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Tomb of the First Men

AN: It took all of an hour for me to realize that Tomb was going to sweep the vote on the update for the Fourth of July, my country’s Independence Day.  Naturally, that meant I spent the next hours furiously re-reading Acts I-VIII and reminding myself of where I left the story months ago before diving in head-first to Act IX.  It was a tough grind, and I’ve made myself sick of listening to certain songs while I blocked out the world and cranked this out but I hope you all enjoy what amounts to some squick plus a ridiculous amount of baby-fluff.

‘Til next time darlings!

~ Sif

Warning for this update: Descriptions of medical procedure, medical discussion of possible miscarriage and infant mortality.

Act IX: Heir of Fire, Heir of Ice

King’s Chambers, Pridefall, Westeros;

Third Day of the First Week of the First Moon of 299 AC

“It wasn’t me.”  Was Harry’s immediate self-defense against accusations that had yet to be levied against him…at least by anyone not the batshit crazy mother of the now unlamented late Joffrey Waters.

Jon merely arched a brow in his direction, as Lord Tywin’s raven notably hadn’t made any mention of Harry or the pair of Princesses who had actually attended the now-dubbed “Purple Wedding” but was merely informative of the death and coming funeral…though also notably made no mention of a coming coronation of Joffrey’s younger brother as the newest pretender to the Iron Throne in the missive either.

“No, I really didn’t do it this time.”  Harry explained with an uncaring shrug to his husbands and the ever-watchful Kingsguard.  Not that any of them would censure him even if he was guilty as sin of the deed.  But it was the principle of the thing.  He gave a light frown as he rubbed one hand over the boisterous kicking of one of his unborn sons.

At about twenty-two weeks, they were moving more and more filling him with joy.

As well as heartburn, sore kidneys, and an ever-present need to piss.

Ah the joyful occupation of pregnancy in all its glory.

Aegon was next or so help him Death he was going to neuter his husbands.

Then he asked: “Do you want me to find out who did?”

“No.”  Jon refused that offer at once, shaking his head and tossing the missive aside.  “Tywin isn’t fool enough to make the accusation or even entertain it from Cersei from the information that’s reached us from the capital,” which was quite a bit when you consider it was still “closed” or supposedly, awaiting siege by Jon’s army.

An army that had swollen to over a hundred thousand men and horses and even elephants after the force march from the Westerlands and his allies rallying via his wedding and coronation at a centralized point – Pridefall – all save those needed to garrison and hold the borders to prevent any movement from the combined Lannister/partial Tyrell army encamped around King’s Landing and the Crownlands.

Moreover, that number didn’t include another twelve thousand men and horses hidden in and among the Crownlands holdings that hadn’t overtly sworn to his cause but were awaiting orders to begin besieging the Lannister patrols of their home region bordering Blackwater Bay and the river the Blackwater Rush.

“And I’d rather you not get up to anymore mischief than can be accomplished from right here.”  He finished his thought with a knowing look at his littlest love out of silver-shot purple eyes.

“As if that limits him any.”  Robb snorted as Aegon laughed at the scowl their husband shot both the Lord of the North and their King.  “He is trouble in a tempting package, didn’t you know husband?”

…

Tower of the Hand, Red Keep, King’s Landing

Cersei burst through the doors to her father’s study, all but breathing fire as she took in his seated form.

A father who, for his part, didn’t even bother to glance up from reviewing the reports he’d been given by the Gold Cloaks as well as the Lannister troops in and around the city.

Tossing the crumpled note in her hand onto the desk before him, she plopped into one of the chairs in a huff, anger in no way abated by her father’s calm demeanor.

“Daughter.”  Tywin’s voice was as dry as the Red Waste.

“Father.”  She sneered at his balding head.  “You summoned me?”

“Yes.”  Tywin agreed, not dignifying her snit with attention.  “You are to stop any and all plans for Tommen’s coronation.”

“What!?”  She shrieked, jumping back to her feet and slamming her hands onto the desk before him.  “And what, then, was all that over my son’s cold body?”  She rasped.  “Questioning Tommen and maneuvering him into seeking and abiding by your council?  What was the point of dishonoring Joffrey if Tommen isn’t to be crowned?”

“We do not know who killed Joffrey.”  Tywin reminded her.  “Regrettable, but there it is.  Tommen, while a weak child, could be a better king than all three before him with the proper guidance.  However, because we don’t know who killed Joffrey, crowning Tommen could be premature and end with a second dead king and no one to replace him on the Throne.”

“Myrcella…”

“Is a flighty little girl.”  Tywin arched a brow.  “A Regency was only advisable when Robert died because, at that time, war had already broken out and his claim had yet to be challenged.”  Tywin sat back, eyeing his daughter as she sat back down.  “Jaime is still missing with the Targaryen boy’s other captives.  Tyrion,” he sneered the name.  “Has abandoned us.  Our House has never been in more danger than it is in these moments following Joffrey’s death and your inability to control your elder son has put us in no position to crown your younger until at least some of the unrest in Westeros has been controlled.”

“Jaime, Tyrion.”  Cersei gave a bitter twist of her mouth.  “Has it ever once occurred to you that I might be the one that deserves your confidence and your trust?”  She asked.  “Not your sons.  Me.  Years and years of lectures on family and legacy.”  She gave a little huff of a laugh.  “The same lecture, really, just with tiny, tedious variations.  Did it ever occur to you that your daughter might be the only one listening to them, living by them?  That she might be the one to have the most to contribute to your legacy?”

Tywin sat back, watching her out of coldly amused eyes, folding his hands on the desk before him.

“Alright.”  He acknowledged her words.  “You want to contribute?”  He thumped his hands against the piles of paperwork before him then appraised her of the most concerning aspects of their current situation as his former words seemed to have flown right over her golden head.  “Contribute.  Sansa Stark is pregnant.”

“What?”  Cersei sat back, shocked, though she couldn’t quite say why.

Perhaps, it was that before her appearance at her son’s wedding Cersei had always seen her as quite the cold Tully fish despite her now renowned beauty.

“You heard me.”  Tywin continued to eye her in amusement.  “Sansa Stark is pregnant, it seems young Jon announced it himself a week after his wedding though word took time to trickle into King’s Landing.  She carries the heir to Dorne inside her.  Lord Harry is due in a few months with the heirs of a King and the Warden of the North.  Together, their alliance controls all but the Crownlands and perhaps half of the Reach.  Moreover,” he held in a sigh.  “Mace Tyrell has been stripped of his lordship of Highgarden and as Warden of the Reach by Jon Targaryen and many of the remaining Reach heirs and lords have turned to the dragon banner.  We’re losing, Cersei.  Putting a crown on your remaining son’s head would be the same as putting his neck on the headsman’s block.”

And if Tywin had it his way at least something of his family and great heritage would survive this gods-damned war that his daughter and Catelyn Tully began.

Tywin Lannister was many things: proud, shrewd, cunning…but he wasn’t stupid.

Save for an act of the gods, there wasn’t much chance that Jon Targaryen wouldn’t win this war.

He continued.

“They have taken Harrenhal as their base and capital.”  He might scoff at renaming it but it was a shrewd decision nonetheless.  “Harrenhal was built to be unassailable by land.  I could march a million men to those walls and be repelled.”

“Harrenhal fell before.”

“Yes, it did.”  He agreed.  “To dragonfire.  Something that is in quite short supply in King’s Landing and in great supply in the army of Jon Targaryen.”

“An assassin?”

“The House of Black and White has refused the contract and no other guild has the skills necessary to infiltrate the Targaryen court with Harry Potter-Black alive and well.”  He rebutted.

“What of Myrcella’s betrothal that Tyrion brokered?”  Cersei heard herself grasping at straws and couldn’t stand it but there was little else to do.  “Is she even still alive?”

“The Dornish don’t kill little girls as Prince Oberyn was sure to remind me at the Targaryen wedding.”  Tywin rolled his eyes.  The Dornish and their grudges.  As if they would have done anything else in his position.  “However, it seems that not only is Sansa Stark pregnant, she is now the Regent of Dorne alongside Prince Oberyn.”

