Chapter Text
The world enveloped her senses, embracing her with a symphony of sounds. The distant echoes of children's laughter reverberated through the air, accompanied by the rhythmic clashing thuds of their wooden sticks the young children played with pretending to be knights. Their clothes, stained with patches of mud, clung to their frail bodies, while their gaunt faces revealed the hardships they endured from the lack of food. Amidst this lively backdrop, a young boy's voice soared above the rest, bellowing with unmatched enthusiasm to attract the attention of the bustling crowds flowing in and out of the streets of King's Landing. His proclamation announced the arrival of freshly baked bread, a tantalizing treat for those passing by.
Unperturbed by the external clamor, the queen consort remained resolute within the confines of her wheelhouse. The symphony of voices outside seemed to fade into the background as her focus honed in on Lord Arryn, the hand of the king. With an air of importance, he had invited himself into her company. Rhaenys had no choice but to allow the king's hand to ride with her towards Visenya's Hill, the Great Sept of Baelor being hers and now his destination all well.
The woman, her dark tresses cascading around her face, yearned for an audience with the High Septon. Her swollen belly bore witness to the precious life growing within her, but as each day passed, her anxiety escalated, for her child lingered in the sanctuary of her womb, refusing to grace the world with its presence. Desperation clung to her like a shadow, compelling her to seek solace from the man whom the gods held dear. Naively, she had believed that his divine favor could assuage her mounting apprehension. However, as the imposing sept loomed closer, a veil of disillusionment lifted, exposing the folly of her hopes. How could a man she barely even liked alleviate her fears? The woman berated herself for her naivety, recognizing the futility of such a notion.
To compound her growing trepidation, Jon Arryn, burdened by his own deepening concerns, had chosen this moment to engage her in a conversation.
"Please head my counsel Lady Rhaenys, we must be prepared if–" he began. But Rhaenys cuts him off before he could add to her own ever flowing fear that seemed to be a part of her now.
"My lord, do you truly believe that Rhaegar Targaryen will cross the sea? Why would he? I've heard that he is treated with love and dignity in Pentos. Pray tell me why a man would give that up to raise war." Her voice is soft as silk.
"Yes, why would he go to war? The last time he went to war it was for the love of a woman and now…" he looked at her with a raised eyebrow, beckoning her to finish.
"And now what?" She asks, her patience had begun to grow thin for the old man.
"And now he will go to war for his daughter"
The hands voice was firm and his eyes serious. Rhaenys could not help but let out a laugh, a bitter and harsh laugh. She looks into the eyes of the man before her. "Rhaegar Targaryen is not going to war for me. He has had nearly fifteen years to wage war for me and yet he did not lift one finger for me, his beloved daughter. No, what he wants now is his crown and his pride. Men do foolish things for pride."
"Or for love."
She gives him a small smile in return. "So I've heard." There is a heavy pause in the air before she continues. "Even if Prince Rhaegar were to make war for the throne, we have the strength of the seven kingdoms to fight him off and whatever foreign forces he wishes to bring with him across the narrow sea." Rhaenys reassures him.
"I am not so sure about that, my lady. It has been a long time since the lords of the seven kingdoms swore oaths to King Robert and well… some may think that these oaths hold no meaning anymore."
"Which lords?"
"Well to start off Tywin Lannister has no love for either you or the king." Rhaenys waves him off. "Tywin Lannister is nothing but a dog, if he tries anything then all we must do is put him down. Besides, how can the Prince win back a kingdom with just the Lannisters at his side. Robert has the Stormlands, the Vale, the Riverlands, the Reach, Dorne, and the North. Our forces outnumber that of the Dragon prince."
"I would not be so sure about the Reach and Dorne." He tells her. "Mace Tyrell was Rhaegar's most loyal and powerful supporter during Robert's Rebellion, I am sure that if his gallant prince asked for his support the fat rose would run to his side. Especially since Aegon is unmarried and Lord Tyrell has a daughter who he would love to see a crown on."
"Yes they may be a problem." Rhaenys reluctantly agrees. The Tyrells may indeed be a thorn at her side funnily enough. But what caught her attention was the lord's mention of Dorne.
