23The one thing that Cersei couldn't make sense of was how she could love someone so deeply and yet hate them with every fiber of her being as well. These emotions fought within her as she gazed upon the weeks old babe sleeping restless in his crib. The moon was high, and the usually bustling streets of King's Landing were stilled in the dark, the windows carrying in a quiet breeze. Only candles and moonlight lit the room aglow, but there was light enough for her to see her child's face.
He looked so tiny, laying there- his sweat clinging his dark hair to his forehead, labored breaths filling his tiny lungs, every heartbeat stuttering, pulsing, struggling to stay alive. As per the maester's advice, she had him covered in silken clothing to avoid overheating from his fever.
Pycelle had told her that the babe wouldn't see the day through when he was born. But then, the first night passed, then the fourth, then the seventh. After that, Pycelle came day after day, saying that night would be his last- but the child carried on, living.
She'd hardly been sleeping, both hope and dread growing in her day after day. The countless times he'd woken up, demanding to be fed, or because of his pain in his fever had her on the verge of giving him up, but she never broke. Though, she refused to touch him any more than necessary, only for feedings and changes. The dark haired babe made his displeasure known for that decision. Every time he woke up crying for seemingly senseless reasons, she heavily considered the option of throwing him out the window and what repercussions would come of it.
Jamie came by, from time to time, sometimes as a guard, sometimes as her brother. He'd hold the baby more often than she did, and he had the sweetest smile on his face when he did so. She'd quickly take the child away from him, as seeing them together left a bitter taste in her mouth.
And all throughout, Pycelle had recommended a nursemaid and for her to let other people care for the young prince. Still, she vehemently refused to have anyone feed and care for him but her. Be it possessiveness or paranoia; she wasn't sure.
He was small when he was born, and awfully quiet. He had a few days where every breath he took was so minuscule, every noise so quiet, she had to pinch him to make sure he was alive. And throughout, she considered ending his life. Painlessly, of course. All she knew was that a part of her wanted him to live- what with her blood flowing in his veins. A part of her wanting him to die- so proof of her union with a cruel joke of a king like Robert would cease to exist. As if the gods heard her internal conflicts, he'd caught the fever, going on for a few days, now. They were testing her. She was sure of it.
Snapping away from her thoughts by the door opening, she turned her head to find Robert, hesitating in the doorway. All your battles. And you're still a coward. "Took you long enough to come and visit your son. Too occupied with your whores, I take?" She spoke sharply, drawing her robes tightly around her and facing back to her child.
A look of frustration or anger flashed across his face, as his body stiffened and clenched his fists, but surprisingly, he held his tongue. Perhaps Cersei had hit too close to home, or maybe he didn't want to raise a fuss with his dying child in the room. Robert hadn't been anywhere near her nor the babe since Pycelle's first diagnoses when their child was born. Yet now here he was, with a far too solemn a look adorning his face. He looked too much like Stannis with that expression. He must hate that. She mused humorlessly.
As he came in and pulled a chair over, they said naught a word to each other, and they gazed upon their child, who was in a fitful state, tossing and turning in his crib. Cersei looked on at Robert, whose tension melted slightly, as he softly caressed his son's dark tufts of hair atop his head. His expression was gentle beyond anything she's seen from the drunken bastard, and she nearly felt a semblance of something kind before the rest of her thoughts stormed through. Was this how you looked at your bastard you sired in the Vale? Was that the expression you had for that Stark bitch you fought a war for? And her heart ran cold once more.
They sat in silence by the crib, each with their minds too loud for them to start a conversation. The only sounds filling the room were the babe's rustling and the occasional footsteps of guards on their patrols. It was such a contrast with the night she labored to bring him into this world.
The birth of their first son was a hard and drawn-out one that lasted for hours in the dark of the night. Finally, as pale as paper and naught a breath, he came out into the world. Cersei was wailing, clutching, and screaming as the maids pried the stillborn away from her. Robert, despite his fury, held Cersei back, all the while cursing the gods for taking his son.
Jamie was there, kneeling by her side as he gave her words of comfort as calmly as he could while she sobbed in Robert's arms. Reassuring her with sweet nothings that everything will be alright.
It wasn't until Pycelle saw another head starting to crown that the room realized she had twins.
Their second son came out effortlessly, with naught more than a few pushes, and most of all, he was alive. He was born just as the sun peaked over the horizon. Unlike his brother who was the coloring of an ashen plum, his skin was bright red, with a desperate pair of lungs announcing his arrival.
