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The room smells of iron and rust. It’s quiet, save distant splashes against stone. The sound would keep her awake at night, tossing and turning until Daemon wrapped his arms around her, his front warming her backside. They listened to each other’s heartbeat until they fell asleep together. The sound doesn't bother her as much anymore; she listens and thinks of Daemon and his touch as it lulls her to sleep.
Waves crashing against rocks are Rhaenyra’s sole companion as she cradles Visenya to her chest, stroking her cold cheek. Like this, she could pretend her daughter was merely sleeping, soothed by the waves.
Rhaenyra could pretend she wasn't willing the small body to cry.
The labor was long and arduous. Her ladies and the midwife scurried away like mice as she screamed. Rhaenyra endured the pain as she did the times before. Each labor she’s reminded of her mother and if she will meet the same fate, she and the babe.
Wouldn’t that be something? For Alicent and her ambition to usurp her throne and for herself to die soon after? It would be too easy, to take what is hers without so much as a fight. Rhaenyra doesn’t want to leave Daemon like that, on the birthing bed. They both deserve to die old and wrinkled, together.
They are not merciful, the gods. She prayed through her pregnancy to the Mother, to the ancient Valyrians atop their smoldering ashes, to whatever beings lurked within the ocean, for a daughter. How easy it is to forget they are cruel. That is what makes them gods. They take and they take and they take. Her mother and father, nameless brothers and sisters, Harwin.
Visenya.
Is this the same grief her mother felt? Her father? Why must she be left here, with the agony of living, when sweet, innocent Visenya doesn’t?
Her eyes became distorted with tears, but Rhaenyra quickly wiped them away. She forced herself to memorize her daughter's face; from the gentle slope of her nose to the little mole tucked behind her ear.
When her sons are grown and have pretty babies of their own, when her own eyes darken and fail her, when she finally forgets her mother’s voice, she wants to remember Visenya. Alicent and her brother may steal her crown, her daughter’s life before it could begin, but they will not take her memory. Rhaenyra will describe her soft, pretty face to Daemon as they die together, peacefully in the night. Perhaps Jacaerys and Baela will name a grandchild, a princess of the realm, in honor of the sister they never knew.
She should save the blanket.
The blanket. It’s still folded neatly in the crib, waiting to be unfurled and warmed by a child. Daemon argued with master craftsmen for weeks over that blanket. Would it grow scratchy as it's washed? The hue is too dark. Redo the embroidery, the dragons look like lizards.
Rhaenyra pleads to him, “Be done with this farce, my love, and put Caraxes away. The baby won’t care about a blanket.”
He had the gall to look offended . When it was finished, he draped the blanket over the crib and smiled, pleased as if he’d stitched it himself.
Rhaenyra would’ve presented Visenya to Daemon in that blanket. When the agony finished. He would’ve been so proud, so excited. He would take Visenya gently, supporting her head, as he did Aegon and Viserys as babes wrapped in their own furs, and love her at once.
She could imagine how much Daemon would take to Visenya, as he did the others. Perhaps her daughter would prefer Daemon’s arms to hers. He warms Visenya’s crib with her golden egg, but she would cry, wail, through the night for her father’s kind presence. Escape her cradle and waddle on cold stone to crawl into her parent’s bed and fall asleep between them. But Rhaenyra is a light sleeper. She would fall asleep threading her fingers through her daughter’s hair, as Visenya clings to Daemon.
Visenya grows quickly. Daemon carries her on his hips through Dragonstone, showing her the dragons perched atop the castle or flying on the horizon. He tucks her silver curls behind her ears as she stares at the sky.
Rhaenyra is crowned, and the Red Keep is Visenya’s playground. It was her mother’s, once, too. The child runs barefoot through the castle, septas trailing behind her, as if dragonfire licks her heels. Tiny nieces and nephews are welcome playmates, but she races into Daemon’s arms. She cannot contain her giggles as he lifts and twirls her around in a circle.
The tailors take weeks to piece together her first ball gown, but it’s all worth it for Visenya’s excitement. She twirls until her face is red, but she doesn’t stop dancing until late into the night. Highborn suitors, first and second sons of rich houses, line up the next day for her hand, but Visenya denies them all.
Her excuse? She loves to fly too much to settle on the ground. Later on, she proclaims to Rhaenyra that she never wishes to marry or bear children. Rhaenyra cannot force her to marry, nor would she, but perhaps one day Visenya will find herself fond of a son, or a daughter, from a small house.
They do not marry, nor do they have children, but they are happy. She and her dragon have explored the Seven Kingdoms and have flown across the Narrow Sea. She saw Old Valyria from a distance, the sea rising and burning the sky. She dotes on her nieces and nephews, bringing back expensive gifts and baubles and stories.
Visenya will kiss her wrinkled forehead as her mother passes, gathered around the bed are her beautiful sons and their children. Jace will be a good king, and Visenya a welcome advisor. Rhaenyra can pass, content that the realm is in good hands.
All for naught, though. The child will merely be a dash in a Maester’s history book. No one will ever know what Visenya could've been, would've been, what should've been.
Someone lays a gentle hand on Rhaenyra’s bare shoulder. Calloused palm on soft, dainty flesh.
Daemon.
“We’ll need to burn the body,” she says.