"Dorne will not join Prince Rhaegar" She firmly says. "But I wouldn't count on their support either. They will sit idly by while the realm plunges into war"
Lord Arryn gave her a questioning look. "Do you truly believe that Prince Doran will not join your father?"
"Prince Doran holds no love for Rhaegar and his Lady Lyanna. Why would he offer them any of his spears?"
"While it is true that Dorne holds no love for Prince Rhaegar, you forget that he has your brother, Aegon, by his side." His words cut Rhaenys deeply for she knew better than anyone how true those words were. Rhaegar has Aegon by his side and that may very well be all that Prince Doran needs to offer his support to Rhaegar. And yet there was still a flicker of hope that perhaps her uncle will grant his support to King Robert, for her sake, but she can not be sure of such support.
"Dorne will not join him." Her voice firm and unwavering despite being unsure. Jon Arryn gave her an unsure look before nodding his head in understanding. Rhaenys had thought the conversation over but the lord of the vale had other plans. His voice was starting to give her a headache.
"There is still the matter of the North to discuss." His words had confused Rhaenys. "Ned Stark is Robert's closest friend." She says.
"That might have been the case when they both went off to fight the war but once they returned… well i'm afraid their friendship has… well… suffered for the actions of Lord Ned's sister." His words held truth in them but still she could not find it in herself to be concerned over Ned Stark joining Prince Rhaegar.
"Perhaps my lord husband is not as… friendly with Lord Stark as he had been when they were younger but still, Ned Stark is a man of honor. I highly doubt he would forsake his honor to put Rhaegar on the throne. Besides you know him better than I, do you believe Ned Stark would join the Targaryens in usurping Robert's throne?" She questions the man before her.
"No. Ned's honor is of the utmost importance to him. I do not think he would give that up, especially since the ones that would pay for his crimes would be his children." He tells her honestly. "Very well then." She nods at him.
The remainder of the journey unfolded in a stifling silence, a break that the young Targaryen girl welcomed with open arms. She lacked the strength to prolong discussions of an impending war that loomed ominously on the horizon. Beads of sweat adorned her palms, as she had clenched her hands into tight fists. Seeking a distraction, Rhaenys gingerly interlocked her fingers, cradling her pregnant belly, finding a sense of calm in this intimate gesture.
With every passing moment, the wheelhouse drew nearer to the majestic sept, fueling Rhaenys' eagerness to escape the presence of Jon Arryn. The man had always unsettled her, his presence exuding an unnerving aura that had only intensified when she accidentally overheard him proclaiming himself as one of her potential suitors. Despite the significant age gap that rendered him old enough to be her grandfather, it did not deter him from harboring unsavory intentions, aiming to claim her for his own desires. Since then, she has become more aware of his lingering and disgustingly lust filled eyes.
Abruptly, the wheels of the wheelhouse came to a halt, and the doors flung open, revealing the world outside. Stepping forward, Ser Balon Swann, a loyal member of the Kingsguard assigned to protect her, extended a chivalrous hand, offering assistance to the queen. Grateful for his presence and guidance, she accepted his support, allowing him to gently guide her out of the wheelhouse. As she turned to cast a final glance at Lord Arryn, she observed Ser Hugh, Jon Arryn's squire who had accompanied them on horseback, assisting the older man off the carriage.
"Will you be joining me, my lord?" She had hope that he would say no. Rhaenys had no desire to spend any more time with him than she needed to.
"No, your grace. I'm afraid there are things that I must attend to." He explained.
"Oh that is most unfortunate my lord."
"Yes, well it can't be helped. I must do my duty to the king and to the realm. I shall take my leave now Lady Rhaenys." He offers her a smile and she returns one as well. He turns away and with the help of his squire he mounts the horse that the boy had brought along. Rhaenys watches him go and it isn't until Ser Balon calls out to her that she looks away.
"Shall we go now, Your Grace," She only nods her head in response. They begin making their way up the steps of Baelor's sept.
–-
Rhaenys sat by the window of her quarters. She held blue thread in one hand while the other held a woolen blanket. Her hands moved at a slow pace weaving the thread in and out. She was weaving a cluster of flowers onto the blanket. Crimson and yellow flowers were already woven into the wool, while the only color left to add was blue. Rhaenys was growing ever tired. She had been working on the blanket since she returned from the sept. The dark haired woman thought that perhaps working on the blanket would distract her from her ever growing thoughts. But the embroidery proved to be a failure in keeping her mind occupied for her mind seemed to be more uneasy than ever before.
