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When Rhaenyra wakes up, her stomach is churning. Horror and nausea crawl their way up her throat in equal measure as she shoves Daemon's arm off of her, crawls out from under the covers, and stumbles her way to the chamberpot.
She keels over and vomits. Even after there is nothing left for her stomach to empty, she stays stooped over the pot for a few minutes more, her entire body shaking with the force of her dry heaves. Frantic, her mind darts to what she had for supper last night. Is there anything, anything at all, that could sicken her? She had eaten more than usual, a testament to her returning appetite, but it was still only fish, bread, and fruits, nothing too exotic or fanciful, nothing that would turn her stomach into the torrent that it is this morning.
"Oh, no, no," Rhaenyra pleads, dread clawing its way into her voice. She feels like she could stay slouched over the chamberpot for the next century, but she forces herself to rise to her feet and hurry back to the bed. Daemon is still sleeping, an arm thrown over his handsome face, and she shakes him desperately. "Daemon, wake up, wake up, wake up!"
Daemon's eyes snap open, roving the room, searching for an immediate threat. When he finds none, he turns to her. Rhaenyra must look truly pale and horrid, for he bolts upright, grabbing her by the shoulders. "Darling, what's—"
"I vomited," Rhaenyra laments. "Oh, Daemon, I feel terrible, this can't be—I was feeling so much better, I swear—for the whole past week—I thought—I really thought—I thought my illness was gone , Daemon—I can't do this again—not again—I was feeling like myself again—I really thought—"
Daemon brings a finger to her lips, shushing her quickly. "Rhaenyra, Rhaenyra, quiet." Rhaenyra grips his shoulders tightly, gazing up at him imploringly, willing words of wisdom to fall from his lips, like he is still just her older, infinitely cleverer uncle. "We will summon Gerardys to look at you. Don't run off with any grand, terrible ideas before he's said something of some certainty."
It does not take long for Gerardys to arrive; in the past few moons Rhaenyra has spent in Dragonstone, he has become well-accustomed to showing up in Rhaenyra's chambers at any hour of the day to tend to Rhaenyra's fevers or aches or sudden bouts of dizziness. Though, Rhaenrya thinks mournfully, his visits have become sparser and sparser as of late. Rhaenyra had thought it to be a sign that, despite all the odds mounted against her, the traitorous body of hers was at last healing , but this morning—where she feels as ill and out-of-sorts as though she has only just had that poisoned blade slip into her flesh—seems determined to prove her hopeful notions wrong.
With a hand on her pulse, Gerardys asks question after question: about when the nausea started, about where on her body she is experiencing the most pain and tenderness, and—most strangely—about the regularity of her moonbloods. After a cursory inquiry the very first day she had arrived on Dragonstone, Gerardys had never much mentioned her moonblood again. There was always something bigger to tend to, after all.
"Well," Rhaenyra says uncertainly. "Like I told you—it stopped coming after my injury, though the Grand Maester assured me it was only to be expected, considering how weak I was and how little food I could actually keep down."
"That's true," Gerardys says. "But you have been feeling much improved for, what—three weeks now? Your strength has returned to nearly its fullest extent, and your fevers are practically a forgotten memory. Usually, a moonblood would be one of the first things to return on the path to recovery. It is quite unusual you still have not had it, after months."
Rhaenyra feels a sudden realization creeping up on her. Sand begins clogging her throat, and her tongue feels too heavy to move.
"What, precisely, does this mean?" Daemon asks. From the resigned note to his voice, it's clear he already knows what Gerardys is getting at. He only wants the thought to be put into words for Rhaenyra's benefit.
"Your Highness, you are most likely pregnant," Gerardys says, sounding almost apologetic. "Your nausea today is nothing more than morning sickness."
Rhaenyra finds her voice, "Will my—will my illness impact the baby?"
It seems odd, to refer to the bundle of blood and flesh that may or may not be growing in her womb as a baby . A minute ago, she was not aware of its existence. Now, she is christening it as her baby, her child, her very own.
"I believe not, Princess," Gerardys assures. "You are well and truly healed, I do believe. You may even return to King's Landing now, if you like."
That's too far in the future for Rhaenyra to wrap her head around. She grabs Daemon's hand and squeezes tightly, willing him to understand what she's too stunned to say.
Daemon catches on quickly. "You best leave us for a few hours," he says firmly, ushering Gerardys out the door. "While we...decide. What to do."
The two men have a hurried conversation at the door. The words moon tea and the baby hover and catch on Rhaenyra's ears. Gerardys leaves, and Daemon locks the door. Rhaenyra rubs tiredly at her eyes.
"Why were we so careless, Daemon?" she bemoans. "Why did we not think— how could we not have thought—seven hells, Daemon, why did you not just pull yourself out?"
