Margaery V
The labour had begun in the earliest hours of the morning, waking Margaery from a restless sleep with the first unmistakable pangs of pain. At first, she had felt nothing but relief. Relief that this pregnancy, with all its demands, discomforts, and constant scrutiny, was finally nearing its end. Relief that soon Tommen would have his heir and the throne would be further secured. Relief that Cersei and Qyburn would no longer hover around her like vultures, veiling their invasive concerns as maternal care.
But then the pain came—a searing, relentless agony that offered no respite, and with it, the realisation that this would be a battle as much as a birth.
Tommen had been by her side at the start, holding her hand and fretting anxiously as the contractions deepened. He had looked so young, his face pale and drawn, his wide eyes filled with helplessness. Every so often, he would apologise. "I'm so sorry, Margaery," he'd whispered, gripping her hand tightly. "I didn't mean for this to happen. I didn't know it would be like this."
Margaery, between breaths and groans, had tried to soothe him. "Tommen, love, it's not your fault," she'd murmured, though as the hours dragged on and the pain sharpened, she'd found herself growing silent. She couldn't waste energy comforting him—not when she was the one enduring the ordeal.
As the first light of dawn crept into the chamber, Cersei arrived, sweeping into the room with the air of one who had done this before and knew exactly what was needed. She assessed the scene with a cool gaze, then placed a hand on Tommen's shoulder.
"You should step away for a while," she said, her tone firm but not unkind. "This is not something you can help with, my sweet boy. Let the Queen focus, and let the midwives do their work. Come with me."
Margaery, barely coherent from the pain, nodded faintly. She was almost grateful when Cersei led Tommen away—his nervous presence had started to grate on her fraying nerves.
Not long after, her own family began to arrive. Her mother, Alerie, appeared first, with her serene composure offering a comforting contrast to the chaos of the moment. Then came Olenna, sharp-eyed and brisk, taking in the situation with her usual unflinching demeanor. Behind them came a gaggle of Tyrell cousins, all chatter and curiosity, their concern genuine but their presence overwhelming.
"Out," Margaery hissed through clenched teeth, her voice surprisingly strong despite her exhaustion. "All of you out. Except Mother and Grandmother."
The cousins exchanged glances but obeyed, filing out of the room with hushed whispers and backward glances. Once they were gone, Olenna took a seat near the bed, her sharp tongue uncharacteristically subdued.
"Well, my girl," she said, her voice low but steady. "You've faced trials before, but this one will be worth it. Tyrells are strong, and you'll see this through as you always do—with grace and determination."
Margaery managed a faint, pained smile at her grandmother's words, even as another contraction wracked her body. Alerie pressed a cool cloth to her forehead, murmuring soothing words of encouragement.
"Breathe, darling," her mother said softly. "This pain will pass. Think of what waits at the end of it."
The hours dragged on, each one blending into the next as the labor stretched into the afternoon. The chamber grew stifling, the air heavy with tension and the smell of sweat and herbs. The midwives flitted about like nervous birds, murmuring instructions and preparing linens.
By the time the sun was high in the sky, Margaery felt as though she had nothing left to give. "I can't," she gasped, tears streaming down her face. "I can't do this anymore."
"Yes, you can," Olenna snapped, her tone sharp but laced with affection. "Don't be foolish. You've survived worse than this."
And then, finally, after what felt like an eternity, the first cry rang out. A baby's wail filled the room, cutting through the tension like a knife.
"It's a girl, Your Grace," one of the midwives announced, her voice steady as she held up a squalling, red-faced infant. The room stilled for a moment as everyone took in the child's arrival.
Alerie stepped forward with calm assurance, gently taking the baby from the midwife's hands. She cradled the tiny bundle close, her experienced eyes assessing the newborn's health before bringing her to Margaery's side.
For a fleeting moment, relief washed over Margaery, but it was quickly chased by a flicker of dread. What if she had two girls? What if there was no son? The thought struck her like a cold wave, and her heart sank. She knew what it would mean—Cersei and Tywin's thinly veiled pressure, their insistence on her producing an heir for the Iron Throne, would not relent. She would have to endure this again, another pregnancy, another ordeal, all for their ambitions.
