Chapter Text
Rhaenyra had been in labor since before dawn.
By midday, the entire Red Keep seemed to know it, and the halls were full of chatter about the long-awaited heir of the Crown Princess.
Maids hurried through the corridors carrying hot water and fresh linens with great haste. Grand Maester Mellos had been present since her first pains began, though there was little he could do beyond supplying his remedies and informing the king that the labor was progressing as it ought.
Outside the birthing chamber, Viserys paced restlessly.
He had been doing so for hours.
Laenor had hovered by the door, trying to discern any words other than the screams coming from Rhaenyra, only to be told by the midwife that he would likely be more useful if he got away from the door and stopped obstructing the constant stream of supplies.
So he resorted to hovering a little farther from the door instead, much to the ire of the midwife.
“You might wear a path into the floor if you continue doing that, Your Grace,” Laenor made an attempt at a jest, though it was humorless.
Viserys stopped and glared at him, though not with any real heat.
“I am the king. I may do whatever I please.”
Laenor smiled faintly.
“Of course, Your Grace.”
Viserys continued to glare at him before resuming his pacing.
Then another cry came from behind the door. It sounded inhuman, twisted, and hardly recognizable as Rhaenyra’s voice.
Viserys froze.
For a moment, he was no longer outside Rhaenyra’s chambers. He was back in another chamber, years ago, listening to the tortured screams of his beloved wife as Mellos cut her open like livestock.
Aemma.
His face turned ashen, and his legs seemed to wobble beneath him.
His daughter was in that room.
His little girl.
Laenor looked worried.
“Your Grace.”
Viserys swallowed hard.
“She will be all right.”
He said it as though saying the words would make them true, though he was not sure if he was trying to console himself or simply convincing himself to believe them.
Laenor nodded.
“She will.”
But there was not much certainty in his voice either, and he sounded almost as unsure as Viserys felt.
Inside, Rhaenyra was starting to think that whoever had decided women were meant to endure this pain deserved to burn for all eternity.
Another contraction came.
She gripped the sheets as another scream tore from her throat.
The midwives flocked around her, saying words of encouragement and telling her to breathe.
Rhaenyra barely resisted the urge to tell them where precisely they could stick their advice. Instead, she tried to breathe, each breath coming out raggedly as her throat burned from screaming.
Gods.
She had never imagined anything could hurt this much.
At the least, she could remind herself that every new wave of pain brought her closer to the end.
Her child, her firstborn, was coming.
Her heir.
Jacaerys if it was a boy. Visenya if it was a girl.
She had chosen the names a fortnight ago.
She imagined the herald announcing Prince Jacaerys Velaryon of Dragonstone or Princess Visenya Velaryon of Dragonstone. Heir or heiress to the Iron Throne.
The thought alone brought a tired smile to her lips.
She had imagined Alicent’s face when she heard it. Surely her old friend’s face would twist in anger, and she would blubber on about how Rhaenyra always got what she wanted, even when it was Alicent herself, the ever-so-dutiful wife who sacrificed so much.
She relished in the fact that despite all the scheming and plotting she and her snake of a father had done, Rhaenyra and her child were still the heirs.
Let them whisper and scheme.
My child will be the future of House Targaryen.
She imagined herself or Laenor holding their precious child.
She imagined his face when he first saw their child, imagined the way he would laugh and fuss over the babe.
Their marriage had never been what the realm expected of it. But Laenor was her dear cousin, and they were close friends. They had allowed each other freedom from their marriage arrangement as long as they did their duty.
He had stood beside her as the court of vipers continued to attempt to undermine her at every turn. And with him, she had the support of Princess Rhaenys, the Queen Who Never Was, Corlys, and the might of House Velaryon.
Whatever else could be said of their marriage, Rhaenyra would never forget his kindness.
Another contraction seized her, and she cried out as the midwife leaned over her.
“Almost there, Princess.”
Rhaenyra shut her eyes and groaned.
“That’s what you said an hour ago.”
The woman gave her a reassuring smile.
“And now I mean it. Push, Princess!”
Rhaenyra had just enough breath left to curse her, though the midwife seemed entirely unfazed at the insult. She must have heard worse during countless other births to care much for it.
Then the pain became overwhelming, and the room blurred as people moved around her.
The sheets twisted beneath her fingers, and the world seemed to spin.
Despite the pain, one thought remained clear in her head.
Please, let it look like me.
She needed the babe to.
It was vital to the child's own safety.
Those silver strands, those violet eyes... Her babe needed to look Valyrian. The babe could not be born looking like someone else. Least of all with the damning brown hair or brown eyes.
Not when half the court were already waiting like hungry wolves circling their prey, eager for the slightest excuse to label the child a bastard, weaken her claim, and supplant her with her brother Aegon, especially with so many familiar with Laenor’s romantic preferences.
One wrong feature, one wrong shade of hair, or one wrong shade of eyes was all it would take to destroy her child’s life.
And if there was anyone Rhaenyra could blame for the vultures now circling her and her unborn child, it was Criston Cole.