Her talk with the high septon had well and truly proven to be a misjudgment on her part. The septon did nothing but add more unrest upon her. His prayers and words were futile and did nothing to quench her increasing agitation. She regretted going to him for any help.
Initially, Rhaenys had assigned blame to Jon Arryn, believing his presence to have been the catalyst for her inner turmoil. Then, she had turned her accusatory gaze towards her lord husband, and even the round septon had not escaped her scrutiny. However, deep down, she knew that the true culprit behind her distress was none other than herself. The realization weighed heavily upon her, leaving her grappling with the knowledge that she alone held the key to her own serenity.
In the depths of her being, Rhaenys grappled with the agonizing truth that she, and she alone, was the maker of her own torment. Self-hatred gnawed at her soul, a bitter reminder of her own missteps. Once she had believed that marrying Robert Baratheon would bring peace to her troubled heart and weary mind, but reality had shattered her hopes into fragments. Despair had become her constant companion, and she could only lay blame upon herself for her wretched state.
Restless thoughts plagued Rhaenys as she pondered if these consuming emotions would ever go away. Her deepest yearning was for their eventual dissolution, for she did not know how much more her fragile mind and battered heart could bear. A flicker of fear whispered in the recesses of her mind, warning her that perhaps she had already absorbed too much pain, teetering on the edge of complete unraveling. The most harrowing realization of all, however, was the crushing fear that no one would be there to mend her shattered pieces. There would be no compassionate soul to gather her fragmented existence, gently piecing her back together until she became whole once more. This truth struck at the very core of her being, unsettling her deeply. Rhaenys had always prided herself on her independence, but now she confronted the disquieting notion that her mind and heart were locked in a battle of their own. Her mind urged her to rely solely on herself, deeming it the only path to ensure her survival. Yet, her heart yearned desperately for companionship and solace. She grappled with the question of whether to yield to the desires of her heart or persist in her self-imposed isolation. Her mind had always been her guiding light, never faltering in its purpose, but her heart, laden with sorrow and burdened by the weight of loss, had failed her . As a child, her heart had been young and vibrant, her mind proud and disobedient but now that child's heart is gone, and Rhaenys is just a ghost of that girl.
Amidst her disparities, a solitary tear escaped her weary eyes, landing upon the delicate blue flower that adorned the woolen blanket. And then, one tear turned into another, and another, each one a testament to the overwhelming weight of her sorrow, cascading down like a mournful symphony.
Oh how Rhaenys mourned the little girl she used to be.
A surge of nostalgia engulfed Rhaenys as she reminisced about a time when she was uncorrupted and untamed, a carefree spirit frolicking through the halls of her memory. It felt almost inconceivable that she had once embodied that lively, exuberant little girl. The stark contrast between her past self and her current existence felt like an unbridgeable chasm. The weight of her burdens had extinguished the lightness that once radiated from within her.
She mourned not only for the loss of her mother but also for the demise of that spirited girl who resided deep within her soul. Though her heart still beat and her veins coursed with life-giving blood, she felt a profound emptiness—a hollowness that mirrored the absence of her beloved mother. The vibrant essence that had animated her being had withered away, leaving behind a mere shell. Rhaenys grieved for the girl she used to be, a symbol of innocence and boundless joy, who now lay dormant within her, entwined in the tendrils of sorrow and longing.
She wills herself to stop the ever flowing tears. When suddenly a wave of discomfort rippled through Rhaenys' abdomen, causing her belly to constrict with an intensity that threatened to send the woolen blanket slipping from her grasp. She winced, feeling as though her very core was being gripped by invisible hands, but the sensation soon subsided, leaving her breathless. With a weary exhale, she shook her head, as if attempting to banish both tears and pain from her being.
Carefully, she placed the half-finished blanket on the nearby chair, its soft fabric taunting her with memories of simpler times. Determined to distract herself from the distressing unease that plagued her, she crossed the room and approached the untouched flagon of wine resting upon the wooden table in the center of the common area. Pouring herself a glass of sweet wine, she lifted it to her lips, seeking solace in its familiar embrace. Yet, as she prepared to take a sip, a sharp pang coursed through her belly once more, catching her off guard. The glass slipped from her trembling grasp, shattering against the dark-colored carpet below. Her hands instinctively clutched her swollen belly, as if seeking to alleviate the agony that wracked her. Although the pain dissipated after a fleeting moment, it left a lingering ache in its wake. Straightening herself, she strained to steady her breathing, only to be startled by a voice calling out to her from beyond her quarters.
