Chapter Text
Rhaenyra stared into her goblet, the dark red wine sitting placidly. Across from her, Laenor pushed his food around on his plate, sullen and quiet like he always was since the start of their marriage. He still stunk of the floral essence that the whorehouses like to burn.
“Husband,” she said. She did not continue, the words stuck in her throat. Laenor understood, though. They both knew what they were thinking.
“I know, Rhaenyra,” he said quietly, defeated. Rhaenyra’s heart ached for him.
Once, they had been close. Cousins and friends, they oft snuck away to eat lemon cakes and talk about their dragons. While not excited about their betrothal, they knew each other, and were hopeful for their union, having come to an agreement that would make them happy. The horrific spectacle at their wedding feast had doused their hopes and left them to pick the pieces up.
“It’s been nearly a year, now,” she murmured, “The courts have begun to speculate.”
“Let them speculate,” he sneered, fire flaring up briefly. Then he sobered, looking up at her with sorrow clear in his eyes. “Forgive me. I never wished to put you in this position.”
“I never wished for you to be in this position,” she repeated back. Laenor looked down again, fidgeting.
“About what I said before,” he murmured in High Valyrian. They could never be too careful, for the walls had ears and tongues that wagged at the right price. “You can always—”
“No!” She snarled, incensed.
When Laenor had quietly proposed that she bed another man and have him claim the children as his, she raged. She refused to sully their family names with bastards, she will not put their houses through that ordeal. Corlys Velaryon had already been spurned when her father refused to take to wife Laena Velaryon, she was not sure how he would react if his son was cucked.
“I told you before, I will not have us go through that humiliation. They will be Velaryon.”
Laenor looked at her helplessly, his light purple eyes anguished. “We’ve tried so many methods and none worked,” he said desperately, “What else is there to do?”
“We can figure something out,” she said, only a little desperately. She held her hand out on the table. Laenor took her hand, to her quiet relief, clutching at it like it was a lifeline. “We must, our children will be Velaryon and Targaryen, of the blood of Old Valyria. Nothing less.”
“Princess?” Ser Harwin’s voice broke through the bubble she and Laenor found themselves in. “There is a message from Lord Corlys.”
With her free hand, she took the scroll from Ser Harwin, dismissing him with a nod. The knight stepped back outside, quietly closing the door behind him.
“What say my father?” Laenor asked, eyeing the rolled-up paper warily.
Rhaneyra looked at the message in front of her, eyes finding Laenor’s. “He will be visiting soon, he wishes to speak to you. Us. In a fortnight’s time.”
Laenor let out a bitter chuckle. “I suppose I shall steer clear of my usual haunts during his stay, then. Ser Harwin will be thankful for my father’s visit.”
“I only send him because I worry for you, husband.” Rhaenyra said quietly, “I do not wish for harm to befall you.”
There was a bittersweet expression on his face. “What harm can befall a dead heart, dear wife?”
Rhaenyra did not answer, merely squeezing his hand in a fruitless attempt to console him. Laenor withdrew his hand after a moment, standing and rounding the table to press a hand on her shoulder.
“I will retire for the night, wife.”
Rhaenyra nodded, the lump of despair thickening her throat. “Sleep well, Laenor. I will see you in the morrow.”
Laenor left, his steps cut off after Ser Harwin closed the door of the dining room after him. He remained in the room with her.
“Princess?” Ser Harwin’s voice was gentle. He stood at the far end of the dining table, looking at her with clear blue eyes and concern clear on his face. “Will you also retire for the night?”
Rhaenyra remained in her seat, unmoving for some time. “I did not expect to be married, Ser Harwin,” she said finally, her voice loudly echoing in the quiet of the room. “Nor did I expect to be so desperate to birth children.”
Ser Harwin said nothing, still staring at her.
She liked that about him; her sworn shield never pushed her to speak, never pushed her to continue her words. He waited for her to collect her thoughts, patiently waiting for her to arrive at what she meant to say.
A bitter huff of laughter left her throat. “Imagine that. Me, the crown princess, heir to the Iron Throne. Never expecting to marry, or want to have children.”
“And now, here you are,” he said softly.
“And now I am,” Rhaenyra agreed. “And here I am, wanting to do my duty.”
There was worry on Ser Harwin’s face, worry and something else. Rhaenyra sighed, standing up. “I shall retire for the night, Ser Harwin. Please do the same, soon.”