For some absurd reason, Alicent and her faction seemed to believe that Rhaenyra was having an affair with her new sworn shield, Harwin Strong, and that the child she carried was fathered by him.
For a moment, Rhaenyra wished that it were true. At least her child’s father would be on her side and not a loyal dog to the queen.
Fuck you, Criston.
It was his child that she carried.
His seed that had brought her to this birthing bed, left her alone to endure this agonizing pain, and left him conspiring with her enemies.
And what had he done when she tried to tell him?
He had refused to believe her and turned her away, thinking that she had drunk the moon tea her father had ordered to be brought to her. Just because she had refused to elope with him and abandon her title to sell oranges and cinnamon in Essos.
She was a fool for ever thinking he cared about her.
Damn him.
Another wave of pain tore through her.
She gripped the sheets and pushed with what little strength she had left.
Damn Criston Cole and damn Alicent.
And then—
A cry pierced through the haze of pain as the midwife gave the newborn a quick smack on its bottom, prompting an indignant wail from the little thing.
Rhaenyra froze.
For several heartbeats, she could only stare as the midwife quickly checked the newborn, ensuring that the babe had the correct number of limbs, before wiping away the blood and fluids and swaddling her child in a clean cloth embroidered with dragons and seahorses.
Rhaenyra could barely breathe.
Please.
Then the midwife placed the newborn against her.
“Congratulations, princess. You have a hale and bonny son.”
Rhaenyra looked down at her baby quickly.
What she found almost made her cry. It seemed that her prayers had been answered.
Her son bore clear Valyrian features. He possessed fine silver hair, violet eyes, and a tiny, angry face.
Her face.
Her breath caught.
“Oh.”
The babe squirmed in protest against her chest and let out another wail of indignation.
Rhaenyra laughed, though the sound came out exhausted and made her wince in pain.
“Hello.”
The child quieted and peered up at her through teary eyes. She touched one tiny, flushed cheek.
“Jacaerys.”
Her son.
Her beautiful son.
She stared down at him, scarcely able to believe that he was truly here.
For all the pain, all the fear, all the uncertainty… He was alive and hale.
And he looked exactly as she had prayed he would.
And for the first time that day, Rhaenyra dared to hope that everything was going to be all right.
The door opened, and Laenor and Viserys entered together.
Viserys looked terrified. He had tried to assure himself that Rhaenyra would be safe; the maester had also assured him that her labor was going well, but every scream she let out made those assurances feel hollow.
Then his eyes settled upon his daughter.
She was propped up by several pillows, and in her arms was a tiny, swaddled babe.
His face crumpled in relief.
“Rhaenyra. The maester and midwives said you are all right, but I was so worried.”
“Father, I am fine,” Rhaenyra reassured him as Viserys crossed the room at once, reaching for her hand.
Laenor approached the bed from the other side.
She looked up at her husband with a smile.
“You may meet Prince Jacaerys Velaryon.”
Laenor’s expression broke into a smile.
“My son?”
Rhaenyra rolled her eyes with a mischievous smile on her lips.
“Your son.”
For a moment, he simply stared at the babe.
“By the fourteen, he looks exactly like you!”
She cocked an eyebrow.
“Only like me?”
Laenor looked down at the child again, studying the tiny face as though committing every feature to memory.
“A little like me as well.”
Their eyes met. For a moment, neither said anything.
Rhaenyra’s eyes flickered briefly to Jace’s complexion, which was a shade darker than hers, and a shade lighter than Laenor’s.
It was a small thing. But in their world, small things could mean everything.
“He is my son and will grow up to be a true Targaryen and Velaryon,” Laenor said reassuringly, giving her hand a squeeze.
They both knew the implied meaning behind what he meant.
I claim him as mine.
“Yes,” she whispered, smiling faintly.
She was grateful for Laenor.
Any other husband would have surely been repulsed at the babe’s true parentage, might have looked upon him with resentment or shame. But Laenor had claimed her child as his own without hesitation, not out of obligation, but because he was Laenor. Her cousin. Her friend. And a good and honorable man.
She gave his hand a small squeeze in return.
Across from them, Viserys had gone very still. He was also looking at the baby, his eyes filled with tears as he was reminded of Aemma and Baelon, and how close he was to losing Rhaenyra and her son in the same fashion.
“My grandson.”
A laugh escaped him, broken with relief.
He reached down and touched Jacaerys's tiny hand. The babe curled his fingers around his grandfather's.
Gods, he looks so much like Aemma.
A tear trickled down Viserys’ face.
Rhaenyra watched him quietly. She knew what he was seeing.
For a moment, neither father nor daughter spoke.
Rhaenyra exchanged a smile with Laenor.
“Your heir.”
Viserys looked at her with great fondness. For a moment, he could see Aemma in her again, the same stubbornness he had loved so dearly. The Aemma he had condemned to death with his relentless pursuit for a male heir. The resemblance hurt.
But Rhaenyra was smiling. She and her babe were alive, and that was all that mattered.