"Your Grace, are you alright?" The familiar voice of Ser Barristan reached her ears, a comforting presence amidst the turmoil. It seemed that Ser Balon had swapped shifts with the commander of the Kingsguard.
"Ser, please send for the maester," she urged, urgency lacing her words. Another surge of pain coiled around her belly, extending to her lower back. She emitted a low, guttural moan, desperately clutching the edge of the table to prevent herself from succumbing to the agony that threatened to overpower her.
"Why? Are you unwell?" The concerned voice of the man penetrated through the door, eliciting a surge of anger within Rhaenys. Her tone sharp and laced with frustration, she retorted, "I will be once you get the damn maester." The echo of her words hung in the air, momentarily drowning out any response from the knight. Soon, the fading sound of his footsteps and the clanking of his sword signaled his departure down the corridor.
Left alone with her mounting agony, Rhaenys grappled with the relentless pain that continued to wrack her body. The passage of time became a blurred concept as she waited, unsure of how long had passed since she had commanded the aging knight to fetch the maester. Each passing second felt like an eternity, fueling her impatience. Finally, the door creaked open, revealing Maester Gormon's weathered face. Maester Gormon, a frail and aged man with scattered gray hairs adorning his head and a clean-shaven face, was now the object of her growing frustration. In her heightened state, Rhaenys harbored an irrational desire to hurl something solid at the old man's head for his perceived sluggishness.
He approached her with a calm demeanor, his soothing voice attempting to assuage her whimpered protests of pain. In that fleeting moment, Rhaenys felt a flicker of regret for her earlier thoughts, realizing the kindness that resided within the old maester. However, her fleeting remorse was interrupted by another searing contraction that sliced through her womb, leaving her trembling and breathless. In that moment, she couldn't help but resent her father's selfishness, contemplating if her mother had endured a similar ordeal during childbirth. The bitter sneer that crept across her lips was a testament to the depths of her disdain. He forced her to do this twice?
"My Queen, forgive my delay but I will ask for you to lie down now," Gormon hushed her whimpers of pain soothingly. With his help Rhaenys lays down on the feathered bed.
Maester Gormon swiftly pulled up Rhaenys' dress, exposing her swollen belly to the cool air, while she lay there consumed by the excruciating waves of pain. In her current state, dignity was the furthest thing from her mind; all she wanted was relief. Tears streamed down her flushed, ruddy cheeks, mingling with perspiration, as she attempted to mimic the breathing techniques she had read about. Yet, in the throes of agony, the rhythmic inhales and exhales offered little solace.
Another guttural moan escaped her lips, her grip tightening on the coarse linen sheets as if they were her only anchor. The maester's voice reached her ears, initially muffled by her torment, but gradually she managed to discern his words.
"It appears that the babe has begun its descent," the maester informed her, his tone brimming with a mixture of concern and detachment. Rhaenys shot him a fiery glare, her frustration boiling over. "Don't you think I'm aware of that, you fool," she snapped, her words laced with bitterness and pain.
"Yes, yes, of course, Your Grace," the maester stammered, his voice filled with earnestness. "Your labor has only just begun. It may take some time before the baby is ready to come out but all seems to be fine, for now." His attempt to reassure her fell somewhat flat, causing Rhaenys to grimace at the realization that her hopes for a swift and uncomplicated delivery were rapidly dwindling. As the next contraction seized her, its intensity somewhat lessened compared to previous onslaughts, she called out to Ser Barristan, who promptly came to her side.
"Yes, Your Grace?" the knight responded, his tone tinged with concern.
"Robert. Where is Robert?" Rhaenys questioned, her voice barely above a whisper, carrying a sense of urgency. The knight and the maester exchanged an apprehensive glance, their shared worry etched across their faces. Dread knotted within her, fueling her fear. "What's the matter? Has something happened to Robert?" Her voice trembled with anxiety, for if harm had befallen her husband, the implications for her own fate were unfathomable.
