A Bond Between Dragons

the dragons roar [002]

The world was blurred by pain, sharp and unyielding, as Rhaenyra Targaryen lay gasping for breath. Her skin was damp with sweat, her muscles straining with the primal force of childbirth. Every breath was a battle, and each wave of pain threatened to pull her under. Despite everything, Rhaenyra clung to the linens underneath her with an iron grip. She'd gone through this pain twice before, and both times had tested her will, but this time she would persevere.

The chamber had a soft glow from flickering candles and a strong aroma of burning herbs and lavender that was supposed to soothe her discomfort.  But there was no easing the storm raging within her body, no respite from the relentless rhythm of life being torn into the world.

"Keep breathing."

Rhaenyra's brow furrowed; her teeth gritted as another contraction gripped her. Her voice was raspy with weariness as she groaned softly, but her fierce gaze stayed fixed on the midwives rushing about her. Rhaenyra did not hear them murmur among themselves, their hands trained and swift as they got ready for the birth. The pounding of her own heartbeat, the sheer effort of bringing a child into the world—this was all-consuming.

"And push," the midwife whispered firmly.

Rhaenyra felt the urge to push swell inside her, an instinct so powerful it erased all conscious thought. The child was stubborn, lingering in her womb far longer than either Jacaerys or Lucerys had. This one fought against her every breath, every contraction, as though unwilling to be born.

"And again."

"I... I can't," Rhaenyra panted, her voice trembling.

"Push!"

It was maddening, terrifying, but she pushed again, tears spilling down her face as she gave everything left in her.

"The head!" The midwife cheered,

Summoning every last ounce of strength, Rhaenyra bore down with one final, desperate push.  Screwing her eyes shut, she bore down with all the force she could muster. She let out a guttural, primal cry, her back arching from the effort.

"A boy, Princess," the older midwife hummed, satisified with Rhaenyra's efforts, giving her a small nod.

"Praise the Mother!"

Rhaenyra blinked through her haze of pain and fatigue, barely able to register the child in the midwife's arms. Her eyes fluttered with the effort of keeping them open, but a wave of pride—though faint—flickered within her chest. Another son. A third son.

"Healthy?" Rhaenyra asked, with a slight tremble of her lips, her eyes fluttering over to look at where the babe had been taken.

"Kicking like a goat, Princess."

Letting out a forced laugh, Rhaenyra extended her arms, grasping out for her son, who let out a cry to let the world know that he was here. But before Rhaenyra could fully grasp the joy of her son's birth, the heavy knock on the door broke the fragile calm. It was sharp, insistent.

"Princess..." Elinda stepped forward, her head hanging low as if ashamed to make eye contact with her. "The Queen has requested that the child be brought to her... immediately."

Rhaenyra's exhaustion morphed into cold anger. She had just endured the most excruciating hours of her life, and now, before she could even hold her newborn son, the Queen—Alicent—demanded his presence.

"Why?"

Her hands, shaking from the exertion, gripped the sheets tightly as she forced herself to sit up, ignoring the ache in every part of her body.

"I'll take him to her myself."

The midwives hesitated, but the steel in Rhaenyra's eyes made it clear there would be no argument. She would deliver her son—on her terms, in her own hands.