A.N.: Forewarning. Non-descriptive childbirth.
Valyrian Steel
61
The Calm Before…
Aella.
It was absurd how quickly and how deeply Larra had bonded with the baby. One glimpse of her tiny little face, the faintest whimper of a cry and all her instincts had honed on the child, desperate to provide – protection, love. Anything she needed.
She was a marvel. Despite the odds against her, Aella had been born healthy and strong. She was delicate, perhaps smaller than most babies but the wet-nurse said she had appetite enough that soon, it would not matter. She was putting on weight, growing every day.
Aella was theirs now. Hers and Gendry's: they had claimed her, and loved her. She slept in a cradle in their chamber, the wet-nurse lodging in a chamber next-door for the sake of ease. And Larra watched, learning from the wet-nurse. How to nurse a baby. How to coax them to latch even when they were fussing. How to hold the infant to burp her when she was in discomfort; how to swaddle her to soothe her; to look at her hands to check whether she was hungry or sated – closed fists indicated hunger, relaxed fingers said she was full. How to bathe her to soothe her even if she wasn't messy. Ellys the wet-nurse taught Larra how to tend to Aella's needs: but she said Larra needed no guidance on being a mother.
It was instinct to cradle Aella, to keep her close, keep her warm. To smell her hair and feel the strength of her tiny fingers as she gripped Larra's fingertip. To smile when Gendry laid Aella on her tummy on his chest, one enormous hand curled over her as she yawned and unfurled those tiny fingers like the petals of a flower unfurling toward the sunlight. It was instinct to listen for every tiny sound, cooing over her when she was in distress, praising her when she was content. It was a joy to sit with her, smiling and fussing and playing, letting Aella learn her voice and her face, her expressions. It was instinct to shower her with kisses and affection, to hold her close, to let her feel Larra's heat and learn her scent.
Aella did not know Larra was not her mother but it did not matter. Every time she fussed, it was in Larra's arms she gentled.
Despite her growing belly, Larra wore Aella strapped to her chest with wide bands of cloth, in the same fashion that both the Free Folk and Volantene slaves wore their infants (and those of their masters). It was not an uncommon sight to see Larra wandering around Winterfell with Aella cuddled up in her carrying-cloths, half sitting on Larra's growing belly. The ladies of Winterfell had already been preparing for the birth of Larra's own child but they soon came to appreciate that Larra considered Aella her own. And everyone treated her as such. There were questions in everyone's eyes despite their smiles when they greeted Larra, peering at the tiny black-haired bundle fastened securely to Larra's chest. The rumour-mill in Winterfell was churning out stories: the truth was of course the most salacious and tragic story. Lady Targaryen had conceived Jon's child and rejected Aella at her birth. She had been claimed, though, by the Starks – by the North: she was theirs. And she was welcomed.
Aella looked like one of them.
The Free Folk claimed all babies were born looking exactly like their fathers, lest they be killed as another man's offspring. Aella had been born looking exactly like Jon. And Larra loved Jon more fiercely than anyone: she had embraced Aella because…well, because she looked like Jon. She looked like Larra.
Larra wondered whether everyone – even she – would have been quite so welcoming of Aella had she taken after Lady Targaryen's looks.
She did not know whether it was because she herself carried a babe in her belly but Larra's reaction to Aella, the way she had embraced her whole-heartedly, was very different to her sisters'. Sansa remained guarded and aloof when it came to the baby, seemed uncomfortable about the idea of holding her. But Sansa had never had much to do with babies or children anyway. That had always been Larra. Inexperience made Sansa wary. As for Arya, the moment Larra had claimed Aella, Arya had accepted the infant as Larra and Gendry's child – and treated her as such. But it was different: Arya cooed and played with her, held her, but would hand her back and leave the chamber for her other duties without another thought. Aella was always on Larra's mind.
She wished she could say she had never experienced a time in her life when she was more exhausted – and exhilarated – but of course that was not true in the slightest.
But as exhausting as Aella was – and how could she be so exhausting when she was so utterly tiny? – it was utterly exhilarating to be her parent.
She wondered if this was how Father had felt, upon first seeing her and Jon?
The sense of awe and wonder, of duty and love mingled with a dreadful sense of worry and hope that throbbed at the pit of her stomach, growing stronger every time she wondered who Aella would grow to become. The giddiness and joy she felt every time Aella looked as if she might be smiling, the contentedness she felt when Aella sighed and snuggled in her arms. The terror that such a pure and vulnerable creature was her responsibility alone – to nurture, to cherish, to defend, to prepare.