"Do not worry yourself, My Lady. The King is fine." Ser Barristan reassures her but she can see that he wishes to say more.
"Then what is it, why hasn't he come yet?"
"His Grace will be here. The King and his counsel are in a meeting now." The old knight told her but Rhaenys did not understand.
"His Grace never attends his counsel's." She says sharply, the tightening in her stomach intensifying every second. "Why isn't he here?"
"An important matter has been brought upon the counsel My Queen. The King will attend to you once the meeting has come to a close." Barristan Selmy responded. This only confused the girl more. "What important matter?"
"Nothing for you to concern yourself about Lady Rhaenys." The old maester replied. She was about to reproach the man and tell him that as queen, any important matter is her concern. But before she could do so, the pain in her body grew stronger than ever before and she let out a scream against her will.
The old maester swiftly acknowledged her distress, instructing the commander of the kingsguard to summon the midwives and handmaids, orchestrating their preparations for the impending birth.
Amidst the flurry of activity in her chamber, Rhaenys found herself lost in the grip of relentless agony, her senses dulled by the intensity of the pain. The bustling presence of individuals entering and exiting her room barely registered, overshadowed by her overwhelming torment. Maester Gormon's voice directed the midwives and handmaidens, issuing commands with an air of authority that left no room for hesitation.
As Rhaenys lay upon the birthing bed, her body convulsing with each contraction, a poignant yearning for her dead mother enveloped her. Oh, how she longed for her mother's comforting presence, her touch, and the gentle words whispered in her ear. In this moment of vulnerability, Rhaenys keenly felt the absence of her mother's reassuring presence, an ache that mirrored the physical pain she endured. A cry escaped her lips, a desperate plea directed at the void, be it for her mother's solace or the well-being of the child nestled within her. She could not distinguish which invoked her tears: the longing for her mother or the pain of childbirth. Yet, the longing remained palpable, overwhelming her senses.
Tears fall freely on her face, Rhaenys does not have it in her to stop the tears from leaving her eyes. She does not care if people see her cry, for they would only think that she was crying from the pain but in truth she was mourning her mother. For the first time in years Rhaenys lets people see her cry.
She prays to the seven gods and all the other gods she knows to let her live. She doesn't want to die in the birthing bed, she witness her mother almost die giving birth to her brother; she remembers the screams and the blood that covered the bed. Please don't let me die here. I want to hold my baby. Don't take me before I can hold them. She pleads with desperation. A painful spur of pain shoots through her body and she cries out in anguish. Maester Gormon approaches her with a speed that she did not think the old man was capable of. He lifts her gown up and checks her. It feels uncomfortable but she has no time to complain as another wave of affliction passes through her, this time she yells for her mother. The room goes quiet as the people surrounding her look at her, looks of pity and remorse are thrown at her.
How she must look, on her birthing bed screaming for her long dead mother. But she could not bring herself to care about that. Her mind was occupied with getting her child out of her. She calls out to the maester.
"Please, please get it out of me." She wails. The man does not respond to her immediately, instead he orders the midwives to hold her up on either side. He looks over at her.
"It is time, My Queen." He tells her. Despite how unbearably hot the room was, she feels as if someone had poured ice cold water on her. Rhaenys' throat tightened, a lump forming as a cascade of thoughts and fears surged within her. The maester, attuned to her distress, sought to assuage her mounting terror.
"I have overseen countless deliveries, My Lady," he offered, his voice a soothing balm. "Do not fret, for I assure you that both you and the baby will emerge unscathed." The tenderness in his tone and the warmth within his cerulean eyes kindled a flicker of solace within Rhaenys' heart. She drew in a deep breath, her resolve surging forth from the depths of her being.
"I am ready." Voice filled with determination.
With the midwives steadying her on either side, Rhaenys summoned her strength and heeded Maester Gormon's instructions. Gripping the linen sheets tightly, she propelled herself forward with all her might, channeling every ounce of determination into each resolute push. Beads of sweat formed along her brow, intermingling with the tendrils of her disheveled hair. The room seemed to blur as pain consumed her, her body protesting the arduous task at hand.