“How is that possible?”  Cersei frowned.   “Doran Martell might be a cripple but his health otherwise hasn’t been in question.”

“How indeed?”  Tywin snorted lightly.  “Varys reported privately that the pact between Lannister and Martell was uncovered turns ago by Jon Targaryen’s Hand of the King, his Lord Harry.”

“Sansa’s wedding.”  Cersei closed her eyes as the plot became clear to her.  “Once she was with child they had no more need of Doran.”

“Nor of Quentin or Arianne.”  Tywin nodded.  “The first apparently did himself in like the foolish boy he was known to be.  A duel in Braavos.”

“We knew someone had to have represented the dragon’s cause with the Iron Bank.”  Cersei mused, shaking her head at how handily they’d been outmaneuvered.  “Two birds with one arrow.  And the girl?”

“Committed suicide by all reports.”  Tywin twitched a mocking eyebrow.  “Threw herself off of the highest tower in Sunspear and then healthy Prince Doran had an apoplexy in grief.  All neat, all tidy, and with Princess Sansa away at Harrenhal with her family and Prince Oberyn to remain completely blameless in the matter.”

“What of the alliance with the Tyrells?”

“Floundering.”  Tywin reported, nodding in agreement as Cersei rose to pour herself and him a goblet of wine.

“Well,” Cersei toasted her father.  “What is it they say in Essos?  All men must die?”

“Valar morghoulis.”

…

Pridefall

“Doran, now that was you.”  Aegon murmured in Harry’s ear that night as they laid in the bed furs, Jon and Robb already nodding off.  “The son and daughter too if I know anything about you, little love.”

“Come to know me that well already, have you love?”  One corner of Harry’s lips kicked up in a little rueful smile.

Jon knew, of course he did, as did Robb but the rule that they’d established when Harry took on the issue of Dorne had remained: plausible deniability.

Neither of his other loves, his other husbands, could afford that knowledge.

They held their honor too dear.

Aegon however…Aegon was a different breed than the other pair.

Harry had been right all those turns ago when he contemplated what the silver-haired scion of House Blackfyre’s use might be to both him and his Targaryen lover.  He brought a balance to their triad.  A bit of ruthless enjoyment of his own – and Harry’s – viciousness that their Stark-blooded wolves couldn’t revel in for all that they might like to do.

Aegon could openly see Harry’s hand in seemingly random acts of chaotic reprisal – more he could appreciate and enjoy them.

That two of the only others in the realm that did the same were likely Tywin Lannister and Olenna Tyrell well…both of them had lived to an advanced age, more than could be said for the last two generations of Starks.

Honor had its place, that was true.

But at its heart, it was also an ideal which was why it shown its best in songs and not in real life.

Harry sacrificed his own every day for the good of both the realm and their shared husbands.

It was the least Aegon could do to acknowledge that and not leave him in the cold with his duty as Hand of the King.

Gods forbid either of them ever turn as cynical as Tywin or Olenna, then Aegon might have a problem with Harry’s scheming.

“I like to think so.”  Aegon answered.  “But you’re not the sort of being that’s easily known, not like our simple Northern Lord or bold Targaryen dragon.”

Harry huffed a little laugh at that and shifted, finding a more comfortable spot wrapped around Aegon, nudging one of his legs between the Prince of Bloodstone’s own.

“Quentin’s stupidity killed him.”  Harry finally said, long enough after Aegon’s words that he thought the ebon-haired wizard had fallen asleep.  “The others played their hands and lost.”

And in the game of thrones you won or you died.

Harry took heart in that at least it wasn’t his loves that kicked off the newest round, for all that they’d been quick enough to jump from the frying pan into the fire once Cersei and Catelyn overplayed their hands.

“True enough.”  Aegon gave him a comforting squeeze, knowing as they all did that while Harry had the ability to do things the rest of them didn’t, that did not mean in turn that he was cold to them either.  “When does Sansa return to Dorne?”

“In a few days.”  Harry shrugged.  “Nymeria’s due to whelp soon, Oberyn has a handle on Regency in Sunspear but a visibly pregnant Sansa will calm some of the rumbles regarding House Martell’s line of succession.”

“Mmm.”  Aegon hummed an agreement, the two finally drifting off to sleep with the quartet’s pairs of dragons and wolves already ensconced in front of the fire, filling the King’s bedchamber of Pridefall with soft huffs and low rumbles.

And life carried on, even as a massive army shifted and churned and stayed encamped in the plains and fields waiting and seething with the restless energy of thousands of men and horses and camp followers all for the same thing: the birth of the Heirs and the final press of the southron war.

…

The last weeks of Harry’s pregnancy were filled with enough tension to choke a horse let alone drive Harry’s nerves right up the wall.

Twins on a first pregnancy, especially one male-carried, was less than ideal.

His body wasn’t accustomed to carrying children, wasn’t used to the pains and fluctuations, let alone the unique stressors of being in the middle of a ruddy war.

Looking back on it, it was surprising he made it as long as he did, even if his impatient boys had him stopping mid-planning-session with the main generals and lords and knights of the Kingsguard all discussing the strange lack of Prince Tommen’s coronation in King’s Landing as well as the siege that was to begin once Jon and Robb were freed from their infernal hovering over their pregnant husband.

A male bearer knew in a different manner than a female when it was time for him to birth.

Females could naturally birth, experienced labor and all the difficulties of it.

Males had to have their children surgically removed, a caesarian as his old world called it, and thus had evolved a different mechanism to know when it was time lest their unborn children be distressed and die in their sac.

It was as simple – and painful – was a sudden burning pain tearing through their lower abdomen in a band from one hip to the other, heralding the beginning of the sac beginning to tear itself from its mooring inside the bearer’s body as unlike a female, a male’s sac is both womb and placenta and is removed at the time of birth, the body re-growing another surrounding a babe if the male falls pregnant again.  A process begun and completed entirely by magic – at least on the part of the bearing male – and requiring magic to sustain itself as the child, or in the case of multiples, children grow.  Male pregnancy isn’t a biological function at all in the beginning, though it serves a biological purpose, and indeed if a magical male truly desired to do so they could use it to produce a child without the donation of a second sample as it were.

All it took, after all, was magic, the right hormonal balance, and the genetic predisposition towards carrying.

So, when Harry felt a sharp burning from hip to hip five weeks after the debacle of the Purple Wedding, he knew it was time for his children to come into the world – the impatient little monsters – at a week shy of seven turns.

Early.

Almost too early, only twenty-seven weeks, five weeks early for a male-carried pregnancy, and with twins at that they were sure to be small even as Harry’s stomach had long ago distended to the point that he couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen his own feet let alone his cock.

Still, better early than not at all, even if he had to deliver them himself, being the only active-magic-user with the skills necessary to do the deed…something which he would never let his husband, any of them, live down.

…

He was in council with his husbands when it happened: the sharp pain he’d read of but never before felt for himself.

Though, it had to be said, once he felt it there was no doubt at all over what it could be as if some primal part of his brain kicked on even as he near-to bent in double from the strength of the pain worse than any wound he’d taken before in battle but nowhere nearing that of the Cruciatus curse.

Harry would be the first to admit – his perception of pain was more than a little fucked when the single intense burst of pain that came over a male bearer wasn’t the worst pain he’d ever felt in his life like the Healing books from his old world claimed it to be, including more than one written by a male bearer themselves instead of merely an academic’s perspective on what they endured.

Childbed, it was said in his new world, was the battle that women and male bearers were chosen to face and they were just as likely to die of it as a warrior was a battle-wound, one of many reasons that his first husband’s lords and men had been less-than-thrilled over his running instance on standing his ground on the battlefields between the Golden Tooth and Pridefall.

Another point for the dragons and direwolves: Drogon, Rhaegal, Ghost, and Grey Wind all knew before their humans of what ailed their human’s mate when he bent double and hissed out a long breath between his teeth with his eyes clenched shut behind golden-ivory lids.