The grief, that it was she who had the privilege to experience all these feelings with Aella, not the woman who had given birth to her.
As far as Larra knew – and she remained updated daily by the midwife tending to Lady Targaryen, and by her advisors – Lady Targaryen had voiced no interest in her child, either to have her brought to her or to learn what had become of her. By all accounts, Lady Targaryen remained as Larra had last seen her: mindless with shock, ignoring all that had occurred.
Nestor Maegos pondered whether the trauma of the birth, combined with Lady Targaryen's firm refusal that she was indeed pregnant, had created a schism in her mind. As if it was all too much to handle, and rather than having to do so, Lady Targaryen's mind had broken and reshaped itself to remove unpleasant thoughts.
Larra wondered how long it would last.
And she was aware that her grip on Aella tightened every time she thought of her being taken away.
Ned had made his promise to Lyanna.
Larra made no promises to Jon: she had made her unspoken vow to Aella the moment she claimed her.
No matter what, Larra would love and nurture, cherish and defend Aella – from her own mother if it came to it.
The first weeks of Aella's life were chaotic, unsettled, exhilarating, filled with confusion but most of all with love.
Aella had been rejected by her mother but she had been embraced by a family. Larra, Gendry, Neva, Briar, Cade, all the Lannister girls were thrilled to have a new entertainment. They absolutely adored cuddling with her, watching her sleep; they gasped their delight when Aella appeared to smile; sang to her when she fussed; and the elder girls were swept up with enthusiasm for sewing quilts and blankets, snowsuits and frocks, making dolls out of rags; reading her stories. There was rarely a moment Aella was left alone, even when Larra was not carrying her.
Neva read stories to her; Briar rocked her in her cradle and told her all about the animals of the North; Crisantha sat by the hearth, cradling her in her arms as if she had done so a thousand times. Seeing her, Larra was reminded anew that Crisantha had lost younger brothers in the Lion Culling. She was a natural with Aella because she had been accustomed to cuddling her brothers. Cuddling Aella seemed to soothe Crisantha; the tiny vulnerable life relying on them all to look after her brought Crisantha out of her own mind in a way nothing yet had.
Larra couldn't help look at Crisantha, though, and wonder about Lady Targaryen. It had taken months for Crisantha to loosen the hold her trauma had on her mind, to appreciate that she was safe and protected here in the North. It had taken her longer to speak. It had taken Aella for Crisantha to take a more active role in her own life, rather than just letting the tide pull her where it wished.
With Neva, Briar, Cade and the elder Lannister girls, Larra and Gendry shared the truth: that Aella was the child of Jon and Lady Targaryen but that they – Larra and Gendry – had claimed her to raise her and love her. It was harder for the little ones to understand what was going on. They saw Larra's belly and assumed the babe in her arms was the one they had been waiting for.
"All these babies being born," Larra sighed, gazing over the snowy moors. "How many are there now? Prince Nymerios Martell, Lady Alysanne Tyrell, Prince Tybalt and Princess Lita and now Aella."
"And your own, soon enough," Bran mused.
"Not soon enough," Larra said, grimacing grumpily and itching at her side with a soft groan. The midwives said she was imminent, though she had not yet dropped. And she was becoming more uncomfortable; she would rather be done with the birth and have the babe in arms, to focus on the next thing. The midwives laughed at her impatience, teasing her that this was the easy part. But they did not understand, not truly. All this waiting…
Somehow, Aella's arrival had calmed her. Pouring all her devotion into Aella gave her purpose – she was simply too exhausted to think about anything else.
Not entirely true. In quiet moments, Larra was gripped with the familiar terror she had felt the moment her breath plumed before her in the passage under the great weirwood.
They were coming.
Only they were taking their bloody time about it.
Anticipating childbirth and anticipating the Night King's arrival had become the same to her – equally irritating because they could not prepare any more than they already had. They could only wait and see.
And she was tired of waiting. She scowled out over the moors. The pyromancers had labourers pacing the circumference of an encircled decagram star, carrying clay pots of wildfire along precisely-measured lines. Off in the distance, Rhaegal feasted on roasted aurochs – a treat gifted by the labourers in thanks for their efforts. Rhaegal had melted the snows and thawed the earth to sink their viciously sharp talons into the dirt and help the labourers start digging. At each of the thirty vertices of the overlapping ten-pointed star, equidistant around Winterfell, caches of wildfire were being buried.
