#rhaegar

[forlya]

Lyanna stark

Commission down by hayrj

[novembermorgon]

rhaegar dany aerys

[karuselii]

Last thought before the last breath

[teamhelaena]

My Frail Sister (part 2)

Rhaegar x sister reader

Part 1

Thank you to the anon who asked for a continuation with Dany being their child <3

{tw- smidge of smut, targcest, pregnant reader, cheating (Rhaegar/elia), childbirth, character death}

little changes to ages (Aegon/Rhaneys/Viserys) - love the idea of dreamers being able to talk to others if they tried hard enough so a little bit of that with baby Dany! (Broke my own heart with all the angst but I do have a part 3 idea (focusing on Dany and Rhaegar with reader haunting the narrative. so lmk if you guys would like to see it <3)

The whispers began when your sickness worsened. Rhaella noticed first. The way her daughter couldn't keep broth down, the breathing that seemed to get harder for your frail body to keep up with. Your personal maid, a silent shadow named Marna, saw the blood-streaked cloths hidden beneath the bed. Rhaegar still came to your chambers some nights, playing the loving brother, bringing books or lyre songs. But his visits always ended the same.. with hands trembling as he lifted you onto your back, climbing over you with desperate reverence. He'd move inside you with agonizing slowness, whispering apologies against your throat, while you clung to him, savoring the forbidden warmth despite the pain. Each time left you weaker, coughing into linen sleeves-stained pink.

After Elia gave Rhaegar his son Aegon, he stopped bedding her entirely. The princess accepted this with quiet dignity, pouring her affection into little Rhaenys and the babe. Yet Rhaegar's visits to your chambers grew more frequent, more urgent. Until one morning, you woke retching bile, your ribs aching as if cracked.

That night, when Rhaegar slipped through your door, you barred him with a hand. "No.." you whispered, voice frayed as old silk. "Not tonight please..." His violet eyes darkened with something feral. "Why?" he demanded, fingers curling against the doorframe. "I've just... been feeling worse than normal and I'm not sure if you can catch it." Your voice was a mumble and your body moved to curl up while a deep breath escaped, almost as if it had been too hard to get the breath even out.

He pushed past you anyway, the scent of wine clinging to his silver hair. "You're always worse" he muttered, pulling you against his chest. His touch felt like shackles. When his hands slid beneath your shift, you stiffened. "Rhaegar, don't—"

"Shh" he breathed into your hair, his voice thick with need and despair. "Just let me hold you." But his hands were already roaming, possessive and rough, tracing the sharp jut of your hips you’d tried to hide. You flinched as his thumb brushed the tender swell low on your belly, it was a place that hadn't been there before. His hand stilled. His breath stopped.

"Gods" he murmured, pulling back just enough to stare down at you. Moonlight caught the wild hope flaring in his violet eyes. "You’ve gained weight." His palm pressed flat against that subtle curve, gentle now, reverent. "Here." A smile broke through the wine-haze and grief, bright and terrible. "You’re getting better. Stronger." He kissed your temple, his lips trembling. "See? The maesters were wrong."

You blinked, confused. Marna’s hushed words from that morning echoed—like a quickening, my lady, low in the belly—but Rhaegar’s certainty was a warm tide washing over you. His thumb stroked the tender flesh beneath your shift. "Stupid grey rats" he muttered against your hair, voice thick with conviction. "Always whispering doom. We’ll grow old together, you and I. Watch the dragons return. I’ve seen it." He lifted you easily, carrying you to the bed as if you were made of spun glass. "You just needed time. Patience."

His hands moved with feverish tenderness, tracing your collarbones, your ribs, that strange new curve. You wanted to believe him. Gods, how you wanted it. So when he kissed you, slow and deep, you let yourself sink into the fantasy. His lips trailed down your throat, worshipful. "See?" he breathed, sliding your shift higher. "Stronger." But when his palm pressed flat against your belly again, a sharp cramp twisted deep inside. You gasped, fingers digging into his shoulders. He froze instantly. "What is it?"

"Nothing..." you whispered, forcing your muscles to relax. "Just… tired." Marna’s voice echoed - "The bleeding stopped, my lady. Two moons now. Could it be?"

Hope, treacherous and sweet, bloomed beneath the ache. Rhaegar’s eyes searched yours, violet pools reflecting the single candle’s flame. His thumb rubbed soothing circles. "Rest then" he murmured, pulling the blankets over you both. "Just rest with me." He settled beside you, one arm possessive around your waist, his cheek pressed to your hair. "The maesters know nothing of dragon’s blood," he mumbled, voice thick with sleep and conviction. "We are fire made flesh. You will live. We will rule. Grow old…" His breathing deepened, the wine finally claiming him.

You lay awake, his warmth seeping into your chilled skin. His hand remained splayed protectively over your belly. The cramp had dulled to a faint throb. Gained weight. You traced the subtle swell yourself. Was it… possible? Had the gods granted this miracle? Rhaegar’s faith felt like a shield against the whispers of doom. Maybe the maesters were wrong. Maybe this weakness wasn't death, but preparation. Hope, fragile as spun glass, began to solidify. You drifted into uneasy sleep, dreaming of Three beautiful dragons soaring over a green land.

At dawn, Rhaegar slipped away with practiced silence. His footsteps were ghosts on stone. He eased the door shut just as Rhaella’s shadow fell across the threshold. He vanished down the corridor, leaving only the lingering scent of wine and dragon dreams. The Queen entered, her expression unreadable. She didn't call for Marna. Instead, she settled into the chair beside your bed, her embroidery frame untouched in her lap. She watched you sleep, her gaze heavy with unspoken questions. The room held its breath.

You woke to the sharp tang of ginger tea and the Queen’s cool fingers brushing sweat-damp hair from your forehead. "You slept late my love" Rhaella murmured. Her eyes lingered on the rumpled sheets beside you, the faint indentation on the pillow. "You seem flushed." Her gaze dropped pointedly to your nightdress, riding higher than it should. You tugged it down, fingers trembling. "Just a dream, Mother" you whispered, voice thick with sleep and deceit. "A restless night."

Rhaella didn’t move. "Dreams rarely leave such warmth behind and they certainly don't have your brother sneaking out of your chambers at dawn…" She reached out, not for your hand, but for your belly. Her touch was clinical, pressing beneath the thin silk. You froze, breath catching as her fingers explored the subtle swell Rhaegar had worshipped hours before. Her expression didn’t flicker-no surprise, no anger. Only a weary understanding that settled like stone in the pit of your stomach. "How long?" she asked, her voice unnervingly calm.

You shook your head and struggled to sit up yourself, weakly clutching the sheets. "I'm getting better because of having Rhae near! See?" You pressed your own hand over hers, forcing a smile that felt brittle. "I'm gaining weight! He says the maesters were wrong. That dragon’s blood is stronger. That I’m stronger." The words tumbled out, desperate, fueled by Rhaegar’s fervent whispers and the fragile hope they’d spun. "He says we’ll grow old together. Watch the dragons return. He’s seen it, Mother!"

Rhaella withdrew her hand slowly, her gaze fixed on your face. The weary understanding hardened into something colder, sharper. "He says" she repeated, her voice flat as slate. "And what do you say, child? When you wake gasping from cramps? When you retch your breakfast? When your legs tremble walking to the privy?" She leaned forward, her eyes boring into yours. "Is that strength? Or a fever dream fed by a man who wants what he cannot have?"

You flinched, pulling the sheets tighter. "It's different now! He feels it.. he feels the life coming back to me. His warmth makes it grow!" The words sounded thin, childish, even to your own ears. You pressed your palm against the slight swell beneath your nightdress, willing it to feel like proof, not betrayal. "See? It’s firm here. Not like sickness."

Rhaella’s gaze didn’t waver. It held the terrible clarity of centuries. "Life?" Her voice was a whisper sharp as Valyrian steel. "That’s not your life returning, child. That’s his life beginning inside you. A new fire, fed by yours. And it will consume you." She leaned closer, the scent of faded roses clinging to her gown. "I endured your fathers madness, his fists, his cruelty... all to shield you. To give you time. Not so you could throw it away on Rhaegar’s desperate dreams!" Her hand shot out, not touching your belly this time, but gripping your wrist with surprising strength. "Look at me. Truly look. Your skin is the color of parchment left in rain. Your breath rasps like a rusty hinge. Is this your strength? Or is it the last flicker before the candle gutters?"

You tried to pull away, but her grip tightened. "He loves me! He sees me—""He sees a prophecy!" Rhaella hissed, cutting you off. Her eyes, violet mirrors of your own, swam with unshed tears. "He sees dragons in the sky and a crown on his head. He doesn't see you gasping for air beneath him. He doesn't see the blood Marna scrubs from your sheets." Her voice cracked, raw and ancient.

"I was forced into my brother’s bed. Bound to Aerys like a beast to a stake. And you? You love yours. Crave him. And he takes you, knowing it kills you slowly. The irony would be poetic if it weren't so cruel." She released your wrist, the ghost of her touch burning. "You think this ends with a babe in your arms? It ends with you in a shroud, girl. While he mourns you and that child!"

Her words struck like ice shards. You curled inward, clutching your belly. Hope, so bright moments before, curdled into cold dread. The slight swell beneath your palm felt alien now... like a parasite, not a promise. Rhaella rose, her silhouette stark against the grey dawn light creeping through the window. "The maesters will know by week’s end" she stated, her tone flat, final. "They’ll examine you. They’ll see." She paused at the door, her back rigid. "Pray it kills you quickly. Because if Aerys learns his heir planted his bastard in his frail daughter…" She didn’t finish. She didn’t need to. The silence screamed of wildfire and screams.

You stayed frozen long after she left. Marna crept in later, eyes red-rimmed, bearing broth. She didn’t speak, just smoothed your hair. The broth tasted like ash. You pushed it away. "Is it… truly?" you whispered, your voice cracking. Marna’s hand stilled. She nodded once, her lips pressed into a thin, sorrowful line. "Aye, my lady. Quickening. Two moons gone." The confirmation landed like a blow. Rhaegar’s fervent whispers of...

You’re stronger, dragon’s blood, we’ll grow old

the words felt like cruel delusions now. He hadn’t seen life returning but seen his own desperate prophecy taking root, blind to the cost. You’d chosen to believe him because the alternative of a babe growing inside you, stealing your breath, your strength, your life... it was a death sentence whispered by every maester since your first bleeding. Your mother’s harshness wasn't hatred... no, it was the raw terror of watching her daughter embrace the very thing that would destroy her.

Days blurred. Rhaegar came again, slipping past the guards Marna now subtly stationed outside your door. He brought sun-warmed peaches from Dorne, his smile tentative. "You look brighter" he murmured, fingers brushing your cheek. "The color in your face…" You flinched away. His hand dropped. "What is it?" His confusion was genuine, piercing. "Mother knows of your visits." you rasped, staring at the tapestry of Aegon the Conqueror on the wall. "The maesters will examine me soon."

His face paled. "Knows… what?" You turned, meeting his violet eyes, so full of misplaced hope. "That it’s not my life returning, Rhaegar. It’s yours. Inside me. A babe." The word hung heavy. He recoiled as if struck. "No" he breathed, denial sharp. "They said… they said you couldn’t…" His gaze dropped to your belly, hidden beneath layers of silk. Horror dawned, slow and sickening, replacing the dreamy certainty. "The maesters… the warnings…" His voice trailed off, the prophecy… a third head. His third child. He hadn't known. He'd refused to know.