Ghost moved first even as the lords and men stopped mid-discussion to stare first in puzzlement then in dawning realization at the hunched-over form of Lord Harry, the massive white direwolf that came to most men’s chest on his four paws and taller than even the Greatjon or Lord Robb on his hind legs coming to stand between Harry’s legs and nudge at his face with his nose, prompting him to wrap his arms around the white-furred neck and shoulders as he breathed through the pain with puffing hisses of breath, hands digging in and grabbing hold of that same white-fur over strong shoulders as a tense face was buried in the same, red eyes staring with placid knowing at his person who for his part, snapped out of his stunned daze quickly, calling for the healers to be found and sent to the King’s chambers along with his aunt Daenerys.

Cacophony spread like wildfire through the council chambers as the men scattered, all the lords and knights disappearing like smoke in the wind at the sight of an obviously-travailing Lord Harry as the Kingsguard closed ranks: nevermore would Lord Harry require their protection than in this moment for as he worked to bring the Heirs into the world he wasn’t the dangerous and powerful Lord and wizard and Warrior of Old that men feared and songs were being sung of but a vulnerable target for an opportunistic assassin.

That King-Consort Lord Harry had entered his travail would be all over Westeros before dusk and likely to reach Essos and beyond by the new-day’s dawn with as quickly as the high lords and generals disappeared…but that was a thing to laugh over another day.

For the moment all that mattered to the royal four was the slim-but-fecund form whose breaths were slowly losing their panting-hissing cadence as he breathed through the pain with the support of his husbands who to a one had formed a circle behind him – his front taken up by an implacable direwolf – each rubbing his shoulders as he stood guard at his back (Robb), enfolding a clenched fist his in soothing hand where it held tight to white fur as he knelt at his side with a soothing-singing hum (Aegon), or ran his hands in small, tension-relieving circles over his pain-tight stomach from behind (Jon), each falling into place as if they’d planned and practiced for it – though with the birth being many weeks early they’d done no such thing at all.

Like many things in their ever-evolving marriage and the courtships before it, it simply was as they let instinct and magic guide them, each of the men having found as they practiced more and more with Harry that while magic could nudge and prod them, it rarely steered them wrong if at times not necessarily right as it ever sought to serve its user’s best-good and not that of, say, the realm as a whole.

Thankfully, in moments such as this, those two things were one in the same and none of the three less-learned magic users had any cause to doubt the course their magic-fueled instincts nudged them onto.

The tearing pain was both signal and warning: the sac had detached from Harry physically and magically, now sustaining itself – and the child or children within – on their magics alone.

If a male bearer wasn’t cut open and the sac removed, the children born, in time they would suffocate and die.

A terrible thing, horrific in that it was well-known enough what happened if a male bearer didn’t receive intervention in a timely manner after the pain for it to be written about as magical/medical fact.

“Pick him up, your Grace.”  Ser Arthur Dayne commanded any of the Kings really.  Lord Harry was the only one who could easily birth his children, yes.  But that didn’t mean that they needed to waste time as he dealt with the severing as it was known to the maesters.  He couldn’t bring forth his babes until the pain abated, that was true.  That didn’t mean they needed to sit and wait when they could be bringing him to the King’s Chambers where his potions and salves and preparations were laid in and waiting for the birth.

They may not be as ready as they could be for a birth so early but Lord Harry wasn’t one to play the long odds…at least when it came to his children.

He’d set out what would be needed and drilled the healers, the Kingsguard, and his husbands alike on what was needed when, what could be used for different contingencies, and so on.

Twins plus a first birthing, oh yes, they’d expected him to travail early…just not this early hence why Maester Aemon was in the Maester’s tower of Pridefall and not at Lord Harry’s side, Lady Talisa was ministering to the sick and wounded in Weirton, Princess Daenerys was practicing and training with Viserion, and Sarella Sand was off somewhere with her sisters.

Archmaester Marwyn, it should be noted, had gone to Castle Black as a temporary replacement for the new Grand Maester until the Kings could finish their weeding out of the grey sheep for a true replacement for the eldest Targaryen alive, leaving his former novice “Alleras” behind to train for a time under Aemon instead, the two: Sarella Sand and Aemon Targaryen, taking to each other as Aemon was a font of differing but still interesting knowledge to one of the middle daughters of Prince Oberyn Martell.

Robb jumped into action at the prompt from Ser Arthur, leaning forward and snapping the smaller man – save for his stomach that looked like he’d swallowed a shield or two – right out from the care of his other husbands and Ghost, following without needing any further nudging as the Kingsguard surrounded the group of Kings, direwolves, and dragons to the King’s Chambers of Pridefall, each and every Kingsguard present with one hand on their sword hilts as they rushed through the massive halls of the ancient renewed fortress, dragons flying ahead and direwolves guarding their flank, all on guard and ready to take a hand – or a head – from any idiot suicidal enough to get in their way.

…

They were coming to the corridor of the King’s Chambers when the severing eased, finally allowing Harry to think beyond the pain and snap into action, orders flying even as Dany, Sarella, and Talisa met them in the hall, Aemon waiting in a chair at the side of the cot that had been conjured by Harry in a steel that was easily rubbed down and cleaned with the alcohol he’d pilfered from his vault below the Hall of Ancient Heroes.

Preservation charms cast by goblins were a thing of beauty and while he was certain the Northerners would enjoy a dram or five of the vodka that had been stashed there for medicinal purposes, it did a lot more as an antiseptic in this age than as a way to get completely sloshed.

Westeros had enough alcohol, they didn’t need a dash of Russian insanity added to the mix.

Talisa and Sarella had made the cot with several layers of thick wool for padding, topped with crisp clean sheets he’d stored himself in the cupboard that held all of the birthing supplies in case of an emergency: potions, salves, even clean needles and silk thread…just in case.

He thought he should be able to get through what needed to be done…but as always in an era of interesting medical practices better to be safe than sorry.

“Set me down on the cot.”  Harry ordered Robb, then gave a soft look to each of his visibly worried and/or frantic lovers.  “Then please, for the love of magic, shoo.”

“He’s right, your graces.”  Aemon told them in his soft age-riddled voice.  “I’m afraid you will only be a distraction.”

“I’ll stay.”  Ser Arthur assured them, Prince Lewyn nodding his agreement as well.

“We’ll be here and won’t bother the little lord too much with fainting.”  Lewyn smirked at the pale-faced Sers Oswell and Torrhen.  “The birthing chamber is no place for weak stomachs.”  Especially for a male-birthed babe.

Jon nodded, then leaned down and pressed a lingering kiss to Harry’s brow, followed by Robb and then Aegon, their dragons following after them even as Ghost and Grey Wind refused to be budged, one taking up vigil at the door to the King’s Solar and the other to the bathing chamber, ensuring that no one could come unhindered into the bedchamber as Ser Arthur and Prince Lewyn echoed their movement, getting out of the way but still guarding their charge at his most vulnerable moments.

Harry smoothed one hand over his burgeoning belly one last time, blowing out a breath as he laid propped against the semi-reclined cot that would allow him enough line-of-sight to do what needed to be done without him having to be fully laid out as he would have had to be if a maester or midwife was delivering his babes but not up and walking or squatting or in any other position as a travailing female might be.  It was time, he nodded to himself as his magic coursed through his stomach and confirmed the matter with a questing tendril as he anchored himself to the earth, allowing the ancient powers of Westeros to sustain him.  They were ready – and for the moment – quiet.

“Dany, prepare the baths and swaddlings.”  He handed out orders with a quiet calm of command, not letting any of his inner trembling – trembling and fears that he’d shoved firmly into the back of his mind to be quashed later – show in either his voice or face.  “We’ll need hot water – boil it first to remove impurities then allow it to cool, it should be just warm on your elbow.”  He reminded her, the silver-haired princess nodding, the lines of worried stress – Daenerys had lost her own child, a pain and sorrow she would never wish on another – easing with something to do.  “Talisa, the basin.”  Harry nodded to the shining steel receptacle that the healer moved and wiped down with another rag soaked in the nose-biting concoction Harry had ordered them to use on the cot.  “You will need to free my sons from their sac and cut their life-cords with help from Dany – remember to let the blood stop flowing beforehand.”  He cautioned.  “It might take a few minutes but will be better for them than doing so at once.  Sarella.”  He looked over at the calm beauty with her black Summer Islander skin and black eyes from her father Oberyn.  “Once I close the incision you know what to do.”