The pryomancers had spent months experimenting with wildfire. They had discovered that wildfire itself did not freeze. Not only that but the cold did nothing to affect how the wildfire ignited – or burned. But the sudden addition of heat had a catastrophic effect. While they could ignite a single seam of wildfire directly, the consequence of it melting the snow around it heated any wildfire in proximity of its blast-radius.
That was what the maesters, the pyromancers and Lord Tyrion called it – a "blast-radius". And the bigger the cache of wildfire, the bigger the blast-radius. So if someone was to set alight a cache of wildfire, it would then set off a chain-reaction, setting alight every other cache of wildfire – as long as they got the equations correct. It meant they did not have to waste wildfire by dousing the moors with it: they could be strategic and sparing but still gain maximum effect – create maximum damage.
The maesters and Lord Tyrion had been working diligently on those equations. Unless they were absolutely sure, they would never have dared suggest it was time to prepare the moors with wildfire.
The trickiest thing, Larra had learned from discussions with the maesters and the pyromancers, was how to ensure Winterfell itself was not consumed by the blasts. They could not bury the caches of wildfire too close or they would take out the curtain-wall and much of the castle's defences. That meant there was a certain level of risk: no matter how much of the advancing army the wildfire burned, there would still be some closer to Winterfell that would evade the wildfire.
As long as they could burn the majority of the Night King's hordes, Larra had some hope that they could deal with the remnants. Caches of wildfire were placed strategically to ensure that explosions radiated outwards, away from Winterfell, getting bigger as they went to cover a greater blast-radius – with more and more caches buried in the northern moors.
It was not about keeping every single wight away from Winterfell: it was about destroying as many of them as possible before they could overwhelm the castle's defences.
They had the numbers, the weapons, the tactics. They were prepared, as much as they could be prepared without seeing the army itself. And when people saw what they faced, the hardest job they each had would be to remain rooted to the spot and fight, rather than listen to their instincts and flee. They would be relying on those who had experience with the Others, with the wights, to remain calm, to command people through their fear, to inspire courage, whatever people needed to motivate them to fight.
"They are leaving," Bran murmured and Larra peered over the wall. Out of the North Gate, she could see a small number of people swathed in heavy furs heading out. They quickly dispersed, spreading out as they walked. None of them was to head in the same direction. Amongst them, the wargs sent their bonded beasts off – dire-eagles, hawks, bears, snowcats. Plunging into the snows, into the wilds.
The Free Folk, restless in one place for so long, had been only too eager to go out and scout for signs of an invading army.
"And the ravens?"
"Sansa beseeched whoever remains at Last Hearth to come south to Wintefell at once," Bran said quietly, shifting uncomfortably in his chair as he attempted to peer over the wall. It was simply too high.
"Will they come?"
"Many," Bran said quietly. "The mountain clans converged on Last Hearth at Ned Umber's summons. He is a boy yet he has a man's wisdom: he convinced them to come to Winterfell, not because they believe in the Night King and his hordes but because they do not wish to add to the King's troubles by refusing him. Their sense of duty overpowers their stubbornness."
"Thank the gods," Larra said, smiling grimly. That was the nature of any true Northman, she thought: duty over all else. Oathbreakers were reviled; and each had sworn their oaths to the King in the North. If they did not believe, that was their choice, and Larra would not blame them: but they were loyal, still, and honoured their vows. She sighed. "Little Jon will be happy to see Ned again."
"Yes," Bran smiled, but his eyes seemed pained. "How sweet it will be for them to see their brothers again."
"Will they reach us in time?" Larra asked, thinking of fierce little Ned Umber. The fact that he had remained at Last Hearth was a point of fierce pride to the Greatjon – and of devastation. His young grandson's ferocity, sense of honour and duty and decency were staggering to him.
"They will," Bran nodded. Rarely did Larra ask for information from Bran: Brandon was rather a miser about it, for good reason.
"What is taking them so long?" Larra scowled, rubbing her belly and bouncing slightly when Aella stirred against her. "I do not wish to be a crone when they finally deign to attack us."
"They seek that which will bring down the Wall," Brandon murmured dreamily. "They are close…so close now. It is almost within their reach."
"How long do we have before they breach the Wall?" Larra asked, not hopeful she would get a straight answer from Brandon.
After a long moment, Brandon answered, "A little more than a moon's turn."
How much more was a 'little more' than a month? Days? A week or two?
Larra turned from Brandon to the endless moors. On the horizon, the woods loomed, dark and eternal. Beyond them, a haze of endless snow and shadow as the veiled sun dipped low to the east.