Her daughter's soft cries pulled her back from the spiraling thoughts. Margaery looked down at the baby in Alerie's arms and felt a swell of emotion. The child had beautiful brown eyes, wide and curious, and tufts of silky brown hair already beginning to curl at her temples. She was perfect, and for a moment, the shadow of her worries receded.
But the reprieve was brief.
The next wave of contractions tore through Margaery's body with a force that left her gasping. It was as though her body had only paused to let her glimpse her daughter before reminding her there was still another life waiting to be brought into the world.
"The second one is coming," the midwife announced urgently, already preparing for the next delivery.
Margaery clenched her teeth, her fingers digging into the linens beneath her. Her body trembled with exhaustion, but she knew she couldn't falter now. Drawing on every last ounce of strength, she pushed again, tears streaming down her face from the sheer effort.
"You're almost there, my love," Alerie whispered, her voice steady and soothing. Olenna stood nearby, her sharp gaze unwavering, her presence an anchor in the chaos.
With one final, desperate push, Margaery felt the pressure release, and a second cry filled the room—a sound as sharp and piercing as a bell cutting through the haze of exhaustion.
"It's a boy, Your Grace," the midwife announced, her voice ringing with triumph as she held the squalling infant aloft for all to see.
Olenna Tyrell stepped forward with her characteristic authority, her sharp gaze sweeping the room before fixing on a nearby servant. "Fetch the King," she ordered briskly. The servant hesitated only for a moment before hurrying out of the chamber, his footsteps echoing down the corridor.
A sob of relief broke from Margaery's lips as she collapsed back against the pillows, her chest heaving with exertion. Tears spilled freely down her cheeks, and she made no effort to wipe them away. It was over. The pain, the fear, the endless months of anticipation—all of it had culminated in this moment.
Her son was here. Her daughter was safe. The weight of her duty—her responsibility to the crown, to her house, and to herself—had been fulfilled.
As the midwife carefully cleaned the infant and wrapped him in soft linens, Alerie placed a reassuring hand on Margaery's shoulder, her face etched with a rare, tender pride. Olenna, though more reserved, allowed a small smile to touch her lips as she watched the scene unfold.
"You've done it, my dear," Olenna murmured. "You've given them their heir and a princess. Let them try to find fault now."
Margaery barely heard her grandmother's words. Her focus was entirely on the tiny, wriggling bundle the midwife was bringing to her. The boy's cries were strong and insistent, filling the room with life and vigor.
When the midwife finally placed him in Margaery's arms, she gazed down at his scrunched-up face, his little fists waving in the air. A fresh wave of emotion washed over her. He was perfect, she thought as she gently stroked his yellow gold hair.
The chamber doors burst open with a resounding crash, and Tommen rushed in, his golden hair disheveled and his face flushed with both anxiety and excitement. Behind him, Cersei followed, her pace brisk but controlled, her sharp eyes scanning the room as if assessing the situation for any danger.
Olenna Tyrell turned to face them, her expression calm and composed. "You have a son and a daughter, Your Grace," she announced, her voice cutting through the noise like the toll of a bell.
"A son?" Tommen repeated breathlessly, his wide eyes darting to Margaery, who was cradling the newborn boy in her arms. His steps quickened as he crossed the room to her side, the nervous energy radiating off him in waves.
Margaery's gaze softened as she looked up at her husband. Exhaustion was written all over her face, but there was a warmth there, too—a flicker of pride and reassurance meant just for him. Without a word, she adjusted the baby in her arms, gently offering the small, swaddled bundle to him.
Tommen hesitated for a moment, his hands hovering in the air as if afraid he might somehow break the delicate infant. "Go on," Margaery encouraged, her voice barely above a whisper, worn from the ordeal of labor but still filled with tenderness.
Slowly, Tommen reached out and took the child from her, cradling him as if he were the most precious treasure in the world. The boy stirred in his arms, letting out a tiny whimper before settling against his father's chest. Tommen's lips parted, and his expression shifted from awe to pure, unfiltered joy.
