Written for 100 Word Prompt Challenge that I found on Tumblr. I'm gonna try to do this every day starting with today.
Just a heads up! This is for Game of Thrones/A Song of Ice and Fire rather than ouat, which is what most are probably used to. This will probably get deleted from this account after a while but it will remain on another account: rhaellatargaryens. If you like this, you're free to follow me/the fic over there because I am that person that likes to make everything difficult. I'm not, I just like things to be grouped together. Anyway, those who do read this, thank you!
RAIN
Rhaella gives birth to Daenerys.
There's nothing more powerful than a storm. The way it rips through lands, tears at everything in its way and leaves a total destruction in its wake. It's like the gods' own fury bestowing their rage at the people below. There is nothing more powerful.
Except, perhaps, child birth.
It's like a storm in itself. Contractions resembling that of wind, broken water like the rain beginning to fall, then finally the labour; the fury that oft comes with storms, the anger that is giving birth.
How fitting that a child should be born at the very same time a storm rages on.
Pain whacks through Rhaella's body. The heavy pants and seemingly futile pushing. She has no maester, just a simple midwife from a nearby town, a girl who was adamant her family were Targaryen supporters, she hears the girl distantly tell her to Keeping pushing, you're almost there. You can do it, Your Grace. She's a sweet thing, Rhaella thinks amongst the pain and sweat. How long will she live for?
It's her last thought before another body-destroying pain rips through her, has her clutching the bloodied sheets beneath her, eyes squeezing shut before it all ends and those painful bounds wrapped around her releases themselves and she can finally breathe.
There's a silence that forms, even the storm has seemed to ease outside, the only noise is Rhaella's pants as her heart slowly sinks, realisation settling in.
It was all for nothing.
She's about to shut her eyes, to harden her heart against another death in her family before there's one final rage of thunder and the first cry of the baby in the midwife's arms.
A relieved breath is released from the queen and little sparks of laughter from the midwife as she hurries to clean the child up.
She needs to call in Viserys, to tell him of his sister's birth, will do so once she's held the child in her arms, her first living child in years.
She could almost cry, she's that happy.
Yet that happiness leaves the moment the midwife turns around, the laughter and joy that was on her face almost moments ago now replaced by horror and fear.
"My lady..." the girl whispers and Rhaella doesn't even correct her on the title, her own inside twisting and happiness dwindling by the second as her own gaze finds its way between her legs. Her stomach drops beneath her at the sight of the dark red blood oozing onto the sheets.
This shouldn't be happening, this shouldn't-
"I'll go get help," the girl cries, placing the baby into a nearby cot (the baby screams, it's hungry and Rhaella has to feed it, must feed it, she can't have another child die because of her) and beginning to scurry out of the room.
Rhaella shakes her head, there's no time for that. She must-
"I need my baby," she says, voice nothing more than a whispered croak. "I need...her."
The midwife faces defeat- a failed job, it's her fault Rhaella's dying yet the queen doesn't believe that. A life for a life. The only way her baby can survive is if she dies.
It gives her some solace that when the baby is placed in her arms, she eases her crying, latching onto a nipple just as all her brothers had done before her.
Rhaella had expected her child to be a boy. Earlier, it had been a slip of the tongue, a meaningless pronoun said in desperation but the child is, in fact, a girl. Her second daughter born.
"I'm sorry, Your Grace," the midwife says but Rhaella dismisses her. It's not the girl's fault.
"Bring me my son," the queen says, sinking further down into the sheets, her daughter having fallen asleep against her. "Bring me Viserys."
The girl nods, quickly making her way out of the room. Rhaella watches her leave, the door shutting gently behind her and her vision blurs slightly, something that catches her off guard for a moment before it regains again.
This is it. Her daughter's first breath of life is her last. How fitting, just like everything else had been.
She traces her daughter's cheek, gently and careful not to wake the child. Soft finger tips against even softer skin. Rhaella smiles at the sight of the first few wisps of sliver-golden hair already beginning to grow. No doubt she'll have purple eyes, too.
The sight is both a blessing and a curse; they'll be certain she's a Targaryen when they come to kill her.
She pushes away thoughts of the baby's head smashed to pieces like her grandson Aegon as the door is pushed open to reveal her eight year old son and Ser Willem Darry.
Rhaella ignores the latter, only focusing on the way her second child cautiously shuffles towards the bed. His purple eyes widen at the sight of the blood as fear clouds them.
All men fear blood.
It kills her, his having to see her in such a state but there's no other option, it must be done here. They cannot win this war, it is certain now Rhaegar is dead. They're bloodline depends on Viserys now, as does the little one she's holding.
She reaches out to grasp his hand and hopes to the Gods above that it's not as cold as she feels it is.
"I claim Viserys of the House Targaryen," the boy's eyes widen once more and gods, he's too young for this, this shouldn't be happening. But alas, it is. "The Third of his Name, King of the Andals an...and the Rhoynor and the..." It's because she's dying, she can't remember the titles, her brain a muddled mess. She looks to Darry for help.
"And the First Men. Lord of the-"
"King of the Andals and the Rhoynor and the First Men," she begins, it all coming back to her. "Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm." With a shaky breath, she whispers, "Long may he reign."
"Long may he reign." Darry echoes and Rhaella smiles. Perhaps he's the last true supporter. Forever loyal, their master-at-arms.
Rhaella begins to sit up and she sees Darry move to help but she shakes her head, just about managing.
It takes very ounce of strength she has left and move the child away from her body and hand her over to her son but it's for the best. Her last chance.
It warms her heart the way Viserys looks down at the baby. A little smile across his face as he stares at her. She hopes it's the memory she dies with.
"Look after her," Rhaella whispers and she watches the smile fade, replaced with sadness. "You're all she has now."
Viserys nods, his face grave and serious, not suited for that of an eight year old boy but his eyes hold the truth, the sadness and the fear. She protected him from Aerys' madness for eight years, if only she could protect him from this.
"Come on, Your Grace," Ser Darry calls softly and one final look is shared between mother and son. Their last look.
She waits for Viserys to be out of the room because she calls the knight back. He looks puzzled and confused and obeys and comes nearer.
"Get them away from here," she tells him, her voice desperate. She can barely speak above a whisper anymore, she doesn't have long now. "He'll come for them. Get them in one of the ships and sail away from here."
"The ships have all been destroyed in the storm, Your Grace. They're nothing but wood floating in the sea now."
"A boat, then." Her breathing comes heavier, her vision blurring once more. She's rushing her words, an effort to get them all out before she leaves. "Anything," she cries, grasping at his sleeve. It takes the man aback but he doesn't move, doesn't urge free, he just nods. "Viserys is a little boy, Daenerys a baby, they need you."
Darry nods. "I'll take them, Your Grace. I'll look after them as best I can. On your dying word."
On my dying word.
Rhaella releases her grip from around his arm, her eyes growing heavy as she focuses on her breathing.
"Daenerys. That's what you want to call her?"
Rhaella nods. She doesn't open her eyes but she's certain she can hear the smile in his voice.
"Then that is how she'll be known. Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen."
Stormborn. She likes it. It suits her.
"Would you like me to stay, Your Grace?" Darry asks, all traces of smile gone.
He shouldn't, he should get her children out of here as quickly as possible but the thought of dying alone...
She nods, slowly, as Ser Willem Darry obeys his last ever command from his queen as she turns away and thinks of her lost children.
She'll see them soon.