Sarella nodded, tilting her head towards the salves and potions and bandages already laying out on another clean steel tray awaiting use that she had gathered as Harry had given them their orders.

“Maester Aemon?”  Harry asked, voice cracking just a bit even as Sarella passed him a deadening potion that would block all sensation below his ribs then passed back the empty glass phial.

“Yes, young one.”

“Pray.”

Nodding, knowing that as a blind maester there wasn’t much more he could do other than direct the others if need-be, Aemon Targaryen did just that, exhorting all the gods he knew the names of – and some he didn’t – to watch over and guide the hands of the Warrior of Old, who had grown to love and cherish his great-great-grandnephew to a degree Aemon hadn’t seen since his fool of a brother Dunk had forsaken the crown for the love of Jenny of Oldstones.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, Harry sent up a prayer of his own as he took up his wand, casting a medical-grade cleaning spell over his stomach as he’d been handily stripped and set into a pair of clean plain linen drawstring pants that barely covered his modesty and left his chest and stomach bared to his wand, then rested the tip at the apex of one hip bone.

Drawing it clean, using no incantation but will, the skin and muscle and fat open as easily as unfastening a zipper, showing his insides in all their gleaming red glory – a sight not for the faint of heart or stomach, even for Harry.

Another breath as he blinked at the sight as his wand came to a stop at his opposite hip, raising it he gave a flick and the folds of skin, fat, muscle, and tissue parted showing the sac that held his children in its entirety.  A third spell ensured that the sac had been severed clean, leaving nothing behind to infect him, even as he felt no pain from the deadening potion he’d taken.  Singing and swirling his wand over the gaping incision, he blocked the reality of staring down into his own viscera as Talisa followed his instructions to the letter, a clean scalpel he’d transfigured from a Valyrian steel ingot steady in her hands as she sliced through the tissue and tough muscle of the magical womb.

“Vulnera Sanentur,” he spell-sang, half-hypnotizing the handful of people in the chambers even as they watched Talisa with bated breaths as she worked to free the newborns from their sac.  “Vulnera sanentur, vulnera sanentur.”  Eventually his body gave way to the spell, his stomach closing as if it had never been opened in the first place, Harry casting another cleaning spell for good measure before slumping back against the bolsters of the cot, keeping one tired eye on Talisa and another on Sarella as she slathered the faint pink line left behind with the healing salve he’d parted with from his potions stores and forced a blood-replenisher on him, the pain-relieving potion able to wait until the blocking potion had worn off.  Sarella handed over a goblet of sweet Arbor gold to wash down the aftertaste of the potions, though she had to help him clasp it as the post-birth fatigue crashed over him.

Never let it be said that cutting yourself open then using one of the most powerful healing spells created were for the magically weak or the faint of heart.

Truly…it was only his ability to compartmentalize and the reality of having to complete his task to save his children that had kept him from screaming in instinctive horror at the sight of his own insides.

Even strong-stomached Arthur and Lewyn were looking a little green, let alone Daenerys who had never seen of such a thing before.

Talisa worked with quick but sure hands that had been trained and practiced in both healing tents and battlefields alike, parting the tough muscle of the sac Harry had fully severed and lifted free of his body with his magic, one of the cleanest birthings she’d ever seen even if it was only half the job.  Setting the razor-sharp little knife Lord Harry had fashioned for this exact purpose onto a clean cloth until it was needed again to cut the birthing cords of the babes, she removed the muscle from around the babes finding that they were separated by a thin membrane in between them: twins but not identical as she could already see even covered in the sac-fluids that they had different colored hair.  As the cooler air of the room brushed against them, no longer held safe and secure in their bearer’s body, the twins began to flail, Talia lifting first one free of the sac remnant and then the other, nimble fingers clearing tiny rosebud mouths as they coughed and took their first breaths – and gave their first rollicking cries of anger at being taken from the soft-warm-home of their bearer’s self.

All in the room let out a little breath of relief at the dueling cries, tears coming to more than one eye as Dany and Talisa worked to clean them as the sac continued to pump blood into the two small forms.

“Well done, your grace.”  Maester Aemon comforted the young wizard, one creaky hand coming to entwine with one callused from sword and quill alike – and if that callused hand shook that was for no one but them to know.  “Well done.”

Just shy of two hours had passed since Harry had hunched over in the war room, but to the emerald eyed wizarding crying slow and steady tears of joy as his children cried their disapproval over their birthing, it might as well have been a lifetime.

…

“Cheer up, your graces.”  Ser Oswell chivvied the pacing and panicking trio that waiting in the King’s solar for word – any word – from the deathly-silent bedchamber.

Most of the time they all appreciated the silencing charms Harry had laced into the very walls of their personal rooms, but it would have done them good to hear anything – even their little love cursing them from one end of Westeros to the seven hells as they’d heard-tell of mothers doing in the birthing chambers – at all besides this wretched silence.

“At least you’ve chosen a male bearer.”  The Whent knight continued.  “Their births are fast – none of the day or more tales you hear of women travailing.”

“Just with a lower survival rate.”  Ser Mark muttered, earning himself a head-slap from Ser Barristan and a killing-glare from the anxious fathers plus Aegon.

Not that his words weren’t truth but still…tact.

Nymeria’s – and the she-wolves of the pack – whelping the week before had been another night of pacing, almost a prelude to Harry’s travail, though at least then the kings were allowed to be in the kennels and not shunted off into a side-chamber to worry and pace with their close friends and knights of the Kingsguard with Sansa returning to Dorne, leaving only Arya as a relative in the castle, she who was far too occupied with the pups to likely even notice that her good-brother was giving birth unless some enterprising servant went down to fetch her…though even then she’d have to bathe before joining them in the wait.

Not even Harry, as understanding as he could be about her preferences in dress and occupation, would let a girl who’d been rolling around in the kennels into his bed chamber, much less hold his children just after giving birth.

The girl in question had barely arrived – panting and freshly scrubbed with a hastily-donned set of clean breeches and tunic but clean nonetheless – an hour or so after Harry’s been taken into the bed chamber when Arthur ducked his head out of the room and gave his pacing King and his husbands a blinding-white grin and nodded his head towards the door, wordlessly summoning them even as a few maids bustled in and out of the chamber with bundles of rags, bed-clothes, and other accoutrements that needed seeing to before worrying husbands caught sight of blood or other things that would scar them for life or scare them out of their wits for the health of their husband and sons.

As the trio entered, Arya held back with a shake of Arthur’s head, this first time for the parents before others are brought it, Sarella and Talisa bobbed correct curtsies and took their leave, Daenerys and Aemon staying to bear witness to the traditional presentation as well as assist the new parents – as much as they’d let them – with only Prince Lewyn trading off with one of his sworn brothers, Ser Barristan, intent on giving the orders for the bells to ring in rejoicing for the birth of the heirs…right before getting falling-down drunk after having seen all he had in the birthing chamber.

Though at least he’d kept his feet.

That was more than most of the other Kingsguard would have been able to claim had they been there in his stead.

…

Bells rang out and ravens flocked into the sky all proclaiming the news: an heir to Jon Targaryen, the first of his Name had been born alive and healthy at Pridefall.

…

“My loves.”  Harry looked up, a bit pale from blood loss and strain but still awake and still healthy with small little bundles, each no bigger than the orange-fleshed musk melons that Harry had taken to eating by the pound in his last trimester, tucked in each of his arms with Maester Aemon seated at his side and smiling with his eyes closed as his lips seemed to move in prayer, Dany standing off his shoulder where he was tucked up in their bed and not in the now-tucked-away cot tears in her eyes as she beamed at her nephew and King.

