PRIDE & GUILT, cregan stark

000

PRINCESS RHAENYRA'S HEIR.

— the prologue

Barely nine months had passed by since the tragic white wedding of Princess Rhaenyra and Ser Laenor of House Velaryon, which was a very happy and swell time for the King, who to his utter joy, found he was to become a Grandsire all too quickly after the couple came together in celebration of their joining Houses.  A little tightly pulled together, but something that was ignored by the proud man who huddled around his eldest child.

The Princess of Dragonstone had often found herself sitting alone, her hand on the bump that stretched outwards from with her belly, calculating any movements that would be caused by her unborn child's hand or foot, fascinated by the way she was always responded back to eagerly whenever she poked her delicate pale skin.  A smile would dance on her lips, never more excited than that moment to meet her baby. Even if it had taken some time to accept the truth of the future.

Lord Corlys Velaryon and Princess Rhaenys Targaryen had both travelled back to Kings Landing for the birth of their grandson. Their first grandchild. Pride had been the only shine to Lord Corlys since he'd found out the news — some dare say he'd even twisted the salt into the wounds of others.

It'd be his grandson, wouldn't it? It'd be his grandson who sat the Iron Throne after his son's wife. It'd be his blood and his name in the history books.

And he was prouder than the King himself with such a knowledge. Lord Corlys had pestered Laenor beyond humoured relief when he'd spot the Velaryon without the presence of his Targaryen wife by his side.

And ever since the announcement of Rhaenyra and Laenor's first growing babe had been made, Lord Corlys had grown cold toward the competition. Calculating toward Queen Alicent Hightower and protective over the bump and it's future.

A pained huff ripped through the sweaty air as she gripped one of the midwives hands that had been extended to her, attempting to breathe more steadily but failing to do so out of sheer exhaustion. Her head ached to lift and shake in protest.

She often wondered what it would be like labouring, what her Mother had suffered through time and time again, and this was far beyond her expectation. It felt like everything was on fire. Every muscle she possessed screaming at her.

"It is alright," The midwife reassures, or rather lies, to her, the Princess continuing to shake her head in a hurried rush. "You shall be just fine. The baby will be here quickly, Princess. The head is crowning."

Rhaenyra's eyes squeezed shut as a small cry of agony followed, not bothering to turn her head and muffle the sound with her shoulder. Despite knowing it would be painful, often attempting to prep herself with visions to prepare herself, this went above her first thoughts in the most innocent of ways. All that haunted her thoughts was how dangerous it was for women to give birth. How many fell during it and after to fever.

"Princess, please. You must push or this babe shall not survive the labour."

The midwife's exclaim causes panic to beam through Rhaenyra. The possibility had somehow slipped her mind that her son was also in a dangerous state and not just herself. A shaky nod in acceptance was all she gave in response.

She couldn't lose the child she carried.

Not when she had waited months for them. Not when her fingers had cradled across her stretchmarks and her voice had whispered in announcement of who she was. When she, alone as Laenor swam in his own lake of misery and grief over Ser Joffrey, only had her child as company. As her love. As her everything.