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A letter from Driftmark arrives just short of daybreak. Sensing its urgency, the maester of the ravens knocks frantically on Rhaenyra's door, pulling her from Daemon's grip. Daemon sighs and grumbles as Rhaenyra disentangles herself from his arms, and she is no happier as she throws a robe over her nakedness and limps to the door, though her irritation crumbles away as she sees who the missive is addressed from: Rhaena.
Rather than Rhaena's usual neat, cramped penmanship, the message is inscribed in messy, looping scrawl, as though the person writing it was in a great rush:
The babe is big—too big. I don't know what to do anymore. I'm scared, Rhaenyra. Come, please.
By dawn, Rhaenyra's maids have begun packing her bags.
Baela insists that she come along, too, but Rhaenyra reminds her that, in her own absence, Jace will be left to sit the Iron Throne. As his future queen, she must be there with him. Daemon is much more difficult to dissuade, but, after all, Rhaena's letter had asked only for Rhaenyra. "There are some things in the world that women can only share amongst themselves," Rhaenyra tells him, squeezing his shoulder comfortingly. "I will send you letters every day, my love, telling you everything I have learned or noticed."
"You had better," Daemon grumbles, kissing her firmly before walking her to the Dragonpit, where she mounts Syrax and takes flight.
As Syrax soars over Blackwater Bay, Rhaenyra's mind is alight with thought. News of Rhaena's pregnancy had come to the Red Keep nearly four moons ago, and they had all celebrated heartily. Luke and Rhaena had chosen to remain at Driftmark until the child came—what better for an heir of Driftmark than to spend their first moments among the salty brine of the sea?—but all the bits and fragments of news they had sent in their letters had been enormously positive.
Rhaenyra kicks herself for not knowing better, for not sniffing out trouble and worry under the empty platitudes. How many times has she lied about precisely the same topic, telling her father or Daemon or her children that she was nothing but excited by the prospect of a new babe stirring in her womb, that she was not bothered at all by the kicking and the sickness and the swelling breasts, that she hardly thought about the childbed, let alone worried about it?
By noon, Rhaenyra can see the white walls of Driftmark emerging on the horizon like a beacon. Morning and Arryx chase each other around the spindly towers, nipping at each other's tails and wings. Syrax calls to them in greeting, and they abandon their hunt of each other, instead racing over to twirl and spin around Syrax's slender frame. Syrax caws pleadingly, clearly wishing to join them in their merriment.
"In a minute, my lady," Rhaenyra laughs. "Let me unmount, and then you may do as you wish."
She has made the trip to Driftmark many times before, and she guides Syrax to land on the caves beside Driftmark with ease. Luke is waiting for her there, looking handsome and straight-edged in his doublet of blue velvet. A few men accompany him, gazing up slack-jawed at Syrax. Though Morning and Arrax must be usual sights around here, the two cannot hope to compare to the sheer size and majesty of Rhaenyra's own mount.
Being on solid ground after a thrilling dragonflight has always left Rhaenyra dizzy, but as soon as she slides down from Syrax's back, she does not even wait to get her bearings before she is rushing forward to wrap Luke in a long-awaited hug.
"Oh, my love, how I've missed you," she murmurs, stepping back and taking Luke's face in her hands, searching for any sign of injury or peckishness or paleness—an old motherly habit she has no desire to leave behind.
In her heart, he will always remain the small, slight boy of four-and-ten who tripped over his words, who fell into her arms for comfort, who faced and defeated his cruel uncle with nothing but his wits and heart of steel. But even her sense of motherly nostalgia cannot blind her fully—the war has made a true man out of Luke. The years have led him to gain a few inches on her, the months he spent with his grandfather's navy have broadened his shoulders and filled out his form, and the moments waging war on his dragon have lent him the stride of a lord, not a boy constantly wondering at his own worthiness. When he hugs her, he does so less like he is seeking her comfort and more like he is trying very hard to avoid accidentally crushing her.
"I've missed you too, Mother." But his voice, at least, remains as sweet and melodic as ever. "As has Rhaena. And Arrax, if the way he's screeching is any clue."
"Rhaena," Rhaenyra says, grabbing Luke's wrist, "how is she? She gave nothing away in her letter."
"She..." Luke struggles for the next word. "She is putting on a brave face. But I think you should see for yourself, Mother."
"Right, of course."
"Did you bring anything with you?"
"Yes, I've got a knapsack strapped to Syrax's saddle—" Rhaenyra turns around to see Syrax, impatient with her rider, taking flight to chase after Morning and Arrax. "Oh. Well. I'll snag her later." Luke offers her his arm, and she takes it. "Take me to Rhaena, quickly now."
It isn't a long walk to the castle. Once they're inside, Rhaenyra is surprised to find the halls clogged with artisans, scattered across an array of upkeep projects. New tapestries are being hung on walls, pillars are being carved with new engravings, and rugs are being torn out and refurbished.