Your anger, a brittle shield, faltered. "You… did not know?" you whispered, incredulous. "Truly thought I was… only getting better?" The absurdity of it choked you. He sank onto the bed beside you, his shoulders slumping. "I saw you… stronger" he mumbled, staring at his hands, hands that had touched you with reverence, hands that had seeded death. "The swell… I thought it was flesh returning. Hope." He looked up, his eyes raw with sudden, terrible understanding. "Gods… I thought they were wrong. Not me."

His horror mirrored yours now, stripping away the prophecy's glamour. He hadn't been blind, he'd been willfully, desperately deluded. The Prince Who Knew Everything hadn't known this. "Three heads. Three children." he stammered, voice thick with self loathing. "It will.. kill you, I wont sacrifice you for it.." He trailed off, unable to voice the selfishness beneath the starry eyed conviction. His dream of dragons and crowns had eclipsed the simple, brutal truth, your fragile body couldn't sustain life. His hand hovered near your belly, trembling, but didn't touch. It wasn't a miracle anymore... it was a sentence.

Suddenly, he jerked upright. "You cannot have it" he rasped, the words sharp as shattered glass. His eyes, wide with panic, darted around the room as if seeking escape. "No… you mustn't." He began to pace, boots clicking a frantic rhythm on the stone floor. "Moon tea" he blurted, stopping abruptly. "Or something… anything! Marna must know… she can brew…" He spun towards you, desperation twisting his handsome features. "When the maesters examine you… they'll offer it. They must." His voice cracked. "Take it. Please."

The plea hung heavy, suffocating. You stared at him, this prince who spoke of destiny and fire, now trembling like a boy caught stealing sweets. "You begged me to believe" you whispered, the words scraping your throat raw. "You swore the maesters were fools." You pressed a hand against the slight curve beneath your nightdress. It felt like betrayal made flesh. "You called this hope."

Rhaegar flinched, his pacing halted mid stride. "It was hope!" he cried, the sound jagged in the quiet room. "Hope that you would live! Hope that we…" He choked, unable to finish. His violet eyes, wide with dawning horror, locked onto your belly. "Not like this. Not costing you. Gods, I’m a fool." He sank back onto the bed’s edge, burying his face in his hands. Silver hair fell forward, obscuring his features. "A selfish, blind fool." His shoulders shook with silent, shuddering breaths. "Moon tea" he mumbled into his palms, the words muffled, desperate. "Marna knows herbs. She can brew it strong. Quick. Before…" He lifted his head, his face ravaged by grief and panic. "Before it roots deeper. Before it steals more of your breath."

You stared at him, the prince who sang of destiny, now pleading for its destruction. The fragile hope he’d nurtured inside you withered, replaced by a cold, hollow ache. His desperation was palpable, thick as the scent of fear sweat clinging to him. "You ask me to kill your prophecy?" Your voice was brittle ice. "The third head you dreamed?"

Rhaegar flinched. "I dreamed you alive!" He seized your hands, his grip bruising. "Not this… this slow murder." His eyes, wild and violet, searched yours. "Moon tea. Tonight. Marna can fetch the herbs. Pennyroyal. Tansy. Quietly." His thumb rubbed frantic circles on your wrist. "Painless. Quick. Like passing a clot." The clinical words felt like knives.

You pulled your hands free. "And if I refuse?" Your voice surprised you for it was steady. "If I choose the risk?" Hope, treacherous and frayed, flickered. His child. Our dragon.

Rhaegar recoiled. "You can't." The panic sharpened. "It's not bravery, it's madness! Elia survived Aegon, but she—" He froze, horror dawning. You saw it click... Elia's frailty after birth, her whispered confinements. His prophecy demanded three children, but two had nearly broken his wife. You were far weaker than Elia, she herself can run and walk far while you get winded even while sitting. "You'll die, The babe might die!" his voice was breaking and, hollow. "Slowly. In agony. While I watch." His gaze dropped to your belly, then snapped back, pleading. "Please. Don't make me have to burn you."

You flinched at the bluntness. "And if the babe lives? Your third head? Your dragon?"

Rhaegar’s face twisted. "Dragons are fire made flesh. This…" His gaze dropped to your belly. "This is flesh made coffin." He stood abruptly, pacing again, fingers raking through silver hair. "Moon tea. Tonight. Before the maesters come." His voice lowered to a harsh whisper. "Marna will bring it. Drink it. End this."

You curled tighter, the slight swell pressing against your ribs. "And if I want this child?" The words felt foreign, dangerous. "Your blood. My blood. Together."

Rhaegar stopped pacing. His face crumpled. "It's not a child sweet one!" he rasped, voice raw. "Not yet. It's a… possibility. One that steals your breath with every beat of its heart." He knelt beside the bed, his violet eyes desperate pools. "Elia walks the gardens daily. You struggle to sit upright before noon. How will you bear a birth?" His hand hovered near your belly, trembling. "It's not courage, sister. It's suicide dressed in dragon dreams."

Outside, the distant screech of an owl echoed from the castle owlery, a mournful sound slicing the tense silence. You met his gaze, the fragile defiance hardening. "Then it's my suicide to choose" you whispered, pressing your palm firmly against the swell. "Not yours to command."

Rhaegar recoiled as if scalded. His composure shattered. "Stop it!" he hissed, voice cracking like dry parchment. He surged forward from his kneeling position, grabbing your wrists with bruising force. "Stop talking like that! If you have this child... and if it even lives and you don't... then I'll hate it!" His words were jagged, raw, tearing through the quiet chamber. "I won't be able to love it! It would be a monster that clawed itself out of you… out of the only woman I've ever loved!" He buried his face against your lap, silver hair spilling across your thighs like molten moonlight. His shoulders trembled violently… not with tears, but with the sheer, visceral terror of losing you. His grip on your wrists loosened, sliding down to clutch your hands instead, fingers interlacing with yours in a desperate, crushing hold. His breath hitched hot and damp through the thin silk of your nightdress. "Please" he muffled against your thighs, the word thick with despair. "Don't make me have to light your pyre."

You froze, stunned by the venom in his plea. His hatred wasn't directed at you, but at the life growing inside you. The life he’d unwittingly created. His shuddering breaths felt like tremors running through your own bones. The slight swell beneath his cheek seemed to pulse in response, a silent counterpoint to his anguish. You slowly lifted a trembling hand, letting it hover above his bowed head. The instinct to soothe warred with the icy dread his words invoked. Monster. The word echoed, chilling the fragile hope you’d clung to. His prophecy wasn't just shattered, it was poisoned.

Three days crawled by, thick with unsaid words and Rhaella’s watchful silence. The summons came. The Grand Maester and his grey robed attendants. Your chamber felt colder, smaller, filled with the rustle of robes and the sterile scent of herbs. Rhaella perched rigidly on the edge of your bed, her hand clutching yours with surprising strength, her knuckles pale against your parchment like skin. Her gaze was fixed on the canopy above, avoiding the scene unfolding at the foot of the bed. The Grand Maester, Pycelle, his chain clinking softly, knelt between your legs. He’d already prodded your belly with cool, impersonal fingers, murmuring measurements to an acolyte scribbling notes. Now, his expression impassive, he slid oiled fingers inside you. The intrusion was clinical, efficient, devoid of any reverence Rhaegar had shown. You squeezed Rhaella’s hand tighter, focusing on the rough texture of her rings, the sharp scent of mint clinging to her gown, anything but the probing sensation and the low hum of Pycelle’s assessment.

"Heavy" Pycelle murmured, withdrawing his fingers with a slick sound that echoed obscenely in the quiet room. He wiped them meticulously on a cloth held by an acolyte. "The womb sits low. Positioned deep." His rheumy eyes lifted to yours, devoid of warmth. "Possibly many months for a belly so small." He addressed Rhaella, not you. "The princess’s constitution… the strain is already evident. The breathing difficulties worsen. The pallor deepens." His pronouncement hung in the air, a death sentence confirmed. Rhaella’s grip tightened further, her jaw clenched. She didn’t look at Pycelle. Her gaze remained fixed ahead, seeing nothing, absorbing everything. Aerys, informed earlier, had merely waved a dismissive hand, muttering about "wasted flesh" and "a pity to lose a daughter for nothing." His indifference was colder than Pycelle’s touch as he turned on his heels and rushed out.

Rhaella finally moved. She leaned close, her lips brushing your ear, her voice a low, furious rasp only you could hear. "Do you see now? Do you see?" Her breath smelled faintly of the mint tea she’d been forcing down your throat. "Not a blessing. A burden. A thief." Her gaze dropped pointedly to your belly beneath the thin sheet. "He doesn’t even fight for you. Where is your prince?" The accusation was sharp, laced with bitter triumph. "Hiding." She squeezed your hand painfully. "He begged you to destroy it. He knows."

Her words struck like tiny needles. A few hot tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, blurring Pycelle’s retreating back as he shuffled towards the door with his acolytes. You shook your head weakly, the movement sending a wave of dizziness. "No" you mumbled, the sound thick and unconvincing even to your own ears. "No, he… he cares." You swallowed hard, forcing the words past the lump in your throat. "Moon tea" you whispered, louder this time, your voice cracking. "Grand Maester? Please. Can… can you brew moon tea? Strong? Fine… fine herbs? Pennyroyal? Tansy?" The plea sounded childish, desperate.

Pycelle paused at the threshold, turning slowly. His rheumy eyes held no pity, only weary resignation. He shook his head, the heavy links of his chain clinking softly. "I am sorry, Princess" he murmured, his voice flat as worn stone. "The quickening is pronounced. The womb is settled, the babe anchored deep. You are very likely far too far along for such remedies to take root effectively… or safely." He glanced pointedly at your mother, then back at you. "Attempting it now would pose significant risk to yourself, potentially hastening…" He trailed off, the implication hanging heavy and foul in the air. "Without guaranteeing success." He bowed stiffly. "Rest is the only counsel I can offer." He turned and left, shutting the door with a soft, final click.

That night, Rhaegar heard it all from his mother’s lips in his solar, delivered with icy precision. How you’d clutched at his desperate solution... the moon tea... only to be told it was futile. How Pycelle’s clinical pronouncement echoed, too late, anchored deep, riskier than the birth itself. How your small belly hid a babe Pycelle judged many months grown. Rhaella’s final barb struck deepest.

"She begged for your poison, my boy. When hope failed, she reached for your despair." He sat frozen long after she left, Pycelle’s words and your plea twisting like knives in his gut. The prophecy’s third head wasn’t a triumph... no... it was a death warrant signed in his own blind hope.

He slipped past the drowsy guards, a shadow in silver silk, and entered your chamber unannounced. Moonlight pooled on the floor, illuminating your form curled beneath thin linen. Your breathing was shallow, uneven. He didn’t wake you. Instead, he sank into the chair beside your bed, elbows on knees, and simply stared. The faint swell beneath your nightdress seemed impossibly small for Pycelle’s grim assessment. His gaze traced the sharp angle of your cheekbone, the veins becoming more visible beneath translucent skin. Anchored deep. The words mocked him. He’d planted this seed, watered it with delusion, and now it clung to you like a strangler vine.

You stirred, eyelids fluttering open. Violet met violet in the dim light. No greeting passed your lips. Only a weary recognition. "You heard" you whispered. It wasn’t a question.