Looking down with a soft smile at the slightly smaller baby – he’d have to do some spells for diagnostics but he guessed he was about half a pound or so smaller than his brother – with ink-black hair and skin the same Northern-snow-white of his Targaryen husband, Harry gave the traditional words:

“My King.”  He spoke, tears and love and joy fighting with each other for prominence around his bone-deep exhaustion.  He just had to get through this and then he could sleep, with the potions in this system having to wait for a feeding from his sore-and-growing breast tissue.  They wouldn’t be large, male breast tissue rarely grew much unless the man was obese or there was a medical factor, less than a handful even for Aegon but more than enough – he hoped – to feed his children as least for some weeks without intervention.  Nonetheless, for the moment they’d have to make due with goat’s milk and glass bottles, the wet-nurse he’d interviewed and vetted not yet in residence with her month-old babe, though he was sure she was soon to be sent for if it hadn’t been done so already.  “I have borne a son and I name him as yours.  Do you claim him?”  Lifting up the black-haired babe in his left arm for prompting, though after taking a close look at the two babes – now that they’re washed and their hair is no longer matted to their head – it was clear to see which was which…if one didn’t know that Harry’s own mother had blood-red hair.

“I claim him.”  Jon whispered, barely able to get the words out around his own tears of joy and relief over the seemingly-healthy trio that laid in the bed, going to his knees beside his love and taking up his son in his arms, knowing well how to hold a babe from memories of Bran and Rickon.  “He will be Aerion, son of House Targaryen, heir of Pridefall and future King of Westeros.”  He gave the name that he and Harry had settled on between them, all four of the married men having made an agreement as the time of Harry’s travail grew nearer that names would be something settled in private between the birth-parents.

“A good name.”  Aemon noted, smiling.  “That of the father of Aegon the Conqueror.”

“My lord.”  Harry looked up at Robb, holding out the larger twin with his red curls and golden skin.  “I have borne a son and I name him as yours.  Do you claim him?”

With a smile fit to take over his face and beaming blue eyes, Robb lifted his newborn son with the same skill as his elder husband, settling the little red-wolf into the curve of his arm, wondering over how something so small could make him feel so much.

“I claim him.”  Robb said, unable to stop grinning to save his life.  “He will be Dain, son of House Stark, heir of Winterfell and future Warden of the North.”

“They’re beautiful, Harry.”  Aegon settled into the bed atop the covers after Jon and Robb had finished gushing and thanking him for their sons, Harry giving in easily to the hoping-eyes of his husbands as they called for the rest of the Kingsguard and Arya to come and meet the boys, the two young Heirs of Westeros and the North giving them no mind as Talisa returned and set the new-fathers to helping them with their first feed as Harry could barely keep his head up.

“I know.”  Harry gave a soft smile and rested his head against Aegon’s shoulder as he watched his boys – his boys – be fussed and gushed over, even Arya deigning to crack a beaming grin and give a little cheek a kiss as Robb finished Dain’s feed and set up his sister to holding her new – and first – nephew as the twins nodded off to sleep before Aemon took charge of things and shuffled everyone out but the husbands and children so that Harry and the babes could sleep.  “They’re everything I always knew I wanted.”

…

To All the Lords and Citizens of Westeros

King Jon of House Targaryen, the first of his Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, King of Westeros and Lord Protector of the Realm, Announces this the Third Day of the Third Moon of the year Two Hundred and Ninety-Nine after Aegon’s Conquering the birth of Our son and Heir.

Born to Our husband and First Consort, Lord Harry Potter-Black, Hand of the King, Lord of Winter and the Iron Islands, Lord of the Seastone Chair, Lord Reaper of Pyke, known as the Warrior-Who-Waits and the Warrior of Old.

Named before All the Gods Old and New as Prince Aerion of House Targaryen, third of His Name, Prince of Pridefall and Heir of Westeros.

Black of hair and purple of eye, the Heir of Westeros is healthy and strong, long may he live.

To All the Lords and Citizens of Westeros

King-Consort Robb of House Stark, the first of his Name, Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North, Master of the Targaryen Armies, the Young Wolf, Announces this the Third Day of the Third Moon of the year Two Hundred and Ninety-Nine after Aegon’s Conquering the birth of his son and Heir.

Born to his husband, Lord Harry Potter-Black, Hand of the King, Lord of Winter and the Iron Islands, Lord of the Seastone Chair, Lord Reaper of Pyke, known as the Warrior-Who-Waits and the Warrior of Old.

Named before All the Gods Old and New as Lord Dain of House Stark, the first of His Name, Heir of Winterfell and future Warden of the North.

Red of hair and green of eye, the Heir of the North is healthy and strong, long may he live.

…

In a castle not too far from Pridefall as the crow flies, a shriek was heard along with the shattering of many and various vases and glass windows from Maegor’s Holdfast even as in the Tower of the Hand an old lion sat and stared out over the Blackwater Rush, the announcement of the royal birth crushed in one tough old hand.

…

“Your diagnostic can do that?”  Jon blinked a bit as the results came back from Harry’s health-check of their sons, telling not only of their health – though according to his love they’d all have to take extra care to keep them warm and away from masses of people for the next turn or so due to their early birth – but of their future eye color once the milky-blue common to babes fades.

“You’d be surprised the things that can show up on a truly in-depth diagnostic.”  Harry told his loves honestly as he sat in bed and presided in state over their children, though it would be another day before his sore breast tissue could have any relief, relying on a spell to drain the built-up milk into a vessel for collection rather than any other form of intervention that might have it drying up.  “But in this case: yes.  Our sons are going to have Targaryen-purple and Evans-green eyes.”

“Your mother?”  Robb asked, as he watched enraptured as little Dain gave a great yawn, showing no signs of the breathing problems that Harry tasked everyone who would be around the babes to watch for along with troubles keeping warm or unnatural yellowing of their skin or the white of their eyes.

Harry rarely spoke of his life before, believing it easier to simply delve into the now rather than reveling in the was.

Still, they had spoken a time or two of his life, and once his pregnancy was confirmed what his parents had looked like and the little he knew of them and their families.

“Redder hair than you claim my love.”  Harry quirked a grin at his Northern lord.  “And my eyes.  Though I carry the line for blond hair plus various shades of brown and black, and eyes of hazel, brown, grey, silver, or blue.”  He smirked at bit at his husbands even as he pressed kisses to the brows of his babies Robb and Jon respectively settling them in their cradles on Harry’s side of their massive bed.  “Lots of diversity not like you Westerosi boast.”

“Still, it’s good politics to send out the notices as soon as possible.”  Aegon sighed as he untangled his finger from the strong grasp of little Aerion.  Who, it had to be noted, was named after not just the father of Aegon the Conqueror but one of Aegon’s own direct ancestors: Aerion Brightflame also known as Aerion the Monstrous.  They would simply have to ensure that the little one took after Jon’s Aerion and not Aegon’s, though with Harry’s influence he didn’t doubt it would prove much of a challenge.

Gods knew, Harry didn’t put up with any shit from his husbands, one of whom was his king, he wasn’t likely to allow his children to turn out to be cautionary tales towards the Targaryen Dynasty.

Though doing away with marrying brother to sister would likely help a great deal with that issue, since there was only so much, as Harry had explained it, that even magic could do in alleviating issues of infirmity and madness when lines are bred too closely for too long.

Jon’s father had started the work of adding depth to the Targaryen family tree with marrying first Elia Martell and then Benjen Stark, much like his own great-grandfather and Uncle Aemon’s brother Aegon had done with marrying Betha Blackwood.

Now it was up to them to keep an eye on the spouses their children chose and pass down the knowledge that Harry had regarding the matter to try and ensure that even if another mad king or monstrous prince was born to the line of Jon Targaryen, the first of His Name, that it was for reasons other than simple breeding to blame.

“We’ll have to have their Blessing as soon as I’m up to it and the boys are healthy enough to withstand the chill in the godswood.”  Harry told them as he shifted a bit, stomach sore and achy now that the blocker potion had worn off and not wanting to take a pain potion and have to wait another day for it to cycle out of his bloodstream to feed his own babies.

“Blessing?”  Jon asked as they all pulled off their clothes and settled into the bedfurs, the guards having taken themselves off after they made it clear none of them would be leaving the bed chamber until morning.

