Larra had never looked more like a dragon, fierce and unknowable.
Stunned and instantly panicked, Sansa gaped, "You have taken Lady Targaryen's child from her?"
"Lady Targaryen rejected the babe," Lord Tyrion said solemnly, walking forward. A tense quiet settled in the room, but it was nowhere near as awful as the tension she had felt in Lady Targaryen's chamber. The atmosphere was different here, though many of them present were still furiously catching their breaths from stopping mid-argument: Larra sat calm and composed with the babe in her arms and others seemed to feed off her serenity.
Raising her chin defiantly, Larra said coldly, "I will not give her the opportunity to change her mind. This child is of the North. She's our blood. She deserves more than a mother who despises her or would use her as a weapon against her enemies – against her own family." Sansa felt a jolt go through her body, as if Larra knew what had been discussed – what had happened in the crypt – while she had lingered by Lady Targaryen's birthing-bed.
Sansa glanced across the solar at Jon, who turned fraught grey eyes on her.
Larra glared at Sansa ferociously. "She's ours."
The ferocity with which Larra spoke, how tenderly she held the baby… She may despise Lady Targaryen, want her dead for what she had done to Jon just as Sansa did, but Larra would not punish the innocent child for its mother's crimes. She would love it in spite of her mother.
She would be…what Sansa's own mother should have been to Jon and Larra.
Enveloped by her love, protected by unyielding ferocity.
Perhaps the fierce maternal bond that had formed between Larra and the baby had something to do with Larra's own pregnancy, her own impending birth.
Whatever it was, no-one dared question it. Dared question Larra.
Lady Targaryen's advisors, all gathered in the solar, could argue amongst themselves all they wished.
But they could not deny that Larra removing the rejected infant from Lady Targaryen's household was the wisest course for all concerned – the child especially.
"Ser Gerold is quite right. Babies should be in good order. The child needs a name," said Lord Tyrion, a strange expression on his face as he watched Larra.
It was Jon who spoke. His voice raspy, he croaked, "Aella. After you, Larra. It was the name our mother wished for you, though she never had the chance to use it."
Larra gazed across the solar at her twin-brother.
Gendry smiled warmly, "She does look like Larra."
Sansa peered closer and, to her astonishment, saw that Gendry was right. The infant looked so like Jon – so like Larra. Even the shape of her hands and tiny ears, the length of her fingers, the curve of her faint eyebrows, the shape of her tiny rosebud lips. Larra was right: this child was theirs. Daenerys Targaryen had left nothing of herself in her daughter. She was all Jon. All Stark.
"Aella Stark," Sansa mused, and saw Jon jolt where he stood as if he had been struck by an arrow. "It suits her very prettily."
"Aella Stark?" Larra repeated, raising her eyebrows at Sansa.
"As you said, she is ours. She is of the North. A Stark of Winterfell – as you and Jon are," Sansa said stoutly. "As you should always have been."
Larra gazed at her for a long moment, sadness swirling in those amethyst eyes. Nothing could rewrite the past; the ink was dry, as Bran liked to say. But with the proclamations, the acknowledgement of Jon and Larra's legitimacy… It changed everything.
Father had always said Jon and Larra had his blood, even if they did not have his name. But they were always entitled to it.
Sansa doubted very highly whether Jon or Larra would ever consider claiming the name Targaryen. It was Stark they cared about. Everyone in the family knew it: they had always wanted to be acknowledged as Starks of Winterfell.
It was Sansa's mother who had denied them their birth-right.
"This is your choice, then?" Darkstar murmured to Larra, who gazed up at him with a fierce expression.
After a long moment, seeming to read his features, she replied firmly, "I'm nobody's fucking pawn."
A.N.: Larra's made her choice. Larra's motivations for claiming Aella are very complicated. It's not as simple as her purely feeling fierce maternal instincts for the baby but it also wasn't a premeditated political move against Daenerys to gain leverage. Larra is very much conscious of the consequences of claiming the baby but at the moment, all she cares about is the baby. Will there be consequences down the line? Absolutely.
I was going to have Daenerys bleed out near to the point of death, and Aella be taken against her will while she is in a coma but this way works a lot better, especially considering Daenerys' mental state. Turns out maternal rejection of infants is a real thing, affecting 1% of new mothers and occurring more usually among new mothers with pre-existing mental-health struggles.
Just a heads-up, we are nearing the end of 'Valyrian Steel' as a standalone story – its sequel will begin after the War for the Dawn (spoilers, I guess!). Name TBD but possibly Dragons' Daughter. I will be turning 'Valyrian Steel' into a series – the overarching name will be 'Valyrian Steel' but I may change this story's unique name to Child of Ice and Fire with Dragons' Daughter as the sequel. What do you think?