He didn’t move from the chair, slumped like a broken harp. "Mother told me." His voice was stripped bare, hollow. "You asked Pycelle. For… the tea." The word tasted foul. His gaze dropped to your belly, the slight curve beneath the linen. "He said it was too late."

You shifted weakly, the effort pulling a gasp from your lips. "Small" you murmured, pressing a hand against yourself. "So small… yet he says many months." Confusion warred with despair. "How can it be?"

Rhaegar didn't answer immediately. He leaned forward in the chair, his posture collapsing inwards. "Because you were fading" he said, the words thick and slow, dragged from some dark place inside him. "Your body… wasting. Hiding the growth." He lifted his head slightly, his eyes catching the moonlight, reflecting pools of anguish. "I saw flesh returning… I thought it was you coming back." He choked. "It was this… this thing feeding on you instead." The venom in his voice startled you though wasn't directed at you, but at the life he'd created, the prophecy he'd cherished. "Anchored deep" he echoed Pycelle's grim words. "Rooted in your weakness. Stealing your strength."

"You speak as if it's some creature" you mumbled with a small huff of a laugh before coughing and struggling to sit up. The effort pulled taut the fragile skin over your ribs. "It's an innocent babe." You pressed a trembling hand against the slight swell. "Your innocent babe."

Rhaegar surged forward, catching your shoulders before you could fall back. His touch was fever hot. "Innocent?" he rasped, easing you against the pillows. His eyes burned violet in the gloom. "It's draining you dry. Look at you!" His thumb brushed the hollow beneath your collarbone. "Each day you fade more. Each breath comes harder. Because of this." His gaze dropped to your belly, his expression twisting. "I thought… I truly believed…" He choked, unable to finish. The delusion lay shattered between you.

You gripped his forearm, your fingers weak as twigs. "You thought the prophecy stronger than death" you whispered. The truth tasted bitter. "Stronger than my frailty."

He flinched. "I was a fool." His admission hung heavy. "Blinded." His hand hovered over your belly again, trembling. Not reverence now. Horror. "I won't watch it kill you."

A month crawled by, thick with Pycelle's grim pronouncements and Rhaella's watchful silence. Rhaegar became a constant shadow at your bedside, his desperation shifting into a frantic, fragile optimism. He brought books of Valyrian poetry, played his silver-stringed harp until your eyelids grew heavy, and insisted on feeding you honeyed figs himself, ignoring your trembling hands. You were nearing six months, Pycelle claimed, though your belly remained slight, barely rounded beneath layers of silk... a cruel deception of your frailty.

One crisp evening, Rhaegar arrived carrying a bundle wrapped in tissue thin cloth, his eyes gleaming with unnatural brightness. Rhaella trailed behind, her expression unreadable.

"Stand" Rhaegar urged softly, his voice thick with forced cheer. He draped the bundle over a chair. "Lean on me." His arm was solid beneath your elbow as he helped you rise. The world tilted momentarily, your breath catching painfully before settling. Rhaella stepped forward, unfolding the bundle. It wasn't just silk... it was gossamer, impossibly light, the vibrant crimson of House Targaryen woven through with threads that shimmered like dragonfire. A wedding dress. Tiny rubies winked along the delicate neckline.

Rhaella’s hands were surprisingly gentle as she guided your trembling arms through the sleeves. The silk whispered against your skin, cool and weightless. It draped loosely, disguising the slight swell beneath. Rhaegar steadied you from behind as you faced the tall mirror. His reflection met yours, violet eyes burning with desperate intensity. "There" he breathed, his fingers brushing your shoulder. "I wish to be with you eternally." The dress hung beautifully, a cascade of red and black making your pallor seem almost ethereal. "How pretty you look."

He turned you slowly, carefully, to face a small altar he’d arranged near the hearth. A septa you didn’t recognize stood waiting, her face impassive. Rhaella remained a silent sentinel by the door. Rhaegar took your hands in his. His were warm, yours ice cold. The septa’s low murmur filled the room with vows hastily spoken, binding words about fire and blood, duty and eternity. Rhaegar repeated each phrase fervently, his gaze locked on yours. When it was your turn, your voice was a threadbare whisper. As the final vow faded, the septa produced a slender ribbon of crimson silk. She wound it tightly around your clasped hands, binding wrist to wrist. "One flesh." she intoned. "One heart. One destiny."

Rhaegar leaned in. His kiss wasn't gentle. It was desperate, sealing the vow. He pulled back just enough to draw a small, ceremonial dagger of Valyrian steel, sharp as a dragon’s tooth. With swift, practiced movements, he nicked his own lower lip, then yours. A shared sting, a bead of crimson welling. He pressed his bleeding lip to yours again, mingling their blood. "Now" he breathed against your mouth, the metallic tang sharp on your tongue. "Now we are wed. Truly. Before gods and fire." His eyes held a feverish certainty.

A dumb smile tugged at your lips, sudden and unexpected. Relief? Delusion? The sheer absurdity of the secret ceremony? You stumbled slightly against him, the gossamer gown swirling. "Apologies" you murmured, the words thick. Rhaella watched from the doorway. Her own smile was thin, a ghost of triumph curling the edges. Her daughter. Her son. Bound now, officially, in a union Aerys deemed impossible and obscene. She was the sole witness to a truth that could shatter kingdoms. She watched, silent, as the exhaustion hit you like a wave. Your knees buckled, a sudden, terrifying weakness stealing your legs. You pitched forward into Rhaegar's chest.

You slumped against Rhaegar’s chest, the gossamer gown suddenly heavy as chainmail. That dumb smile still clung to your lips as if a reflex born of exhaustion and the sheer, dizzying absurdity of it all. Married. Secretly bound to your brother while Pycelle’s death sentence hung thick in the air. The ribbon binding your wrists felt like a shackle, not a promise. Rhaegar’s arms tightened around you, lowering you gently back onto the bed. His fingers fumbled with the crimson silk knot binding your wrists, the Valyrian steel dagger clattering to the floorboards beside you. "Rest" he murmured, his voice thick with forced calm, though his hands shook. "You need rest."

Your eyelids fluttered shut as he worked the ribbon loose. The cool air kissed your skin where the silk had pressed. You felt him lift you slightly, his touch hesitant as he peeled the gossamer gown away. It pooled on the floor like spilled dragonfire. You were too spent to protest, too weary to feel shame. The only garments you’d worn for weeks were nightgowns. Rhaella moved silently, fetching a fresh one that was soft, white linen, and smelling faintly of lavender. She draped it over Rhaegar’s outstretched arm without a word. He eased it over your head, his knuckles brushing your collarbone, the touch lingering a beat too long. As he smoothed the fabric down your sides, covering your slight swell, you sighed. The cool linen was a relief. "Love you, Rhae…" The words slipped out, slurred and feather light, carried on a wave of bone deep fatigue.

He froze, his hand still pressed against your hip. You didn’t see his expression. How his eyes squeezed shut against the candlelight... but you felt the tremor run through him. His silence stretched, thick and heavy. Then, a choked sound escaped him, half sob, half gasp. His forehead pressed against your shoulder, silver hair spilling across the linen. You felt the dampness seep through the fabric... hot, silent tears. His shoulders shook violently. No words came. Only ragged breaths and the crushing weight of his grief against your frail frame. Rhaella watched from the foot of the bed, her face carved from stone, her own knuckles white where she gripped the bedpost.

The tears stopped as abruptly as they’d begun. He lifted his head, wiping his face roughly with the back of his hand. Violet eyes, red rimmed but burning fiercely, met yours. "And I love you" he rasped, the words raw, stripped bare. "More than prophecy. More than thrones. More than this." His gaze flickered down to your belly, a flicker of anguish quickly masked by desperate resolve. "You will live. Do you hear me? You will." He squeezed your hand, his grip almost painful. "I'll find a way. A maester from Essos… Valyrian texts Pycelle ignores… Something." He leaned in, brushing a kiss against your clammy forehead. "Sleep now. Dream of us. Only us." He pulled the blanket up, tucking it around your shoulders with meticulous care, then settled back into the chair beside your bed, his gaze fixed on you, a silent, brooding sentinel. Rhaella finally moved, extinguishing the candles one by one until only moonlight remained.

His words were having an effect… almost a soothing balm against the terror Pycelle’s pronouncements had carved into you. You nodded mindlessly, just agreeing as exhaustion pulled you under. Your eyes closed heavily. Sleep claimed you instantly, deep and dreamless at first. Then, slowly, images formed, a little silver haired girl, perhaps 12 years old, clutching three dragon eggs, the colors of black, cream and green held tight against her chest. She walked barefoot through tall, cool grass, her steps unsteady but determined. Ahead loomed a towering pyre, its logs stacked high and already licked by hungry orange flames. The heat washed over you, intense but not painful. The girl didn’t hesitate. She walked straight towards the fire, her small face serene, her violet eyes wide and unafraid. The flames seemed to part for her as she stepped onto the burning logs…

"Stop!" Your own voice ripped from your throat, raw and panicked. You weren't asleep anymore. You were kneeling in the grass, the scent of damp earth and burning wood thick in your nose. "Child! Stop!" You scrambled forward, ignoring the weakness in your limbs, the ache in your belly. You had to reach her before the flames consumed her!

The pyre roared, a sudden, violent explosion of heat and light that slammed you backwards onto the grass. Embers rained down like dying stars. Through the blinding glare, a small figure emerged. Not consumed. Walking out of the heart of the inferno. Barefoot, naked, untouched. Silver hair plastered to her skull by sweat and ash, skin gleaming like pearl in the firelight. Clutched tight against her chest were three squirming shapes… a black dragon, a cream dragon, a green dragon, their tiny wings flapping weakly, their high pitched mewls piercing the crackle of the flames.

"The fire is mine…" The girl's voice was soft, matter of fact, muffled by the dragons' cries. She walked towards you, stepping over smoldering logs as if they were pebbles. Her violet eyes, impossibly ancient in her young face, locked onto yours. She knelt in the damp grass before you. Her small, warm hand touched your cheek. A shock ran through you. It was not pain, but pure, radiant life. The constant ache in your bones vanished. The crushing fatigue lifted. You felt… whole. Strong. Happy. Tears streamed down your face, but they were tears of bewildered joy.

"Father used to tell me how pretty you were" she murmured, tilting her head. Her dragons squirmed against her chest, their scales shimmering. "Though sickly." Her gaze swept over you, curious. "You don't look it, Mother." The word struck like a bell. Mother. Confusion warred with the overwhelming sense of well being flooding your veins. Who was she? Before you could speak, her head snapped sharply to the left, as if hearing a distant shout. Her expression shifted, the ancient wisdom momentarily replaced by youthful irritation. "I have to go" she sighed, clutching her knees tighter. Her dragons hissed softly. "I enjoy dreaming of you…" She looked back at you, a flicker of sadness in her eyes. "But I must wake up now. Viserys needs me. We are going to get my father's throne back.."

The world dissolved. The damp grass beneath your knees vanished. The roaring pyre snuffed out like a candle. The girl, the dragons, the impossible strength had all ripped away. You gasped, bolting upright in your bed. Sweat plastered your thin nightgown to your skin. Moonlight still streamed through the window, painting Rhaegar’s slumped form in silver where he slept beside you. The phantom warmth of the girl's touch lingered on your cheek, a cruel contrast to the familiar ache settling back into your bones. The dream's vividness choked you. Mother. The dragons. Viserys... your youngest brother? Father’s throne. The fragments spun wildly, nonsensical yet terrifyingly real. You pressed a trembling hand against your belly, the slight swell suddenly feeling alien, charged. Was it prophecy? Madness? Or merely the desperate conjuring of a dying mind? Even so a small kick hit your hand upon the contact your hand left.