Ser Harwin lived up to his name. He was a strong man, physically, the strongest in the land some claimed. Built like a bear and having hands like gloves, he had delivered devastatingly vicious blows to those he faced in tourneys. He was solid and dependable, but Rhaenyra had enough of sworn shields, she would not take another as a lover.
Perhaps he would be different from Criston Cole, but she did not know. Men are men, and they will act as men.
Rhaenyra had a duty, and she must not forsake it. Both she and her husband’s house depended on her. She would not allow Lady Alicent Hightower more reason to alienate her from court.
Her children must be of unmistakable Velaryon descent.
Laenor came to her chambers a sennight later, something heavy but determined in his eyes. They settled in her sitting chamber, the night sky clear with the stars twinkling. From his jerkin, he produced a small bag of dried herbs.
Rhaenyra stared at them warily. “Did we not already try that?”
“These are for female fertility, for twins, it is said,” Laenor said quietly, pressing the bag of herbs into her hand. She glanced at them only cursorily. “Take them while my father is here. Our children will be Velaryon, nothing less.”
Rhaenyra’s breath caught in her throat, and she could not help it. She laughed, trying to temper her chuckles into her mouth, trying to not let out a gut-wrenching wail. Laenor stared at her, mystified and a little affronted.
She calmed herself down, her lips trembling with conflicting emotion. “It seems we are of the same mind, husband. But I am not sure how I am to achieve this.”
I am not sure how to go about bedding your father, she did not say.
“Father is not faithful. He has bastards.” Laenor said, old resentment coating his words. “Mother does not know of them, but I found them with Laena when we were in Hull.”
A beat of silence.
Rhaenyra stared at Laenor who stared at his goblet of wine. His shoulders were tense and his face was a blank slate. She wondered how old he was when he stumbled across his father’s bastards. She wondered if he and Laena felt betrayed. Rhaenyra wondered how she would feel if she had found her father had sired bastards.
“And you would still have…?” Rhaenyra trailed off, unable to yet say out loud what they were delicately dancing around. She was not surprised at the Sea Snake’s infidelity, men will be men. But she was surprised that Laenor would propose this to her.
Laenor smiled grimly, holding her hands in his. “They will be my sons, raised as my boys. My father is an ambitious man, he will want his blood on the Iron Throne and on Driftmark.”
“And your mother?” Rhaenyra whispered, heart aching for her husband. Though he tried to hide it, Rhaenyra could see the strain it had on him. “What of your mother?”
“What mother does not know will not hurt her. She will have grandsons, she will love them as so.” Laenor declared. Rhaenyra stayed silent. She looked down, Laenor’s hands were trembling.
“I will have Criston Cole’s head mounted on a pike,” she vowed, tightening her grip on his hands. “He will answer for his crime.”
Laenor’s smile was as brittle as glass. “Duty first, wife of mine. Lay with my father, bear Velaryon children, and I will raise them as my sons.”
His lilac eyes hardened, and his grip grew as tight as hers. In his voice, she heard Seasmoke’s roar. “And then, Criston Cole will pay.”
“Just one issue,” Rhaenyra murmured, ill-suited humor coloring her voice. She handed the herbs back to Laenor, “This is just lavender and lemongrass. Where did you get this from?”
Laenor stared dumbly at the small bag. “Oh,” he said, “One of the dragon keepers gave it to me.”
Rhaenyra giggled, only slightly hysterically. “Was it Harold?” At Laenor’s nod, she gave a little grin. “He also gave me a similar pouch. I went to the maesters with it, it is not harmful but it doesn’t guarantee twins.”
Laenor’s face was so endearingly disappointed, Rhaenyra couldn’t resist herself. She leaned across the space between them and hugged Laenor fiercely. Almost immediately, he tucked his face into her shoulder and she was suddenly reminded of when they’d been younger and still naive about the world’s machinations.
“Forgive me, Rhaenyra,” he choked out. “If only the gods had made me able to give you children. We would not have resorted to such—”
Rhaenyra shushed him gently, cradling his head in her hands. “I would not change you for anything, my dearest Laenor. To me, you are perfect, you are honorable, and you are good. We will have our children. This… this is just a means to an end.”
Laenor sniffed wetly, tugging her onto his lap. She went easily, rearranging her skirts and resting his head on her clavicle. There, they stayed for some time, silent and taking comfort in each other’s presence.
“Can we name one after Joffrey?” Laenor’s voice was soft, hesitant. Rhaenyra blinked.
“We will need an heir for the Iron Throne and one for Driftmark,” she said, thinking deeply, the first two would bear proper, traditional Velaryon names, they would be heirs for their families, but a third child would not be as tightly scrutinized. “The third?”
