𝐁𝐔𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐆𝐎𝐋𝐃 ━━ we have built cathedrals out of spite and splintered bone / of course they aren't pretty, nothing holy ever is.
the targaryens are above than
men but less than gods, they
wil...
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SIMILAR TO EVERY NAMING DAY she's been through, every aspect of the day is rash and heavy. While the rest of the realm gather where the tourney will be held. Daenys remained in the main chambers of the Red Keep against her father's wishes of joining the council and Rhaenyra.
Distress hangs on her skin like a stubborn itch, it fades and rises from the pit of her stomach until it crawls to her fragile throat. Soft whimpers will then spill from the Targaryen girl.
Queen Aemma is in pain and so is her eldest daughter.
"You'll miss the tourney, sweet girl," the woman draws every breath deep and difficult, her silver locks soaked in sweat and tears as she lay in the birthing bed.
"There will be others, mother. I prefer to be here anyway."
Despite the storm of turmoil blooming inside her chest, Daenys forces a huge smile and clasp her mother's hand tighter than ever. Birth has always been a sore subject to the princess, the horrors of the past lingers in memories that come in flashes and stunned silences. She will always be reminded of the cruel fate her Lannister mother, Lady Cierra, met the day Daenys was born.
A golden lion on a bed of summer roses.
In the course of ten years the young woman had witnessed every complication and sickness that comes with carrying and delivering a child. With the queen losing one child in the cradle, two stillbirths, and two miscarriages - five failed attempts in a decade at this point Daenys should be used to it now. And yet she isn't.
Watching her mother in agony is only relieving the first time it happened.
The smell of cultured herbs and olive oil wafts on the thick air inside the chambers, the grand maester along with midwives stroll the room back and forth as they prepare for the actual birth. They seem to be anticipating for the queen's labors to end before another hour passes. Daenys is with them on that one.
"Kessa sagon toliot aderī, aōha dārōñe." It will be over soon, your grace.
A weak grin appears on Aemma's face from her child's slip of a tongue in Valyrian.
"Don't call me that," she scoffs at her child. "You are a wreck again, Dany. Don't be, all will be well."
The blonde could only nod and stay firm on her seat, she dampens a wet cloth on the older one's belly. Her skin is now covered in a flimsy sweat, milk and plant oils.
"Princess," Mellos approaches her side. "We have to move the queen on the birthing stool now."
"Is her labor over yet?"
"It should be by now. The babe must have a massage to come out."
Servant women carefully lift the queen to transfer her from the bed to the chair. They say it will be easier to deliver the child when sat. Daenys hovers the grand maester in a distance, not wanting to be separated from her mother.