It was odd.
Larra turned over Bran's words and felt a sense of calm envelop her. Little more than a moon's turn.
The wait was over. It was the waiting that was killing her. It had nearly killed her, under the great weirwood. The interminable passage of time with no end in sight, no relief.
She was relieved. Relieved to know their time was running out.
It gave her a renewed focus.
"We must start evacuating Winter's Town," she mused.
"And you must teach others your song, Larra," Bran said softly. He raised his solemn eyes to her face. "The song of ice and fire. You woke ancient magic from its slumber when you went to the heart of Winterfell… As long as the blood of the First Men sings the song of ice and fire they will be protected by the ancient magic imbued into the very foundation-stones of this castle."
"Very well," Larra said uncomfortably. It felt strange to share the song taught to her by the Children. It felt sacred, somehow – because it was. It was ancient magic, in an ancient language thought dead and gone from the world.
But she taught it. She spent her days working, Aella strapped to her chest or slumbering in her cradle nearby, and her afternoons singing. Lady Vialle Velaryon offered to teach her how to strengthen her voice – it was incredibly beautiful, she said, but lacked power and polish gained from purposeful training – and together they spread the song through the castle, until even in the kitchens and the barns and the forges, the song of ice and fire could be heard.
It was beautiful and eerie and evocative. Sung in chorus, it was absolutely aweing.
Larra sat listening in the hall, smiling through tears as the divine chorus of voices threatened to raise the hammer-beam roof. She had given Lady Vialle the freedom to form a choir composing hundreds of voices – Free Folk, Essosi, Dothraki, Unsullied, Westerosi, it mattered only that they wished to sing and were open to being instructed – and trained them. She had turned the song of ice and fire into something extraordinary, something otherworldly and awe-inspiring. Hundreds of voices all raised in song, beautifully balanced and harmonised with each other. It was an exquisite composition. Larra was overwhelmed by its magnificence.
She winced and rubbed her belly before applauding with everyone else who had been struck dumb, listening in awed silence, from the moment the first young voices started to sing high and pure, joined by deep tenors and exquisite sopranos and altos who raised their voices higher than anyone, coaxing the gods themselves to join them in Winterfell's great hall.
Larra let out a shaky breath, wincing again, as she applauded. With effort, she rose from the settle and went to congratulate Lady Vialle for her triumph – and that of the choir.
"You look pale," Lady Vialle said concernedly, peering into Larra's face.
"Tis the heat of the hall," Larra said. She exhaled slowly, shakily, almost forgetting Lady Vialle was there, too focused on breathing through the pain starting to ripple through her abdomen again.
All afternoon, she had felt the tugging and cramping.
She knew what it was.
Larra remembered Lady Targaryen, shrieking bloody murder as she flailed viciously… No, that would not do. She would not do that to herself. She would not terrify everyone around her with her behaviour.
Her terror was over. It was time.
"Allow me to escort you to your chamber, my lady," Lady Vialle said kindly, her clear blue eyes searching Larra's face carefully. "I do not wish you to walk back alone."
"I think… I think that would be wise," Larra said, hissing at a sudden sharp pain. She grimaced and exhaled slowly, purposefully. "And if you would be so good, Lady Vialle, might I ask that you have the girls sent from the schoolroom. I wish to see them but I think…I think I will not be able to tuck them in tonight."
"Of course," Lady Vialle smiled soothingly. She coaxed Larra to lean against her, letting her support Larra as she made her way out of the great hall and through the many passages and corridors and halls of Winterfell.
"How long have you felt pains, my lady?" Lady Vialle asked kindly.
"Mm… Since before midday meal," Larra admitted, grimacing slightly. "I thought it was hunger at first. Now I know…"
"I shall send for the maesters and midwives," Lady Vialle said.
"Gendry. Send for Gendry," Larra gasped. They made it into her chamber and she sank onto the rocking-chair with a sigh. "Gendry knows what to do."
"Viana," Lady Vialle said, and her beautiful daughter appeared – perhaps she had followed them upstairs. "Go and find Lady Larra's husband. He will be in the forges." Viana nodded, curtseyed to Larra and departed. Breathing out shakily, slowly, Larra grimaced and gripped the arm of the rocking-chair as pain rippled through her. "How may I make you comfortable?"
"I don't know," Larra admitted tearfully. She opened her eyes and gazed at Lady Vialle. "I don't know what to do now."
Lady Vialle gave her a warm smile. "Your body knows," she said soothingly. "What do you need?"