Maester Gormon, ever watchful, offered gentle guidance, his calm voice cutting through the chaos. "Relax, Your Grace," he urged after every push, his words interlaced with compassion. Rhaenys obeyed, surrendering momentarily to a deep inhalation that served as a fleeting respite before the next assault of exertion. Her once melodious voice now contorted into desperate, primal cries, echoing through the chamber and perhaps reaching far beyond the confines of the castle walls. Yet, in the throes of her labor, she could not bring herself to care about the ripples her screams might create. A very small part of her hoped that all of Kings Landing could hear her, let them hear all the pain and torment they have caused me .
Her body quivered with exhaustion, her skin glistening with a mixture of perspiration and tears. Indigo eyes, once vibrant and fierce, now shimmered with agony, vulnerability, and an unwavering determination to bring forth life.
As the hours wore on, a sense of despair settled upon the chamber. The agonizing struggle continued, the relentless waves of pain crashing against Rhaenys' weary body. Despite her valiant efforts, the baby stubbornly refused to make its entrance into the world. Time became an elusive concept, slipping away unnoticed as the sun surrendered to the velvety embrace of the night sky, its warm rays yielding to the ethereal glow of the moon.
Robert had arrived earlier, but his presence offered little solace to Rhaenys in her time of need. He stood, a silent figure in the doorway, his anxious gaze fixated on the laboring queen, waiting for the miracle of birth to unfold before his eyes. Yet, his distance only served to widen the emotional chasm that had formed between them. She longed for his unwavering support, his reassuring touch, but it seemed that the weight of their strained relationship hung heavy in the air, casting a shadow over this sacred moment.
As the moon began its retreat, heralding the dawning of a new day, a glimmer of hope emerged. The tiny life within Rhaenys stirred, as if sensing the world's anticipation. The maester's voice, tinged with an infectious fervor, cut through the tension that hung thick in the air. "The head is emerging, My Queen," he exclaimed, his words resonating with a newfound exuberance. Rhaenys couldn't help but release a smile, a breathless laugh escaping her lips, as if infected by the old man's contagious enthusiasm.
Robert, at long last, relinquished his position by the doorway and ventured forth into the room. With a gesture to the midwife who had faithfully stood at Rhaenys' side, he assumed her place. His hands, larger and rougher than hers, enveloped her delicate fingers in a tangible display of solidarity. In the depths of his gaze, she discovered a wellspring of newfound strength.
With every ounce of strength she could muster, Rhaenys pushed with all her might. The searing pain threatened to consume her, the agony becoming an unyielding force that begged for respite. Yet, in the midst of that torment, a miraculous moment unfolded before her. She felt the weight of her babe gradually slipping free, a bittersweet relief washing over her trembling form. It was as if time had momentarily stood still, allowing her to savor the blend of suffering and triumph that coursed through her being.
And then, amidst the haze of exhaustion and overwhelming emotions, the air filled with the piercing cries of a newborn. The sound echoed through the chamber, reverberating with the promise of new life and unspoken dreams. Rhaenys, her heart swelling with love and awe, found herself breathless in the face of this tiny miracle. Was this the profound joy her own mother had experienced? Did she too find solace in the knowledge that the pain was a testament to an indescribable love?
Robert, who had momentarily withdrawn from her side, hastened towards Maester Gormon, eager to embrace their child. His voice carried a blend of excitement and anticipation as he sought confirmation. "A girl, Your Grace," the old maester announced with unabashed happiness. The king's outstretched arms yearned to cradle the precious bundle.
"We must clean her first," The old man said, "She is covered in blood."
"No, give her to me." The king's voice was firm and left no room for questions. Gormon quickly hands their baby girl to her father and swiftly makes his way back to the bloodied bed where she laid. As Rhaenys watches her husband and daughter, the maester lets out a shriek. Rhaenys quickly looks his way, horrified to know what was wrong. The king loudly questions the man.
"What is it, old man?"
"Well… it's just that there is another." His voice is filled with bewilderment. "Your Grace you must start to push again. You have already lost a lot of blood. It will be best to get this babe out as soon as possible." Another one? Another baby? Rhaenys could not even begin to process the maester words before he urged her to push once more. She did as she was told and once more began to push.