"He's so small," he murmured, his voice trembling slightly. His gaze flicked to Margaery, a mix of wonder and gratitude in his eyes. "Thank You."
Behind him, Cersei stepped closer, her hands clasped tightly in front of her as she regarded her grandson with a gleam of satisfaction. "A prince of the realm," she said, her tone measured, though the pride in her voice was unmistakable. Her eyes briefly met Margaery's, and for a fleeting moment, there was something almost like approval there—though it was quickly overshadowed by the sharp, calculating glint that never truly left Cersei's gaze.
"And a princess," Olenna added pointedly, motioning toward the other babe, who was carefully being held by Alerie.
Cersei's attention snapped to the second infant, her expression softening as she approached. Alerie handed the baby to her, and for a moment, Cersei was silent, gazing down at her granddaughter with an intensity that bordered on reverence.
Tommen, still holding his son, glanced at his mother. "Mother?" he asked tentatively, as though afraid to disrupt whatever moment she was having.
"She has Margaery's eyes," Cersei said finally, her voice quieter than usual, almost wistful. She looked at Tommen, then Margaery, and her mouth curved into a faint smile.
Margaery watched the scene unfold, her heart heavy with exhaustion but full nonetheless. She leaned back against the pillows, her hand resting on her chest as she took in the sight of her family. Whatever trials lay ahead, whatever games Cersei or others might play, this moment was hers. For now, there was peace.
As Tommen turned back to her, their son still cradled protectively in his arms, he leaned down and kissed her gently on the forehead. "Thank you," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "For them. For everything."
Margaery managed a tired but radiant smile, her exhaustion momentarily eclipsed by the warmth in her voice. "They're ours, Tommen. All ours."
Tommen's free hand found hers, squeezing gently as if anchoring himself in this moment. Before he could speak, Alerie stepped forward, her voice soft yet inquisitive. "What would you like to name them, Your Grace?"
Tommen hesitated, his gaze flickering between his wife, his son, and his mother. "Mar—" he began, but Cersei, standing nearby with the baby girl nestled in her arms, cut him off smoothly.
"How about Tya and Tyland?" she suggested, her tone dripping with maternal pride. "Strong names, rich with history. Tyland was a master of coin, and Tya… well, a true lady of Lannister blood. Perfect for these royal children."
Tommen frowned, his expression tightening as he glanced at his mother. "Those are Lannister names, Mother," he said, his voice gentle but firm. "And these children aren't Lannisters. They're Baratheons."
Cersei's eyes narrowed slightly, but she quickly masked her irritation with a tight smile. "Of course, my sweet boy," she said, her tone saccharine. "But it never hurts to honour the legacy of their family—on all sides."
Margaery shifted slightly, her hand reaching toward the swaddled infant in Cersei's arms. "Perhaps," she began, her voice calm and measured, These children should represent a new beginning for House Baratheon."
Tommen turned back to her, his expression softening as he nodded. "You're right," he said. "What do you suggest?"
Margaery glanced at the two children, her tired gaze lingering on each of them in turn. "Argella and Orys," she said finally, her voice steady with conviction. "Argella Durrandon, the daughter of the last Storm King, and Orys Baratheon, the founder of our house. Names that carry strength and history, but also a sense of renewal. These children are a new beginning for us, Your Grace—for House Baratheon and for the realm."
Tommen's face lit up, a smile breaking through his earlier tension. "Argella and Orys," he repeated, testing the names as if tasting something sweet. He looked at his son, then at his daughter in his mother's arms. "They're perfect."
Olenna Tyrell, standing quietly to the side, nodded approvingly. "Wise choices, Your Grace," she said, her tone neutral but her eyes glinting with rare pride.
Cersei's lips pressed into a thin line, though she said nothing. Her grip on the baby girl tightened ever so slightly before she relented, stepping forward to place Argella in Margaery's arms. "Argella," Cersei repeated, her voice low and careful. "A princess' name. Fitting."