“What would they stand to inherit?” Laenor asked.
Rhaenyra tilted her head, “Summerhall?”
Laenor nodded in satisfaction. “Prince Joffrey Velaryon of Summerhall,” he whispered, his eyes far away. “Joffrey Velaryon… and the others?”
Rhaenyra shrugged. “Velaryon names, but I am not sure yet which ones. You said they will be sons, how can you be so sure?”
Laenor shrugged as well, hugging her close. “You have time to brainstorm names, and they will be sons, all three of them.”
“Our boys,” Rhaenyra said softly, an unfamiliar feeling welling up in her chest.
“Our boys,” Laenor agreed. “Our boys.”
When the Velaryon fleet reached the port of Dragonstone, Rhaenyra and Laenor received them in the entrance hall. She wore a dark blue off-the-shoulder gown of Myrrish lace with pearls and sapphires dotting the bodice, while Laenor opted for a lighter blue outfit, a tunic of sky blue, and a jerkin of seafoam green and breeches a light green threaded with spun silver. An almost understated outfit beside her elaborate dress, but it was normal for them. It had been that way since they were children.
(Rhaenyra had been the attention-getter, the shining light in the middle of the room. Providing Laenor with a chance to melt in the background and observe the rest of the people. Later, they would reconvene with Laena and giggle over the blunders the guests had made, gossip about who had done what, and dance with whom.)
Laenor’s arm was offered to her as the doors opened. She took it with a smile and a lump in her throat.
“Lord Corlys Velaryon!”
Rhaenyra had a good-father to host. She had a duty to fulfill.
Rhaenyra smiled at her good-father and, if she played her part well, the future father of her children. “Good-father, welcome.”
She had a duty to fulfill. Rhaenyra will not fail.
Lord Corlys “The Sea Snake” Velaryon was a tall, striking man. He smelled of the sea, of the sky before a storm gathered. He had made House Velaryon the richest house in all of Westeros.
He was a powerful man and used to luxury and privilege. Like Laenor had said, he was also an ambitious man; married his son to her because he wanted his blood on the throne, despite knowing that Laenor’s preferences lay elsewhere.
Rhaenyra smiled grimly, his blood would be on the Iron Throne indeed.
She walked the empty halls of the Sea Dragon Tower by herself. Before they had retired after the dinner, she had Ser Harwin take all the guards and the visiting guards of Lord Corlys to the taverns. They would be back before the hour of the wolf. Hopefully, she would be done before then.
She entered his chambers. He sat facing the window that beheld the sea. The doors thudded close, and he turned, startled.
“Princess?” Corlys asked, confused and alarmed. Rhaenyra saw how his eyes wandered, she supposed she could thank her ample bosom for attracting eyes. She crept closer, his eyes snapping back to her face. “What is the reason…?”
“You wed me to your son,” she said slowly. He tensed, staring at her in guarded bewilderment. “You wed me to your son, knowing of his preferences. Due to your desire to see House Velaryon on the Throne.”
“You will not presume—!” he snarled, only to be pushed down by Rhaenyra’s hand on his chest, as she had not stopped advancing until she stood before him.
“I do not presume anything,” Rhaenyra hissed. “I am not blind, Lord Corlys. I am aware you pushed my father to take to wife your daughter, Laena. He took Lady Hightower to wife, instead. Scorning your House in the process; marrying Laenor to me, it was the next best option.” She pushed him again, this time succeeding in having him sit down again, which he did so, heavily. “But you did not foresee an issue that has arisen.”
“What?” he snapped, “Laenor is perfectly healthy, able to lay with—”
“We have tried!” Rhenyra snarled, slipping into High Valyrian in her frustration. “Laenor cannot get hard at all! He is broken by the death of the love of his life and cannot do his duty! Nearly a year of marriage and no heirs yet, Lord Corlys. Tell me, of what fruit will come from this sham of a marriage?”
Lord Corlys was silent, his heart beating rapidly under her hand. He did not seem to notice or care about it yet. She wondered if he would. He sighed heavily, leaning in the chair. Rhaenyra’s hand stayed on his chest, pulling her dangerously close to him. Her skirts brushed his shins.
“What do you propose, Princess?” he asked tiredly. Rhaenyra dared drag her hand from his chest to his shoulder.
Delicately, she murmured, “You wish for your blood to be on the throne.” She did not continue, because Corlys looked sharply up at her. He finally seemed to notice her hand.
His eyes were hard, his shoulder was tense. “I have a wife,” he stated, shrugging her hand off.
