Tender cries filled the air, floating from the window and drifting across the island of Dragonstone. When the cries were heard, everyone took up the shout. A prince. A prince had been born. Maester Pylos was relieved to deliver the child healthy and the mother strong. Both seemed stout hearted, and once mother and son were cleaned and cleansed, he placed the squalling babe into her arms where she had held him close to her breast. Rhaena was exhausted and hurt in places that should not, but she was happy. Happier than she could have ever imagined, and full of love. Her son was here, and he was the most precious thing she had ever beheld. "Princess, you have many visitors waiting to see you. I can let them in if you like, or tell them that you require rest." Pylos told her gently, smiling at mother and child as the boy continued to struggle and wail.
"No, send them in Pylos. Thank you, thank you for everything." Bowing to her, Pylos opened the door to allow inside a steady stream of guests. Most of the Small Council had come when the raven had arrived informing them of the princess's labour. Tyrion strode inside first, going directly to her bed where Rhaena lay with the babe against her chest, sliding her hand across for him to take up and kiss fiercely. His fears were settled. The child was delivered safely and Rhaena had fought through it. He should have known that childbirth would not be enough to kill her. She had fought lions, the undead, dragons, krakens and many other things. She would not die so easily. "Tyrion, look at him. He is noisy…the little rascal will not settle."
"Beautiful, he is utterly beautiful my dear, as are you." Kissing her hand once again, Tyrion glanced up as his brother moved around to the other side of the bed, smiling softly.
"A good pair of lungs. He'll scare away winter if he carries on." Behind them came Bronn, Sam and Gilly, Brienne, Sansa and Bran himself. All had come to be present at the birth of Rhaena's child, and as she gazed tiredly at their faces, she found herself smiling. Sansa of course was weeping with happiness and cooing over the boy, determined that he would be handsome and strong when he grew older. Bronn brazenly promised to teach the boy how to hold a sword, win every fight and how to woo the hearts of women until he was the most sought-after lad in all of King's Landing. Appalled by his words, Sansa smacked her hand against Bronn's arm in order to chastise him, firmly believing that Rhaena's boy would be far too honourable to toy with a woman's heart so freely. As they argued, Brienne pushed Bran's chair closer, Tyrion moving aside so that the king could look upon the infant and mother. Moving his hand, Bran reached across and touched the boy's cheek where his wailing quietened and he stopped wriggling within his swaddling blankets, calmed by the presence of the young king. Bran had glimpsed this moment in his dreams, and now that it was finally here, he could feel the warmth of fire pulsing through the boy's tiny frame, as bright and fierce as his mother's. Continuing to rest his fingers against the boy's cheek, Bran smiled almost to himself.
"He will be a great knight, and an even greater sailor who will be remembered for the ages to come. He will rule both sea and land and air." A little too exhausted to fully comprehend Bran's words, Rhaena merely chuckled richly as her arm tightened around her son.
"Is this what you see in your dreams, little raven?" Forgetting that others were present, Rhaena spoke endearingly to Bran who shook his head minutely, allowing his hand to draw away from the child who now slept and brushed the back of his fingers down Rhaena's cheek instead, soothing her with his presence as her eyes drifted sleepily.
"No," he told her softly as all watched in attendance. "I simply know." As everyone smiled or nodded in agreement, Bran continued to brush at Rhaena's cheek. "What is his name?" Having considered perhaps hundreds of names for both sons and daughters, Rhaena had finally settled upon one for each. Now that she knew her child was a son, she also knew his name.
"Daenon. His name is Daenon." Choosing to name the child in honour of her sister, Rhaena felt a tear glide down her cheek as she looked at her son, her Daenon. She hoped to protect this boy better than she had been able to protect her own sister, praying that he would never face such terrors as they had, nor such misery. She wanted a good life for him. A peaceful life, if she could provide it, though part of her suspected that Daenon would soon grow to develop a taste of adventure. He was the son of a Dragon Princess and a Pirate King, after all. Fire and salt were in his blood. She could not wait to see him grow, to discover what he would be like, to teach him letters and even the sword, if he would not be too ashamed to be taught by his own mother. If not, then there were plenty able men who could train him in her stead. Jaime and Bronn would most likely fight for the honour. Touching her son's cheek, Rhaena wondered if those who were now gone were watching over her now. Was Dany at peace? Was she smiling upon her nephew? Was Ser Barristan standing over them, protecting them, as he looked down and called them both his little dragons. Rhaena liked to think that they were.
She fell asleep with her son in her arms and Bran brushing away her tears of joy, everyone watching quietly until Sansa moved forwards and delicately lifted Daenon from his mother's arms, hushing him gently so that he did not wake before cradling him in her grasp. Maester Pylos ushered everyone away then, including the king which provided plenty of amusement, but he insisted that Princess Rhaena needed her rest undisturbed. They left obediently; all save for Sansa who remained with Daenon so that Rhaena would not worry for him should she wake and find him gone. She sat in her chair, smiling as she cradled the infant boy and thought of her own children she might have. Many offers had marriage had been presented to her, but all of them she had refused. Ever since the tourney she had attended the year before last, there had been only one man who had held herself. Dickon Tarly. He had not won, but he had ridden splendidly, and upon being unhorsed had accepted defeat amiably. He was comely, warm, and when he had smiled at Sansa and danced with her that night at the feast, she had found herself enchanted. They had communicated in letters since then, and each time Sansa had made the journey south, Dickon had left his home in order to see her. They had developed a closeness, though Dickon had not pushed Sansa towards anything that might make her feel uncomfortable.
He admired her, that much she knew for certain, and according to Rhaena, who had heard it from Sam, Dickon more than admired her. He thought she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, and in no uncertain terms wanted to marry her. The knowledge brought a warm glow to her cheeks, reflecting upon the two years she had spent nurturing a relationship with Dickon Tarly. Rhaena had advised her not to hold back too much longer. Dickon was in love with her, but a man could only wait for so long before the expectations upon him forced him to take action. He needed a wife and an heir, and although he loved Sansa, if she refused him, he would have to seek a wife elsewhere. The thought of losing him terrified Sansa. Although the concept of marriage and motherhood was heavily overshadowed by the fears that had been deeply ingrained into her by Joffrey, that monster was no longer alive. She would have a good life as Lady of Horn Hill, and Dickon would be good to her. She liked him very well, and was a little in love with him herself. After several years of marriage and a few children, their affections towards one another would only deepen. Her mother had married her father with less, and it had proved well for them. Why should it not be the same for her, when Sansa would start with more?
Cradling Daenon in her arms, Sansa smiled once again. Perhaps she would broach the subject with Dickon. After all…Sansa could well imagine that any child of theirs would be as beautiful as the one in her arms.