Rhaegar stirred instantly, his violet eyes snapping open, alert and bloodshot. "What is it?" His voice rasped with sleep, laced with immediate dread. He pushed himself up, reaching for you. "Pain? Are you—?"

"No" you gasped, struggling to draw air. Heavy breaths tore through you, ragged and shallow, leaving your mind hazy, the dream's vividness clinging like cobwebs. You shook your head violently, trying to dislodge the image of the girl walking from flames. The sudden motion sent a sharp, twisting pain shooting low through your belly, stealing your breath entirely. You cried out, clutching yourself, doubling over. "Ah!"

Rhaegar was instantly awake, his arms catching you as you sagged. "Easy! Easy!" Panic edged his voice. He eased you back against the pillows, his hands trembling as they smoothed your sweat dampened hair from your forehead. "Where? Show me where it hurts!"

The sharp twist subsided as quickly as it came, leaving behind a dull, deep ache and a fluttering sensation low in your belly. You pressed your palm against the spot, breathing shallowly. "Not… pain" you managed, your voice thin. "Just… sharp. Deep." You felt it again... a distinct, muffled thump against your palm from within. "She's kicking, is all" you mumbled, the words slipping out automatically, your focus entirely on the strange, internal movement.

Rhaegar froze mid stroke, his hand still tangled in your sweat damp hair. His fingers tightened almost imperceptibly. "She?" The word was a whisper, sharp as broken glass. He tilted your head gently but insistently, forcing your gaze up to meet his. Violet eyes, wide and raw in the moonlight, searched yours. "You called it 'she' for the first time."

Not 'it'. Not 'the child'. She. The word hung between you, charged and fragile.

You blinked, the haze of pain and exhaustion momentarily lifting. Had you? The dream rushed back to the silver haired girl, the dragons, the impossible warmth of her hand on your cheek. Mother. Your palm still pressed against your belly, you felt another distinct thump against your skin that was stronger this time. Purposeful. "Yes" you breathed, the certainty settling deep, bone deep. "A girl." The declaration felt like truth, undeniable. "Your daughter."

Rhaegar still only shook his head, his expression hardening into familiar anguish. He didn't see a child, a daughter, a promise. He saw the thief stealing your breath, the parasite anchored deep in your frailty. "Don't" he rasped, the word rough with suppressed grief. "Don't name it. Don't give it hope. It may not live." He huffed, a sharp, frustrated sound, and gently but firmly guided your shoulders back down onto the pillows. His touch was careful, avoiding your belly entirely as if it burned him. "Rest" he insisted, tucking the blanket around you with meticulous, almost frantic care. "You need stillness. Quiet." He smoothed the linen over your arms, his gaze fixed on the hollows beneath your collarbone, not the slight curve beneath the covers.

"She will." you corrected softly, though you didn't fight him as you snuggled weakly into the pillow, your breaths shallow but steady. The phantom warmth of the dream girl's touch still lingered, a fragile shield against Pycelle's grim pronouncements. You turned your head slightly, catching Rhaegar's haunted violet eyes in the moonlight. "And I hope you love her… like your other children." The plea hung fragile in the air. "Please… just promise me." You needed that anchor, that sliver of hope binding him to the life within you, not just the death he foresaw.

Rhaegar stared at your face, pale as milkglass against the pillow. His jaw tightened, a muscle flickering beneath the skin. For a long moment, silence stretched taut. Then, a shuddering breath escaped him. His hand, hovering near your shoulder, slowly descended. Not to your belly, but to rest gently over your own hand where it lay protectively curved over the slight swell. His fingers trembled slightly against yours. "I promise" he whispered, the words raw, scraped from a place deeper than prophecy. "I will love her. As fiercely as I love Rhaenys. As Aegon." His gaze remained locked on yours, the desperation shifting into something heavier, more solemn. "I swear it. By the old gods and the new. By fire and blood."

It may have been a small lie but its what you wished to hear. In truth he believed he could never love something that killed you.

His vow settled over you like a warm cloak, chasing some of the chill from your bones. You drifted into a shallow doze, lulled by the rhythmic rasp of his breathing beside you.

Hours passed. Moonlight gave way to the grey wash of dawn. You woke to a low murmur. Rhaegar stood near the window, silhouetted against the pale light, speaking quietly to Pycelle. The Grand Maester’s expression was pinched, his fingers nervously twisting the chain around his neck. "…cannot sustain it much longer, my prince" Pycelle murmured, his voice barely audible. "The babe grows stronger, demanding more than her body can give. It drains her reserves… like a candle burning at both ends." Rhaegar’s shoulders stiffened, but he didn’t turn. He merely nodded, a sharp, jerky motion. Pycelle bowed stiffly and retreated, leaving the scent of dried herbs and dread in his wake.

Rhaegar turned back to you. The haunted look had returned, sharper now. He forced a smile, brittle as old parchment. "He worries too much" he said, crossing the room. He sat heavily on the edge of the bed, his hand finding yours. "You are stronger than he knows." His thumb brushed your knuckles. "Elia talked with me. She wishes to visit. To bring Rhaenys." His voice was carefully neutral, but his eyes searched yours, gauging your reaction. "She… understands little, of course. Only that her aunt is unwell." The offer hung there and offered a glimpse of normalcy, of the other life he led. A life that included a healthy wife and children, worlds away from this sickroom.

You swallowed, the phantom warmth of the dream girl warring with the image of Rhaenys’s bright, curious eyes. "I would like that" you managed, your voice thin. Seeing your niece, Rhaegar’s living, breathing daughter, felt suddenly vital. A counterpoint to Pycelle’s dire whispers. "When?"

"This afternoon" Rhaegar said, relief softening the tension in his jaw. He squeezed your hand. "I’ll ensure it’s brief. Quiet." He rose, already moving towards the door. "Rest now. Gather your strength."

You drifted again, the dream girl's dragons flickering behind your eyelids. When you woke, weak winter sunlight slanted across the floor. Rhaella stood by the window, adjusting the drapes. She turned, her expression unreadable. "Elia is here. With the child." She smoothed your pillow, her touch impersonal. "Try not to weep. It exhausts you."

The door opened softly. Elia Martell entered, her Dornish grace muted by the somber room. Her dark eyes held a complex mixture of pity and profound exhaustion. Behind her, clinging to her skirts, peered Rhaenys. The little girl’s dark curls bounced as she took in the unfamiliar chamber, her large brown eyes wide with hesitant curiosity. She clutched a small, stuffed dragon toy, its red velvet worn soft.

Instinctively, you pushed a stray strand of silver hair back from your damp forehead. Your fingers trembled slightly as you smoothed the wrinkled linen of your nightgown against the slight swell beneath. A weak smile touched your lips, an effort to seem less frail, less terrifyingly breakable before this vibrant child. "Hello, sweetling," you whispered, your voice raspy but warm.

Rhaenys peered from behind Elia's skirts, her dark eyes enormous. She clutched her stuffed dragon tighter, knuckles white against the red velvet. Slowly, drawn by your voice or the strange stillness of the room, she took a hesitant step forward. Then another. Elia watched, silent, her own expression a careful mask of weary compassion.

"Go on, sweetling" Elia murmured softly, nudging her daughter gently forward. "Say hello to your aunt."

Rhaenys hesitated, her dark eyes darting between her mother and the pale figure on the bed. Then, with a sudden burst of toddler courage, she scrambled onto the plush mattress. Rhaegar tensed instantly, a low warning rumble starting in his throat as he leaned forward, hands outstretched to intercept her before she could land too heavily near your fragile form. "Carefully now, little dragon" he cautioned, his voice tight.

Elia gave you a fleeting, weary smile as Rhaenys settled cautiously near your knees. "Good practice" she mumbled softly, shifting the sleeping bundle of Aegon in her arms. She held the infant up slightly, his tiny face serene beneath a soft woolen wrap. "For when you have yours." Her smile didn't quite reach her eyes. It was a practiced gesture, brittle with unspoken tension.

Rhaegar heard it. His head snapped towards Elia, a sudden, dark scowl twisting his features. His violet eyes narrowed, sharp as Valyrian steel. He remembered the child... their child, Aegon, born healthy and strong just months ago, while Pycelle whispered doom over yours. He remembered Elia’s exhaustion, yes, but also her resilience. The contrast was stark, brutal. His jaw clenched tight enough to grind bone. The memory wasn't of joy, but of a bitter counterpoint to the death sentence swelling beneath your nightgown. His gaze flickered back to your frail form, then to Elia holding their son out towards her, and the scowl deepened into something venomous.

Before he could speak, perhaps to order Elia away or snatch Aegon back, you moved. A surge of unexpected strength that was perhaps borrowed from the dream girl’s phantom touch, or propelled you. You pushed yourself up slightly against the pillows, ignoring the protest in your bones. As Rhaegar leaned forward, his hands instinctively reaching out, perhaps to shield you or to grab Aegon himself, you swatted his hands away weakly but firmly. "No" you breathed, your voice thin but clear. Your gaze locked onto Elia, pleading. "Let me."

Elia hesitated, her dark eyes flicking from your determined expression to Rhaegar’s thunderous scowl. Then, slowly, carefully, she leaned forward and placed the sleeping bundle into the cradle of your arms. The weight was negligible, yet it anchored you.

Aegon stirred faintly, a soft puff of breath escaping his tiny lips, his silver hair like spun moonlight against the wool. You adjusted him instinctively, your frail arms finding an unfamiliar steadiness. A profound stillness settled over the room.

You looked down at the perfect curve of his cheek, the tiny lashes fanned against his skin. He smelled faintly of milk and lavender. A sigh escaped you, long and tremulous, carrying the weight of weeks of terror and Pycelle’s doom. But it ended in a genuine, radiant smile that briefly chased the pallor from your face. "He’s perfect" you whispered, the words thick with awe and a sudden, fierce ache for the daughter you carried. Your fingertip traced the impossibly soft skin of his brow. "So perfect, Elia."

Elia watched you, her own exhaustion momentarily softened by a flicker of shared wonder. "He is" she murmured back, her voice warm despite the tension radiating from Rhaegar. "They both are." She glanced fondly at Rhaenys, who was now patting your knee with her stuffed dragon.

The kindness in her eyes, the simple acceptance despite the monstrous unfairness of it all. Rhaegar stealing moments with you while she bore his heirs, the cruel prophecy hanging over you both had hit you like a physical blow. You didn't mean to cry. The tears welled hot and fast, blurring the perfect curve of Aegon's cheek. A choked sob escaped you, muffled against the soft wool of his wrap. You felt pathetic, weak, drowning in envy and gratitude all at once. Here was Elia, enduring her husband's divided heart, holding your hand across the chasm, offering you her newborn son to cradle. And Aegon was so little, so impossibly small and warm. You'd likely never see your own daughter like this...never hold her sleeping, never smell that milky sweetness on her skin. Pycelle's grim whispers echoed.

"draining her… candle burning at both ends…"

The sound jolted Rhaegar from his frozen fury. He saw your shoulders trembling violently, heard the desperate, shallow gasps tearing through you as you clutched Aegon tighter, tears dripping onto the soft wool wrap. Your face was contorted, struggling for air against the tide of grief and envy.