Tommen moved closer, laying their son gently beside Margaery. "And Orys," he added, his hand resting lightly on the infant boy's head. "A true Baratheon. Strong and steadfast."
As they sat together, their newborn children nestled between them, a rare sense of unity filled the chamber. Margaery leaned her head against Tommen's shoulder, her heart swelling with hope despite the ever-looming shadows that hung over their lives.
For now, they had this moment—a new beginning, a new family, and perhaps, a chance to reshape the future.
Three days had passed since the birth of her children, and Margaery finally felt strong enough to leave her chambers. Tommen, ever patient, had insisted on waiting for her recovery before making the formal announcement at court. Today, the time had come.
Her handmaidens fussed over her as they prepared her attire, lacing her into a flowing golden gown that shimmered softly in the light. Before her confinement, Margaery had meticulously overseen the complete overhaul of her wardrobe, instructing the dressmakers to replace her red garments with shades of yellow and gold, the colours of House Baratheon. She had even commissioned matching ensembles for Tommen. Crimson was to fade away, and the true royal colours would once again emerge.
As they adjusted her gown, Margaery smoothed the fabric over her hips and glanced at her reflection. Gold suited her—regal and luminous, she would never again wear Lannister red. Now that the twins were born, the time had come to implement her vision for the crown.
In the nursery, Tommen had dressed in a golden doublet adorned with the Baratheon stag, its antlers embroidered in black thread. Margaery felt a swell of pride as she saw him cradling their son, Orys, while a nursemaid held their daughter, Argella. They were a family united, and Margaery was determined to solidify their legacy.
The banners lining the Red Keep would be next. For years, the sigils displayed had been a compromise—a Lannister lion and a Baratheon stag split down the middle. Margaery had already begun plans to replace them with ones that bore only the stag. House Lannister had its place, but it had never been the royal house and it was time that the realm knew that.
Her intentions extended beyond aesthetics. Tommen had to be seen as a Baratheon king, no compromise, no duality. The rumours surrounding her husband's parentage had died down in the years since his brother's death, but Margaery knew whispers could once again grow into roars. Those whispers would not be allowed to touch her children. They were Baratheons through and through, and the court would see it too—one golden stag at a time.
As she approached Tommen, she brushed a hand over his arm. "You look every bit the king, my love," she said softly, earning a shy smile from him.
"Are you sure you're well enough for this?" Tommen asked, his young face creased with worry as he stood beside Margaery in their chambers.
Margaery offered him a tired but genuine smile. "I'm fine, truly," she assured him, resting a hand on his arm. "Today is important—for you, for us, for our family."
Tommen hesitated, then returned her smile, a flicker of determination sparking in his gaze. "I've been thinking, my love," she began "about how we should be announced today at court. I think—"
Tommen's eyes sparkled knowingly as he interrupted her. "I know what you're going to say," he said, his voice soft. "And I agree. The realm should know us as Baratheon, as a family united under one name."
Relief washed over Margaery's face, and she nodded. "I've already told the announcer," he admitted, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Mother won't be happy, so let's not tell her until it's too late."
Margaery chuckled softly, feeling a wave of pride in her husband. Maybe, just maybe, there was more steel in him than she'd dared to hope. "You're learning to play the game," she teased gently.
Tommen laughed nervously but grew serious as he took her hands in his. "I've been thinking a lot these past few days," he confessed, his gaze steady now. "The children… they've made me think about who I want to be. What kind of father. What kind of King."
"And what kind of King do you want to be?" Margaery asked, her voice laced with curiosity and a touch of challenge.
"A better one," Tommen said firmly, surprising her with the conviction in his tone. "I want to be more present, more involved. I don't want to just wave at the crowds while Mother and Grandfather rule the realm. When Grandfather returns, I've decided I'm sending him and Mother back to Casterly Rock. It's high time they went home."
Margaery's heart leapt at his words, though she forced herself to remain composed. "You mean it?" she asked, needing to hear the certainty in his voice again.
