She tells Harwin of her condition as he slips into their meeting place that night, unseen by anyone. He moves to kiss her, brown eyes shining with love and warmth, and while she melts into his embrace, her hand reaches out to grip his when he tugs at the laces of her dress. Head cocked to the side, a question in his eyes, he pauses.
"I have most wonderful news, my love," she whispers. Her Sworn Shield smiles.
"Did the Queen finally accept that His Grace chose you to be his heir and not Prince Aegon?"
She presses her forehead to his, standing on her tiptoes to reach, and laughs. "No, unfortunately. But in a way, this is even better." Harwin raises an eyebrow but says nothing. In the silence, Rhaenyra grips his large hand in both of hers and drags it to her belly. There's a heartbeat of complete stillness before her lover's eyes go wide and he stumbles, reaching for the bedpost.
"Am I-" he stutters, his voice hoarse, "Is it mine?"
Rhaenyra snorts, a most unladylike sound, as bitterness envelopes her. "Do you truly think my pillow-biter of a husband is man enough to put a son in me?"
Harwin takes her by the waist and twirls her around them, a hushed cry of joy sprouting from his lips. He sets her down gently, as if she is made of glass, and kneels before her, his hand hovering over the area in which their son grows.
"Hello little one," he whispers, and this is the gentlest Rhaenyra has ever seen him, "I'm your Papa." Then he presses the limb against her, eyes alight with wonder. He rises and kisses her again, once, twice, before settling down on the bed. She lays on her side, facing him.
"You have made me a mother, Harwin," she says, "A mother ."
"And you have made me a father," he replies, "And the proudest man in all the world." They curl up together, his leg thrown over her hip, his chin resting on the top of her head, and Rhaenyra is the happiest she's ever been.
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She tells her goodfamily a fortnight later, when they are all gathered at Driftmark. Laenor has already been informed- she told him before they left Dragonstone. This child is not their blood, not closely, though he will be Rhaenys' distant cousin and Laena and Laenor's by extension. She orders quail's eggs and takes a sip of her wine as her goodmother raises her eyebrow.
"That is a peculiar food, Rhaenyra," she says. The Princess of Dragonstone smiles over the rim of her goblet.
"Yes, well, I have developed a fondness for it recently. A craving, even, one might say." A hint of something flashes across Rhaenys' face before her expression goes from dubious to unreadable. The mood of the room shifts. Laenor stares down at his plate, visibly uncomfortable. Corlys looks up sharply. Even Laena, who hardly seems to care about anything in the world besides flying, straightens in her seat.
"Leave us," the Lord of the Tides commands the servants. They bow swiftly and exit the room. He watches each and every one of them trail out before moving to stand and ensure there are no stragglers. Then he turns back to Rhaenyra. "You are sure," he hisses. It is not a question. The Princess of Dragonstone considers playing coy for a moment, but decides against it. She is not afraid of her goodfather, but it is too early to be arguing, and this morning she was plagued by sickness, no doubt a gift from her little passenger.
"I would not have mentioned anything if I was not," she says. Corlys swings back to face his son.
"Is it yours, boy?" he demands. Laenor shrinks into himself.
"I- I'm not sure," he replies breathlessly.
A tense, crawling silence envelopes them.
"You're not sure," Corlys says in disbelief. "You either did your duty or you didn't, forcing your lady wife to look for other means of a child."
"Corlys," Rhaenys' tone holds warning as her pale violet eyes flick from her son to her husband. The couple stares hard at one another, tense and angry, before Laena breaks their standoff.
"Well," their firstborn says, "I suppose we'll see when the babe is born. Either way, he will be King some day, and his younger brother will be Lord of Driftmark." As her parents glower at her, she pales significantly. Rhaenyra catches the grateful look Laenor sends her way and knows she did it not out of impudence, but out of mercy, and offers her silent condolences.
The fact that neither Rhaenys nor Corlys have refuted what she said is telling. They will accept Rhaenyra's sons as their own direct blood, even if this is not the true case, and raise them to be heirs of the Seven Kingdoms and Driftmark, because they know she is the chance for House Velaryon to achieve its ambitions, no thanks to her husband. She raises her chin with pride, and when the wine hits her tongue again, it tastes like victory.