"Out" Rhaegar commanded, his voice cracking like a whip. He surged forward, not waiting for compliance. He scooped Rhaenys off the bed in one swift motion, ignoring her startled squeak, and thrust her towards Elia. "Now, Elia. Take them." His violet eyes, blazing with panic, locked onto the nearest maid hovering near the door. "You—help her!" The maid scurried forward, her face pale.

Elia reacted instantly, gathering Rhaenys close, her own expression tight with alarm. She didn't argue, didn't hesitate. Her gaze met yours in a fleeting moment of shared, desperate understanding before she turned, ushering the confused toddler towards the door, the maid swiftly taking the sleeping Aegon from your weakening arms. The sudden emptiness where the warm weight had been felt like a wound.

"Breathe!" Rhaegar rasped, already beside you, his hands gripping your shoulders. He eased you back against the pillows as your body shuddered violently with sobs that stole your breath. "Look at me! Breathe!" Panic sharpened his command. Your vision swam, the room tilting. You felt lightheaded, disconnected, the frantic gasps tearing at your throat doing nothing to fill your lungs. The phantom warmth from the dream girl vanished utterly, replaced by icy terror. Pycelle’s words echoed once more.

"cannot sustain… draining reserves…"

You gasped again, a desperate, shallow sound. Your eyes squeezed shut against the spinning room, the crushing weight of Elia’s kindness and your own impossible envy. Never hold her… never smell her… The darkness behind your eyelids deepened, pulling you down. You fought it, clinging to Rhaegar’s frantic voice, but the pull was too strong.

Then, stillness. Cool, damp air brushed your skin, smelling of salt and wet rope. Your eyes flew open. Gone was the stifling bedchamber. You stood on worn, creaking planks beneath a vast canopy of swirling grey clouds. Before you, sitting hunched on the damp deck of a large ship, was a little girl. Silver gold hair tangled around her tear streaked face. She was tiny… a toddler, probably a little older than Rhaenys was now and wrapped in a simple woolen shift. Her violet eyes, red rimmed and enormous, fixed on you with startled confusion.

The crushing weakness, the desperate gasping for air...it was gone. You felt… whole. Solid. You smiled tentatively. "Hello" you murmured, your voice clear and strong. "What’s your name? You ran off last time…"

The little girl sniffled loudly, wiping her nose with the back of a pudgy hand. She tilted her head, brows knitting together. Her lips moved, forming words, but they dissolved into meaningless sound, like bells heard underwater. "…Tha’s my name..." she mumbled finally, her voice high and lisping. She wiped her eyes again, smudging grime across her cheek. "Wha’s yours?"

you answered softly telling her your name, kneeling on the damp deck planks to meet her gaze. The wood felt solid beneath your knees… it was real in a way the sickbed never had.

When your name left your lips, the little girl gasped. Her violet eyes widened impossibly, recognition flaring like dragonfire. With a sudden cry that was a half sob, half shout as she scrambled forward, launching herself into your arms with surprising force. "Mommy!" she mumbled, her small face buried instantly against your neck, her tiny arms clinging fiercely. Her voice was muffled against your skin, thick with tears and certainty. "Daddy always tells me about you! He says you're brave. He says you're sleeping."

The impact should have knocked you off balance. It didn't. You held her easily, instinctively, her small body warm and solid against yours. Her silver gold hair tickled your chin, smelling faintly of woodsmoke and sunshine that was nothing like the sickroom's stale herbs. Her words echoed strangely.

sleeping. Not dead. Sleeping. And Rhaegar… telling her. Your arms tightened around her, a fierce, protective surge flooding you. "Daddy?" you breathed, your voice thick with disbelief and sudden, desperate hope. "He… tells you?" You pulled back slightly, gently lifting her chin so you could see her face... her small nose, her wide violet eyes, so like Rhaegar’s, filled with tears and earnest trust. "What else does Daddy say?"

She sniffled, scrubbing at her eyes again. "He says you're brave and perfect" she repeated, her lisp softening the words. "He says you're… strong." She tilted her head, a frown puckering her brow. "He says you fighted the bad sleepy. He says…" She paused, searching for the word. "…he waits. He waits for you." Her small hand patted your cheek, sticky with tears and grime. "Don't cry, Mommy."

"He said he'd come back. He promised." Fat tears welled again, spilling over her cheeks. "I hope he comes back for me and Viserys soon…"

Her words dissolved into heartbreaking sobs. "Mommy!" she wailed, her small frame shaking violently against yours. Her arms shot out, fingers clutching desperately at your shoulders, your hair, as if you might vanish. "Don't go! Don't leave me alone!" The plea was raw, primal terror echoing in the damp air. Her violet eyes, wide with panic, locked onto yours. "Don't—!"

Rhaegar's frantic voice sliced through the fading echoes of her cries

"Breathe! Gods, breathe!"

You gasped, a harsh, ragged sound scraping your throat. Cool linen pressed against your cheek instead of damp ship planks. Salt air vanished, replaced by the cloying scent of fever sweat and crushed herbs. You were back in the stifling bedchamber, crushed against Rhaegar's chest. His arms locked around you, trembling, his frantic heartbeat a drum against your ear. His words, thick with terror, poured over you.

"Stay with me! Don't leave me! Not like this… please…" His ragged breaths, heavy and desperate, stirred your hair. You took a few shallow, trembling gulps of air yourself, trying to anchor yourself in the oppressive reality. Weakness washed over you like a tide, a sickening dizziness replacing the phantom strength of the ship. You squeezed your eyes shut tight, burying your face against his doublet, fingers clutching weakly at the embroidered dragons on his shoulder. The girl's desperate plea.

"Don't leave me alone!"

still echoed in your skull, mingling with Rhaegar's terror.

"Don't… don't…" you mumbled against the velvet, your voice muffled and thin. You felt impossibly cold despite the chamber's warmth. "She was… lost… Viserys…"

Rhaegar paid no mind to the fragmented whispers. He only tightened his hold, pressing you deeper into the shelter of his arms. A shuddering sigh escaped him of half relief, half agony as your shallow breaths steadied into a fragile rhythm against his neck. "Hush now" he murmured into your hair, his voice rough. "Just breathe. Stay with me." His fingers traced frantic circles on your back, as if trying to knit your spirit back into your frail body. The dampness on his collar wasn't just your tears but his own silent weeping soaked the fabric where his cheek rested against your temple.

Another week crawled by, thick with silence and exhaustion. The dream girl didn't return. No phantom ships, no salt air.

only the oppressive stillness of the sickroom and the relentless drag of your own failing strength. You slept through most days and nights now, a deep, drugged slumber Pycelle insisted was necessary. The babe grew heavier, a constant, demanding presence that seemed to leech warmth directly from your marrow. Each waking moment felt brittle, fractured. Yet Rhaegar never left. He read prophecies aloud in his low, melodic voice... Valyrian scrolls, Essosi texts, anything promising salvation. He bathed your face with cool cloths, coaxed spoonfuls of broth past your lips, and held your hand as you drifted back into oblivion.

Today, however, felt different. A fragile clarity pierced the fog. Weak sunlight streamed through the high windows, catching the dust motes dancing above your bed. Rhaegar watched you intently, his violet eyes holding a cautious spark you hadn't seen in weeks. He traced the sharp line of your jaw with a trembling thumb. "You seem… stronger today" he murmured, hope threading his voice. "Your eyes are brighter." His gaze dropped to your lips, then flickered away, a familiar heat mingling with his desperate worry. The unspoken need hung between you. A yearning for closeness deeper than prophecy, a desperate affirmation of life against the encroaching shadow.

You managed a weak nod, your own longing a quiet ache beneath the exhaustion. "You really think so?" you breathed, the words barely audible but charged with meaning. You didn't resist as his hands, infinitely gentle, slid beneath your thin shift. His touch, feather light on your fevered skin, sent a tremor through you that wasn't entirely pain. He moved over you slowly, carefully, his weight settling onto the mattress beside you rather than directly atop your swollen belly, mindful of Pycelle’s dire warnings. His lips found yours and was not demanding, but seeking, a fragile connection against the void. You lifted trembling arms, draping them weakly around his neck, fingers tangling in the silver strands at his nape. His scent of parchment, dragonstone, and him had filled your senses, momentarily banishing the sickroom herbs.

His kisses trailed down your throat, each touch a spark against your chilled skin. You gasped, arching slightly despite the deep seated fatigue. His hand slid lower, exploring the taut curve of your stomach with reverence before slipping between your thighs. His fingers were deft, knowing, coaxing a faint warmth to bloom where only numbness had been. A low moan escaped you, muffled against his shoulder. It wasn't the fierce passion of before, but a desperate tenderness, a reaffirmation of life clinging to him. He moved with agonizing slowness, his own need held fiercely in check, focused solely on your fragile pleasure. You clung to him, your breaths shallow gasps mingling with his, finding a fragile rhythm amidst the weakness.

"Rhaegar…" you breathed, your voice a threadbare whisper against his ear as he pushed your shift up and gently moved your legs to unlace his pants. His name was a plea and a prayer. He understood. His hips shifted carefully, pressing against you, seeking entrance. There was resistance like a tightness born of exhaustion and the babe’s crowding presence but he eased forward with infinite patience, a groan rumbling deep in his chest. The joining was achingly slow, a shallow claiming filled more with shared sorrow than fire. Yet, it was connection. His forehead pressed against yours, violet eyes wide, searching yours. "You see?" he rasped, his voice thick. "You're here. With me." Each deliberate thrust was a fragile anchor, pulling you back from the precipice of oblivion, a silent vow whispered through touch.

You clung to him, fingers digging weakly into the tense muscles of his back. The pleasure was distant, muted beneath layers of fatigue and the babe’s restless stirrings deep within your womb. It wasn't ecstasy. It was affirmation. A desperate clinging to life, to him. Tears escaped your closed eyes, tracing paths down your temples into your hair. "Don't stop" you gasped, the words catching. "Please." His rhythm remained measured, careful, yet intensified, driven by your plea. His breath came in ragged bursts against your neck, mingling with your own shallow pants. The bed creaked softly beneath his shifting weight. You felt him trembling, yet not with passion, but with the sheer, terrified effort of holding onto you. His arms tightened around you, crushing you against him as if he could physically fuse your souls together against the inevitable pull.

He cried out your name, a raw sound torn from deep within him, collapsing onto you fully for a shuddering moment before quickly rolling to his side, pulling you half onto him. His chest heaved violently beneath your cheek. Silence descended, thick and heavy, broken only by your labored breathing and the frantic pounding of his heart against your ear. His hand slid slowly, possessively, over the taut swell of your belly, fingers splayed wide. "She moves" he whispered hoarsely, his voice thick with awe and anguish. "She knows her father." You felt it too… the distinct flutter, stronger than before, beneath his palm. A fragile smile touched your lips. "She knows you" you breathed, exhaustion washing over you like a tide. Your eyelids fluttered shut, the world narrowing to the comforting solidity of him beneath you, the lingering warmth between your legs, and the faint, stubborn pulse of life beneath his hand.

You drifted, floating somewhere between sleep and waking, anchored only by Rhaegar's steady heartbeat and the scent of him... salt and sweat and desperation.

