The doors to the Small Council chamber burst open with a crack that echoed off the carved stone walls.

All conversation died instantly.

At the head of the long table, beneath the looming three-headed dragon of House Targaryen, sat Aegon —crown resting crooked in his pale hair, goblet half-full in his hand, irritation already brewing at the interruption.

Ser Otto’s voice had been mid-sentence. It stopped.

In the doorway stood Ophelia.

Your Ophelia.

Your most trusted handmaiden looked nothing like the composed woman who usually attended you. Her braid was half undone, cheeks flushed, chest heaving as if she’d run the length of the Red Keep without stopping.

“Your Grace—” she gasped, dropping into a hurried, clumsy curtsey that she did not fully complete. “Forgive me—Your Grace—”

Aegon’s brows drew together, annoyance flashing first. “You interrupt the Small Council for what, girl? Has the castle caught fire?”

Ophelia swallowed hard.

“No, Your Grace.” Her eyes flicked upward, desperate. “It is the Queen.”

Silence.

Aegon’s posture changed before anyone else could speak. The lazy slouch vanished. His goblet stilled mid-air.

“What of her?” His voice was sharp now.

“She has gone into labor.”

The words seemed to strike the room like a physical blow.

The councilors shifted. One cleared his throat. Another muttered something about maesters. But Aegon heard none of it.

“Since when?” he demanded, already pushing back his chair abruptly.

“Moments ago, Your Grace. The pains began suddenly. They are strong.”

For a heartbeat, Aegon did not move. His jaw tightened, pale fingers curling against the table’s edge. All the arrogance, the careless indulgence, the biting humor—gone. What remained was something raw and unguarded.

“Why was I not told the instant it began?” His tone was low, dangerous.

“You were in council, Your Grace—she told us not to disturb you unless—” Ophelia hesitated.

“Unless what?”

“Unless it worsened.”

His nostrils flared. Of course you would say that. Always protecting him from inconvenience—even now.

The King stood fully then, crown nearly slipping as he did. He didn’t bother adjusting it.

“Summon the Grand Maester. All of them if you must,” he barked to no one in particular. “If any man delays—”

“They are already with her,” Ophelia rushed to assure him. “The midwives as well.”

Aegon strode down the length of the chamber, boots striking hard against stone.

“Council is dismissed,” he snapped.

“But Your Grace—” Otto began.

“I said dismissed.”

No one argued further.

When Aegon reached Ophelia, he stopped only briefly. His eyes searched her face—not for information, but for fear.

And he found it.

“Is she afraid?” he asked quietly.

Ophelia hesitated—then answered honestly. “She asked for you.”

That was all it took.

Through corridors of red stone and torchlight, past startled guards who scrambled to kneel. His breath came sharp, almost ragged. In his mind flashed a thousand things he did not say aloud—things he would never let the council hear.

You laughing in the gardens.

You teasing him when he sulked.

Your hand in his, warm and certain.