The midwives instantly snapped their mouths shut, their faces draining of color. They dropped to their knees on the cold stone floor, trembling.
Cersei shifted her gaze, sweeping across the room to encompass the midwives, the maids, and finally, Grand Maester Pycelle. She sat up straighter, ignoring the searing pain in her lower half. She was not a battered woman in a birthing bed; she was the Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men.
"Open the doors to the corridor," Cersei commanded authoritatively.
One of the maids scrambled to her feet and hauled open the heavy oak doors. Outside, the imposing figures of two Kingsguard knights—Ser Boros Blount and Ser Meryn Trant—stood at attention in their gleaming white enameled scale armor, their white cloaks draped heavily over their shoulders. Further down the hall, the Septas were still chanting their prayers.
"Declare it to the whole of King's Landing, and to all the corners of Westeros," Cersei announced, her voice ringing out with crystal clarity so the Kingsguard could hear every word. "A trueborn prince is born to the Iron Throne. A son of House Baratheon and House Lannister."
Ser Boros Blount gave a stiff nod, turning immediately to send a runner to the bells of the Great Sept of Baelor.
"Shut the doors," Cersei ordered.
Once the heavy oak thudded shut, sealing them back in the intimate, suffocating heat of the chamber, Cersei leaned forward. Her green eyes narrowed, pinning Pycelle and the kneeling women to the floor.
"Now, listen to me closely," she said, her tone chillingly conversational. "You have seen my son. You have seen his hair, and you have seen the mark of the Seven's favor upon his brow. This is not a curse. Absolutely, it is a blessing. My son will be born strong, and he will rule."
She paused, letting the silence stretch until it was nearly unbearable.
"If I hear so much as a single whisper," Cersei continued, every word dripping with venom, "if a single strange rumor swirls around the gutters of Flea Bottom, or the halls of the Red Keep, about my son being anything less than a divine blessing... I will not bother trying to find the source. I will simply take all of your heads. I will have Ser Ilyn Payne strip the flesh from your bones while you still breathe. Do you understand me?"
The midwives sobbed quietly, pressing their foreheads to the stone floor. "Yes, Your Grace. Yes, my Queen."
"Grand Maester?" Cersei prompted, raising a golden eyebrow.
Pycelle bowed so deeply his chain nearly dragged on the floor. "Your words are law, Your Grace. The boy is a magnificent specimen. The realm will rejoice at the birth of such a... unique and powerful heir."
"See that they do," Cersei replied smoothly.
Suddenly, a side door opened, and a nervous-looking matron entered, leading a plump, rosy-cheeked young woman from the Crownlands. The girl's breasts were heavy with milk, her dress already loosened. It was standard protocol; queens did not sully themselves with the draining, common task of nursing.
"Your Grace," the matron bowed. "The wet nurse is prepared for the prince."
Cersei looked at the terrified peasant girl, a sneer of pure, unadulterated disgust twisting her beautiful features. The thought of this common, unwashed creature putting her dirty teat into the mouth of her divine son made Cersei's skin crawl. It was an insult. A disgrace. Her son was a lion, a god. He would not drink the milk of sheep.
"Get her out of my sight," Cersei spat, waving her hand dismissively.
The matron blinked, confused. "But... Your Grace, the child must feed—"
"I said, get that cow out of my chambers before I have her thrown from the window!" Cersei roared, her voice echoing off the stone walls.
The matron and the wet nurse practically tripped over themselves fleeing back through the side door.
Cersei let out a long, irritated breath, forcing herself to calm down for the sake of the child in her arms. With careful, surprisingly gentle movements, she loosened the ties of her own silken nightgown. She bared her breast, wincing slightly as the cool air hit her sweat-dampened skin, and guided the infant's face toward her.
He did not root blindly or cry in frustration. He simply turned his head, opened his small mouth, and began to feed. His latch was perfect, his rhythm slow, deep, and incredibly steady. Haaah... There was that breath again.
Deep, measured, drawing the air all the way down into his tiny stomach before exhaling. It was a breathing technique unlike anything human, yet it possessed a hypnotic, calming rhythm.
Outside the walls of Maegor's Holdfast, the heavy, resonant tolling of the great bells began to ring out across the capital. The Septons and Septas in the corridors, having received the news from the Kingsguard, erupted into cheers and joyful hymns. The word was spreading like wildfire through the Red Keep: a prince was born. The Baratheon dynasty was secure.
As Cersei nursed her son, Pycelle stepped forward one last time, his professional duty overriding his fear.
"Your Grace, if I may... a final check to ensure the prince's vitals are strong?" he asked meekly.
Cersei, slightly mollified by the sensation of her son feeding, gave a curt nod. Pycelle reached out with a trembling hand, pressing two fingers to the infant's tiny wrist, and then hovering his hand near the boy's chest. The Maester's eyes widened slightly.
The heartbeat was slow, much slower than a normal infant's, yet it pulsed with a profound, terrifying strength. His lungs expanded and contracted with the efficiency of a bellows forge. Aside from his strange appearance, the child was a paradigm of absolute, unnatural health.
"He is... perfectly healthy, Your Grace," Pycelle breathed, stepping back and bowing deeply. "If you require nothing further, I shall take my leave to draft the ravens for the lords of the realm."
"Go, Pycelle," Cersei murmured, not looking up from her child. "Tell them a dragon-slayer is born. Tell them whatever you wish, so long as it speaks of his strength."
The Grand Maester bowed himself out of the room, fleeing the stifling heat and the terrifying gaze of the marked prince.
Within minutes, the chamber was mostly empty. The remaining midwives moved like silent ghosts, scrubbing the bloody water from the stones, changing the ruined sheets at the foot of the bed, and stoking the hearth fire, utterly terrified of making a sound.
Maegor's Holdfast, the innermost fortress of the Red Keep, was now locked down in absolute security. The drawbridge was raised. The Kingsguard stood like white statues outside the door.
Cersei leaned back against the freshly plumped pillows, the sheer, crushing exhaustion of the labor finally catching up to her. Every muscle in her body ached. The adrenaline was fading, replaced by a heavy, pulling lethargy. Her eyelids fluttered, suddenly feeling as though they were made of lead.
But she refused to sleep.
She looked down at the boy. He was still feeding, his tiny hands resting calmly against her skin. The red tips of his black hair seemed to catch the firelight, glowing like embers in the dim room. The mark on his forehead pulsed softly with the rhythm of his strange, deep breathing.
My sun, she thought hazily, a fiercely possessive smile touching her lips. My beautiful, quiet monster.
She found herself blinking hard, fighting the encroaching darkness. She would not let the maids take him. She would not let him out of her sight. She stared at the slow, rhythmic rise and fall of his chest, forcing her heavy eyes to stay open until her precious son was fully fed.