Time blurred. Then, a sharp, grinding cramp seized you low in your belly, twisting deep. You gasped, clutching instinctively at Rhaegar's arm as a wave of pain shot through you. He stiffened instantly beneath you. "What?" His voice was sharp, alert. "What is it?" Before you could answer, a warm, wet rush flooded between your thighs, soaking the thin shift and the sheets beneath you. Not blood. Water. Clear and sudden. Your eyes flew open, meeting Rhaegar’s widening violet gaze. Panic flared in them, stark and immediate. "No" he breathed, the word choked. "It’s too soon. Pycelle said you have another moon—"

Another cramp, fiercer this time, stole your breath. You curled inward, a low moan escaping you. "Rhae…" It was a plea, thick with fear. He was already moving, scrambling off the bed, shouting into the corridor, his voice raw with command. "Fetch Maester Pycelle! NOW! And the midwife! Move!" His orders echoed down the stone hall, urgent footsteps scrambling away.

The pains came faster, relentless waves crashing against your fragile body. Pycelle arrived, his face grim, followed by a flustered midwife. Rhaegar hovered, his violet eyes wild, fingers digging into the bedpost until the wood groaned. He tried to stay, tried to hold your hand as the midwife pushed your shift up, exposing your swollen belly and trembling legs. But when the next contraction tore through you, a scream ripped from your throat. His name, raw and desperate and something in him shattered. He flinched violently, tearing his hand from yours.

"No" he choked, stumbling back. "I cannot—" He fled the room, the heavy oak door slamming shut behind him. You screamed again, the sound chasing him down the corridor. Outside your chamber, pressed against the cold stone wall, he slid down until he sat hunched on the floor. Your screams echoed, sharp and terrible, punctuated by frantic gasps and Maester Pycelle’s low, urgent commands. Each cry of "Rhaegar!" was a knife twisting in his gut. He jammed his palms over his ears, pressing hard, trying to drown out the agony he’d authored. He’d made you his second wife, claimed you before gods and men, loved you with a fire that consumed reason. Yet now, faced with the monstrous consequence of that love tearing you apart, he couldn’t bear to witness it. He’d placed this horror inside you, this thing draining your lifeblood onto the sheets.

Footsteps rushed down the hall, swift and light. Rhaella, wrapped hastily in a velvet robe, her silver hair loose and wild, rounded the corner. Her eyes, wide with sleep and dread, instantly found her son crumpled on the floor like discarded parchment. He didn't look up and his eyes were squeezed shut, knuckles white against his temples, his entire frame rigid with anguish. "What is it?" Rhaella gasped, crouching beside him, her hand hovering near his shoulder but not daring to touch. Her voice trembled. "Is she alright? Has she—" The unspoken horror hung thick in the air at her thoughts.

Has she already gone?

Another scream tore through the heavy oak door, it was raw, guttural, and filled with agony. Rhaella flinched violently, her gaze snapping towards the sound. Confusion warred with dawning horror on her face. "It is early…" she breathed, her voice barely audible above the echoes. "I thought she had another moon?" The words were a plea for denial. Maester Pycelle had been adamant that the princess couldn't possibly carry to term without perishing herself. This timing was catastrophic. Her eyes flickered back to Rhaegar, still frozen against the wall. "Rhaegar?" she pressed, sharper now. "Answer me!"

He lifted his head slowly. His violet eyes were hollow, haunted pits. "The waters broke" he rasped, the words scraping his throat raw. "It… it started." He gestured weakly towards the door as another choked cry filtered through. "I couldn't… I couldn't stay." Shame washed over his features, stark and undeniable. He, the Crown Prince, the prophesied savior, had fled his wife's side as she fought for her life. A life he had endangered.

Rhaella stared at him, a cold fury replacing her initial panic. Her lips pressed into a thin, bloodless line. "You fool" she hissed, the words sharp as Valyrian steel. "You selfish, reckless fool!" She pushed herself up, ignoring his flinch. "You filled her head with dreams of destiny while filling her belly with death!" Her gaze swept over him, crumpled and useless. "Get up." Her command cracked like a whip. "Get up, Rhaegar Targaryen. You will not hide here like a whipped dog while she bleeds for your prophecy!"

Another scream, weaker this time, choked off into a terrifying gasp. Rhaella’s resolve hardened. She strode to the door, flung it open, and vanished inside. The sounds intensified of frantic murmurs from Maester Pycelle, the midwife’s urgent instructions, the wet, tearing gasp that followed another contraction. Rhaegar remained frozen, the Queen Mother’s condemnation echoing louder than his sister-wife’s agony. Selfish. Reckless. He’d traded her fragile life for the ghost of a promised prince.

Inside the chamber, chaos reigned. Sweat plastered silver gold hair to your temples as you arched against the pillows, your face contorted in a silent scream. The midwife’s hands pressed firmly on your swollen belly. "Push, Princess!" she commanded, her voice strained. "Now! Harder!" Pycelle hovered near the foot of the bed, his expression grim, holding a basin and cloths already stained crimson. The metallic tang of blood filled the stifling air, thick and cloying beneath the scent of herbs and fear. Rhaella rushed to your side, grabbing your flailing hand. Her grip was surprisingly strong, anchoring.

"Rhaegar…" you gasped out, your voice a shredded whisper lost in the guttural groan tearing from your throat. Your vision swam, the room tilting violently. The pain was a living thing, grinding and relentless, stealing thought, stealing breath. You clung to Rhaella’s hand like driftwood in a storm. Your eyes, heavy as lead, fluttered shut. Your legs trembled violently, muscles screaming, then abruptly went limp beneath you, utterly spent.

"Stay awake!" Rhaella commanded, her voice cracking with fear she couldn't hide. Her fingers tightened bruisingly around yours. "Look at me!" Through the haze of agony and encroaching darkness, you forced your eyelids open. Your mother’s face swam into focus. She was pale, terrified, yet fiercely determined. A fragile, delirious smile touched your cracked lips. She’s here. Holding me. The thought was a flicker of warmth in the icy pit of despair with a mumbled "Mommy..." leaving your lips before your gaze drifted past her, searching the doorway, the corners, for silver hair and violet eyes. "Rhaegar…" you breathed again, the name a plea woven into the fabric of your pain.

"He waits" Rhaella lied swiftly, her voice thick. "He waits just outside. He hears you. He knows how brave you are." She brushed sweat soaked strands from your forehead. "Now push, my love! For your child! Push!" Her words ignited a final, desperate surge of strength. You bore down, grinding your teeth against the scream that ripped through you. Something tore. A gush of warmth flooded beneath you, mingling with the amniotic fluid. "Good! Again!" the midwife barked, her hands pressing, guiding. "I see the head! Crowned!"

The pain crescendoed into a blinding white agony. Your eyes squeezed shut, wishing only for oblivion, anywhere but this blood soaked bed. The pained noises escaping you were barely human. And so you willed it, or perhaps the desperate child within you did and the world dissolved once more.

The familiar scent of parchment and dragonstone filled your nostrils. Soft babbling noises drifted from a crib in the corner. You stumbled, disoriented, the heavy wetness of blood soaked skirts clinging to your legs. Rhaella’s furious voice cracked through the air and startled you. "Would you just look at her! She's your daughter!" Your gaze snapped to the bedchamber's center. Rhaegar stood rigidly facing the hearth, his back a wall of silver hair and black velvet. "It killed her!" His voice was raw gravel, shaking violently. "I can't… I can't love it!" He refused to turn.

"Your sister died for her! For your child!" Rhaella roared, her face flushed with fury and grief. She strode forward, the tiny bundle squirming in her arms wrapped in cloth white as snow. "And you sit and ignore her these past weeks!? Hold her! " Without waiting, she thrust the infant forcefully into Rhaegar’s unprepared hands. He gasped, instinctively clutching the sudden weight. A choked sob tore from his throat as he finally looked down.

The baby was impossibly small, skin translucent as parchment over delicate bones. Wisps of silver hair, finer than spider silk, crowned her head. Her eyes were open and wide, unfocused pools of Targaryen violet, blinking slowly at the sudden shift in light. She didn't cry. She simply stared up at him, her tiny mouth working silently. Her fingers, miniature and perfect, curled instinctively around the edge of his velvet doublet.

"My…" The word was a choked whisper, barely audible over the crackling hearth. His thumb, trembling, traced the curve of her cheekbone, impossibly delicate beneath skin like thin silk. Her violet eyes, wide and unfocused, blinked slowly, catching the firelight. They held no accusation, only a profound, unknowing stillness. "My sweet sister…" The phrase tumbled out, thick with grief and bewildered wonder. He stroked her face again, the gesture clumsy, reverent. "…died for you." The truth of it settled upon him like ash and you stumbled forward wanting to comfort him in any way but the only one who noticed you was your daughter who let out a little giggle. she was so small, smaller than most babies and yet so perfect.

"What are you looking at, little one?" Rhaegar murmured, his voice thick. He glanced back towards the corner again, seeing nothing but shifting shadows. A sigh escaped him, heavy with exhaustion and lingering grief. "Ghosts?"

The baby gurgled, a soft, bubbling sound. Her tiny arm strained upward, fingers splayed towards the empty space near the hearth. Her violet eyes, impossibly alert for a newborn, seemed fixed intently on something Rhaegar couldn't perceive. A strange certainty bloomed in your chest, warm and fierce. She wasn't staring at ghosts. She was staring at you. Her lips parted in a silent 'O', then she cooed softly, her reaching hand opening and closing as if trying to grasp air.

Rhaella watched her son cradle his daughter, the rigid lines of his grief softening into bewildered tenderness. He traced the baby's cheek again, transfixed. A small, hesitant smile touched the Queen Mother's lips and it was the first true warmth since the screams had faded. Seeing that fragile hope reflected in her weathered face, a sudden, profound calm washed over you. The name surfaced effortlessly, perfect and clear, like a pearl from deep water. "Hello…" you whispered, the sound a mere breath against the crackling fire, yet carrying a strange weight. "…Daenerys."

The next second, a blinding agony tore through your belly, it was a brutal, grinding cramp that shattered the vision. You gasped, arching off the sweat soaked pillows, reality crashing back. The scent of blood and fear choked the air. Pycelle’s urgent murmurs, the midwife’s barked commands, Rhaella’s bruising grip on your hand and it all flooded back, sharp and terrifying. You were back in the birthing bed, drowning in pain.

But now, Rhaegar was there, kneeling beside you. His face was pale, etched with terror, violet eyes damp and shimmering. One hand clutched yours fiercely as the other trembled while he brushed sweat plastered hair from your forehead. "Shhh, my love" he murmured, his voice thick with unshed tears, rough against the backdrop of your ragged gasps. "You’re doing so well. Just breathe… breathe with me." He inhaled deliberately, deeply, urging you to follow. "You’ll be okay" he whispered, leaning close, his lips brushing your temple. "You and I… we grow old together. Hair no longer white as snow but grey. we'll have wrinkles… watching dragons soar…" His voice cracked. "We have more than one babe… we have daughters… sons… a whole brood of silver haired terrors…" He squeezed your hand, desperation bleeding into his forced optimism. "We—"

"Daenerys" you cut him off, your voice a breathless, shaky rasp that cracked like dry parchment. Your body felt utterly spent, a hollow vessel drained of strength. The grinding agony that had consumed you moments before seemed to be… fading? Retreating like a tide pulling back from the shore, leaving behind a strange, heavy numbness. You felt detached, floating.

"What?" Rhaegar mumbled, confusion etching lines onto his pale face. He blinked rapidly, wiping at stray tears with the back of his wrist, smudging dampness across his cheekbone. His violet eyes searched yours, frantic and bewildered. "What did you say?"