Cersei and Robert both clutched at him tightly with desperation once Pycelle confirmed he was alive and even tighter when Pycelle shook his head with a fallen face. He was proof of their wedding night. The one where Robert was far too rough, calling out for a woman who wasn't his wife. The one where Cersei drank moon tea right after the act was done. They wondered if their acts would be the cause of death for both their children.
It wasn't until the babe started screaming bloody murder that they both were snapped out of their thoughts.
Jumping up, Cersei touched his forehead, brow furrowing. "This isn't normal. Robert, get Pycelle."
"GUARDS!" Robert bellowed, "GUARDS, FETCH THE FUCKING MAESTER!"
Hurried footsteps, promises of cutting off various appendages, and a good amount of swearing commenced before Pycelle stumbled in, eyes bleary from sleep. He checked over the babe, fussing over him as Cersei clenched the side of the crib so hard her nails were starting to crack.
"Help him, Pycelle, or by the gods-" Robert growled the hanging threat at him under his breath as he paced the floor with his eyes on his child.
"Your grace, he is burning up!" Pycelle interrupted. "This is why I should've insisted on someone to keep watch-"catching Cersei's glare, he shut himself up.
"Bring a pail of water, straight from the well," he called towards the guards, "goat's milk and someone with a fan to keep him cool!"
Directing his questions towards the two over the sounds of the screams, he asked, "How long has he been this temperature for?"
"It must've been fairly recent, I fed him an hour ago, and he wasn't this feverish." Cersei said, with Robert following right after, "I thought he felt a bit hot, but I didn't realize-,"
Then the screaming stopped- he was having a seizure. Eyes rolled to the back of his head, body shaking as if possessed, and all they could do was try to prevent him from suffocating.
"Seven hells, help him!" Robert roared.
Pycelle was holding the young prince in a way best to let him breathe. "There's nothing to do but to let his convulsions pass, your grace."
So all they did was watch, helplessly, as the child shook. Cersei's thoughts were swirling hidden behind a silent stone-faced facade as she sat silently to the side while Robert kept up his pacing and swearing. He never prayed. Not for anything. Not when his parents went out to sea, not when Lyanna was taken from him, never. Not to the mother, least of all. Yet there he was, "Gentle Mother, font of mercy," muttering under his breath. "Spare my child, save him so he may yet live to see another day."
But the gods weren't to listen, and within mere minutes, his chest fell still with a final shudder. The room fell silent. Robert collapsed in on himself into a chair, hunched over, Cersei sitting silently in hers, looking over her son.
All the noise in the world was silenced. She didn't even realize how loud it was- Pycelle with his ordering of servants, Robert with his curses and tearing eyes, the guards running around- until all was silenced, and she could hear was her ears ringing and her roaring heartbeat. Pycelle started wrapping him in linens in slow motion, and only then did Cersei's hand find its way to her face and realize it was wet.
Her sobs began in her gut and then ripped her apart inside out, her sense of time and the noises flooded back all at once. All thoughts of not touching him unless necessary flew out the window as the part of her that hated him died as he did. She started grasping at him, shaking him as if trying to wake him up. Please, please, I'm so sorry, please come back, please wake up, I want you back, I'll never let you go again, just come back, please, gods, bring him back.
She found herself speaking words that were an incoherent mess of apologies, promises, and curses. And Robert found it within him, once more, to hold her back. She struggled even more than she did before because that was her child. Hers. He'd lived. He was alive- until he wasn't. Because of you. A voice inside her sneering. The gods knew of your vanity. You couldn't love your child, all because his father loved someone else. Pride goeth before the fall.
Pycelle called in a septa, who then started some of her prayers and directed his attention to the parents. "What was his name, for the records?"
"His name..." Cersei mumbled numbly, eyes trained on her child. A laugh bubbled up in her chest and had her in hysterics. "Robert! Robert! We forgot to give him a name!" more tears appeared in her eyes, and her body shook.
Robert muttered, hands unsteady unlike his voice, trying to calm her down. "Cersei-"
"Yes, a name," Cersei said, cutting him off. She quieted for a second, thinking. Names flooded her mind, as they did when she first found out she was pregnant, but the name she decided on before, didnt seem quite fitting, and she found herself saying another one entirely. "Harrian. Yes, Harrian Baratheon."
And out of the hands of death, Harrian's cry pierced the air once more. The bells tolled for him for days after they named him, and he'd come back to life, hailing him a miracle sent by the gods- for he was the heir and hope of the seven kingdoms, usurper's child or not.
A/N: I'm still not 100% sure where this story is going to go, so feel free to leave suggestions. Any reviews are greatly appreciated!