Requested by: no one
Level: green / yellow
Plot: the son of ice and fire

WARNING
This chapter also has a yellow rating (in addition to the green rating) due to some elements within it.

   You made a choice that, for some, is unacceptable. But you couldn't hear any objections. A Targaryen prince must be born at Dragonstone or, at the very least, in the capital. But like his father, your son also hates following the rules.
Night whines as he watches you pace up and down the room. The snow started falling from the sky several weeks ago and doesn't seem to want to stop. You had almost forgotten how much snow can fall at times. In King's Landing, rain is rare, and snow is only a myth to many of them. You lean against the table, and the direwolf lifts his head, ready to run to you if needed.
  It was supposed to be a visit of a few weeks to celebrate the funeral of your father, Lord Rickon Stark, and the succession of your brother Cregan as the new Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. And so it was until a few hours ago.

  You take a deep breath as the pain gradually increases. You sent a message to the capital, but you doubt your husband will arrive in time.
Your mother enters the room with several maids in tow, all equipped and ready. You huff. It irritates you to see them all prepared, ready, and calm when you, above all, regret having been born a woman. Your mother tries to approach, but you push her away. The last thing you want right now is physical contact. You are a lady of Winterfell, the blood of the North and the First Men runs within you. And in your belly, so large that you can no longer see your feet, lies a Targaryen. But not for much longer.

  You sit down, tying back your hair that, due to sweat, keeps sticking to your neck and shoulders. You know what's happening, you've already experienced it twice. But now everything is different. The first time your pregnancy was still in its early stages when you gave birth to a tiny stillborn baby. The second time lasted longer, and so did the labor. An entire night and all morning to give birth to a daughter, Naerys. An eight-year-old girl who always wants her hair no longer than her shoulders, rebellious and impudent like her father, with typical Targaryen traits. Always getting into trouble, arguing with someone, and madly in love with her dragon, Grey Ghost.
  You think of her as the pain peaks again for several moments, taking your breath away. The fire in the hearth burns brightly, but it cannot warm the icy air that seems to surround your heart. You feel alone even though you know you're not. Daemon and your daughter send their strength. You wish he were here with you like the night Naerys was born.
But he is not. You have to face this alone.

  Another contraction hits you, making you scream with a primordial sound that seems to come from the depths of your soul. You place a hand on your belly and think of Daemon, far away, clinging to the hope that he might arrive in time, that he could be here with you right now. His absence weighs heavily, and you wonder if you will be able to endure this pain without him.
Around you, the midwives move quickly and precisely, whispering words of encouragement that you can barely perceive. Their faces, marked by concentration, bend over you as they try to alleviate your suffering with cool compresses and reassuring hands. Another contraction hits, this time stronger, deeper.

  The door bursts open, and you look up at your brother Cregan advancing into the room. Behind him, Ice. Before this visit, you had seen him as a child, so small that he only reached the height of your kiss. Now, however, he appears to your eyes as a young man much taller than you. He approaches despite your mother's attempts to chase him away. The birthing room is no place for a man. <<We received a message from a village at the border. A dragon is approaching at great speed>> he informs you, wiping the sweat from your forehead. You smile at him, squeezing his hand.
But the labor is long, interminable. The hours pass, and each contraction seems fiercer than the last. Your body bends over itself, and despite the fatigue, despite the pain that devours you from within, you know you have to go on. There is no other choice.

  Within the mighty stone walls, Daemon meets Cregan Stark. The expression of the Lord of Winterfell is grave, and his silence says more than a thousand words. Together, the two men head towards the room where you are facing labor. As they approach, the sounds from inside become more distinct: cries of pain that tear at Daemon's heart.
He stops outside the door, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. Each scream strikes him like a blade, and the sense of helplessness is devastating. He was present at his daughter's birth only because he opposed the guards outside the door with a sword. He tries to remain calm, but every fiber of his being wants to burst into that room and protect you. Cregan places a hand on his shoulder, a silent gesture of comfort.
  <<She is fighting with all her strength>> says Cregan in a low, reassuring voice. The resemblance between Rickon Stark's two children is impressive. <<Y/N is strong, Daemon>> he affirms again, but he too is worried about his sister's fate. Before leaving the corridor to personally escort his brother-in-law, he heard the midwives speaking with little hope for the survival of both mother and child. But he will keep this to himself.
He knows his wife.
He has seen her train a direwolf with impressive ease. He has seen her approach Caraxes without fear, even being accepted by the dragon as if she were Daemon himself, leaving him astonished. He has seen her fight with a sword and even silence Otto Hightower like no one ever has before. He knows how strong his wife is and what she is capable of.
  But the screams continue, growing in intensity, and Daemon's face contorts with anguish. He can no longer stay outside. With sudden resolve, he pushes the door open and enters the room.

  The scene that greets him is harrowing. Sweat and tears streak your face as your body contorts with pain. The midwives are covered in blood as they bustle around you, their hands frantic and eyes focused. The bed is a battlefield, the sheet stained red. Daemon feels overwhelmed by fear and horror, but he makes his way to the bed. He kneels beside you, taking your hand in his.
You look at him through a haze of pain and tears, and he sees in your eyes a strength and determination that deeply moves him. <<Y/N, I'm here>> he whispers, trying to infuse calm and courage into his voice, kissing your forehead. <<We will do this together>> You nod weakly. With your hand in his, you push again, following the midwives' instructions.
Each push feels like an eternity, but finally, a sharp cry fills the room.
Your child is born. A boy.
  The midwives hurry to clean the newborn and place him in your arms. His cries fill the room, and you both look at him as if he were a precious treasure.
A true statement for you. <<Rhaegar Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone>> you whisper, looking at your husband with a tired smile. He kisses your cheek, nodding.
A fine name for a prince.