Chapter Text
She is not awake for the birth, savage thing that it is. The pains linger yet she is grateful—immensely so that she does not have to go through such a life-altering event. Not that having a child is not life-altering—of which she now suddenly has two. Well, three, but the first is long dead by the time that she has awakened—washed away by the cold river waters.
This baby is immeasurably sweet, especially for such a young one. Freshly born and she is already cooing quietly. She has always liked babies though never had any of her own. She had been the eldest, once upon a time. The eldest sibling; the eldest cousin. She had looked after children before. Had held babies maybe not quite so small as this one but nearly as young.
This was her baby. It hardly makes sense to her. This is her baby. This is her room in her land. Except it isn’t. They belong to the body she possesses, the woman who had truly died in childbirth and given way to the unnaturalness that was her. Her name is not Rhaella but it is the only name she knows.
Sweet baby Daenerys—because that is the only one it can be—has tucked her face into her breast and fallen into a swift sleep. She puffs small breaths out just above her heart and is that not accurate? She is sure that she was brought here for the tiny baby girl that now uses her body as a pillow. She is to be the mother of an astonishing woman in a cruel time.
(And she is to be the mother of perhaps one of the cruelest men. Viserys is little more than an afterthought in this moment; a seven-year-old boy not yet a man. Not yet a monster. Perhaps, he never will be. Daenerys will never be the cause of his mothers death. She will never call his ire for the fact of her birth, of her life. Perhaps.)
There is a thundering crack and chamber—sparsely illuminated by dim, burning candles—alights from the lightning that had struck, and continues to strike the viscous turning sea over and over. Yet, Daenerys does not stir. She suckles on her lip and presses further into her breast, as if trying to crawl back into the womb from which she came.
Daenerys Stormborn indeed.
If she had it her way, that would be the little babes only title. There would be no need for her to learn that she does not burn; for her to become a mother at the tender age of fourteen. She would not be a Khaleesi. She would not have to conquer cities and break the chains of others. She needs only to live. Perhaps in that little house in Braavos with the red door.
In Braavos they would be safe. She had loved Game of Thrones and A Song of Ice and Fire. Most of all, she loved the culture, the rich histories that were barely explored upon. Braavos took no slaves and though they disliked Targaryens, they would not kill a mother and her children.
She could take up her old job, join the healers in the House of the Red Hands. With the coin and luxury she could squander from Dragonstone they could purchase a house and teachers for Daenerys—perhaps get her a first sword to mentor her. Because a daughter of hers—which she had decided Daenerys was, true mother or no—would never be left defenseless in a world like this.
The plan came to place in her mind as she sat and Daenerys slept. The storm was little more than white noise pouring from her ears. This storm would destroy the rest of the Targaryen ships. But, she was pretty sure it was what stopped Stannis from reaching Dragonstone before they left for Essos. A curse and a blessing in equal measure.
Maybe, it was two blessings. Without a fleet, no one could try and seize power in the Targaryen name in her absence. These lords would have no power over her. In fact, she would mightily like it if they have nothing left of her at all. She would like her name to be a whisper in the wind; a debate for future historians over whether or not she existed. That would be true peace.
She looked down at the babe at her breast and closed her eyes. First, she had to sleep.