Work Text:
For the first time, Dany does not know what she will name her unborn child.
She told Sansa all about her time with Dothraki, including eating a horse's heart and proclaiming that her son, the so-called Stallion That Mounts The World, would be named Rhaego in honor of her dead brother and her husband. And her first child with Jon, she dreamed of naming it Rhaella for her mother, or Aegon, for the Targaryen line reborn.
When she realized that she carried little Aemon in her belly, her list of names was short and true. Any son of hers would be Aemon, for the uncle who mentored Jon, as the first true Targaryen prince to be born again. And she knew it was a boy, in her deepest of hearts, and so she did not think of little princesses in her dreams. The passing relief when the child was born was palpable. The entire Red Keep thought to lose a beloved queen and wife if anything would go wrong. But it did not, and now she still lives to complain loudly of her pregnancy aches.
"I'm never letting our husband touch me. Never again." She scowls, lowering herself on the divan before the fire with her large belly thrust out above her. She smiles lovingly at Sansa sitting across the room as she sets her feet up on a footstool. "Your touch, sweet one, is still very much welcome."
"I suggested you take moon tea!" Jon reminds her, earning himself another scowl. "I told you we have no more need of children. Ten wildlings is plenty for any man."
"Yes, my love, but want and need are quite different." Sansa sets aside her knitting. Of the two of them, she understands Dany's plight the most. She sets a hand on her own stomach, only a few months along. Sansa comes over and sits on the floor before Dany, taking her slippers off her swollen feet and massaging one deeply with her palm. "And all our babes are much wanted by their mothers."
She thinks of their other children, the six she's borne and the two from Dany's womb. Her wife has a harder time conceiving, but her children are just as precious as any of the rest. Sansa smiles fondly, remembering Dany's insistence that her next child would have a Northern name, Torhenn or Lyanna. She briefly suggested Sansa, but her wife quickly convinced her out of that notion with stutters and blushing embarrassment to be worthy of such an honor. Even after the boy was born, with eyes the colors of pansies and hair a beautiful silver-brown, she declared him her Northern prince and so Prince Torhenn he became.
"Have you thought any more of names, sweetling?" Sansa asks, switching to Dany's other aching foot. Her wife moans appreciatively as she presses her thumb into the arch.
"A few, although I'm not set on anything yet. While my body protests more, this babe is calmer than Tor or Aemon ever were."
"Our father was a mighty calm man, but unfortunately Ned's already claimed Eddard. Unless you'd like to confuse the world more than we already have." Jon chuckles, running a hand across his beard. At first, Sansa was not fond of this new appearance, but it has grown on her for being a more regal, kingly look (it helps as well, how much she enjoys the tickle of his whiskers when he kisses her between her thighs).
Her work on Dany's feet finished, Sansa sits up, cuddling next to her wife on the divan. "It could be a girl, you know. Eddara, maybe?"
Dany scrunches up her face, clearly considering it. Any seriousness to that thought is broken when Jon finally bursts from the strength of his laughter. "I think not."
"Do you have any ideas, then?" Dany raises an eyebrow.
"I'll leave it up to you. From your disposition, I don't think my input is truly welcome."
Dany sticks out her tongue at Jon. "Our daughter demands raspberries, husband. Go fetch some for your wives."
"I'd like some sweet buns, while your in the kitchen!" Sansa suggests playfully. The babe in her belly does not demand anything quite yet, but she herself would like sweet buns since she did not manage to keep her breakfast down.
Jon rises and flourishes a bow. "I am at my queens' command."
When he has left, Dany lays her head back and stares at the ceiling above them.
“I want to name a daughter for Princess Elia. In her memory.”Dany strokes idly the swell of her belly. “But I am afraid there will be no children after this one.”
“Why would there be no more children? We are young, as is our husband.” Sansa brings Danaerys hand to her lips and kisses the ridge of her knuckles. “Do not let these maybes worry you so. What other name would you want?”
Dany ponders the question. “I’d like to give a girl or two a Targaryen name, in honor of my other ancestors.”
“Which ones?”
“Naerys, maybe. It’s a gentle name. Maybe we’d finally have a gentle babe that sleeps through the night. Someone who wants to sew instead of lunging for a sword before she can walk.” Her laugh is sweet and light as she recalls Rhaella and Jocelyn's earliest days. Jocelyn, not even two years old, had got ahold of Eddard's blunted practice sword only a few weeks ago and was found dragging it down a hall towards the nursery by her septa. Already she was the most troublesome of the children, playing sweet with her doting father and adoring brothers but enjoying nothing so much as pulling the twins' hair when they played with her or hiding their dolls in her own crib.