“Like a Naming in the Seven or before the Old Gods?”  Robb asked.  They’d skirted both of those by Naming them upon their claiming by Harry, none of them being particularly devout.  That they were named and there were witnesses to the fact was all that was really needed to satisfy tradition, everything else was just pomp and trappings to appease egos.

“Of a sort.”  Harry explained, snuggling down into the cuddle pile even as he forced himself to tear his eyes away from their babes.

They were here.

He could hardly contain himself even as he felt a bit…empty.

Though he was about to mention the latter, knowing the lusty answer he’d get from the prats he’d married.

He reiterated: it was Aegon’s fucking turn.

Wonderful result or not, he was more than happy to wait out the next year or more until having another for himself.

“It’s a ceremony to consecrate the boys in their powers.”  He told them.  “In my old world it was also used to name godparents but that’s a tradition that you don’t have here so we can skip it.  It calls on the matriarchs, any mother or bearer, of my family lines to bless them and help guide them as their powers grow.”

Which considering that he was their bearer and both Jon and Robb had magic of their own…the little ones were going to need that blessing and guidance to help them be grounded and in control of their power, especially with the use-me-please magics of Westeros at play.

Add in that according to Sirius Harry had been doing accidental magic from the cradle and it was set to be an interesting dozen or so years until the boys get a handle on things as they started to mature.

Not that he was going to tell his husbands or the Kingsguard that, he snickered to himself as he let the strain of the day and the heat of his husbands lull him off to sleep.

After all…why spoil the surprise?

…

Two hours after laying down to sleep, Harry’s wand buzzed in its invisible holster on his arm, waking him to feed his babies who were still sleeping soundly.

Advice differed – both in his old time and this new – about waking a newborn to feed, however he went with the wisdom that said it might take a few weeks for the newborns to settle into a routine or even to wake for a feed, and with both his precious little ones being premature he wasn’t about to take the risk on being wrong.  Better often than allowed to go hungry, especially as tiny as they were.  With being a male bearer, it wasn’t as if anyone was expecting him to be up and bounding around right after birth anyway, even with his magic.

Rubbing sleep from his eyes and giving a yawn, Harry at least found himself not as drained as he’d been on falling asleep, though it would take at least a few weeks for his magic and body to totally recover from having his sons’ cores severed from his own as well as his stomach cut open, under going major surgery magic to help heal him or not.

Though once they were mature enough to wake themselves for feeds, he’d be glad to have a nursemaid to help, since while he was able to get up with them every few hours his husbands still had the duties as King and Consorts to see to and the ongoing war to deal with.

Fetching the goat’s milk from the storage cupboard he’d charmed to keep food fresh – a benefit to finally having a true home again – in their solar, ignoring the direwolves and dragons as they lifted their heads at his entrance – the familiars banned for the moment from being allowed free rein, simply being too great a risk for anyone to want to take with delicate newborn babes until they were certain of them and their reactions to each other – Harry sterilized a pair of glass bottles that he’d had ready, wrapping the small end in the thick soft cotton to protect his boys’ mouths, and after filling them with a small amount of goat’s milk, about a half-cup, capping the other end.  They would seem odd to anyone from his previous life, but they were the closest thing Westeros offered to an actual bottle, and thanks to his ability to transfigure, clean, and sterilize them safer than the little clay pots with little pour-spouts that Maester Marwyn had described for him.  Hopefully, the boys would take to him and they wouldn’t have to worry about bottle-feeds thereafter or even the wet-nurse.

It wasn’t like he had rubber nipples or disposable nappies in Westeros, nor would he be able to use them without causing major problems in terms of social evolution if he did.

At least cloth nappies were something he’d known of, he’d felt like a fucking idiot when Lady Catelyn had – rather rudely – questioned him about when he would secure a wet-nurse, assuming as many did that he’d automatically choose that option rather than breastfeed his own children as many highborn did, not to mention the rare male bearer who survived a birthing only to be too ill to feed their own babe, as had happened with Jon’s bearer Benjen, forcing Rhaegar to secure a trustworthy wet-nurse with the help of his friends in House Dayne.

Spotting sleepy-baby-blue eyes starting to peep open, Harry scooped up Dain as Aerion slept on, carefully working his way through a nappy change (he may have gotten in some practice with the wet-nurse, Bessa’s, daughter Alys) and managing, he thought, to not completely cock it up as Talisa had managed most of the baby-care while hovering over them to make sure all of three of them were recovering from the birth.  Wrapping his son back up, Harry sat in the wide window-seat of the King’s solar, gathering an audience of a pair of direwolves as the dragons slept on completely unconcerned with the doings of their humans’ mate, Dain’s huffy little whimpers melting his heart as if his tiny little fingers weren’t already firmly wrapped around it along with his brother’s.  Gently, Harry worked the makeshift nipple into his mouth, Dain somewhat familiar with the routine from his previous two feedings earlier in the evening working to suck the goat’s milk through the soft cotton as Harry was careful not to send it flooding into his infant son’s mouth despite the cloth covering somewhat preventing such a happening.

Enchanted green eyes watched as teeny hands attempted to knead at the bottle before settling, rose-bud mouth and downy cheeks moving with each strong suck, Dain working his way through the small amount of milk in what seemed no time at all, though it must have been at least twenty or so minutes as Dain nodded back off to sleep.

Setting the empty bottle aside, cleaning all of it with an absent flick of power and sending it back for next time, Harry moved Dain into position to help him pass his wind, the newborn eventually coughing up a bit of soured milk for his efforts, Harry just giving a bit of a sigh as Ghost and Grey Wind watched out of sleepy eyes, both direwolves tired themselves after spending the last few weeks down in the kennels or hunting for their pregnant females, though by now all but one of the regular she-wolves had whelped and were able to at least do a bit of hunting on their own.  Another spell took care of the refluxed milk, Harry using a soft, damp cloth to smooth away the little bit around that soft pink mouth.  Magic could easily be used around the babies without worry, but only sparingly on them until their cores were more settled usually around nine to ten years of age.  Healing spells, diagnostics, and such were all fine along with child-strength potions, but other than their own natural magics for the most part it was best avoided if possible.

Though with only Harry around to worry over it, it wasn’t nearly the issue it would have been in his former life.

Tucking Dain back in he swapped him for Aerion, the smaller twin not having so much as twitched despite it being at least a half-hour later than Dain’s feed, helping sooth any lingering anxiety he had over whether he was doing the right thing as he knew sleep was vital for preemies.

Repeating the process with Aerion, complete with staring enraptured as he fed, which though it took at least twice as long as Dain and a bit of persistence on Harry’s part his precious one got all the milk down and without the reflux Dain had had, merely passing a bit of wind when the time came, Harry found himself yawning wide and tumbling back into bed with a bit of an evil-eye for his husbands, setting his wand for an hour and a half to repeat the routine all over again.

…

“You look exhausted.”  Ser Arthur told him as he came into the solar as he did every morning, Prince Lewyn and the other day guards on his heels, Torrhen and Mark still the most “junior” of the Kingsguard getting the duty of the night-watch, to bring in the meal for the Kings to break their fast and get ready for the day only to find a droopy-eyed Harry sitting with a pair of sleeping direwolves at his feet in the window-seat of the solar, the tiny form of whom he thought was little Prince Aerion in his arms.

“They have to be fed every two hours.”  Harry reminded them around a yawn.  “And the wet-nurse only arrived late in the evening yesterday…besides which by noon I’ll be safe to try feeding them myself.”

“Well, until then.”  Ser Arthur announced, coming over to scoop up the babe.  “It’s not as if several of us don’t know how to care for a babe until what’s her name, Betha, Bess?  Arrives to start her service to the crown.”

“Bessa.”  Harry said absently, thanking a kind-eyed Ser Barristan as the elder knight pressed a hot mug of the non-alcoholic cider he preferred into his hands.

Another truly excellent thing about settling into a place to make home besides being able to set up preservation enchantments and cooling and heating charms – at least in their personal quarters – was the ability of trade to take place, keeping Ser Arthur and the rest from continuing to raid his personal stash of herb and spice stores.

