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Different Endings

Almost the Death of Her

"Poor?" said Dunk, startled. "The king's son?"

"The king's fourth son," said Raymun.

It shamed him to admit it but in the beginning, he didn't pay much attention, didn't even realize what was going on. He had grown up in the shadows of his mother's many unsuccessful pregnancies and births but Myriah had always delivered her babes so easily that without even giving it a thought, Daeron had become complacent, accepting that it would be always like that, so it was an entire day before he realized that this time, it was different.

Myriah didn't allow her women let him in the birthing chamber, terrified by the idea of him seeing her like this, so he had to listen from the antechamber. He had never heard her scream like this, even at Baelor's birth which had been the hardest one, being her first.

All around him, handmaidens were running with buckets of water, brought in fresh linens and took out others, soiled with liquids Daeron would rather not imagine the source of. For hours and hours. Myriah finally stopped screaming but it was because she had screamed herself hoarse already. By the voices inside, Daeron could judge that things were not going as they should. He prayed that Myriah could not hear the dread they were struggling to conceal.

"What's going on?" he asked when a midwife came out with a new bundle of linens. "What's wrong?"

The woman started wringing her hands. "I don't know. As far as we can say, the babe is positioned perfectly. It looks like her pains are strong enough – but they aren't doing anything to help the babe go out. Maybe her womb had grown feeble. Sometimes, it happens when a woman gives birth too many times in too short a period."

Daeron bit his lip, his worry consuming his entire being. He hadn't realized that either but in the few years that they had spent here, Myriah had become his entire world. The thought that he might lose her, that she might die the way so many women did every day, that the babe might lose its life as well cast a black veil before his eyes.

At seeing the terror in his eyes, the woman added hurriedly, "Your Grace, we're doing all that we can."

He only nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

It was the early morning when the screams suddenly stopped. Daeron waited for a short while but no one was coming out, although he could hear the hushed voices coming from the inside. Myriah's wasn't among them.

Unable to restrain himself anymore, he threw the door open. His first look was at Myriah, still on the birthing chair: her face drawn and her lips pressed together, she was staring intently at the table where the maesters were working on a white bundle. Just by looking at her, Daeron felt her fear infecting him.

"What's going on?" he asked, going to the table.

One of the maesters was trying to open the newborn's mouth. The entire body of the babe was spasming, the eyes squinting, the tiny red face betraying an immense effort.

"He's having some kind of seizure," one of the women around Myriah whispered.

For a moment, Daeron kept staring at the maester trying to help his son. But he'll break his jaw, he suddenly thought when the force the maester applied to open the small mouth looked too great. He went nearer. Something about the spasms was not quite right. He had seen the likes of…

He reached out and pushed the maester away. Everyone gasped; without paying them any mind, Daeron loosened the swaddling, opened it, and the babe immediately started waving his arms and kicking. The spasms went away; fighting a laugher of relief, Daeron shook his head. "Not even an hour old, and already having a mind of your own, eh?" he said. "Don't do it again."

He reached to cover the small body, at least that. His son gave him a look like, "You can't be serious; this is swaddling and I don't have anything to do with swaddling."

"Fine," Daeron sighed and looked at the women. "Wrap him in linen. But take care not to restrain his arms and legs, for the Seven's sake!"

To everyone's enormous relief, this time the babe didn't protest and snuggled happily into the arms of the nursemaid. Now, all eyes went to Myriah. Daeron realized that she must have not expelled the afterbirth yet if they were so worried.

One of the maesters went to a side table and fetched a poultice, in case that she started bleeding.

Myriah moaned, once, and it was over – the afterbirth slipped out.

One. Two. Three. Someone was slowly counting to twenty.

No more blood appeared.

Now that he was sure she was going to live and willing to let her have her privacy as the women bathed her, Daeron went to the newborn again. In the fright for his life and his mother's life, he had paid almost no attention to the details but now they hit him violently.

"A boy," he murmured, stricken. "What are we going to do with a boy?"

There must be one more.

During the long, anxiety-filled days this birth took, Rhaegar wasn't worried about the child. Not for a moment. The red comet was all the charm and confidence this babe needed. The Prince Who Was Promised was sure to arrive safely. With Rhaenys, Rhaegar had felt panicked that she might not make it our alive but now he knew better. This child had a greater destiny to fulfill. Death of suffocation in his mother's womb that claimed the lives of so many babes was not it. No, it was Elia that he we was worried about. She was so frail even under the best of circumstances. Could she really make it out of the birthing chamber with no lasting effects once again? His father would rejoice if she didn't.

He spent some time in Rhaenys' room. She was just tackling the art of crawling and she was doing it in a very funny way. As always, she was a joy to his eyes but he found out that today, he had no patience for her childish babbling of the few words she could say. The Prince Who Was Promised would be born today. Somehow, the greatness of the moment did not allow diminishing the day with simple daily things like children's entertainment. Tomorrow, he promised himself. I'll come to Rhaenys tomorrow. And when Aegon is older, I'll watch them play for hours. I will. But these thoughts soon retreated, chased away by the grim realization that in his children, there might not be much time for playing. They had to be prepared for their roles. A hero's path was never an easy one. That was how heroes were made.

In Elia's chambers, worry had taken constant residence. At one point or another, everyone in the castle had found a reason to go through the courtyard that the Princess' chambers were overlooking. Her windows were open to admit the fresh air and in the sounds coming from behind the heavy curtains, people were trying to guess how it was going, whether they would soon see a prince or a funeral pyre.

Somewhere during the third day, the thought of the Stranger crept into Rhaegar's mind as well. Not about Aegon – about Elia. It terrified him, yet at the same time it gave him a thrill that he was repulsed by. Over and over, the thought sneaked back into his head, the thought of what couldn't, shouldn't ever be: Elia dead… he free to wed again… Baratheon being compensated… He felt so ashamed, so foul. His lady wife was the kindest soul he had ever met. He did not want her to die. He certainly would not rejoice in building a new life over her dead body, he would not. And yet he could not stop imagining…

Elia's trial ended in the beginning of the fourth day of her labour when she finally gave birth to the boy Rhaegar had expected. She was so exhausted that now, when the babe was about to leave her body, she actually couldn't do anything to help him. One of the maesters threw his entire considerable weight at her belly and a midwife slid her hands into Elia's body. Her scream was so tortured that it was heard even in the hall but the child was pulled out and she felt incredibly grateful that she had been helped. She closed her eyes, oblivious to the voices yelling at her not to go to sleep since that was the greatest danger for new mothers. She didn't even feel the slaps the maesters resorted to when voices didn't help.

She did not saw Rhaegar entering the room, giving her a long look of relief, standing beside the bed as the chief midwife was giving him the swaddled babe. Rhaegar stared at his son, smiling. Aegon was clearly healthy and vigorous, all that could be expected in a prince. The hair and complexion delighted him as well. No one could say that this child looked anything but a Targaryen. That he was not worthy…

He looked at Elia and felt an enormous swell of gratitude. She had done her duty and even surpassed it. Now, in the light of the day, the thoughts he had harboured at night looked so surreal, like a nightmare. Of course he did not want her to die. She was his friend, his confidant. He doubted that anyone could make a better queen. Not Lyanna Stark, for sure, as delightful as she was. And no one else could mother Rhaenys and Aegon. No, things had taken the best possible turn…

… until the truth came out. Aegon was not a day old yet. Elia had not woken up.

There would be no third head. Not from Elia.

All of a sudden, hope bloomed once again.