She feels the mattress sink under the weight of a new body settling next to her. Daemon nestles his chin on her shoulder, his arms wrapping around her to encase her in their sure warmth. "Well, darling, I am not the only one to blame. You could have reminded me, the one or two or ten dozen times we laid together."
"Daemon," Rhaenyra warns.
Daemon gently pries Rhaenyra's hands away from her face, wiping away the tears that have gathered on her cheeks. "If you would like, we can send for moon tea," he says softly. "Gerardys will not ask questions, nor will the maids. We can leave it as a secret, one that will die at Dragonstone."
Rhaenyra shakes her head. "I have to face this eventually," she reminds him. "There is no path for me that does not involve producing heirs. I would only be delaying the inevitable."
"It would at least give you more time to come to peace with it," Daemon says easily. "We can always try again. Later."
Rhaenyra bites her lip. She presses a hand to her stomach. She feels nothing, of course not, but a thrum of warmth streaks up her arm and settles pleasantly in her heart. She knows nothing of the bundle of sinew and nerve in her womb, and she can certainly not say she loves it just yet, but—there is a dangerous spark of affection in her heart that threatens to burst into a blazing inferno of pure, raw love. One thing all her mother's pregnancies taught her—to never, ever take a child for granted. Her mother loved each and every one of the children that stirred in her womb, even as they tore her apart from the inside out.
"I don't want moon tea," Rhaenyra tells Daemon. "I want a child, I do. I know I always hated talking about the subject, but—but—like I told my father, I didn't mind the child, exactly, just—just what my husband would do to get that child. And I don't fear that with you." She pauses. "I always thought I'd be a good mother."
"You will," Daemon says proudly. "The very best, I'm sure of it—your children will adore you, almost as much as I do. They will conquer kingdoms and tame wild dragons in their quest to make their mother the Queen proud."
That startles a laugh out of Rhaenyra. "That's really not necessary."
"Hm." Daemon runs a thumb along Rhaenyra's jaw, gently flicking her chin. "Then what bothers you so, my love?"
Rhaenyra turns to face him uncomfortably. "I don't—I was just beginning to feel like myself again. And now—I know better than anyone how carrying a child can wreck a body."
Ever since the attack on her person, Rhaenyra has been more like her mother than she cares to admit. Constantly abed, constantly weak and feverish and dizzy and a dozen other things, soothed only by a warm bath and a warmer touch. Her mother was not pleased with the fate, and Rhaenyra is even less so.
"You know from your mother, my love. You remember from her last pregnancies, which came at the trail of a dozen other miscarriages and stillbirths. She did not become the way she was from her first few. You will be fine."
"And if I don't?" Rhaenyra says glumly. "What if this pregnancy fails, and the next, and the next? How will I hold up then?"
"You need not," Daemon says firmly. " Trying for an heir is expected of you. After that—I am not your father. I am not deadset on an heir of my own bloodline. Groom one of your siblings to be the next ruler, or one of their children, I don't care."
"I thought you wanted children."
"Not nearly as much as I want you." He leans forward to press a kiss to Rhaenyra's lips. Rhaenyra grabs him by his nightshirt—they had barely had time to dress before Gerardys arrived—and reels him in closer, deepening in the kiss, clutching onto him with the desperation of a drowning woman. "These children are just ideas," Daemon whispers when they come up for air. "You—you, my love, are very real. I would choose you—in every time, in every universe—I would choose you."
"I want this child, Daemon," Rhaenyra whispers back. "I really do. I want a—a daughter to dress up in pretty gowns, or a son to watch swing a fake sword around, like Aegon does. I want little hands to hold mine, I want little feet to take their first steps, I want something that I can adore with such force that they will never be left in question of whether they are loved. But I—I am afraid."
"If it would make you feel better," Daemon says, twirling a strand of her hair around his finger, "we can return to King's Landing. You can be with your father and your ladies. Perhaps that can put your mind at ease."
A month ago, that is all Rhaenyra wanted to do. Now, the thought sends unease spiraling in her stomach.
"Not yet," she says. "As soon as I begin showing, an announcement will have to be made, and the court—seven hells, I can't deal with the court right now. We're in a little bubble right now. Let's stay in it. Let's stay in Dragonstone."
Daemon nips at her bottom lip. "And you complained ceaselessly about me dragging you here. How you cursed, darling, how you sulked, how you—"
"Shut up ," Rhaenyra hisses.
Daemon throws himself back on the bed, pulling Rhaenyra to lay on top of him. Rhaenyra wiggles, trying to curl closer to him.
"We might not be able to do this for much longer," Daemon says. "If you're anything like your mother, you'll grow quite large. And if the child is anything like me , they will be kicking and rummaging and demanding something all hours of the day. Don't we have so much to look forward to, darling?"
From his mouth, the prospect doesn't sound half so unpleasant.