"Her name…" you breathed again, the words scraping raw against your throat. The pain wasn't just fading, it was evaporating, leaving behind a profound, eerie numbness. Your limbs felt impossibly heavy, yet strangely weightless. The frantic sounds of the room of Maester Pycelle's muttered incantations, the midwife's sharp commands, Rhaella's choked encouragements... they seemed to recede, muffled as if heard through thick wool. You couldn't feel the contractions anymore. You couldn't feel Rhaegar's crushing grip on your hand. Only a deep, spreading coldness seeped inward from your extremities.

Rhaegar stared, confusion deepening into dawning horror. He saw the unnatural stillness settle over you, the frantic arching cease. Your eyes, wide and unfocused, drifted past him towards the canopy overhead. "I don't care of her name!" he echoed, his voice cracking. He leaned closer, shaking your shoulder gently, then urgently. "Stay with me! Look at me! Push!" Panic sharpened his commands. He whirled towards Pycelle. "What's happening? Why has she stopped pushing?"

The maester pushed past Rhaegar, his wrinkled face grim as he pressed fingers to your throat. His own breath caught. "The pulse… it's fading" he murmured, the words thick with finality. "She's going cold." He pulled back the blood soaked sheet covering your legs. Below your swollen belly, a terrifying stillness reigned. The frantic struggle had ceased entirely. Only a terrifying pool of crimson spread steadily beneath you.

Rhaegar froze. The world narrowed to the awful pallor of your skin, the unnatural slackness of your jaw. Pycelle's pronouncement echoed in the sudden, suffocating silence that followed your ragged gasp. Fading. Cold. Rhaella let out a choked sob, her grip on your limp hand tightening convulsively. "No!" Rhaegar roared, the sound raw and primal, tearing from a place deeper than prophecy, deeper than crown or duty. He shoved Pycelle aside, his body shielding yours. "She breathes! She spoke!" His trembling hand cradled your icy cheek. "Look at me!" he commanded, desperation cracking his voice. "Fight! For her! For Daenerys!" He pressed his forehead against yours, his tears mingling with the sweat on your skin. "You promised me wrinkles and dragons! You promised!" His whisper was a ragged plea against the encroaching stillness.

"Pull the babe out" Pycelle rasped, his voice thick with urgency, cutting through Rhaegar's anguish. He pushed past the prince's protective hunch, his wrinkled face grimly stoic as he looked down at you.

Your eyes stared fixedly at the canopy, unblinking, unseeing, utterly detached from the frantic energy swirling around you. A choked sob escaped Rhaella in the corner, a sound of utter despair. She moved swiftly, pushing aside her own grief. Her hands, surprisingly strong, replaced Rhaegar's frantic clutching, gently but firmly guiding him back just enough to give Pycelle and the midwife space. "Do it" Rhaella commanded the midwife, her voice thick with tears but laced with steel. "Now. Save the child." Her gaze flickered to your face, a silent apology etched in her eyes before she focused on the grim task.

The midwife nodded, her expression grimly determined. She didn't hesitate, her experienced hands sliding down your limp leg, positioning herself firmly at the foot of the bed. Pycelle pressed a folded cloth against your lower abdomen, bracing. There was no response from you, no gasp, no flinch, only the terrifying stillness. With a practiced motion, the midwife reached inward, her brow furrowed in intense concentration. Rhaegar watched, frozen in horror, his violet eyes wide and damp, fixed on the midwife's hands as they vanished beneath the blood soaked sheet. He saw the midwife brace her shoulder, her muscles straining visibly beneath her simple tunic. A low grunt escaped her lips as she pulled, guided by Pycelle’s murmured instructions.

"No!" Rhaegar roared, the sound tearing from his throat like shattered glass. He surged forward, his hand clamping violently around the midwife's wrist, trying to wrench it away. "Stop! You're hurting her! Stop!" His voice cracked, raw with terror and grief. He couldn't bear the thought of them tearing into your unresponsive flesh, violating you even as life fled. "Leave her!"

Rhaella moved with startling speed. She threw her weight against her son, her own grief hardening into steely resolve. Her arms locked around his chest from behind, pinning his arms momentarily. "Hold him!" she barked at Pycelle, her voice thick with tears but sharp as a dagger. The Grand Maester hesitated only a heartbeat before grasping Rhaegar's other arm. Together, they hauled the Crown Prince back, away from the bed, away from you. Rhaegar fought, a wild animal trapped, his boots scraping uselessly on the stone floor. Rhaella hissed fiercely into his ear, her grip iron tight. "Please, Rhaegar! For her sake let them save the child she bled for!"

"Save her!" Rhaegar screamed, his voice raw and breaking, straining against their combined strength. He twisted violently, trying to lunge back towards the bed where you lay utterly still. "Not that thing! Please! Gods, save her!" His violet eyes, wide and frantic, were fixed solely on your pale, slack face. "She spoke! She breathed! Don't touch her!" He kicked out, catching Pycelle's shin, making the old man gasp. The midwife flinched at the commotion but didn't stop. Her hands remained buried beneath the crimson sheet, her face a mask of grim concentration.

Rhaella tightened her arms like iron bands around her son's chest. "Hold him!" she snapped again at Pycelle, her voice thick with her own tears but sharp with command. The Grand Maester, grimacing, renewed his grip. Rhaella pressed her cheek against Rhaegar's sweat-dampened hair. "She's gone, Rhaegar," she hissed, the words a brutal truth forced through her own agony. "She's gone. Let them save her child. The last piece of her." Her voice cracked on the final word.

Rhaegar sagged against her, a choked sob escaping him. His frantic struggles ceased, replaced by a terrible stillness. He stared past Pycelle’s shoulder, his violet eyes wide and vacant, fixed on the canopy above the bed where you lay. The silence stretched, broken only by the midwife’s grunts of effort and the slick, wet sounds beneath the sheet. Pycelle murmured low instructions, his hands pressing firmly on your abdomen, guiding. The midwife pulled again, her shoulders straining. A final, sharp tug.

And then... a thin, reedy wail pierced the heavy air. High-pitched and indignant, it filled the chamber, bouncing off the stone walls. It was the sound of life, raw and demanding, utterly incongruous with the deathly stillness around it.

Rhaegar crumpled. The sound hit him like a physical blow, buckling his knees. He hit the cold stone floor hard, the impact jarring up his spine. For a heartbeat, he stayed there, hunched, the triumphant cry of his daughter echoing around him while everyone surged towards the midwife and the squalling bundle she lifted, bloody, squirming and far too small. Pycelle rushed forward, Rhaella releasing Rhaegar to join the flurry around the newborn.

"No…" The denial was a ragged gasp. He scrambled forward on hands and knees, ignoring the sharp pain in his scraped palms, ignoring the chaos swirling around the infant. He hauled himself back up to the bedside, grabbing the edge of the mattress, pulling himself half onto it beside your still form. His fingers, trembling violently, found your cheek. It was cold. Waxen. "My love?" His voice cracked, high and desperate. "Hey… hey, wake up…" He stroked your face, frantic swipes across skin that felt like chilled marble. "It's me… it's Rhae." Tears streamed down his cheeks unchecked, dripping onto the blood soaked sheets. "Look at me. Please. Just blink. Just blink for me." He leaned closer, his forehead pressing against yours, his breath warm against your chilling skin, trying to will life back into you. "Daenerys is here. She's crying. She needs you. I need you."

Slowly, inevitably, the chaos subsided. The midwife cleaned Daenerys with efficient hands, wrapping her tightly in fresh, warmed linen. Her cries softened into hiccups, then faded into exhausted, rhythmic breaths. Pycelle murmured something low to Rhaella about the child's fragility, the need for constant warmth. Rhaella nodded, her gaze flickering between the sleeping infant and her son, still hunched over your body. She moved silently, the tiny bundle cradled securely in her arms. She approached the bedside, her steps hesitant. "Rhaegar" she said softly, her voice rough from tears. "Your daughter. She needs her father." She held Daenerys out slightly, the infant's tiny face barely visible within the folds of cloth, her silver white hair like spun moonlight.

Rhaegar didn't turn. His cheek rested against your cold temple, his own tears drying in tracks on his pale skin. His fingers, stained crimson from clutching your hand, continued their slow, rhythmic stroking of your hair, untangling strands matted with sweat and blood. Your eyes were closed now that he had gently lowered the lids himself, unable to bear the vacant stare. He held you close against him, one arm wrapped possessively around your shoulders, the other hand buried in your silver hair. He breathed shallowly, inhaling the fading scent of you beneath the overwhelming metallic tang of blood and the sharp sting of antiseptic herbs Pycelle had used. Your stillness was absolute, a terrifying void where fierce life had been moments before. Rhaella’s words seemed to skim past him, meaningless noise against the roaring silence in his head.

"Rhaegar" Rhaella repeated, her voice firmer now, thick with unshed tears but edged with command. She stepped closer, the bundle in her arms shifting slightly. Daenerys made a tiny, mewling sound, a kittenish whimper muffled by the swaddling cloths. "Look at her. Your daughter. She lives. Look." She shifted her arms, angling the small face towards him. The infant’s features were impossibly delicate, her skin translucent, her silver-white lashes fluttering against cheeks still flushed pink from her violent entry. A miniature fist escaped the linen, waving weakly in the air.

Rhaegar flinched as if struck. His hand, still tangled in your cold, sweat dampened hair, tightened convulsively. He didn't turn his head. His gaze remained fixed on the hollow stillness of your face, the pale lips slightly parted, the unnatural peace that had settled over you like a shroud. He traced the curve of your ear with a trembling, blood stained thumb. "She's sleeping" he mumbled, the words slurred, thick with denial. "Exhausted. Leave her be." He leaned down, pressing his lips to your forehead, lingering as if trying to share his own warmth. "Just resting."

Rhaella stepped closer, the tiny bundle shifting slightly. Daenerys emitted a soft, mewling sound, a fragile whimper that seemed impossibly loud in the heavy silence. The Queen Mother's voice was low, insistent, cutting through Rhaegar's fog. "Rhaegar. Look at her. See what she gave you." She angled the infant towards him, forcing the small face into his peripheral vision. The baby's features were impossibly delicate, her skin almost translucent, her silver white lashes resting against flushed cheeks. Her miniature fist waved weakly in the cool air.

"Get it away," Rhaegar rasped, his voice thick and slurred. He didn't turn his head. His gaze remained locked on the unnerving stillness of your face, the pale lips slightly parted. He stroked your cold temple with a trembling, blood stained thumb, his touch feather light. "She's tired… exhausted. Can't you see? Leave her be." He leaned down again, pressing his lips to your forehead, lingering as if his own warmth could seep into the marble chill. "Just resting. Deep sleep after… after the effort." His arm tightened around your shoulders, pulling your limp form closer against his chest, shielding you from the intrusion of the living child.

Rhaella didn't retreat. She edged the bundled infant closer still, the tiny face now directly in his line of sight. Daenerys whimpered again, a fragile, hiccuping sound. Her miniature fist waved blindly. "She is resting, Rhaegar" Rhaella stated, her voice low and fierce, cutting through his denial like Valyrian steel. "Eternal rest. And this" she shifted the bundle, forcing the infant's impossibly small features towards him, "this is her legacy. Her triumph. Look at her." The baby’s violet eyes, startlingly bright and aware despite her fragility, blinked slowly. They seemed to focus, not on Rhaella, but past her shoulder and towards the bed, towards you.

