Work Text:
Maekar is not sure how long he can sit there anymore, listening to your screams and whimpers on the other side of the door. He wants to storm in, consequences be damned, but some force holds him still. Be it fear or propriety, he does not know, but he cannot get his legs to move. They feel as if they’ve been buried to the floor amongst the stone slabs, built into the hallway itself.
Aegon peers from around the corner, eyes wide and filled with worry. Having sent his sons away so he wouldn’t have to worry over them worrying for you, Maekar considers sending him on his way with an angry exclamation. But he cannot find it himself as his youngest (though hopefully not for long) slowly scuffles to his side on the bench, movements slightly hesitant. The boy settles next to him, swinging his legs as they dangle from the bench. Father and son sit in silence, your cries fewer, more silent now. But he still flinches every time.
Aegon studies him for a moment before reaching over to gently place his smaller hand atop his. Maekar’s fingers twitch, but he doesn’t pull away. His knee bounces as he strains to hear, hoping for any noise, an indication of what is going on in the birthing suite. To him, this hallway outside is the most dreaded place in the whole of the kingdoms. It is where he was given all of his sons, but it is also the place where he has worried over and over again, unable to help or do anything. Prince Maekar Targaryen has fought and won wars and countless tourneys, but here, he can only sit, listen, and pray.
And then there is a wail, bright and unmistakable. Maekar’s back straightens as chatter, light and happy, can be heard on the other side of the door. He is on his feet in a matter of seconds, the fastest Aegon has ever seen him move, as the door creaks open.
“You may enter now, my prince.” The poor healer stumbles as he is unceremoniously shoved aside, Maekar barging in. His heart stutters in relief as he sees you sitting up in bed, a small bundle in your arms.
“Come closer, my darling.” You coo, and he does, kneeling by your bedside. He cannot even feel the cold, hard stone under his knees as he brushes your hair off your face.
Your forehead is still glistening with sweat, your left eye red with a burst blood vessel. But you smile warmly at him, unwinding the bundle to reveal a sleeping babe. He presses a gentle kiss to your temple, and his expression is warm, so gentle that you feel your cheeks heat. Your husband is not a man of gentle touches, loving looks, or flowery words, but he is a loving, good husband. And you can see the pride and joy in his expression, without him having to say anything.
White hair, so like his, peeks out from under the fabric of the bundle. You follow his gaze as if it flits around the babe’s face, taking in his fifth child for the first time.
“She has your eyes, too.” You smile, and his thoughts stutter to a stop.
“S-She?”
“Yes. You have a daughter, my love. A Targaryen princess.” He is silent and still for a moment. He hadn’t thought of the possibility of a daughter, presumed (without any true attestations) that his fifth would be a son, too. He’s so used to the thought of being the father of sons, only sons, that he didn’t even think of having fathered a daughter.
But now, she is here, the first Targaryen princess since her great-aunt Daenerys. Sleeping peacefully in her mother’s arms, protected from all the evil of the world. A small hand is wound into the fabric, decorated with hours of your embroidery work.
You hold your daughter out to Maekar, for him to hold, and you see him hesitate. He stares at his hands, large and hardened by battle, scars crossing over the backs of them. How can he hold something so small, so innocent, when his hands are used do things so much harsher?
“Hold her.” Not giving him a chance to pull away or argue, you move her into his arms, and he stills, staring at her.
“She is so small.” Maekar breathes, and you bite your lip to keep a laugh, but cannot stop the smile that spreads to your lips. He sees it and glowers, but his eyes slide closed as you cup his cheek, thumb brushing over the pox scars on his cheeks, skin prickling with the edge of his beard. The small girl shifts with a whimper and opens her eyes. Violet eyes meet as she inspects the man in front of her. And smiles.
Maekar’s whole world shifts at that moment.
One simple smile, and he would be ready to burn everything down if it meant keeping her warm. The room is quiet as you watch your husband staring silently at his daughter, wonder and love in his eyes. His large finger gently traces her plump cheek, gaze taking her in with marvel. You think you see tears gather at the corners of his eyes, but you do not mention it, now or ever. (Alright, you do: but only a few dozen times, and always in private!)
The door creaks, and Aegon’s head peers in, stiffening as he realizes he’s been caught as your eyes meet. Maekar cannot find it in himself to scold the boy as he sees your smile. The boy cranes his neck to perhaps get a peek at his new sibling.
“Come meet your sister.” You invite, and he hurries to the room, climbing to kneel onto the bed as he peers into the bundle of blankets, still in his father’s arms.
Aegon is silent for a moment, taking in the little girl, who is now drifting to sleep again.
“A sister? What is her name?” Large eyes stare at you, curious and happy, and you glance at Maekar.
“We’ve not chosen yet.” You glance at the girl, voice warm, the babe still content in her father’s arms.
“You should pick a strong name.” Aegon decrees, and you laugh, ruffling his hair. He is always so assured, even at such a young age.
“Where are your brothers?” Maekar is still unable to tear his eyes away from his daughter and does not see Aegon’s shrug.
“I saw Daeron with a bottle of wine in the morrow. Aerion was at the training grounds when I last saw him.” A tense silence, the difficult relationships between the brothers stewing in the air between the four of you.
“Can we write to Aemon that she’s been born?” Eyes filled with hope, he stares at his father, who sighs, preparing to shake his head. Your hand grasps his wrist, and Maekar’s eyes meet yours.
“You should go. Make the announcements to your father, brother, and the kingdom. Find Daeron and Aerion and bring them to greet their sister. Then we’ll be able to rest and enjoy the evening together as a family.” Aegon jumps up and flits out of the room, excited to write to his favourite brother. You reach to take your daughter back into your arms, and Maekar hesitantly returns her to you, hand smoothing over her silvery hair.
Maekar stands with a groan and presses a kiss to your temple. Regarding the two of you on the bed, he stares silently for a moment.
“Daella,” he says, looking at you and the babe in turn, “She should be called Daella.” You nod, smiling down at her before raising your gaze back to his. Delicate and Targaryen, just as she is. Your daughter, Daella. He stills once more before he leaves the room, turning around in the doorway, to take the two of you in again.
You are cooing gently at your daughter, unfastening the bindings of your dress as she begins to whimper.
“Don’t you worry, my little dragon, I am here.” As he strides down the corridor, as Aegon’s eager step still echoes in the hall, he cannot quite grasp how he has been so blessed in life.
*****
Maekar steps into his brother’s study, impatient. It is the first time in a week he has truly left your and the babe’s side, the first since he made the announcements, and he is anxious to get back. Acknowledging him with a nod, Baelor hands him a pile of letters, all of them seemingly carrying a seal of a different house.
“Letters from various lords have arrived throughout the week as the news of your daughter’s birth has spread. They’re hoping for an alliance through marriage, offering their sons as potential suitors.” Maekar stares at the letters for a moment before he simply tosses the whole pile into the fireplace.
Baelor glances at them, twisting as flames engulf the dry parchment, before returning his eyes to his brother.
“You could have responded, it would have been polite-“
“Fuck polite. My daughter is mere weeks old, I am not going sit and write letters, and plan to auction her off like fucking cattle.” Maekar barks, the door slamming shut behind him.
Baelor glances at the letters in the fireplace, now collapsed into ash, and allows himself a small, satisfied smile. Gods help the poor Lord who is next to question the Anvil of his daughter’s marriage prospects. The only Targaryen princess will have a long line of suitors vying for her hand, but they will have to get past Maekar first.