He leaned down and kissed her forehead.
“You have made me very proud, my dear girl.”
Rhaenyra closed her eyes. She was too exhausted to say anything. So she simply smiled.
“Good.”
Alicent came soon after.
She had been waiting anxiously in her chambers, unable to concentrate on anything while Rhaenyra’s screams carried through the halls of the Red Keep. Each cry made her stomach twist.
Spoilt and wanton as the princess was, Alicent still found herself clutching the seven-pointed star and praying beneath her breath that her friend and the babe would both survive the ordeal, though she knew her father would have given her a good smack over the head had he been there.
He would have insisted that it would be best for them if the babe perished, and better still if Rhaenyra perished along with it. Alicent knew that was true, but she could not bring herself to wish Rhaenyra and her babe such a horrid fate, not now that she was a mother herself, and especially not when Rhaenyra had once been her dearest friend, though Rhaenyra had spurned her.
When the screaming finally ceased, she was on her feet at once and hurried through the Red Keep, Ser Criston following closely behind her as her sworn shield. Though relief for Rhaenyra propelled her forward, so did another thought. She needed to see the child with her own eyes. It was the evidence of Rhaenyra’s lustful behavior and affair with Harwin Strong, after all. She would not give anyone else the chance to hide whatever the babe’s appearance might reveal.
When she finally reached Rhaenyra’s chambers, Ser Harwin Strong stood guard outside the doors as Rhaenyra’s sworn shield. Ser Criston stopped at the threshold and took his place beside Harwin.
“Ser Criston.”
“Ser Harwin.”
They acknowledged each other, though Criston threw Harwin a venomous look that Harwin did not notice.
Alicent spared Harwin a glance.
How remarkably composed he looked.
For a man whose lover had just endured the pains of childbirth to bring his bastard son into the world, he seemed far less troubled than she would have expected. Perhaps men simply had an easier time hiding their guilt.
She pushed open the door and entered, her eyes immediately going to Rhaenyra.
The princess was dozing against the pillows, her face pale with exhaustion. Viserys sat beside her, still grasping her hand, while Laenor stood near the cradle, watching the sleeping babe with a soft look upon his face.
She fought the urge to scoff.
How very touching.
The sound of the door opening stirred Rhaenyra from her sleep. Her eyes fluttered open.
“Alicent,” she acknowledged, though there was no warmth behind it.
Alicent’s traitorous heart tightened at the sight of her long-estranged friend, alive but tired. Viserys stood up and moved next to his daughter, smiling.
“Husband. Rhaenyra. Ser Laenor,” she acknowledged, taking a few steps closer. “May I see him?”
Rhaenyra’s eyes narrowed slightly. She knew Alicent too well to believe that the queen had hurried here merely out of concern.
No, she wanted to see if Jace bore traces of someone other than Laenor.
Still, she gave a faint nod. It was not as if Alicent would see anything other than her in the babe. Jace was hers through and through, with no traces of Harwin that Alicent would expect to see.
“Of course.”
Alicent approached the cradle slowly. Laenor gave her a look, his expression guarded. He knew as well as Rhaenyra why Alicent had come rushing into the room.
Alicent ignored him. She would see the truth for herself soon enough. As she peered into the cradle, the babe stirred beneath his swaddling, his eyes opening slightly before he closed them again.
Her eyes widened.
The babe was unmistakably Valyrian. Silver hair covered his tiny head, and his eyes had been amethyst when he had opened them.
There was no brown hair, no brown eyes, not a single damning piece of evidence that the babe was sired by Harwin Strong. The babe looked remarkably like Rhaenyra. Hells, he could easily pass for a son of Laenor's with his slightly darker complexion.
Maybe he is Laenor’s son. And Rhaenyra had done her duty for once.
An unwanted voice in the back of her mind chittered.
Alicent pushed it away.
No, it does not mean anything.
She had heard the rumors too many times. She had seen Rhaenyra’s closeness with Harwin and how the knight hovered much too close to her as if she was his lover, the smiles they exchanged with each other when they thought none were watching.
She knew that Rhaenyra would certainly have no shame in taking Harwin into her bed. Ser Criston had informed her himself of Rhaenyra’s wanton ways, of how she had used him for pleasure and thrown him aside without a care for his honor.
Surely this was the product of Rhaenyra’s sin.
And yet, as she looked down at the babe, Alicent could find nothing.
“Hello, Jacaerys.”
The little prince stirred and looked up at her with his amethyst eyes.
Alicent smiled despite herself. “He likes me.”
Whatever resentment she harbored toward his mother, the child himself was blameless. He had done nothing to deserve the whispers that already surrounded his birth.
Rhaenyra looked at her, suspicion lingering in her eyes.
“You shouldn't get too attached to him.”
A flare of annoyance went through Alicent at the remark. As though she could not be trusted near the child simply because of the enmity between them.
“I think it is already too late for that,” she said instead.
Rhaenyra's expression remained guarded, but she said nothing more.
Neither of them knew then how prophetic those words would become.