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It had once made her shiver with unease, the thought of having a “royal womb”, as her dear mother had declared, of having to suffer through the same grief of failed pregnancies, still children, and blobs of blood that should have been healthy babes spurting out of her. Of suffering the excruciating pain of childbirth, the impossible fight that more than often left women lifeless, limp in their birthing bed while the babe would already be orphaned as they would breathe for the first time.
To be nothing but an extension of the throne, for a husband, to serve no purpose but to be a brooding mare felt unfair, unkind, and unethical. The thought alone still made her brow twist in anger, in desolation for the women of the world. For her mother, the Queen, who could never be anything but a martyr for her King’s wishes.
Getting pregnant the first time wasn’t a surprise, of course not. Far from a fool, she had learned sooner rather than later how it would happen. And it was expected of her to happen, to give Laenor an heir. For a boy was preferable to a girl.
Oh, she had loved him, her dear boy. She had feared, incapable of calming the storm in her heart, that he wouldn’t come, that she’d suffer for naught. The same for all of her boys, birthed in the Red Keep, in King’s Landing.
Rhaenyra places a lazy hand on her stomach, her protuberant belly stretching the white fabric of her light night dress, as she rises from the furs of her bed, a small grunt leaving her mouth.
Dragonstone’s dark stones cool down her feet, obsidian rock reflecting the clear light of the summer sky outside her windows.
She feels like it all happens for the first time again, overwhelmed with anxious eagerness, each kick of her babe forcing her to await the moment her water will break cautiously. She can’t quite scold the child: everyone is restless to meet them. And she misses the sight of her own feet while looking down.
“Shouldn’t you remain abed?” A worried whisper comes from the fireplace, the deep voice pulling a tight smile from her lips while her eyes almost roll in their sockets for his rather useless comment.
“I’m tired of laying all day, husband.” She speaks, hands placed on her back to relieve some of the tension cumulated in her loins. By the Gods, this one is a heavy one that’s for fucking sure.
Daemon chuckles, bemused by her attitude. He remains on his chair, now completely turned towards her while resting the book he had picked from the library on his lap.
“Should we call for the wet nurses?”
Rhaenyra turns to him, breathing deeply. His face is mocking, although his eyes stare at her with evident worry, or excitement. Certainly both at once. Daemon has never been quite open about his emotions, unless they require the start of an armed conflict or the extensive presence of alcohol, but Rhaenyra dares to believe her husband, her dear uncle, is as fidgety about the birth of their first child together as she is.
He grins, dropping his taunting smirk to let his features soften. His hands place the book on the nearby sculpted table, the black tunic intricately decorated in leather bandlets shifting as he stands from his seat. A sigh of relief escapes Rhaenyra’s mouth before she can think of it, his wide hand resting on her belly tenderly. Her own hand comes to settle on top, pudgy fingers toying with the ring on his promise finger.
“Is he kicking you again?” Daemon leans forward pecking at her temple, inquiry pulling a laugh out of her good naturelly.
“When is he not?” She acts exasperated, but he clearly watches the same tenderness paint her face as it paints his. His finger strokes the line of her dress.
“A rascal. He’ll be a fearsome prince, I am afraid.”
Rhaenyra huffs, the thought of another rowdy little boy playing with wooden horses, training with his big brothers, riding his own dragon when the time will come, resulting in a shake of her lips, eyes filling with impatience and emotion. Oh, their child will be boisterous, if he follows his father’s steps, that is for certain. She will have to watch over him to discourage any overwhelming arrogance. Daemon will certainly be enough as it is, proudly showing off their first babe, highly expectant of him before codling him behind doors.
“I fear she might be completely out of your control if it is a girl, my love.” Rhaenyra teases, tilting her head slightly to watch his eyebrows rise in expected challenge.
“My dear, I have been a wonderful father to daughters. This one will be no challenge.”
“Oh? I take it you won’t mind watching over her alone once I rest, once she’ll be here?”
The mere thought of Daemon, the Rogue Prince, Commander of the City’s watch, rider of Caraxes, her lord husband, hardened with battles and always hiding his real emotions behind an impenetrable steel armor, taking care of a whaling baby is… entertaining. Certainly, it won’t be the first time, and he won’t be alone, but she will be here to witness it, and his precious daughters Baela and Rhaena will happily laugh with her at the sight.
He grimaces, a jest, before bending to kiss her stomach.
“No matter. This babe will come soon. And we’ll present them to their siblings, the other truthful heirs to the truthful Queen.” His smile is harsher, as it becomes once politics are brought up.
“They will.” She simply nods, peacefully caressing his cheek before a burst of pain shakes her belly.
Daemon acts immediately, encapsulating her in his arms to walk her to the bed rapidly, shoving the furs out of the way for her to lay on top of her cushions, whining quietly, eyes squeezed shot. Like a lance to her lower stomach, the kick harshly pushes the air from her lungs, stinging her and contorting her insides in a cold wave of pain. Her husband’s hand remains on her arm, away from her belly, squeezing her flesh lightly as the insufferable movement from the babe finally stops, position in her womb sufficiently comfortable for now. Daemon shushes her, caressing her heated skin as if appeasing her the same way he does Caraxes: with love and trust, but ordering nonetheless. Rhaenyra senses her skin starting to pearl with sweat, the back of her platinum hair sticking with her effort to remain calm and silent.
“... Seven hells…” She breathes out, a displeased groan and stormy eyes glaring at him.
He smiles back at her, almost boyish, if his look of admiration and anticipation is anything but. His grasp remains on her arm, while the other hand cups at her cheek.
“He’s coming, my love…” She whispers to him, complicit, secretly, as if speaking loudly would permit her body to enter the excruciating child-birthing process. “He’s coming.”
Daemon nods, clear eyes blinking, face contorted by his wide smile, a trace of dimple gracing his cheeks. He seems angelic like so: nothing but joy, nothing but anticipation for them. Rhaenyra recalls her youth, when she’d find him seated on her father’s throne, smirking arrogantly, when he’d slip a precious valyrian necklace around her neck while intently avoiding her skin, when they’d converse in secret, about love, about pleasure, about his wife at the time. Her uncle has smiled at her in numerous ways, and had even glared at her like he would an enemy. He had attempted to be cold and prudent, just as he had been passionate. But this adoring expression, this thrill in his eyes, this devotion in his presence, she had seen only at their wedding.
Daemon presses a kiss to her temple again, lips traveling to her own, kissing her tenderly, to show support rather than start the fire that brought them to this exact moment.
“He’s coming, Rhaenyra.”
The nurses, ever observant, and surely having pressed their ears to the door for any sight of a contraction, soon arrive, cloths, warm water, and milk of the poppy in hand, yet Daemon remains by her side readily, holding her hand until the labor begins officially, where he leaves with a certain smile, readily striding to warn their family of the arrival of yet another brother.