"Driftmark wasn't nearly so busy when you were trying to reconstruct after the Dance," Rhaenyra says lightly.
"It's what Rhaena's taken up to distract herself," Luke says, sounding resigned. "Do you know the advantages of silk rather than muslin tapestries?"
"Not particularly, no."
"Well, after two minutes with Rhaena, you will."
Climbing up a final set of spiraling stairs, they arrive at the door of Rhaena's chambers. Luke knocks very lightly. "She might be napping," he says in response to Rhaenyra's questioning look.
A woman opens the door, her hair and coloring speaking of her foreign birth. Rhaenyra recognizes her as one of the Essosi midwives—Rylona—that had assisted in her own births with Aegon and Viserys, and the two women smile at each other in a moment of recognition and relief. But then Rylona's smile slips, her brow creasing into well-worn, familiar lines of worry, and Rhaenyra's heart sinks a little more.
"Your husband, Princess," Rylona calls, stepping aside to let Rhaenyra and Luke in, "and your mother."
"Oh, thank the gods," Rhaena gasps, brushing aside the maid dabbing at her forehead with a cool compress.
When she lays eyes on Rhaena for the first time in near on a year, Rhaenyra freezes. Rhaena had warned in her letter that the babe was big, but Rhaenyra has not been given ample time to wrap her head around just how big.
Rhaena has always been a slight girl, slimmer and slighter than her sister. Daemon had said that, for the first year of her birth, she had been frail and colicky and fussy, and they were not sure that she would survive into proper childhood. Her strength has always come from heart and mind, not muscle, and Rhaenyra wishes for the first time that it was not so. She has seen the strongest of women be betrayed by childbirth, and for Rhaena—
Rhaena looks near ready to burst, the swell of her stomach clear even in the baggy shift she wears. Rhaenyra would expect this in a woman just about ready to give birth, but Rhaena, of course, still has two moons yet to go, two moons more of fast and trying growth. Rhaenyra is not sure if Rhaena's hips could survive bringing such a large broad into this world safely.
"You are having twins, then," Rhaenyra observes once she finds her voice.
Rhaena gives a tired smile. "That is what they tell me." She gestures at the people around her. Other than Rylona, there are a few more midwives as well as the maester of Driftmark.
Rhaenyra hurries to Rhaena's side. Rhaena reaches out a hand, and Rhaenyra clutches onto it gratefully. "You had me in such a fright," she says, voice clogged with tears threatening to come, "with that letter of yours. Why did you not tell us before, darling?" Rhaena's hand is cold, and Rhaenyra squeezes it, trying to seep some of her warmth into her daughter. "I could have been here so much sooner."
"I'm still not sure summoning you was the right decision, in truth," Rhaena says, gnawing at her lip. "I'm sure you are so busy—it was just, this morning, I panicked..."
"Why? What happened?"
Rhaena seems unable to find the words, so Luke chimes in, "She had what we thought were contractions. She wasn't, it was just the babes moving around with more vigor than usual, but we were afraid of what the early birth would do, and Rhaena—"
"I kept saying I was not ready," Rhaena finishes quietly. "But it matters little. In two moons—I am afraid I will not be ready then, either. Look at the size of me."
"But I am here now," Rhaenyra tells her easily. "It was not so long ago I was in your same position, my love. I will help prepare you, in whatever ways the mothers of the world help their daughters. We will figure it out together." Rhaena opens her mouth, but Rhaenyra cuts across, "And don't attempt to send me home. King's Landing will stand for another month without me."
"Alright," Rhaena whispers, squeezing Rhaenyra's hand, "alright."
That night, Rhaenyra writes to Daemon. She is having twins , she writes, the quill scratching softly on the parchment, isn't that wonderful? She is afraid, though, and rightfully so. The babe is too big, and her hips too slight. There are no words I can think of to comfort her, and I can only hope that my presence may do what words cannot.
Rhaena can hardly lift herself out of a chair without assistance, so for the next days and weeks, Rhaena and Luke haunt Rhaena's bedside. Maesters and midwives are a constant fixture in the rooms too, filtering in and out to check Rhaena's pulse and temperature every hour, pressing foul-smelling compresses to Rhaena's head, and administering enough ointments and medicines to bring down a grown elephant. Luke and Rhaena are well accustomed to carrying on with their conversation, unbothered by the constant poking and prying of various hands, and soon enough, Rhaenyra learns too.
"I absolutely loathe this tea," Rhaena says glumly one day once Rylona is out of earshot, having bustled in to drop off one of her herbal, odorous medicinal teas. "She puts in a whole field's worth of ginger and sweetens it with about three flakes of peppermint. Seven hells, how does one ruin tea ?"