Rhaegar’s breath caught. His gaze, dragged unwillingly from your cold face, locked onto those eyes. They weren't the deep indigo of his own, nor the soft lilac shade yours had been. They were a startling, luminous violet, like amethysts catching dawn light. And in that instant, staring into that newborn gaze, he didn't see a thief of life. He saw you. He saw the fierce longing in your eyes when you held Aegon, the desperate hope in your whispered dream of a silver haired girl. He saw the ghost of your smile reflected in the curve of the infant's tiny, pink mouth. A choked sob tore from his throat, raw and ragged.

His head shook violently, a frantic denial against the unbearable truth pressing in. "No!" The word was a guttural roar, ripped from a place deeper than grief. He buried his face against your neck, inhaling the fading warmth beneath the chilling skin, the lingering trace of you beneath the iron tang of blood and herbs. His arms tightened convulsively around your limp shoulders, pulling you hard against him, as if he could shield you from the finality, absorb you back into his own flesh. "Get out!" he screamed, the sound muffled against your skin, thick with tears and fury. "Everyone out! Can't you see? She's trying to sleep! Leave us be!" He pressed frantic kisses against your jawline, your temple, your closed eyelids, whispers lost against your stillness. "Just resting… deep sleep…"

Rhaella stood frozen, the squirming bundle in her arms forgotten for a moment. She saw the raw, animal desperation in her son, the terrifying break from reality. Pycelle exchanged a horrified glance with the midwife. The Queen Mother took a slow, shuddering breath. Her own heart felt like shattered ice, but duty, cold and sharp, pierced the fog of her grief. She looked at the tiny, fragile life in her arms – your life, paid for in blood. Then she looked at her son, clinging to a ghost. "Out" she commanded Pycelle and the midwife, her voice low and hoarse but brooking no argument. "All of you. Now. Leave them." Her gaze swept the horrified servants clustered near the door. "Go." Reluctantly, shuffling, they obeyed, the heavy chamber door thudding shut behind them, leaving only Rhaella, Rhaegar, the silent infant, and the terrible stillness of the bed.

Rhaella hesitated only a moment longer. She approached the bedside cautiously, her movements slow and deliberate. She didn't try to hand Daenerys to Rhaegar again. Instead, she gently laid the tightly swaddled infant down on the broad, cushioned bench near the cold hearth. The baby whimpered softly, a sound lost beneath Rhaegar's ragged breathing against your neck. Rhaella straightened, her eyes lingering on her son's hunched form, then on your peaceful, pale face. A fresh wave of agony threatened to overwhelm her, but she clamped it down. "I'll send for clean linens and water" she murmured, her voice thick. "She… she shouldn't lie in this." She didn't wait for a response Rhaegar wouldn't give. Turning swiftly, she slipped out, pulling the door closed with a soft, final click. Outside, she leaned against the cold stone, pressing a fist to her mouth, stifling a sob before turning to the waiting servants, her voice regaining its steel. "Fetch warm water. Fresh linens. Immediately. And silence. Absolute silence."

The latch clicked softly behind Rhaella. Rhaegar didn't stir. He remained slumped over you, his face buried against your neck, his shoulders shaking silently. Minutes crawled by. Then, slowly, his head lifted. His violet eyes, red rimmed and hollow, scanned the room. The discarded rags, the basin of pink tinged water, the untouched birthing stool. His gaze landed on the bench where Daenerys lay, a small, silent bundle. He looked away instantly, as if burned. He pushed himself up stiffly, his movements jerky, like a puppet with tangled strings. He stumbled to the heavy oak door, fumbling with the iron bolt. It slid home with a heavy, echoing thud. Locked. The sound seemed to sever something. He turned back to the bed, his expression shifting from numb despair to a terrifyingly focused intensity.

He moved with sudden, unnerving efficiency. He dragged the basin closer, poured fresh water from a pitcher, ignoring its chill. He ripped a clean linen sheet into strips. His hands, still stained crimson, trembled violently as he peeled back the blood-soaked sheet covering you. He flinched at the sight beneath the stark pallor, the cruel stillness but didn't pause.

With meticulous, almost reverent care, he began. He washed the sweat and tears from your face, the gentle strokes a stark contrast to the frantic scrubbing of your arms and torso, trying to erase the evidence of the ordeal. He cleaned the blood matting your silver hair, combing it back with his fingers until it fanned out on the pillow like moonlight.

He dressed you in a clean, soft shift he found in your wardrobe, pulling it carefully over your limp limbs, smoothing the fabric. He replaced the fouled bedding with fresh linens, tucking them around you with obsessive neatness. The entire process was silent, punctuated only by his ragged breathing and the splash of water. He worked like a man possessed, driven by a desperate need to restore order, to make you look… peaceful. Like you were merely sleeping. When he finished, he stood back, surveying his work. You lay pristine now, clean and pale, bathed in the soft light filtering through the high window. Only the unnatural stillness betrayed the truth.

He sank back onto the bed beside you, the frantic energy draining away as abruptly as it had come. He stretched out alongside you, carefully arranging himself so he didn't disturb the neatness he’d imposed.

One arm slid beneath your shoulders, pulling you gently towards him until your head rested against his chest. His other hand found yours, cold and limp, and he laced his fingers through yours, squeezing gently, as if seeking a response that wouldn’t come. He pressed his face into the crown of your hair, inhaling the faint scent of lavender soap beneath the lingering metallic tang he couldn’t wash away. His body trembled against yours, a fine, constant shiver that had nothing to do with the cool air. He whispered your name, a choked sound muffled against your hair. Then again. And again. Each repetition softer, more desperate, dissolving into broken murmurs against your scalp.

fragments of promises whispered in the dark, lines from songs he’d sung only for you, pleas for forgiveness that echoed unanswered in the silent chamber.

Outside, muffled footsteps approached, hesitated near the bolted door, then retreated. Rhaegar ignored them. His world had shrunk to the cold weight against his side, the unnatural stillness beneath his hand resting on your abdomen where life had stirred so recently. He traced the curve of your jaw with trembling fingers, lingering on the pulse point where no beat fluttered.

A low, agonized groan escaped him, vibrating through his chest and into yours. He pulled you closer, burying his face deeper against your hair, his shoulders shaking silently. He remembered the fierce grip of your hand during the worst pains, the desperate hope in your eyes when you’d whispered ‘Daenerys’. Now, only stillness answered him. The silence pressed in, thick and suffocating, broken only by his own ragged breaths and the faint, rhythmic snores drifting from the bundled infant on the bench across the room.

Time lost meaning. The light filtering through the high window shifted, casting long, cold shadows across the meticulously cleaned floor. Daenerys stirred, emitting a soft, mewling cry that pierced the quiet like a needle. Rhaegar flinched violently, his arm tightening around your shoulders. "Hush" he murmured against your hair, his voice thick and slurred. "Can't you hear? She needs quiet." He lifted his head slightly, his violet eyes wild and unfocused as they scanned your peaceful face. "See? She's resting now. Finally resting." He gently smoothed a stray silver strand from your forehead, his touch reverent. "You fought so hard, my love. So brave." His thumb brushed your cold lips. "Just sleep. I'll watch over you." He settled back, pressing his forehead against your temple, trying to share his warmth, to will away the creeping chill settling deeper into your limbs.

A sharp, insistent rapping echoed against the heavy oak door. Rhaella’s voice, muffled but firm, cut through Rhaegar’s murmured reassurances. "Rhaegar. Open this door. Now." The knocking intensified, rhythmic and demanding. Rhaegar squeezed his eyes shut, burying his face against your neck.

He smelled the faint lavender beneath the lingering iron tang, and suddenly, he wasn't in the death-scented chamber.

He was in the godswood at dusk, sunlight dappling through the ancient weirwood leaves. You were thirteen, flushed and breathless after racing him through the hedges, collapsing onto a mossy bank near the hot springs. You had not even ran, more stumbled breathlessly as rhaegar had always let you win seeing as you could not move much. Steam curled around you both. A stray strawberry from your stolen snack stained the corner of your mouth. He’d reached out, laughing, his thumb brushing it away. Your eyes, bright with mischief, met his. "Caught you" you’d whispered, your grin infectious. He’d leaned in, tasting the sweetness on your lips, the world narrowing to the shared warmth, the rustling leaves, the bubbling water, and your soft sigh against his mouth. It was innocence, stolen and perfect.

Daenerys’s thin wail pierced the memory like shattered glass. It started low, a kittenish mewl, then escalated into a piercing, rhythmic cry of primal hunger. Rhaegar flinched, his arms tightening convulsively around your cold shoulders. "Hush" he hissed against your hair, his voice thick and slurred. "Can't you hear? She needs quiet. She's resting." The knocking on the door became a thunderous pounding. "Rhaegar Targaryen! Open this door!" Rhaella’s command was sharp, edged with panic. He ignored it, focusing on the ghostly warmth of your imagined breath against his skin. He traced the shell of your ear, cool as river stone now. "Just sleep, my love" he murmured. "I’m here."

He squeezed his eyes shut, desperate. Another memory. Sharp, bright. Dragonstone’s library, rain lashing the obsidian windows. You were fifteen, curled in a window seat, reading a crumbling scroll about Valyrian dragon taming. You had only been allowed out of your chamber so much and when you were rhaegar was near to protect you if you'd gotten too light headed. A draft blew out the candle beside you.

"Rhaegar!" you’d gasped, startled. He’d crossed the room, chuckling softly. "Afraid of the dark, little dragon?" He struck a flint, the spark illuminating your face, eyes wide, lips parted in mock indignation. "Only when you’re not near" you’d whispered. He’d leaned close to relight the candle, his hand brushing yours. The scent of parchment and damp stone mingled with the faint lavender oil you wore. He’d lingered, his breath stirring your hair. "Then I shall always be near" he’d promised, his voice low. You’d smiled, a flicker of pure trust in your violet eyes before turning back to the scroll. The intimacy was a quiet ember, glowing safe and warm.

[witchthewriter]

𝑭𝒊𝒓𝒔𝒕𝒃𝒐𝒓𝒏 𝑺𝒐𝒏, 𝑨𝒆𝒎𝒐𝒏 𝑻𝒂𝒓𝒈𝒂𝒓𝒚𝒆𝒏, 𝒓𝒊𝒅𝒆𝒓 𝒐𝒇 𝑪𝒂𝒓𝒂𝒙𝒆𝒔.

[mochifuyu]

Another fanart for @syndrossi 's au

Was practicing a pose, and then drew Rhaella (f!Rhaegar) and then everything. My back hurts ಥ_ಥ. I tried to test out new things, also add a few details, from jewelry, gold and the dress, which I actually got inspired from TikTok. I do think Rhaella is pretty happy with how she's grown up now (by her dress), can't a princess show off her bosoms U-U? Hope I captured her beauty even more

All the AUs are so good, it's making me color my art more nowadays, I might hopefully make some more doodles since I've recently read chapter 10 from resonant. One day I'll draw Jon fully or maybe Daemon, men are hard to draw orz. Here's the sketch since I was quite happy with the pose

[spirit-meets-the-b0ne]

“If he loved you, he would come and carry you off at swordpoint, as Rhaegar carried off his northern girl” “Jon chanced to look up and saw Val standing in her tower window. I'm sorry, he thought. I'm not the man to steal you out of there.”

Jon Snow Week 2026: Parallels/Foils

on twitter: X

[prophicc]