“And I’ll be fine once I have some food.”  Harry told them firmly.  “Bessa can watch the little ones, including her own, in the bed chamber under the canny eye of Prince Lewyn whilst I catch up on the sleep I missed during the night.”

Just then an awake-but-bleary Aegon came stumbling into the solar, tiny Dain already tucked into his arms despite Harry having only put him back down to sleep less than an hour before, though it didn’t seem being swooped up and cuddled by one of his fathers had managed to wake him anymore than the hand off to Ser Arthur had done for Aerion.

The Kingsguard exchanged the amused glances of men who’d never been fathers themselves but had helped raise more than one child over the years at the sight of both Jon and Robb stumbling in after Aegon, looking more than a little perturbed at having their babes snatched up before they could get a cuddle in themselves.

Harry just rolled his eyes and snorted, reminding the lot that the boys needed to be fed every two and kept in the King’s Chambers that had climate control charms, then wandered off to start getting some of that sleep he’d missed during the night.

“Remember, I want to be woken to try the noon feed.”  Was his parting shot as he all-but-fell into the bedfurs, Ser Oswell and Prince Lewyn both noticeably looking away from the sight lest they laugh and earn themselves the ire of an angry and sleep-deprived new parent.

…

Bessa Cassel was a good woman of the North, married two years now to a distant cousin of Ser Rodrick Cassel, the Winterfell Master-at-Arms, and a find of the Princess Sansa to serve as wet-nurse if needed and simple nurse-maid if not to the children of the royal family.

Her husband being a distant cousin of the Winterfell Master-at-Arms served in the Winterfell guard and had been one of the first to pledge his sword to Robb Stark’s service and cause when the good Lord Eddard had been taken prisoner in King’s Landing.

Like many wives, she’d followed the drum of the army until Moat Cailin where the good women of the North had bid their men goodbye, her Harlan leaving her with a parting gift of a babe in the belly – again like many other young wives of the Northern host.

Their Alys was a good little mite, and being born on-time made the pair an excellent match, more a trustworthy one, to serve at Pridefall.

Her Harlan had been asked by Lord Robb himself if he would be pleased to serve as one of the Pridefall household guards instead of at Winterfell so that Bessa could serve the little heirs.

He’d been proud as a man could be, she’d have to say, at both the offer and the implied trust it meant their liege lords had in both them and the Cassel family (though Bessa was the daughter of the Wintertown miller, not born a Cassel herself, her good-family had all been good to her and Lord Eddard fair with her father.)

Still and all, it was with more than a bit of nervous hesitation that Bessa knocked on the door of the King’s Solar, having been lodged with her Alys in a spacious servant’s room several floors below that her Harlan was free to join her in when he wasn’t required to be with the other soldiers, or so Lord Harry had told her when settling on her position within the royal household.

Hesitation that both trebled and washed away as she entered the room as she was bid after a nod from the Kingsguard that had told her to knock in the first place, though anyone even a simple miller’s daughter from Wintertown would recognize Barristan the Bold, as she saw young Lady Arya seated on a chaise in the King’s solar, one of Bessa’s newborn charges in her arms.

The relief came from the easy welcome she saw on the human faces: Lady Arya, Princess Daenerys, and one of the healers she thought was foreign.

The lack thereof came from the non-human faces that turned her way as she walked into the King’s solar with Alys in her sling cradled against her chest: the direwolves that she remembered as mere pups a year or so ago, three of whom were all arrayed around the room, obviously guarding the little ones as she’d heard-tell Lord Bran’s direwolf had done and ended up saving his life.

There was another Kingsguard in the solar, splitting his attention between herself as a newcomer and the babes held in the arms of Lady Arya and the silver-haired Princess of Dragonstone, one she didn’t yet know the name of.

Though Lord Harry was nowhere to be seen, that was nothing but expected given that she was certain he would have woken through the night with the babes.

“Bessa.”  Lady Arya smiled at her, the wilder of the Stark sisters familiar with most of the Winterfell guard and their families.  “You made it.”

“Yes, milady.”  Bessa dipped a proper curtsy to the lady and then again, deeper, to the Princess.  “Little Alys and I were spending the day in the camp with my Harlan when the word came.”

“Bessa, this is Princess Daenerys Stormborn of Dragonstone, beside her Lady Talisa Maegyr of Volantis.”  Arya made the introductions quickly, wanting to get the awkwardness done with and over as now that Harry’s given birth as well as Nymeria, she was set to go to Starfall and didn’t want to miss one minute with either baby for all that she’d never been much interested before.  “And that is Ser Oswell Whent of the Kingsguard.  Dany, Ser Oswell, this is Bessa Cassel, formerly of Wintertown, now the royal wet-nurse.”

Pleasantries were exchanged and then Bessa was at last introduced to her new charges.

“This little warrior.”  Arya announced, propping the red-haired babe up in her arms, holding in an inner coo – she wasn’t Sansa for the gods sake – “is Lord Dain Stark, Heir of Winterfell.”

“And this,” Dany followed her lead.  “Is Prince Aerion Targaryen of Pridefall, your future king.”

“They’re beautiful children, my ladies.”  Bessa told them honestly.  And they were, quite well-formed little ones for all that they came early and took near-everyone by surprise in the process.  “This is my Alys.”  She moved the sling a bit so they could see her little golden-haired babe, then frowned.  “Is there a cradle for her to rest when I need to care for the babes…?”

She’d been told there would be, that she could bring Alys with her when she was to care for the little lords.

“There.”  Arya nodded towards an alcove with a simple but well-fashioned cradle, complete with a thick woolen mattress and soft knitted blankets.  Harry’s doing she supposed, given that the girl would be milk-sister, perhaps, with his own children.  “Though my good-brother wants to at least try and feed his children himself.”

“Well, at the least I can help with changes and be a watchful eye.”  Bessa nodded, then settled onto a nicely carved chair, edging just a bit out of the fastest path to keep from coming too close to the direwolves.

Knowing of them and seeing them at a distance was one thing.

Having them at her feet was something else entirely, though when the nearest to her did little more what give a wolfish snort and go back to keeping an eye on their own pups that were sleeping near the fire she did see the ladies exchange a pleased glance.

Bessa, it seemed, had passed a test she didn’t even know was being posed.

…

It was a tired – and more than a bit drunk – trio that returned to their chambers that night.

They’d been in and out of the solar all day, but come the evening meal their men and lords had held them in the hall for long hours, toasting the health of both the twins and their bearer.  A few had attempted to call for the boys to be presented, an idea which was quickly shut down with a firm reminder that they’d come more than a moon-turn early and needed quiet and rest for several weeks.  It had stopped the demands to see the little ones but not the toasts, much to the amusement of more than one older lord who clearly saw that they wanted nothing more than to return to their rooms and be with said children and their dangerous, beautiful bearer.

Ser Barristan in particular could hardly keep from laughing every now and again at the scowl that occasionally flickered over his King’s face before Jon schooled his features once more and played along with good grace.

Though heads a bit muzzy with drink or not, they all walked quietly on soft socked-feet, having stopped to shed their heavy boots in the solar before venturing into the bed chamber to keep from waking their beloved and their children.

All to come to a quick stop at the sight that met their eyes as they entered their bed chamber: that of their beloved, shirt shucked to the side, with an ebon-haired babe in one arm suckling at his slightly swollen breast, their kissed-by-fire son already sleeping in his cradle at Harry’s side as their little love stared down captivated as Aerion sucked at his nipple, a particularly strong draw every now and again showing in the slight wince on Harry’s loving, enchanted face.

Aegon, Jon, and Robb all slowly shucked their own clothes and climbed gently into the bed, surrounding their beloved with their arms and bodies, joining him in watching over their little ones, just as enraptured with each soft whimper and huff from rosebud lips.

“Look at what we did.”  Harry said eventually, after returning Aerion to his cradle and cleaning up, shrugging back into his shirt.  “What we made.”

“They’re beautiful, love.”  Jon pressed a fierce kiss onto lips that he saw in miniature on his redheaded son.

