Chapter 63: The Queen's Pregnancy
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Rhaella POV
It was afternoon as I sat on a comfortable armchair, gazing out at the sea from the window of my chambers in the Red Keep.
The sun sat high in the sky, its golden light shimmering over the waves.
From where I sat, the sea seemed endless — a vast, unbroken expanse where the deep blue of the water bled into the pale sky at the horizon.
A soft breeze stirred the gauzy curtains, bringing with it the faint scent of salt and brine.
But it was not the sea that held my gaze — it was the doves. A small flock of them soared through the air, white feathers bright against the blue backdrop.
Their wings caught the sunlight as they glided with effortless grace, drifting higher and higher until they were little more than pale shadows.
Their feathers combined with the sunlight were the same shade as my hair, pale silver-gold, the mark of Valyria's blood.
How I envied them. Free to drift on the wind, unburdened by duty or expectation.
A queen is supposed to stand above such things — a mother of the realm, strong and steadfast — yet I felt more like a prisoner in a gilded cage.
My hand drifted toward my stomach, and I sighed.
For days now, a nausea had lingered, a dull queasiness that crept over me in the mornings and left me listless in the afternoons.
I had suspected the truth, but this morning the maester had confirmed it.
I was pregnant.
I should have felt joy. I was a queen, a Targaryen — it was my duty to provide heirs for the realm.
But instead, all I felt was fear. Cold, paralyzing fear.
I curled my fingers into the soft fabric of my white dress as the memories crowded in — the cold silence of the birthing chamber, the maesters' grim faces, the lifeless bodies wrapped in silk.
Shaena. Daeron. Daemon. Aegon. Jaehaerys. Five babes in the past seventeen years, gone before their lives had even begun.
Some had come too early, too small and fragile to cling to life. Others had lived only for moments, their breaths shallow and weak before the Stranger claimed them.
Only two — Daeron and Jaehaerys — had lived long enough to open their eyes and look at me with soft violet gaze before death stole them away.
Jaehaerys… I had dared to hope for him. He had been strong — or so I had thought — his tiny fingers curling around mine as he suckled at my breast.
But the gods are cruel. Last year, his strength failed him, and I watched helplessly as his breathing grew shallow, his little body trembling as the maesters whispered useless prayers.
Only Rhaegar had survived, my golden boy, my hope.
But I could not stop wondering if that had been luck — if the gods had given me one child and meant for me to have no others.
"Will this child suffer the same fate?" My hand lingered on my abdomen as the thought sank in, cold and heavy.
My gaze drifted to the sea again. The doves had disappeared, lost beyond the towers of the keep. I envied their freedom — not just their ability to fly, but the lightness of their existence.
They were not bound by blood or legacy. They would never have to bear the weight of the Iron Throne.
My thoughts darkened as they often did when I allowed them to linger too long on the past. I had long regretted my marriage to Aerys — how could I not?
When I was a young girl, I had imagined another life. A simpler life. Bonifer Hasty had once held my heart. He had loved me deeply, tenderly.
If it had been my choice, I would have chosen him.
But it had never been my choice.
Aerys was my brother, and our father had decreed that we would wed to uphold the purity of the Targaryen line.
Duty before love — that was the Targaryen way.
Even now, I sometimes thought of Bonifer. He had never married. He had given himself to the Maiden and sworn to love no one else after me.
That knowledge weighed on me. I had told him to let go — I had begged him to let go — but he never had.
A soft rustle of fabric pulled me from my thoughts. I blinked and realized a tear had slipped down my cheek.
I wiped it away quickly, but not before my handmaiden noticed.
"My queen?" The girl's voice was hesitant, uncertain.
"I'm fine," I said quickly, forcing my lips into a soft smile. "It is nothing."
A queen should not cry. A queen must not be weak.
I adjusted the folds of my dress and glanced toward the handmaiden. "Where is Rhaegar?"
"In the library, Your Grace."
I nodded, rising from the chair. I had not told Rhaegar about the pregnancy yet. I wanted to see him—to tell him myself.
He had always been so serious, so thoughtful beyond his years. He would understand the weight of it, as he understood most things.
But there was more I needed to speak with him about.
The most important aspect was of his betrothals. After all, the longer he remained the only child of the king and queen, the more dangerous his position became.
With Aerys's growing paranoia and the unrest stirring in the realm, Rhaegar's future — and his marriage — could not be left to chance.
"I must secure his future." I whispered to myself.
I crossed the room and stood before the mirror. My reflection stared back at me — pale skin, silver hair braided neatly down my back, violet eyes dark with quiet exhaustion.
My hand lingered on my abdomen for a moment before I let it drop.