Her legs felt numb and she could smell the pool of blood that decoracted her silk sheets. All she could hear was the sound of her own screams. She pushed and pushed until her ears heard the cries of a child. Rhaenys could hardly believe that the second baby came out so fast, it seems this child was ready for the world, unlike their sister. Rhaenys saw as the maester quickly wrapped the baby in a similar blanket that their sister was wrapped in, wiping the blood off the babe.
"A boy, Lady Rhaenys" Voice filled with elation. Rhaenys smiles and motions for the man to give her the boy. "Bring him to me." Her voice was hoarse from all the screaming. Maester Gormon eagerly hands her the child. The handmaiden that Robert had told to move was at her side again, supporting her upper body to keep it from collapsing from exhaustion.
Cradling her son in her trembling arms, Rhaenys marveled at the sheer smallness of his form. He was a fragile creature, delicate and vulnerable, enveloped in a soft, pale-pink hue. His arrival had silenced his cries, replaced now by the gentle coos and murmurs that escaped his tiny mouth. A tender smile graced Rhaenys' weary face as she listened to these faint, melodic sounds.
But as her gaze lingered on his face, she noticed traces of the treacherous journey they had both undertaken. Despite the maester's meticulous efforts to cleanse away the blood that had marked his arrival, faint smudges remained, obscuring her view of his delicate features.
With a gentle touch, Rhaenys delicately brushed away a lingering streak of blood, revealing a glimpse of her son's face. His eyes, bright blue though still puffy and drenched in the innocence of infancy, peered up at her with a mixture of curiosity and vulnerability. She marveled at the perfect symmetry of his tiny nose, the rosebud lips that held the promise of future smiles, and the soft contours of his cheeks, unblemished by the harshness of the world.
In that tender moment, Rhaenys felt an indescribable surge of love and protectiveness wash over her. She knew that her son would need her steadfast care and guidance as he embarked on his own journey through life's labyrinth. With a whispered promise to shield him from harm, she pressed a gentle kiss upon his forehead.
A soft, enchanting coo emanated from her daughter, capturing Rhaenys' attention and drawing her gaze away from her son. To her right, she beheld a heartwarming sight: Robert, with a tender smile adorning his face, gently caressed their baby girl's delicate features. The little princess reciprocated with sweet, melodic coos, their intimate exchange filling the room with a sense of pure joy.
Rhaenys watched in awe as her husband's eyes, brimming with love and adoration, met hers. Robert gives her a small smile, she finds herself returning the gesture.
Maester Gormon's sudden interruption pierced the tender moment, reminding Rhaenys of the task that still lay ahead. "The afterbirth, My Lady."
Dread washed over her weary body, every muscle aching from the strenuous labor. Weariness threatened to consume her, yet the prospect of holding both her children provided a glimmer of hope and renewed strength. With a resolute nod, she acknowledged the maester's words, determined to complete the final stage of childbirth.
Reluctantly, Rhaenys entrusted her precious son to the gentle care of a midwife, her eyes tracing their every move as they made their way to a nearby basin filled with water. Two diligent handmaids stood ready, armed with soft cloths and warm water, poised to cleanse the newborn of any blood. The sight stirred conflicting emotions within Rhaenys—relief that her son would soon be clean and comfortable, yet an ache to hold him close once more.
Robert cradled their daughter softly, mindful of her fragile existence. His protective presence offered solace and reassurance, as he carried their precious girl towards another awaiting basin. There, the tender touch of handmaids mirrored the care given to their son, cleansing her delicate features with meticulous tenderness.
Once the afterbirth is safely delivered, maids swiftly come to her aid, offering gentle assistance in cleaning her weary body. They bring fresh silk sheets, delicately arranging them to replace the bloodied ones, while ensuring her comfort and cleanliness. Rhaenys appreciates their diligent care.
As the maids meticulously tend to her chamber, bustling in and out with efficiency, Rhaenys observes their movements with a sense of detached fascination. Their graceful choreography paints a picture of restoration, restoring order to the room that had been witness to the birthing turmoil. The windows are opened, allowing a gentle breeze to permeate the air, carrying away the lingering scent of blood.
Meanwhile, Robert remains devoted to their children, standing tall over the shared cradle, he gazes upon their tiny forms with adoration, marveling at the miracle they have brought into the world. Her heart swells with a deep sense of contentment, knowing that her husband is there to safeguard and cherish their precious children.