“Naerys was always my favorite Targaryen queen.” Sansa smiles, recalling memories of games played long ago in the courtyard of Winterfell and songs sung in its great hall. She kisses Dany's cheek. “Until I married one.”
“If this babe is a girl, then she will be Naerys, then.” Dany says, satisfied with their decision. “And maybe the next one will be my little Elia.”
Sansa raises an eyebrow. “And if its a boy?”
“Perhaps Brandon. Every generation of your family has had one, I heard.”
“Arya and Gendry’s son is already Brandon Baratheon.” Sansa licks her lip, trying not to think of her lost younger brother at Winterfell. He has grown away from the Three-Eyed Raven’s role, but even now the only person who truly understands him is Meera Reed. “Daeron, maybe?”
“No. I’m not ready for another traditional name. Daeron has been over used for so many Targaryen princes.” Daenerys scrunches her nose. “And it sounds too much like naming him after myself.”
After her comment, Jon re-enters the solar with a tray in hand. He presents it to his wives with a flourish. Sansa plucks a raspberry from a glazed bowl and offers it to Dany. Her wife’s mouth lingers teasingly on Sansa’s finger as she accepts the fruit before Dany grabs another handful for herself.
“We discussed Elia, if this babe’s a girl. But what do you think of Naerys?”
“Both names come with a history of tragedy.” Jon frowns. “But lovely, so long as we promise not to make her marry young and unhappily.”
“We’ve promised that to all the children.” Dany reminds him, taking Sansa’s hand and squeezing it at their mutual memories of being married off for other’s politics. Suddenly, she squeals in delight and sets Sansa’s hand on her belly. “Jon, come here! The baby is moving!”
Jon kneels besides them and puts his hand besides Sansa’s. He smiles in awe at the strength in the babe’s kick against their hands, looking up at Dany he is staring at a goddess. Jon always gets like this, whenever either of his wives is pregnant. His reverence before Sansa after his first son was born surprised everyone who thought there was a line drawn between them. Eddard united his birth parents, the twins brought all three of them together, and Aemon sealed them as a unit forever.
Jon stands and kisses Dany on the mouth, gentle and tender. When he catches Sansa watching, he kisses her too. She smiles at his touch and moves on the divan so he can settle between them. Jon asks, “And if it’s a boy, what names do you have in mind?”
“We’ve discussed Brandon and Daeron but none please our picky queen.” Sansa reaches across him to take Dany’s hand once again. “Is there anyone else you’d like to remember, besides Princess Elia? Maybe your brother?”
“No!” Jon and Dany say at the same time. They exchange a look, Jon emphatically stating, “My child will not be named for Rhaegar.”
“I was thinking of Viserys.” She leans her head on Jon’s shoulder. “But we won’t use Rhaegar either, if it would pain you so.” Dany sighs heavily. “This child had best be a girl, then. I give up. I can’t think of anything both gentle and strong as I would want him to be.”
A month later, when Dany finally gives birth, she gets her wish in part. Two babes come into the world after nearly a day’s labor, squalling quietly. When they finally rest in Dany’s arms to nurse for the first time, the twins stare up with their father’s solemn expression and light grey eyes.
Upon their heads are downy clouds of silver that make little Theon bright with delight because, as he tells his parents, “They look like me!”
As all the children crowd around their newest siblings, six-year-old Lyarra is the one to ask, “So what do we call them?”
“What would you like to call them, sweetling?” Sansa asks, momentarily distracted from bouncing Torhenn on her hip.
“Grey and Greyer.” Lyarra announces stoically, no hint of laughter in her voice.
Dany’s laugh sounds like the little bells dancing in her hair when she sits upon the throne. “Your sister is Naerys, and your brother is . . .”
She looks up with pleading eyes at Jon besides the bed, his hand on Baelon’s shoulder to hold the curious child from charging at his weary mother. Softly, he suggests, “What about Barristan?”
The light that spreads across Dany’s face is brilliant as the sun. “Really?”
“Of course, my love.”
She presses a kiss to the boy’s head. “And your brother is Barristan.”