“More than beautiful.”  Robb corrected, pressing a kiss of his own onto a brow that the line of he thought he spied under ebon curls on the future King of Westeros’s precious head.

“They’re both a perfect blend.”  Aegon decreed, looking between his lovers and the children they’d brought into their marriage.  “Gods be good, all of our children shall be so blessed.”

…

Two weeks passed in a blur of feedings, changings, and naps for Harry before he sorted himself out enough – let alone his children – to venture further than the Hall of Hearths, his feet carrying him out to the godswood with Ser Oswell shadowing his steps, Prince Lewyn left with the children as they napped under the watchful eyes of Bessa and Ghost while Harry sought fresh air and to see if the godswood would be appropriate for Aerion and Dain’s blessing.

He thought they would – more knew – but at this point any reason to get a bit of stretch to his legs was appreciated as he’d been chained, mostly by his own wishes, to the King’s Chambers for the last fortnight.

That being the case – and given how large the godswood was – it was understandable that it took him several minutes to realize what was, not wrong, but drastically different from the last time he’d entered the twenty-plus acres of the godswood.

Sucking in a breath, Harry came to a stop about halfway to the heart-tree, blinking at a distinctly odd tree that he’d almost just walked around without noticing it.

Honestly, if it weren’t as out of place as it was, he might have made it all the way to the heart-tree without really seeing what he was seeing if it wasn’t for that tree and the others like it.

“Ser Oswell?”  He asked, voice calm and showing none of his surprise.

His rapidly blinking eyes did enough of that for all of him.

“Aye.”

“Are you seeing this too?”

“Aye.”  Ser Oswell answered, more than a little shocked at the sight of a new tree he’d never seen the like of in the godswood of his childhood home, let alone that it looked full-grown but he knew it wasn’t there a few weeks before the last time he accompanied his King as Jon prayed before the heart-tree.  And that was before you took in the other plants that seemed to have made themselves at home in a place he’d never seen them before either.  “Though it makes no sense to my eyes.”

“What the fuck?”  Harry cursed softly, turning a full circle in wondering confusion.

“Do you know…?”

“How they all got here?”  Harry finished.  “No.  Though I do recognize them and with that comes an idea.”

“Better than me.”  Oswell noted as Lord Harry started walking again towards the heart-tree, though both of them were taking better note of all the plant life surrounding them in the process.  “I only know the red and orange of the Dragon’s Breath Lilies, and those I’ve never seen grow anywhere outside of Dragonstone.”

“They’re all magical plants and trees.”  Harry answered the unvoiced question.  “That tree that startled me is a cocoa tree, a species that has absolutely to business being in a godswood in Westeros at all let alone this far north.  I see several forms of dittany and athelas, asphodel and fluxweed, valerian and snapdragons, and that’s just to start.”

“What caused it?”

“Magic.”  Harry burst out a joyful laugh, turning in a circle as they entered the grove of the heart-tree and saw it completely blanketed in Dragon’s Breath Lilies rather than the hard-packed earth that there’d been before.  “Magic’s been reborn into the world, Ser Oswell.  Dany’s dragons, direwolves, Jon waking me.”

“The babes.”  Oswell nodded, following.  “This is a great blessing from the gods if so, Lord Harry.”

“Yes, I rather suppose it is.”

…

In light of the changes to the godswood, Harry put out a proclamation to all of Pridefall, Weirton, and the surrounding camps that no one was to harvest any sort of plant life from the acreage surrounding the grove of the heart-tree, then put up wards to ensure it.

If nothing else two things had been accomplished by the trip: first, he’d confirmed that it would be a good place for the twins’ blessing.

And second, with the dittany alone that had sprouted and grown from nothing at all, he was all at once less concerned over the future health and well-being of his family and the state of his potions stores.

…

Word crept in from King’s Landing of the seething of the Old Lion and the screeching of his daughter, but Harry paid it no mind.

He had a blessing to oversee.

…

They all gathered in the heart-tree grove, the pair of three-week-old twins held by their sires, each and every person in some way or form family to the boys.

There was blood-family: Maester Aemon, Princess Daenerys, and King-Consort Aegon.

Family of choice: all the members of the Kingsguard.

And standing before them all was Harry, getting ready to do something that he wasn’t certain would ever work but that wasn’t going to stop him from trying all the same.

Once everyone present in Pridefall was there and standing spread out before him, all save Maester Aemon who sat, including all three dragons and the three direwolves along with Nymeria and Ghost’s pups, he began with a summoning.

“I call forth from space and time

Matriarchs of the Potter-Black Line

Bearers, Children, Siblings, Friends

Our family spirit without end.

To gather now, in this sacred place

and help us bring these children to grace.”

Harry held his breath for a long moment even as he felt his heart sink then just when he thought too much time has passed, too much had changed, there came a shimmer in the air.

And suddenly his small handful of family wasn’t so small at all.

Though he couldn’t blame some of them for shifting anxiously, particularly the living.

It wasn’t everyday after all that one found themselves surrounded by dozens of visible spirits, men and women both, who had borne children for Harry’s family line.

Including one face that he thought he would never see again.

She stepped forward, crossing that invisible barrier, and came to stand at her son’s side in all her young beauty: eyes as green as emerald and hair the red of blood, with skin a gleaming ivory and a smile to lift the darkest of spirits from the doldrums.

“Mum.”

…

“Hello baby.”  Lily Potter neé Evans gave a soft but joyful smile at her strong, beautiful son, ignoring the gasps from the living souls that made up the middle arc of those summoned to bless her grandsons.  “I’m so proud of you.”

Tears filled twin pairs of emerald eyes, only to be blinked back almost in unison, then Lily lifted one hand, cupping a finely-chiseled cheek and smoothing one thumb over a sharp cheekbone, an eternity passing in that silent moment between them where they said everything at yet nothing at all.

Turning, Lily stepped towards her, well in the time period her son had woken she supposed they were her good-sons.

She’d seen much of them, always watching over her baby as he slept his endless sleep beneath what was once Hogwarts.

“I may be a spirit.”  She warned them with an arch of an elegant brow.  “But hurt my baby and I’ll make you pay in ways you could never imagine.”

“I would expect nothing else, my lady.”  Jon answered once he’d gotten around the stone that had settled in his throat.  He’d known – Harry had told all of them – that part of the blessing was summoning the spirits of his family matriarchs of the past.  That hadn’t quite transferred over to suddenly being surrounded by visible apparitions, one that seemed to become flesh and blood.

More, that one was his good-mother.

And by the gods, he could see now where Harry gained his beauty, though it being of a more masculine sort than that the late Lady Potter had to her name.

If anything it made him fear for himself should Harry bless him with any daughters for the swarms of suitors that would be sure to follow.

“Good.”  Lily nodded sharply then continued.  Her son’s magic couldn’t hold them here forever after all, even with the rather unique being he’d befriended ages ago.  “Now, may I hold my grandsons?”  She held out her arms, Jon passing over Aerion and Robb Dain, taking care to ensure that she was, actually, something akin to flesh and blood and able to hold him safely before completely letting go.  She glanced at her son, who wordlessly stepped back and beside his husbands, wordlessly ceding his place as the High Priest to his mother to serve as High Priestess of the rite.

“The next generation has been born into our family, our legacy. We pledge to be with these children. These beautiful boys always. Apart but never separate. Free but never alone. They are each one of us and because of that, we will bless them both with all of the goodness that we are. Welcome to the family Aerion Targaryen.  Welcome to the family Dain Stark Blessed be."

“Blessed be.”  Those gathered intoned, even as Harry’s eyes tracked over the spirits, gaze hungry for those who had answered his call.

There, his grandmother Dorea.

There, his cousins Narcissa, Andromeda, and Nymphadora.

Then one he recognized only for who they resembled and what Teddy had told him: Teddy’s husband, Scorpius Malfoy, and those who had a mixture of Black and Malfoy features, along with a long line of Potter-wives or husbands that were less recognizable.

And before them all, his mum, holding his sons and bestowing on them the blessing of the family.

…

A/N 2: Yep, did some borrowing from Charmed here at the end, but I thought it fitting…