"A distraction," Larra said, and Lady Vialle smiled. Though her pain came like waves rushing to shore, sometimes abating, other times fierce, Larra found herself calm, almost peaceful. This was meant to happen. And it was finally time. The waiting was over.
She did not have to be afraid anymore.
Larra had planned for this. When her time came, she refused to be surrounded by maesters who would dither and argue about archaic texts they had read rather than respond to what was happening before their eyes. She wanted Gendry, an experienced midwife she could trust – and that was it. Nestor Maegos would remain close by in case his intervention was needed. It was better to be prepared than not.
And while she waited, becoming calmer the more she listened to her body and became attuned with what her pains were telling her, Lady Vialle kept her company. She entertained Larra, sometimes singing, sometimes massaging Larra's back, helping her with the stretches and exercises Nestor Maegos had taught her to encourage and ease delivery, and curtailed the majority of the children's enthusiasm when they came to visit. Larra listened to their news, cuddled with Leona on one side as Neva read to her on the other, brushed Narcisa's hair until it shone and braided Crisantha's so it did not tangle as she slept, cooed and praised Briar for her first attempts with drawing-pencils and chatted away happily with Ragnar in the Old Tongue while Cadeon brought her a cup of tea brewed over the hearth.
Gilly, Tisseia and Zharanni came to visit, wishing her well before escorting the children to bed, and Jon, Sansa and Arya arrived with Gendry. They kissed her and wished her well but did not linger: Arya was wide-eyed and out of her depth as she had not been in years, and Sansa was uncomfortable. Jon embraced her, lingering with her in his arms, before he kissed her and gave her a look of such deep love, her eyes stung. He touched her cheek and withdrew from the chamber, leaving Larra alone with Gendry, Lady Vialle and a wizened crone, one of the Free Folk. She had delivered more babies than anyone north of the wall, it was said: she was also sensible, encouraging and no-nonsense.
She encouraged Larra to listen to her body, as Lady Vialle had. Indeed, the two seemed to be of the same mind. They coaxed Larra to listen to her body, and do what she needed – whether it was walk around the room, do her exercises and squats, have Gendry massage her back or simply just hold her. They encouraged her to drink tea, rest between her pains, even coaxing her to try to sleep, and brought her soup and stew to eat. As she sweated and panted through her growing pains, Gendry kept her cool, draping her neck with cloths soaked in ice-water. He cupped her breasts to lift their weight off her lungs; and when she rested, he joined her. At her request, he had brought Aella to her. When they rested, she slept between them.
It was all for this. All this pain. It was all for this. For their child.
She knew what came after. No matter how painful, she knew what it was all for – she knew that it was worth it.
It gave her exceptional focus and a sense of calm that inspired Lady Vialle.
She watched them carefully, wondering whether she had ever seen a new other quite so calm and composed. Inner strength radiated from Lady Larra. The birthing-room – her own chamber, shared with her husband and the child they had claimed – was warm, a cool breeze wafting in pleasantly from the diamond-paned windows Larra herself had opened to cool herself. She hated to be hot. Her husband remained by her side, and Lady Vialle smiled, reminded of her own husband. He had been by her side through each of her labours, too, had pulled the twins from her, so confident in her own skills in birthing their babies that they had not thought to call a healer. She hadn't needed one. Nor did Larra, she could tell.
For comfort, perhaps, and for guidance, but not for assistance. She was listening to her body, learning what she needed. It was a beautiful thing to witness. She rested in the bed with her husband, curled up, or wandered the chamber in her loose nightdress, her skin shining with sweat, her heavy braid coiled down her back, curls rampant around her glowing face, occasionally squatting and doing exercises to encourage the babe. The fire was lit, the crackle of the flames soothing. It was wonderfully calm.
When her pains came sharp and quick, the wizened crone Gendry had brought up to the chamber examined her and cackled softly with excitement.
"You're ready," she hummed encouragingly. Larra gasped and panted for breath, nodding her head. It had been hours since Vialle had escorted her upstairs, yet through it all, Larra had remained quiet, calm – gentler than Vialle had ever seen the fierce she-wolf except with the youngest children. But she was tired, Vialle could see it. She could see it in Larra's eyes – and those eyes rested on Vialle as she panted.
Grimacing, she whispered, "Will you stay?"
It occurred to Vialle that Larra had no mother. No aunts, no grandmother even. Her sisters were young and unwed – they had no babies of their own, had never experienced childbirth. She had seen them: both seemed skittish. Vialle reached out and tenderly pushed the wet curls from Larra's sweaty face, smiling gently.