Rhaenyra hummed, “Did you think that when you sired those boys in Hull?”
Corlys stilled something like dread and shock crossing over his face. Rhaenyra smiled.
“If you sired them due to your need for heirs then you must mean to introduce them to your wife, yes?” She poured herself wine, sitting in the other chair. “Of course, unless you plan on surviving your wife and requesting for them to be legitimized.”
He was silent. If he introduced the boys as his heirs, Rhaenys would know he was unfaithful. An insult to the princess, who was only ever faithful. She had been a maiden when she married him, the first and only man she’d ever laid with.
If she, by some reason, died before he did, and Corlys introduced the boys as his, then there would be speculations of the less savory kind.
“You wanted your blood on the Throne, Lord Corlys,” she purred, tracing the goblet’s rim with her finger. His eyes followed their path. “Laenor is unable to do his duty. A Velaryon king, isn’t that what you want?”
Corlys swallowed thickly, his eyes finding hers. “How many?”
“Three,” Rhaenyra said immediately. She tasted triumph in the back of her throat. “One for the Iron Throne, one for Driftmark, and one for Summerhall.”
Corlys’ eyebrows drew together. “Summerhall has virtually no defenses. Why three?”
Rhaenyra raised a brow, “A spare. Should anything happen to the first two, there will be a backup.” Laenor’s request , she did not say.
Corlys nodded slowly, eyes dropping once again to her bosom. “Do you wish for them to be spaced out very much?”
“The first should be conceived as quickly as possible,” Rhaenyra said, “The courts like to gossip. And I imagine the queen-consort enjoys spreading slander.”
Corlys sighed, drinking the rest of his wine in one gulp before holding a hand out to her. Rhaenyra took it.
Corlys fucked as a man possessed. Rough and hard, driving into her like it was a command from the gods. Rhaenyra’s arms were wrapped around his shoulder, her skirts bunched up on her hips, a leg thrown over his shoulder.
Noises she’d never heard before were being pushed out of her with every thrust. Rhaenyra wondered if he fucked Rhaenys like this, if this was how Laenor and Laena were conceived. She wondered how Rhaenys could’ve stopped at two.
His hands passed over her bodice, and Rhaenyra struggled to push herself up onto her elbows to tug at the laces behind her. The difference in the angle made her moan, it felt like he was hitting her deepest part.
Corlys grunted, hips stuttering as he readjusted, hands pushing and pulling at the corset to free her breasts. Once in sight, he wasted no time gathering one nipple in his mouth. Rhaenyra’s head dropped back, breathless and gushing around him.
One of his hands held her hip, his rough hands a pleasant rasp against her skin. The other flicked her free nipple, twisting and pulling as she grew closer to her peak.
Her hand sneaked down to her clit, intent on reaching her peak before Corlys did when a hand snatched her wrist and held it above her head. Corlys detached from her breast and he brought the other hand to join the first.
“You either come on my cock or not at all,” he growled. Rhaenyra wanted to protest but her words died in her throat because she was soon flipped over and entered again. “Louder now, girl. No one will hear you like this.”
Rhaneyra cried out, and true to his word, her noises were muffled against the pillows she found herself on. A hand settled on her shoulder, and another in her hair, she felt Corlys lean over her back. He was a heavyweight against her, but she found that she did not abhor it.
She reached her peak first, tensing and trembling as he continued to fuck her through her orgasm. Her hand again sneaked down to press on her clit, and it was allowed. Rhaenyra sobbed as she felt the hot white pleasure reaching her toes.
Her back arched, cunt tightening around Corlys’ cock. He did not last long after, his thrust becoming uncoordinated and soul-shattering. His spend was searing and thick, filling her to what seemed to be up to the brim.
She panted, spent and still shaking. A gentle hand turned her around, and she found herself staring at Corlys. Whose cock was still erect and bouncing against his navel.
She smiled coyly, spreading her legs again. She felt a dribble of his spend leak out. “Ensure your seed takes well, Lord Corlys.”
Lord Corlys let out an incredulous laugh. But complied, settling between her legs again.
The Lord of House Velaryon stayed for a sennight, and Rhaenyra spent every night in his bed to ensure she would be with child. Three moons later, the maesters confirmed; she was with child.
Laenor nearly wept in relief. Kneeling at her feet and kissing her still flat stomach, he whispered vows in High Valyrian.
“My child, my child. You will grow at the knees of those who sit on the highest of seats. You will be honorable and good and just. You will be loved. My child, my child.”