"No one's stopping you from adding a little sugar, Rhaena," Luke says.
"If I have a handful of sugar—yes, a handful, Luke, that's all I can think of that can save this wretched beverage—with every cup of drank, our babies would come out covered in molasses."
"That's not so terrible."
Rhaenyra laughs. "Just wait until you reach the last week of your pregnancy. Rylona has this tea made from charcoal—to ease along the birth, you know—that will leave you apologetic for any insults you leveled against that tea in your hand."
"If it was only the tea that was the matter," Rhaena huffs. "Gods, the cravings! Never at a reasonable time. Always at some ungodly hour of the early morning. Today, right before dawn, I had the strangest longing for pickled cucumbers with sweet cream. Can you believe that?"
"When I was carrying Luke," Rhaenyra says serenely, "there was one week where he would not let me eat anything but the rawest, fattest cuts of steak. If I tried to eat anything else, I would throw it right up."
Luke looks scandalized. "That doesn't sound like me."
"Oh, yes. And how you kicked! I remember, there was this one song Mushroom sang that made you cease attacking your poor mother, and I made him sing it over and over for three hours so I could finally have a rest."
"That really does sound more like Jace, Mother," Luke says, unconvinced.
"No, no," Rhaenyra laughs, "Jace was such an angel in the womb. You could barely tell I was with child six moons into my pregnancy because he huddled into a little ball, trying to make as little a fuss about himself as possible."
"Oh, they're kicking now," Rhaena says in some strange mix between fondness and exasperation. Rhaenyra leans forward eagerly to place a hand on Rhaena's stomach, delighting in the flailing of limbs she feels inside. Luke does the same, but is quickly pinched by Rhaena. "So it's you I have to blame for all this bother!"
"You can't believe Mother," Luke complains. "It's been so long since we were born, it's no surprise she's mixed some details up."
Rhaenyra pinches him too.
The maester has advised Rhaena to take at least one light walk of the beach every day. Luke finds himself tangled up in some lordly business, so today, it is only Rhaena and Rhaenyra strolling slowly on Driftmark's shores, arms interlocked.
"I am afraid," Rhaena says suddenly, voice cracking through the brisk, briny air. She gazes into some unknowable, unreachable distance, trapped in thought. "I know I have already said this, but—I am so scared, Rhaenyra. I am so certain that I am going to die, that these babes are going to kill me as they try to claw their way into this world. I am taking a step to the gallows with every breath I take, with every word I say. Even during the Dance, I was not nearly so frightened."
Wherever this conversation leads, Rhaenyra feels suddenly certain that this is why she was called to Driftmark. A month's stay culminates in this moment, on this beach.
"I understand," Rhaenyra says quietly. "Men wax poetic about the horrors of war, and they have some idea of it. But there is no fear, no quiet terror, greater than growing what may be your doom in your own womb. You feed it, you love it, you run your hand over the bump and coo endlessly over it, all the while knowing it may rip you apart as it searches for the world."
"My mother died in childbirth, and she was very strong," Rhaena says. "My grandmother died in childbirth too, and they say she was strong as well. I am strong, but not in the way that matters, not in the way the baby demands. I am not strong in the body. What am I to do, Rhaenyra?"
They have come to a stop, the waves lapping at their ankles.
"I wish I could say something very comforting," Rhaenyra tells her, "but there is no certainty in this game. My mother's pregnancies fell to stillbirth after stillbirth, except, miraculously, for one: me. My grandmother and mother died in the childbed, but I gave birth to five boys, each stronger than the last, until—well. As I said, there is no rhyme or reason to this."
Rhaenyra knows now why she was called, why Daemon stayed in King's Landing. Faced with this, he would make grand promises that everything was to be alright, that he would go to the ends of the world to make it so, that he alone would stand in the face of death. That is who he is—a man of action, and Rhaenyra loves him for it.
But Rhaena does not need platitudes and poetic. She needs some acknowledgement of the cruelty of this game, of the uncertainty, of the way everything balances on a knife's sharp edge. She needs someone to hold her hand as she becomes acquainted with the cold realities of the situation.
"So I cannot promise that you will be alright," Rhaenyra continues, willing her voice not to weaken. "I wish I could, but I cannot. But you are surrounded by midwives I have trusted with my life. You have a husband who loves you, who will hold your hand through the entire ordeal, who will never remarry shall you perish in the childbed. You have a mother who will teach you everything she knows of motherhood, and a father who would fend off death with his sword if he could. You have brothers and a sister across the Blackwater Bay who will be praying for you the entire time. There is no certainty of the fate that awaits you. But the road that will take you there—that will be a kind one. That is certain."
"Will I love these children?" Rhaena asks, voice cracking. "After all this fear? All this suffering?"
