Maester Colemon's Perspective
The chambers of Lady Lysa Arryn in the Red Keep were thick with the scent of sweat and herbs, the air heavy with tension as Maester Colemon worked to ease her labor. The day had been a grueling one—Lysa had gone into labor at dawn, and now, as the sun dipped low, her cries echoed through the room, sharp and ragged. Colemon, a wiry man with thinning gray hair and a chain that clinked softly with each movement, dabbed at his brow with a sleeve, his hands steady despite the strain. Lysa's labor had been a struggle, her body weakened by years of miscarriages and stillbirths, each failed pregnancy a scar on her heart. She was stressed, her fear of losing another child a palpable force, and she took it out on him with every pained breath.
"You're useless!" Lysa shrieked, her auburn hair plastered to her forehead, her blue eyes wild with pain and rage. "You let this happen—every time, you let them die!" She gripped the bed linens, her knuckles white, as another contraction wracked her body, her scream cutting through the room like a blade.
Colemon kept his voice calm, though his patience frayed at the edges. "My lady, you must breathe—push when I tell you. The babe is close, but you must stay strong." He'd given her milk of the poppy to dull the pain, but Lysa's fear made her restless, her accusations a constant barrage. She's lost so many, he thought, his heart heavy. Every miscarriage has broken her a little more.
A young maid, no older than sixteen, slipped into the room, her face pale as she leaned down to whisper in Lysa's ear. Colemon caught only fragments—"…Lord Edric… left the city… to the Vale…"—but Lysa's reaction was immediate. Her head snapped toward him, her eyes blazing with a fury that cut through her pain, her voice a venomous hiss. "You knew!" she accused, her finger jabbing at him. "You knew he was leaving, and you didn't tell me—he didn't even say goodbye!"
Colemon blinked, caught off guard, his hands pausing as he held a damp cloth. "My lady, I—" he began, but Lysa's words were cut off by a spasm of pain, her body arching as she screamed, her hands clawing at the bed. "My son—my only son—gone to the Vale, and I wasn't told!" she gasped between contractions, tears streaming down her face. "I won't allow this to stand—I won't—" Her voice broke into a wail as the next contraction hit, the babe too close now for her to focus on anything else.
Colemon moved quickly, his hands steady as he guided her through the final pushes, his voice firm but gentle. "Push, my lady—now!" Lysa's cries filled the room, a raw, primal sound, and then, with a final, shuddering effort, the babe was born—a boy, small but alive, his wail weak but steady. Colemon wrapped the child in a soft cloth, his relief tempered by Lysa's earlier words. Edric gone to the Vale, he thought, handing the babe to a nursemaid. And now a new Arryn heir. Lysa collapsed back, her breathing ragged, her rage forgotten in the exhaustion of birth, but Colemon knew her anger would return—Lysa Arryn did not forgive easily.
King Robert Baratheon's Perspective
King Robert Baratheon lounged in the small council chamber, a goblet of Arbor red in his hand, his black beard flecked with crumbs from the roast he'd been tearing into. The room was quiet, save for the soft shuffle of parchments as Varys, the Master of Whisperers, stood before him, his powdered face serene, his hands tucked into the sleeves of his silk robes. Robert wore a stained doublet, once a deep crimson but now marred with wine and grease, stretched tight over his broadening frame. He was growing fatter, his once-muscular build softening with the years of peace and excess since the Greyjoy Rebellion—not yet the bloated man he'd become in later years, but well on his way, his belly straining against the fabric as he sprawled in the chair. His blue eyes, though, remained sharp as Varys spoke, his voice a soft purr.
"Your Grace, I've word from the docks," Varys said, his tone measured. "Young Edric Arryn has left the city—fled in the night, they say, with a small retinue. My little birds tell me he's bound for the Vale, though some whisper he's taken a detour to Braavos first."
Robert grunted, taking a long swig of wine, his brow furrowing. "The little falcon, eh? Jon's boy—off to the Vale without a word? Hmph. Got his father's stubbornness, that one." He set the goblet down with a thud, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "What's the lad up to, Varys? Nine years old and already scheming?"
Varys inclined his head, a faint smile on his lips. "Lord Edric is… precocious, Your Grace. But there's more—Lady Lysa has given birth this day, a boy, small but living. I believe they've named him Robert, in your honor."
Robert's eyes lit up, a booming laugh escaping him, shaking the table. "A boy named for me, eh? Jon's got a new bird in the nest, then!" He slapped his thigh, grinning wide. "One bird leaves the nest, and the next one hatches—ha! The Arryns are a busy lot, aren't they?" He raised his goblet in a mock toast, his laughter echoing through the chamber. "To little Robert Arryn—may he grow as strong as his namesake, and not as bloody stubborn as his brother!"
Varys's smile widened, though his eyes remained unreadable. "Indeed, Your Grace. The Vale will be… lively, with two Arryn boys to shape its future."
Robert drained his goblet, his laughter fading into a thoughtful grunt. Edric's a sharp one, he thought, but Lysa'll be a terror over this. He waved a hand at Varys, already reaching for the wine jug. "Keep an eye on the lad in Braavos, Varys. I want to know what that little falcon's up to." But his mind was already drifting to the next hunt, the next feast, the Arryns' troubles a fleeting concern in the storm of his reign.