My handmaidens dressed me quickly — a gown of deep crimson silk, trimmed in black velvet. The colors of House Targaryen. My hair was pinned back, fastened with a delicate silver clasp shaped like a three-headed dragon.
When I stepped into the hall, Ser Barristan Selmy was waiting. His white cloak draped over his broad shoulders, and his polished armor caught the torchlight as he bowed his head.
"My queen," he said respectfully.
"Ser Barristan," I said, offering him a thin smile.
He straightened, his blue eyes sharp beneath his graying hair. "Shall I escort you?"
"Yes." I replied with a nod.
With that we headed to the royal library.
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Third POV
The chamber of the Small Council was an austere, circular room of cold grey stone, lit by the flicker of oil lamps hanging from iron sconces.
A great round table of polished oak dominated the center, its surface dark and worn from generations of counsel.
Seven high-backed chairs encircled the table, each carved with sigils of the great houses and symbols of office, though some were more faded than others.
The air was thick with tension, the kind that clung to the skin and soured the breath.
The King was present.
That alone would have been enough to make the council tread carefully, but the mood had curdled moments before, poisoned by words that could not be unsaid.
King Aerys II Targaryen lounged in his chair, his silver-gold hair disheveled, his violet eyes glazed from the wine in his goblet.
His lips were wet, twisted into a thin smile. The wine had made him bold—and erratic.
He had arrived unannounced, sweeping into the room in the middle of a discussion on grain shortages and unrest in the Reach.
Tywin Lannister had been speaking, his measured voice filling the chamber with cold efficiency, when Aerys had cut across him with a drunken laugh.
"Enough of that, Tywin," the King had said, swirling his goblet. "Dry talk. My lady wife is with child, the realm should be happy!"
No one had dared to speak. Even the scrape of Gerold Hightower's white cloak against stone seemed loud in the sudden silence.
Tywin had waited, patient as a lion before the kill.
"A true Targaryen this time, I'm sure of it," Aerys continued, his smile sharpening.
His gaze flicked toward Tywin, narrowing. "Not like yours, eh, Tywin? Weak and frail as they might be, at least none of mine are dwarfs."
The King's laughter had filled the chamber, thin and brittle. The other councilors sat in frozen silence, not daring to meet Tywin's gaze.
Lord Qarlton Chelsted's mouth had tightened into a thin line, while Lucerys Velaryon shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
Gerold Hightower, impassive as ever, watched the exchange beneath his heavy white helm.
Tywin had shown nothing. His green eyes, pale as ice, betrayed no flicker of emotion.
He sat straight-backed in his chair, hands resting lightly on the polished arms.
His mouth was thin and hard as a coin's edge. Even when the King's laughter faded into a dry cough, Tywin's face remained a mask of cold indifference.
It was Grand Maester Pycelle who had broken the silence, his aged voice smooth and calming.
"A blessing upon the realm, Your Grace. A new prince or princess will surely strengthen the crown." He smiled thinly, the careful smile of a man who knew how to navigate dangerous waters.
Lucerys Velaryon, always quick to sense opportunity, added his voice. "Indeed, Your Grace. The realm will rejoice to hear the news."
Gerold Hightower inclined his head slightly. "We are all gladdened by the news, Your Grace."
Aerys listened, eyes unfocused beneath his fringe of silver hair. His mouth twitched. His fingers tapped the rim of his goblet.
For a moment, it seemed he might erupt again—but then he laughed, high and thin.
"Yes. Of course." He took another swallow of wine, spilling some down his chin.
Tywin had not moved.
When the quiet settled once more, Tywin spoke. His voice was steady, cold as winter steel. "Shall we return to the matter at hand?"
Aerys's eyes sharpened. His mouth twisted. But Tywin was already speaking again, his gaze sweeping across the table. "The grain shortages in the Reach are growing worse. If the crown does not act, there will be riots in Oldtown before the year's end. We must decide on tariffs and new trade routes."
The other councilors followed Tywin's lead. Pycelle leaned forward, hands clasped, murmuring about food reserves and adjustments to tax collection.
Qarlton Chelsted nodded in agreement, suggesting the crown could provide a loan to the Reach if necessary.
Tywin never once looked at Aerys. He controlled the room effortlessly, like a lord addressing his bannermen.
Even Aerys, who sat slumped in his chair with his goblet resting loose in his hand, watched in sullen silence.
It was Tywin's council.
The King might sit at the head of the table, but the true power in the room belonged to the cold-eyed lion in the gilded chair.
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Author Note: While looking into Rhaella's life, I kinda feel bad for her. There's so much tragedy in her life. Also y'all should know who's about to be born.