The sharp scent of blood and sweat still clung to the air like a shroud in the chamber where you lay. Candle wax dripped silently beside the bed, casting long shadows on the stone walls of Dragonstone. Outside, a summer storm lashed the keep — wind shrieked through the high windows, and far below, the Naro Sea raged in white-capped fury. Above it all, Caraxes, Prince Aemon’s red wyrm, let loose a shattering roar that shook the glass panes.

And then, another cry rose — higher, more fragile, more human.

The newborn’s wails pierced the storm.

Wrapped in silken cloth, her tiny body trembled against your chest. Rhaenys — second of her name, granddaughter of the King and Queen — had arrived into the world beneath thunder and dragoncry. Her hair, already pale as moonlight, clung damp to her head. When you pulled the cloth aside to kiss her temple, her violet eyes fluttered open, and for a heartbeat, time seemed to halt.

Aemon Targaryen stood at your side, still in his riding cloak, rainwater streaking his boots. His face, always composed and knightly, bore the signs of long worry — the drawn mouth, the shadow beneath his purple eyes.

He should not have been here. Tradition forbade it. But the moment he’d heard your cries echo down the corridors, he had barged past the maesters and midwives alike, sword still on his hip.

You turned to look at him, and in that instant, something broke gently within him.

Love, fierce and consuming, but laced with terror — he had nearly lost you. He would not forget the pale fear on the maester’s face when blood darkened the sheets, nor the stillness that had followed your final push.

He reached out now, fingers trembling faintly, and brushed aside the white strands matted to your temple. Then he leaned down, his lips close to your ear, so only you could hear.

“You endured the storm, my love,” he whispered, his voice rough with emotion. “You brought her into the world. I have never seen a braver thing. I am proud… gods, I am proud beyond words.”

The child stirred between you both, and Aemon placed one reverent hand over her swaddled form. His silver hair brushed yours as he bowed his head. Outside, the storm began to quiet, as if the realm itself had paused to welcome its future queen.