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On the 15th day of the third moon, 114 years after Aegon's Conquest, the skies of Kings Landing were unusually clear. Not a single man, woman or child, noble and smallfolk alike, could spot even one cloud in the Heavens above. Neither could the Princess Rhaenyra, who had been in her labors since the dawn of the previous day.
As the sun made its track over the peculiarly clear sky, Rhaenyra wailed a battle cry from the birthing bed, bitterly remembering the words of her dear late mother. "We have royal wombs, you and I," Her mother had said, "The childbed is our battlefield. We must learn to face it with a stiff lip." Rhaenyra certainly faced it, but with a stiff lip, she did not.
It was said that the people of the Red Keep could hear her cries echoed by her mount, Syrax, for nearly 30 hours before another wail joined the cacophony—the telltale shriek of a healthy babe. As soon as the cord was cut, Rhaenyra reached for the child; a girl, the Maester announced with a poorly contained grimace. The Realm's Delight paid no mind, for she felt no greater joy than that of holding her firstborn daughter.
She was every bit Velaryon as she was Targaryen; sweet brown skin beneath caked blood and fluid, a button nose, and a prominent tuft of white hair atop her head. But what truly made her a perfect Valyrian princess were her eyes, a bright lavender that looked so curiously at the world around her, desperate to take in everything she saw even in the first moments of her life. When they settled on her weeping mother, the babe calmed, closing her eyes and nuzzling into Rhaenyra's chest.
Once she was cleaned, Grand Maester Mellos ushered in a nerve wracked Laenor Velaryon. Once the knight laid eyes on his daughter, however, all of his nerves washed away like seafoam on the Blackwater.
"Tis a beautiful day to have a daughter, is it not?" He'd jested after looking out the window to the great blue sky.
He loved Rhaenyra, but not in the way a husband loved his lady wife. His tastes lied elsewhere, but after a drunken night with his fellow men, he shared a bed with Rhaenyra only once - but it was enough for his seed to quicken, resulting in the beautiful girl that laid before them on that beautiful morning. A very deep, shameful part of him felt a wave of satisfaction. He had done his duty to his wife and the Realm. He had made his father proud. But more than that, his brand new daughter resembled his dear sister Laena, and just that was enough for him.
When Mellos asked if the Princess and Ser Laenor had chosen a name for the girl, Rhaenyra smiled, not taking her eyes from the beauty before her. The bells atop the Sept rung continuously, marking the birth of Princess Vaera of House Velaryon, First of Her Name. She would not inherit the Iron Throne - her older brother, Jacaerys held that honor - but it mattered not to her mother and father. What mattered was that she was healthy and loved - and loved, she would be.
King Viserys fell in love with the babe as soon as she was placed in his arms. His first granddaughter. He saw his Aemma in the eyes of Vaera, and thus dubbed her the Beauty of the Realm.
Prince Aemond Targaryen would not meet his niece for 2 moons after that. At the tender age of four, he and Aegon were dragged to the nursery by his elder sister, Helaena, when he laid eyes on Vaera's cradle.
The wetnurse stood beside the cradle, beckoning the young princes and princess over with a gentle smile.
"Come, my princes, my princess, say hello to your niece," the wetnurse said softly.
Aemond peered over the cradle, where baby Vaera slept contentedly.
"She's so lovely," Helaena swooned.
"She's so... small," Aemond said, a little confused.
Aegon snorted. "That's because all babies are small, brother," he said, ever the know-it-all.
Aemond ignored the taunting of his brother, eyes trained on Vaera. She began to squirm as if she felt her uncle's unwavering gaze, and when her eyes finally opened, Aemond thought he'd never seen something so precious in his life.