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Ravens are dispatched swiftly to King's Landing as well as every important Black once she reaches her fifth moon. Congratulations come racing back, full of hope and enthusiasm, for Rhaenyra's position is truly secure once she has an heir of her own body. Her father the King's letter is filled with pride and elation. He speaks of looking forward to meeting his first grandchild, of holding the babe in his arms, of showing him the Iron Throne, the seat which will be his some day. Queen Alicent sends her own stilted regards, likely pressured by him, and the moment Rhaenyra receives it, she tosses it into the fire.
Ladies Brise and Elena Strong, Harwin's sisters and the aunts of her unborn son, laugh at the action. She smiles, watching intently as the parchment curls up and burns, before turning back to her companions. She takes a bite of fruit from a nearby plate, a pang of hunger running through her, and feels smugness overtake her.
That does not last long.
Suddenly, Rhaenyra's stomach tightens. A wave of cramps washes over her, almost as if she was having her moon's blood, and her lips part in a silent scream as she realizes the implications. "Brise," she gaps, "Get the maester." The lady in question freezes. Upon seeing her princess frantically lifting her skirts, she pales and races off.
"Your Grace," Elena snaps into action, "Sit, Your Grace. There, that's it." She helps the princess back into her chair and wipes the hair away from her eyes. Rhaenyra can feel her raising the hem of her dress to her knees, and fear consumes her. She takes a deep breath and dares to look down and-
Oh, Gods, please no!
Blood stains her skirts. Her son's blood. "No," Rhaenyra moans, "No, no, no!" The door bursts open and Maester Gerardys rushes in. The Princess of Dragonstone is numb. She can't feel anything; can barely hear the murmurs of everyone around her; her vision is blurry; she can't breathe because she's just lost her son- Gods have mercy!
And then, everything goes dark.
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In the three weeks following Rhaenyra's misscarriage, Dragonstone is a dark place. Its lady stews in her chambers, barring everyone save the servants and Maester Gerardys from entry. She forbade anyone from spreading word about the incident within the first ten minutes after she woke, but it seems it has been to no avail- someone has told. The ravens have flown in for days, full of condolences, some genuine and some snide, and the most shattering of all is her father's. He had been so excited to be a grandpapa, so excited to meet his grandson. Now that baby boy is ash, buried deep within the ground, and though her father is trying to be supportive, he is clearly devastated.
"Your Grace," someone knocks at her door.
"Enter," she says tiredly. Maester Gerardys enters the room quietly, cautiously, and settles beside her.
"How are you this morn, Your Grace?" he asks. She turns to him, still in her covers and her shift, hair undone, eyes crusted with sleep dust.
"How do you think?"
He winces. "If I may inspect you," he continues on bravely. Sighing, Rhaenyra drags herself up to a sitting position. He does not prod between her legs- that stopped two weeks ago, but he does check her for a fever, and his eyes linger over her belly. She resists the urge to cover the area as anger flares deep within her chest.
"Is there something you are here for, Maester, or is it simply to gawk at me as if I am some sort of fool?" The man before her flinches and clears his throat. He eyes her with caution, as if he is afraid she might lash out and strike at him at any given moment. To be fair to him, that very well might be true.
"It takes some time, Your Grace," he begins, "For the swelling to go down after a woman loses a child. But this- there has been no change when regarding your own person. And you have still been ill in the mornings."
Rhaenyra shifts, a desperate, wild hope surging through her before she crushes it. If he is saying what she thinks he is, and if he is wrong, she won't be able to take it.
"What are you saying?" she whispers. Maester Gerardys looks her right in the eyes, mud brown meeting otherworldly purple.
"Your Grace, though you have lost your son, another child may be alive in you yet."