"Yes," Tommen said with a resolute nod. "It's my time to rule. When Tywin is gone, I want your brother, Willas to be my Hand of the King. He's smart, loyal, and he understands the kind of realm I want to build."
"And your council?" Margaery prompted, sensing he had more to say.
Tommen's lips curved into a shy, almost hesitant smile. "I want a fresh start," he said quietly, his voice laced with determination, though his tone softened with the weight of his thoughts. "Men I can trust. People who aren't driven by ambition, men who will stand with me for the right reasons."
He paused, his gaze flickering briefly toward Margaery before continuing. "Maybe Trystane would stay if I offered him a seat on the council. And other lords, younger ones—men who haven't been corrupted by the games of power."
He turned to her fully now, his expression sincere and open. "But most of all, I want you," he said, his words carrying a depth of emotion that reached beyond mere duty. "You are wiser than most people I know. You understand the realm, and you understand me. So, I think the Queen should have a seat on the council. We'll rule together, make decisions together, and not as separate halves, but as one."
Tommen's grip tightened on her hand as he spoke, the seriousness of his tone undeniable. "I want to build a realm—a kingdom—that our children will be proud of. A realm that's just and peaceful, where the people don't fear their King, but love him. Where they know we are here to serve them, to make this a better place for all."
Margaery's breath hitched, emotion swelling in her chest. She had spent so much time nurturing Tommen's growth, encouraging him to think beyond his mother's shadow, and now she saw the results standing before her. He wasn't just speaking as her husband but as her King.
"You have no idea how happy that makes me, Your Grace," she said warmly, her voice trembling slightly with the weight of her emotions.
Tommen leaned in, pressing a delicate but loving kiss to her lips. Margaery kissed him back, a deep sense of hope blooming in her heart. She could see it now: the boy she'd married was gone, replaced by a man, a father, and a ruler in his own right. All that remained was for him to follow through.
"Let's keep this between us for now," Tommen said after a moment, pulling back just enough to meet her gaze. "I don't want to give Mother a chance to challenge me or sow discord before I've had time to act."
"Of course, Your Grace," Margaery replied, the hint of a smile tugging at her lips. She was already thinking of how to help him solidify his plans, to ensure Tywin and Cersei's departure was swift and decisive.
"Thank you, Margaery," Tommen said softly, his sincerity touching her deeply.
"No," she said, her voice firm yet tender. "Thank you, Tommen. For trusting me. For stepping into the role you were always meant to have."
As they prepared to step out together and announce the birth of their children to the court, Margaery couldn't help but feel a renewed sense of purpose. The days ahead would be fraught with challenges, but for the first time, she truly believed that she and Tommen could face them as equals—partners in life, in rule, and in shaping a legacy worthy of their children.
As they walked through the gilded halls of the Red Keep, each cradling one of their newborn children, Margaery felt a rare and genuine sense of contentment. For the first time in weeks—months, years, perhaps—things seemed to be falling into place. Tommen held their son with a careful yet protective grip, his face glowing with pride. Margaery, with their daughter in her arms, mirrored his joy, her golden gown flowing gracefully as they moved. Together, they truly looked like a family fit to rule.
At the closed doors to the Great Hall, Cersei waited for them. Her sharp green eyes softened momentarily as her gaze fell on the twins, though Margaery noticed the flicker of calculation behind them. Despite her lingering unease around her mother-in-law, Margaery maintained her poised and serene expression.
"Your Grace," Cersei said, dipping into a subtle curtsy toward Margaery, though her tone carried its usual air of superiority. She turned to Tommen, her demeanor instantly warmer as she pressed a kiss to his forehead. "Your Grace," she repeated.
"Mother, I wanted to speak with you," Tommen said, his voice steady but kind.
"Of course, Your Grace," Cersei replied, her expression curious but controlled.
"I want you to oversee the twins' naming ceremony," Tommen said, glancing at Margaery briefly before returning his attention to his mother. "It will be an intimate celebration, nothing too grand, but I thought you could take the lead in organising it."
Cersei's lips twitched into a smile, a flicker of satisfaction lighting her features. "Of course," she said smoothly. "I would love to. It will be a beautiful occasion."