As the fatigue finally overcomes her, Rhaenys succumbs to a slumber, her body and mind surrendering to the demands of exhaustion. The lullaby of her children's soft coos becomes a soothing backdrop, blending harmoniously with the whispers of the maids and the comforting presence of Robert. With a serene smile on her lips, she drifts into a dreamless sleep.
The sun has disappeared and the moon now stood in its place. Rhaenys had been awoken by the cries of her children, she shot up from her bed and for a moment she feared that something terrible had happened to them, I've only just had them, you can't take them away from me now, but she quickly calmed down as she saw that the maester and one of the midwives were already tending to them.
Rhaneys noticed Robert's absence and couldn't help but feel disappointed. He has seen his children already, why should he stay?Why should he stay for you?He does not love you, she scolds herself. But her musing is interrupted by a voice beside her.
"You finally woke up." Robert's voice was mellow. She nods in affirmation. But before she can speak the maester cuts in.
"Ah, it's good to see you awake my queen." His voice was jovial. Rhaenys smiles at him. "Would you like to hold your daughter, my lady?" He beckons her. The dark haired queen nods her head at once. "Yes, and please bring them both. I wish to see them both together."
The man does as his queen commands and soon Rhaenys holds her daughter into her arms for the first time. She is wrapped in the woolen blanket that Rhaenys had been embroidering right before she started her labor. The blanket yet remained unfinished but Rhaenys could not help but think how perfect her daughter looked wrapped in the blanket. But I'm sure she'll look perfect in anything.
Rhaenys gazes at her daughter's face and admires her. She had skin the same color as Rhaenys, and her eyes were a mesmerizing blue. But as took a closer look at her daughter she was surprised to see the small tufts of silver hair that adorned her little head. Silver hair? Why must she have silver hair? Her confusion and surprise must have been written all over her face as she hears Robert call out to her. As she turns to look at him she finds that he is seated next to her on the bed with their boy in his arms.
"The boy has silver hair as well." His voice is toneless. Rhaenys looks over at her boy and sees that Robert spoke the truth, he had silver hair as well. He looked much like his sister, only he was paler and seemed to have a permanent pout on his lips. Rhaenys was not sure what to say. Is he mad at her? She had given him trueborn Baratheon children and yet the blood of the dragon still showed.
"They have your eyes" She commented, not sure if that would make it better. For a moment the only sound in the room were the sweet sounds her babies were making. Rhaenys could feel her hands slightly shake and her beating heart sounded like a calvary riding into battle.
"Yes they have my eyes." The king finally said and Rhaenys could do nothing but let out a shaky unsure smile and turn her eyes back to the small girl in her arms. Her daughter had a toothless smile on her face, she let out a small squeal. Her brother responded to her in an equally charming squeal.
"Have you chosen a name for the children yet Your Grace." Rhaenys was unsure if Maester Gorman was speaking to her or the king but she responded to him regardless.
"Elia, her name is Elia." She said proudly. Rhaenys felt her husband stiffen beside her and the smile that was ever present on the maester's face seemed to falter but he quickly composed himself.
"Elia Barartheon, a fine name for a daughter of House Baratheon." The maester said courteously. Rhaenys could not help the smile that formed itself on her face from hearing the maesters words. Elia Baratheon, a beautiful name for a beautiful girl. Mother, you will live on in my daughter, for you share a beautiful name.
Her husband was ever so quiet and Rhaenys found that the man looked uncomfortable. Rhaenys could not fault him for feeling such a way, it must be peculiar having your daughter be named after a woman who was murdered so brutally, a horrific murder that you supported. But Rhaenys could not find it in herself to care about the warriors uneasiness. Besides, it's just a name. With that final thought Rhaenys looked down to her son.
"What about the boy? Have you thought of a name husband?" She questioned him. The inquiry snapped the man out of his inner turmoil and shook his head.
"I haven't given his name much thought." He said honestly. Rhaenys was hit with a name as she looked at her son.
"I named our daughter after my mother, perhaps we should name our son after your mother. Wasn't her name Cassana?"
"Yes, her name was Cassana." He confirmed. "Then let us call him Cassian, after your mother." She said, her lord husband nodded in agreement.
"Princess Elia and Prince Cassian of House Baratheon." The king said. The pride in his voice was evident.