"How do you think I have five children?" Rhaenyra says promptly. "Every visit to the childbed, and I swear that it will be the last one, that I will cut your father's cock off if he dares approach me again. But then you hold your babe, and you look at the sweet purity of their face, and you forget that you ever thought of anything but how to give them another sibling."
Rhaena immediately shakes her head. "No. I've done my duty, and I'm never doing it again."
"That's fine," Rhaenyra says gently. "If you have a son, no one will expect it of you. If you have daughters, you can make one of them heir, and still, no one will expect any more of you. Even if something happens to the children, you have brothers and, I suspect, more nephews and nieces to come. No one shall expect anything of you."
"Good," Rhaena whispers. "I'm glad."
They turn back, Rhaena leaning heavily on Rhaenyra.
"I would like to name one of my children after you," Rhaena says suddenly, "if it would please you."
Rhaenyra smiles, delighted. "It would please me beyond belief. But what if they are both boys?"
"Boy or not," Rhaena huffs, "they should be honored to share a name with the queen."
Rhaenyra laughs. "That reminds me," she adds, "if you want our family here for the birth, we best invite them now." Her gaze falls to Rhaena's swollen stomach, grown impossibly larger in the month Rhaenyra has been here. "I know it's early, but those babes are not staying inside much longer."
Rhaena agrees, and the invitations are sent out before dusk.
But, in true Targaryen fashion, the babes wait for no one. It is that night that Rhaenyra is woken up by a thundering knock at the door—a maid come to tell her that Rhaena has gone into labor. Barely pausing to throw a robe over herself, Rhaenyra races to the birthing chambers.
It is a long night. Rhaenyra and Luke each sit on one side of the birthing bed, giving their hands for Rhaena to clutch. Rhaena screams and curses, her words growing more vulgar by the hour—she tells Luke she hates him for ever coming near her, she tells Rhaenyra she is furious at her for ever pretending as though childbirth was not hell at earth, she tells Rylona that she can still taste the ginger tea and she loathes it.
As the hours tick by and the babes remain trapped in the womb, the midwives trade nervous glances, and even the maester's jowls start quivering with anxiety. Luke begins to pray, which Rhaenyra has never seen him do before. Rhaenyra squeezes Rhaena's hand harder, willing whatever divine intervention that allowed her to survive six births to play its hand now.
And Rhaena grunts and howls and pushes . Just as the first rays of the sun scatter across the sky, a boy slips out, quickly followed by his sister. Their cries are weak and hiccupy, but they kick and squirm as newborns should, and the maester declares them as healthy as can be expected.
It is nothing short of a miracle. Rhaenyra breathes clearly for the first time in a month.
The babes are quickly cleaned and brought to Rhaena, who is clearly struggling to come back to herself. The afterbirth continues to come, but Rhaena hardly seems to notice, her eyes trained on her children—gods, her children! Luke hands their son to her, making sure Rhaena's weak arms have a proper hold on the child, then keeps his daughter for himself.
"Like your dragon, Rhaena," Luke tells her, awe coloring his tone. He looks down at his daughter with sheer delight, and Rhaenyra's heart melts to see it. She always knew sweet, gentle Luke was made to be a doting father, but it is another matter entirely to see the proof of it with her own eyes. "The children were born right at dawn. Isn't that poetic?"
Rhaena blinks rapidly. "My son," she says, voice clogged with ardent emotion. She trails a finger across her son's face, and the boy hiccups in response. Her smile grows, and she gives a startled laugh. "Oh, gods, I did not think I would be alive to hold him."
The children looked much like little Aelyx had after his birth. The result of two parents who could not look more dissimilar, they balance precariously between traits. In the following days, when their redness recedes, their skin could pale to Luke's or darken to Rhaena's or land in some space in between, as could their hair and eyes. Rhaenyra wants to see every step of that, wants to be here from the moment they take their first breath to their first steps to the day they reach adulthood.
"And you were so worried about whether we would have a little girl to name after you," Rhaena laughs.
"Come, Luke, let me hold my namesake," Rhaenyra demands.
Luke gives his daughter carefully over to her. "Hello," Rhaenyra coos. "I hear you are to be named for me. A grand honor. You have much to live up to, little one." Little Rhaenyra babbles indiscernibly in response, and Rhaenyra laughs and runs a gentle hand through her wisps of hair. It will lighten to silver, Rhaenyra is certain of it. Through some intuition or wishful thinking, Rhaenyra knows this girl will be a copy of her, another little Realm's Delight to spoil beyond belief.
A thought occurs to her. "Oh! Daemon!"
"What about Father?" Rhaena asks, poking her tongue out in consternation as she tries to get her son to latch onto her breast.
"He and your siblings will be here in a few hours," Rhaenyra laugh. "Can you imagine their faces? They will have come expecting to sit by your bedside for another month, and instead the babes are already out and ready to meet them."