"Of course I shall," she promised. Larra nodded. Vialle had stayed with her all afternoon, had eaten her evening meal with them, stayed by Larra's side and helped her. For whatever reason, Larra wanted her nearby – perhaps even she was not aware why. Perhaps her presence soothed her. Perhaps she needed someone – a mother – to be there, to support her. When Viana's time came, there would be nothing that could stop Vialle from being by her daughter's side. It struck her as exceptionally sad that she, a new friend bonded with Larra through singing lessons, was the closest thing Larra had to a maternal figure to support her in the birthing-chamber, and purely by accident – because Vialle had simply been there, had noticed Larra's discomfort. She wondered if Larra would have continued to work through her pains had Vialle insisted she escort Larra upstairs. More than likely. She had rarely met anyone so active – even besides being pregnant. But she was pregnant, and her tirelessness was remarkable. Having many babies of her own, Vialle knew Larra had to be exhausted, though she never showed it.
Though she had asked Vialle to stay, Vialle remained for the most part tucked away. She remained sat on the settle, except to help Larra walk around the chamber occasionally. Otherwise, she sat with the embroidery Viana had brought her or read her book, keeping an eye on Larra as she rested.
When the time came, she remained out of the way. Larra was focused on nothing but herself and her husband.
She did not lie back on the bed, as maesters would have forced her to for their own convenience. Nor did she sit in the birthing-chair that had been brought in sometime during the night.
It was on her husband that Larra leaned for support – quite literally. She stood with her arms around his neck, her head hanging low as she breathed heavily, leaning on him; he stood, enormous and strong, rubbing her back, her arms, kissing her head, murmuring tenderly to her. The ancient midwife lingered nearby, ready, but did not interfere while Larra was exhausted, more vulnerable than anyone had ever seen her.
Gendry held Larra as she pushed. The longer it went on, the more vocal Larra was, often whimpering between pushes, clinging to Gendry. When she needed to be in a different position, he helped her, coaxed her, and supported her, rubbing her back and thighs, holding a hot towel between her legs to soothe her pain. He listened to what she needed and helped her, more than the midwife. And that, Vialle knew, was because Larra trusted him explicitly. Trusted him to love her but also to listen to her. She trusted him with her body. She trusted him to listen to her about her body.
And when she was on her knees, screaming through gritted teeth as she pushed one last time, she collapsed back into Gendry's waiting embrace as she gasped and reached between her legs, pulling her child from her own body.
The first embrace her child knew was its mother's.
Face shining with sweat, eyes closed as relief and exhaustion warred with exhilaration, Larra clasped her child to her chest. The midwife approached with clean linens to wipe the fluids from the child and rub it into awareness.
Vialle wiped her eyes, sniffling delicately, and beamed.
Larra's strength was extraordinary. Tears flowed freely down Gendry's cheeks as he held his wife and their child. The midwife tied the cord and carefully snipped at it. Larra lay back in Gendry's arms, supported by his strength, sweaty and exhausted, dazed. In the soft dawn light glowing from the diamond-paned windows, the newborn squinted and wriggled, making those delicious noises that only newborns could make.
Recovering from her daze, Larra blinked quickly. She glanced down at the babe gathered to her chest, looking bewildered. Then awed. Then the tears started to fall, making the infant wriggle as they splattered its face.
"I had a baby," Larra said, her voice wobbly. She glanced up at Gendry, looking almost startled. Tremulously, she said, "We have a baby."
"We have a baby," Gendry repeated, closing her eyes and holding her close. Relief and awe seemed to drift off him in waves. He kissed her head and hugged her, reaching to curl one hand over his newborn child, utterly tender. Larra held her child close, tears streaming down her face seemingly without her notice. It was an intimate moment, one Vialle knew she was privileged to witness.
"We have a son," Gendry sniffled. "What do you wish to call him?"
Larra stared at the newborn baby in her arms, this child she had conceived with Gendry. It was Gendry who had helped her bring him into the world. The first embrace he had ever known was hers.
A son…
The first embrace Larra had ever known was Ser Arthur Dayne's. It was he, not Prince Rhaegar, not Ned, who had stayed by Lyanna's side as she laboured to bring her and Jon into the world.
Her first and fiercest protector.
"Arthur," she said thickly. "His name is Arthur." She tenderly touched his head and leaned in to kiss him. "Arthur…" Gendry kissed her head and sighed.
A.N.: Naming him after Ned would have been too tragic.