"Good, I'm glad," Tommen said with a nod. "Now, if you wouldn't mind, go ahead into the hall. Margaery and I would like to enter as a family."
Cersei's smile faltered slightly, though she recovered quickly. "Well, I thought I might enter with—"
"Just the four of us, Mother," Tommen said firmly, his tone polite but resolute. "We'll see you soon."
For a moment, Cersei looked as though she might argue, her lips parting, but she seemed to think better of it. Without another word, she turned and swept through the doors, her crimson and gold lion-emblazoned gown trailing behind her.
As the heavy doors closed behind her, Margaery turned to Tommen, her brow raised in quiet amusement. "That was bold, Your Grace."
Tommen sighed, though there was a hint of a smile playing at his lips. "I hope you don't mind about the naming ceremony," he said, shifting their son slightly in his arms. "I just thought it would give her something to focus on—and keep her occupied. Out of your way, mostly."
Margaery's smile softened, and she leaned in to press a gentle kiss to his cheek. "I don't mind at all, my King," she said warmly. "In fact, I think it's a clever idea. You're starting to manage her quite well."
Tommen laughed lightly, though he still seemed a little nervous. "We'll see how long it lasts," he murmured, glancing down at their sleeping son.
"It will last as long as you want it to," Margaery replied, her tone confident and reassuring. "You're the King, Tommen. And today, we show the realm that we're a family—united and strong."
Tommen met her gaze, his youthful face filled with gratitude and a growing sense of determination. He nodded, and together, they turned toward the great doors, ready to make their entrance as the King, Queen, and proud parents of the future of House Baratheon.
The massive oak doors swung open with a resounding creak, and the herald's voice rang out across the cavernous Great Hall, commanding attention.
"King Tommen of House Baratheon, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm, and Queen Margaery, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms!"
Tommen and Margaery stepped forward together, their newborn twins cradled in their arms, golden light streaming through the high windows and illuminating them like a divine tableau. Tommen, dressed in a resplendent black-and-gold tunic adorned with the crowned stag of House Baratheon, looked every inch the King he aspired to be. Margaery, radiant in her flowing golden gown, held their daughter close, her expression a perfect balance of serene poise and maternal warmth.
The Great Hall was filled with the nobility of the realm, the sea of faces a mixture of curiosity, admiration, and lingering trepidation. Margaery's sharp eyes took in every detail, noting with satisfaction the presence of several lords from the Stormlands—men who had once thrown their allegiance behind Stannis or Renly in defiance of the crown. Now they stood with heads bowed in deference, ready to honour their young King and the new era he represented.
At the forefront, their families were divided by the wide aisle, standing like sentinels on either side. On the right stood the Lannisters. Cersei, draped in regal crimson, held her head high, though her expression betrayed a flicker of discontent. Beside her stood Myrcella and Trystane, their infant daughter wiggling energetically in Myrcella's arms. Margaery noted the warmth with which Trystane supported his wife, a small reminder that alliances forged in love could hold steady amidst storms.
On the left stood House Tyrell. Olenna, Margaery's indomitable grandmother, looked on with a sharp, assessing gaze, her cane held like a scepter. Beside her were Mace and Alerie, their expressions a mix of pride and familial affection. Margaery's eldest brother, Willas, stood tall and dignified, his wife, Melara Caswell, a vision of quiet grace at his side. Garlan, her second brother, stood nearby with his wife, Leonette Fossoway, and their son, a boy of four who clung to his mother's skirts, wide-eyed at the grandeur.
And then there was Loras.
The youngest Tyrell brother, now resplendent in the white armour of the Kingsguard, stood off to the side of the room. His position, both literal and figurative, was a bittersweet reminder of his sacrifices for their family. The once-brash Knight of Flowers had been tempered by duty and hardship, his expression unreadable as his gaze flicked from Tommen to the twins.
The room quieted as Tommen and Margaery reached the dais. The sound of their footsteps echoed against the stone walls, a drumbeat of unity and purpose.