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For the first moon after his words, the Princess of Dragonstone lives with a kind of cautious optimism. That optimism takes root and allows herself to carry out her duties as the Lady of her seat. Harwin is her shadow, a silent comfort, and Laenor, for all he cannot do his duty, is remarkably kind. Corlys and Rhaenys are here- they arrived within the third day of the rumors about her babe, and while they are furious with her for not informing them and retribution surely awaits her in the future, they do not bother her now, especially not when she told them about Maester Gerardys' suspicions.
That optimism fledges into hope- she cannot help it- and finally into soul-crushing relief when she feels her child move within the confines of her belly, his strong kicks assuring her of his life. Harwin likes to feel him when they are alone, likes to press his hand to meet a tiny little foot and laugh and say, "He recognizes me."
Rhaenyra, for her part, sends ravens out, yet again, to the lords and ladies of Westeros. I thank you all for your concerns and well wishes, she writes, but a miracle has emerged from all of this tragedy; my son was not alone in the womb. Inside me, I carry still his twin. If the gods are good, my heir shall be born healthy and strong.
Alicent will seethe, she knows. The dark stain of a misscarriage is less than that of a stillborn babe, but the Queen was most certainly hoping to use this as fuel against her. She still might, but it is a far less effective weapon now that everyone knows Rhaenyra still has a chance of bringing a living child into this world. The Princess of Dragonstone presses a hand against her belly and prays for it to be so.
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The gods favor Rhaenyra this time, it seems. Visenya Velaryon is born healthy and strong, albeit she has come a moon early. She is not the son her mother had hoped for, not the boy to both bolster her position and replace the little one she lost, but as she stares into her daughter's face, still sweaty and disgusting from childbirth, she has never loved anything more in her entire life. Visenya is her mirror image. A head of wispy silver-gold hair already sprouts from her scalp. Her eyes are light amethyst, not pale violet like Rhaenys', and her features, from the shape of her eyes to her chin to her tiny little nose are all her mother's.
"Hello, little one," Rhaenyra coos, "I'm your Mama." Visenya's face screws up and a little fist bumps against the blankets. The Princess of Dragonstone doesn't realize she has company until Laenor's voice is right by her ear.
"So this is the child, is it?" Her husband's voice is tinged with something too warm for Rhaenyra's comfort. This is not his child. She might have been, if he had bothered to do his duty and lie with her mother even once, but he did not and so she is Harwin's. "She looks just like you," he continues.
And she doesn't know how to feel about that. A part of her is relieved beyond compare- no one can accuse her daughter of being a bastard, not when she looks like a true Targaryen though and though, but another part, if smaller, is slightly disappointed. That part had wanted something of Harwin in their babe, something that no one could take away despite her legal father. Perhaps a subtle trait, like his ears. Alas, there is nothing.
"She's perfect," Rhaenyra says. "I have never known you could adore anything or anyone this fiercely." Laenor hums and reaches out to touch her daughter's cheek. She tenses. His index finger brushes against her forehead and nose, a feather-light touch. His gentle expression breaks into a smile as Visenya sneezes and stares up at him.
"What is her name, Rhaenyra?"
"Visenya."
Laenor frowns at that. "My father won't be pleased. It's not a Velaryon name."
"You're right. It's a Targaryen name, in honor of her Targaryen mother. I already promised my first son would be given a name from your house. Just let me have this."
Her husband looks at her, really looks, and nods. "In honor of her Targaryen grandmother as well," he adds. Rhaenyra bristles and he raises his hands up in surrender. "You will have to get used to it, wife. Even if she is not my seed, this little one and all who come after her must call me 'Father'. There's no harm in starting early."
The Princess of Dragonstone glowers at her husband and he sighs. "I will leave you be," he says, "And give you a few minutes more alone with her before my mother barges in demanding to see her." With that, he leaves the room, and Rhaenyra's attention is turned back to the most important thing in her world.
"I shall sit the Iron Throne," she vows, rocking Visenya gently, "And you shall not be a secondary princess, you shall not be lesser than the grandchildren of that Hightower bitch. You shall be the most sought-after maiden in the realm, perhaps even Queen some day, and all shall love you. I swear it."