Rhaenyra held his hands in hers, looking at her husband, who seemed a new man. She would fight to protect him, him and the child growing in her belly. The maester quietly congratulated them, smiling gently at the expecting parents.
“Send a letter to my father, Maester Gerardys, and share with him the news. And also send word to House Velaryon. They will have a grandson in some moons. Announce it to the realm only after they have sent back their reply.”
Gerardys bowed, “As you wish, Princess.”
She looked up before he left, “In addition, begin to seek out midwives, but discreetly. I wish for them to assist you in my birth, as women know more about childbirth.”
Garardys smiled at her, pride evident on his face. “Yes, Princess.”
“A boy?” Laenor whispered, looking at her with soft eyes. She ached, something warm and full in her chest as he stroked her stomach reverently. “How do you know?”
“He will be a boy,” she murmured, stroking back his hair. “I know it.”
“Our son,” Laenor said, marveling and glowing, “Our son. Our sea dragon.”
Soon, they will return to King’s Landing, and she will look Lady Hightower in the face and know her son is of Velaryon descent. Her husband will be at her side, her gentle sea dragon, relentless as the tides and as fiery as his dragon’s flames. Rhaenyra smiled.
She wondered how Lady Hightower would spin her web now.
Her son was born screaming and bloody, his skin the color of chestnut and snow-white fuzz crowning his head. The midwives announced his presence like Rhaenyra hadn’t felt the pain of his passing through her.
“A boy, Princess! A healthy boy!”
Rhaenyra panted, reaching out for her son. “Pass him to me,” she croaked, “give me my son.”
The midwives wasted no time, quickly cleaning him of the birthing blood and wrapping him in a custom Targaryen red and Velaryon blue blanket. They settled her boy onto her chest. She encouraged him to latch onto her breast, humming in approval as her child quickly began pulling.
The midwives coaxed the afterbirth out of her, cleaning her up as best they could. She turned to the head midwife.
“Will my husband be able to enter now? I wish to introduce him to our son.”
The midwife nodded, “Aye, Princess. Ser Laenor and the rest have been waiting most anxiously for the arrival of the little prince.”
Before they allowed entry, the midwives bundled up the blood-soaked sheets and covered her with a wool blanket. Meanwhile, Rhaenyra observed her son. He was swollen like she had been told all newborn infants were wont to be. She could see a nose similar to Laenor’s and high cheekbones like hers. The eyebrows were also Laenor’s, but the cupid’s bow was hers.
Her perfect boy, her precious firstborn. The doors opened, and Laenor almost tripped in excitement to see them.
He approached them with startingly gentle steps. His eyes were wide and roving over her and the babe pressed against her breast. Rhaenyra patted the space next to her, smiling as Laenor clambered over and pressed to her side, pressing an adoring kiss to her still-sweaty temple.
Carefully, he pushed a bit of fabric away from the boy. “Oh,” he said softly, “He’s perfect, ‘Nyra. He’s perfect.”
Rhaenyra suddenly felt overwhelmed. There was a burning in her eyes and a lump in her throat. “I survived,” she said hoarsely. “Laenor, I survived. My son is in my arms, alive and well. We both are with life, still.”
Laenor’s eyes softened even more. Sometimes he forgot his wife was only seven and ten. A woman grown, yes, but with the fat of her adolescence still clinging to her cheeks. And now, she looked more like a girl than a mother and wife. She was only four and ten when her own mother died of childbirth, and she’d lived in fear of the birthing bed because of that very reason.
“You are the bravest person I know, sweet Rhaenyra.” Laenor assured her, wrapping an arm around his wife and son, “You have done very well, the goddess Meleys blessed you and kept you from harm. You did everything perfectly, I’m so very proud of you.”
He kissed her temple again and looked on at his son, who had detached from his mother’s milk and was now staring at him with perfect Velaryon eyes. He gasped, the babe’s eyes were roving over his face, seemingly committing his features to memory.
Rhaenyra smiled weakly beside him. “He will be named Jacaerys. Jacaerys Velaryon, my son and heir.”
“Jacaerys Velaryon,” Laenor whispered, testing the name on his tongue. He smiled at the babe, brushing a gentle finger along the tiny forehead, Jacaerys scrunched up his face at the unfamiliar sensation. “Welcome, son. My little Jacaerys, son of Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, heir to the Iron Throne, Prince of Dragonstone. You will be loved.”
“Son of Prince-Consort Laenor Velaryon,” Rhaenyra added, eye on their now sleepy son. “You will be cherished.”