Margaery glanced at Tommen as they ascended, her voice soft but firm. "This is our moment, Your Grace. Let them see the strength of House Baratheon."
Tommen's grip on his son tightened as he turned to face the assembled lords and ladies, a mixture of old allies and former foes, each awaiting his words. His heart pounded, but his resolve was strong.
"Today is a historic day," he began, his voice steady, though the weight of the moment pressed heavily on him. "My wife, Queen Margaery, has given me the greatest gift a man could ever receive—two beautiful and healthy children." He looked down at his daughter, nestled in Margaery's arms, her tiny face serene in sleep, and then at his son, who lay securely in his, his little fingers twitching with a life all his own.
"First, she gave me a daughter, the princess Argella of House Baratheon," Tommen continued, pride swelling in his chest. He nodded toward the infant in Margaery's arms, letting the names ring through the hall. "And then she gave me a son and heir, the prince Orys Baratheon." His gaze swept across the room, meeting the eyes of the noble families of Westeros. "Let these children be the heralds of a new day for House Baratheon."
Tommen paused for a moment, his eyes hardening as he acknowledged the shadow of recent events, the blood still fresh on the ground. "As many of you know," he said, his voice turning somber, "a fortnight ago my uncle Stannis, the pretender to the throne, was struck down in battle by my grandfather and my uncle Jaime. Along with the deaths of the traitors Ned Stark and Jon Snow, this is the end of a bloody chapter. Let this be a signal of a new era of peace for my realm"
Tommen reached for Margaery's hand, giving it a soft squeeze, a silent promise of their shared future. "For our realm," he repeated, and the room seemed to exhale in unity.
His heart fluttered with a mix of excitement and nervousness as he continued, "To mark this new beginning, at our children's naming ceremony, we will be naming our son officially as the Prince of Dragonstone, heir to the Iron Throne, and your future King."
Tommen took a deep breath, steadying himself. He glanced at Margaery, the love of his life, the mother of his children, the woman who had given him this chance at a fresh start, and smiled warmly at her.
But before he could say more, a sudden movement from the crowd snapped him back to the present.
A man dressed in black, his cloak ragged and torn, emerged from the shadows. He moved with speed and purpose, his eyes locked on the royal family. A gasp rose from the crowd as he surged forward, a dagger flashing from his sleeve.
"There's only one ruler of Dragonstone!" the man shouted, his voice filled with venom and fanaticism. He lunged at Tommen, aiming for the King's heart.
But before the dagger could reach its mark, Loras was there—his reflexes honed by years of training, his sword flashing in the air like lightning. He moved with the swiftness of a panther, disarming the assassin with a single stroke. The man crumpled to the floor, his body lifeless, blood pooling at Tommen's feet.
Margaery flinched and stepped back, her eyes wide with alarm, but she kept her hold on their daughter, instinctively pulling her closer to her chest. Cersei, her face pale but composed, rushed up the stairs toward Tommen, her arms outstretched to take Orys from him.
Tommen, shaken but resolute, knelt beside the dead man. His breath came in short gasps as he stared down at the would-be assassin, the air thick with tension. The room was silent, save for the echo of the man's final words—his last, defiant breath hanging in the air like a ghost.
"Long live Queen Daenerys."
Tommen looked up at Margaery, her face a mask of concern, and for the first time, he allowed himself to show the weight of the burden now thrust upon him. This was no longer a matter of power—this was a matter of survival. The realm was divided, and their enemies were far from vanquished. But with Margaery by his side, with his children in his arms, Tommen knew that he would not falter. He would face the future with strength, with his family, and with the will to protect them all.
For the first time since his coronation, Tommen felt the true weight of his title. And he would bear it—for them.
A/N: Hi all. Quick Note - Yes I know all babys have blue eyes when they're born but this is a world with dragons so...
Also I really enjoyed writing this chapter and it really makes me want to write a (much shorter) fluffy fic of Tommen and Margaery ruling Westeros after I'm finished with this fic, (which isn't miles away) so let me know if you would be interested in that.