Desires Be Damned • Aemond Targaryen

Chapter One

Rhaenyra

Fire and Blood.

Those were the words of House Targaryen, uttered over many generations by those belonging, and an exceptionally brief summary of how the house rose to the most powerful position in all of Westeros. This day, however, the words were not brought into fruition by dragons soaring in the sky, raining fire upon enemies to win a war. Instead, they were being reflected by a different type of battle in the bedchamber of Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen.

Rhaenyra had been laboring for many agonizing hours. It was her first pregnancy, and she knew from the midwives' stories that a woman's first labor was usually difficult. Thankfully, due to her position, she had been granted anything her heart desired to make herself more comfortable, but the pain in her abdomen was so blinding, little helped. It felt as though the little dragon in her belly was digging its claws into her womb, fighting to stay put.

Ser Laenor paced outside, waiting to hear his firstborn's cry pierce through his wife's wails of agony. Both had been eagerly awaiting this day, but due to their discreet agreement made on the bloody night of their impromptu wedding, she wasn't sure the babe was her husband's. They had tried, many times, but to no avail. She instead sought the comfort of the Lord Commander of the City Watch, Ser Harwin Strong, who at that moment was standing guard outside with Laenor, trying to remain steady and emotionless as he listened to Rhaenyra curse at the pain in a way unbecoming of her station. But given the circumstances, no one dared to scold her.

"Princess, it is time to push," the maester urged, trying to guide her to the bed, the chains linked around his neck clanking. Rhaenyra was pacing near the open windows, her one hand cradling her swollen belly while the other tightly gripped onto the offered arm of one of the midwives in case the pain became too much. She had hoped the breeze on her face would offer some distraction or any sense of relief.

She looked towards the bed, and memories of what her mother suffered on her own birthing bed were brought forth. She shook her head.

"No, not yet," she said through clenched teeth. "I'm not ready." Fear began to grasp her heart. Something did not feel right. Though she had never experienced childbirth before, that fact couldn't stop the paranoia gripping her soul.

"But the baby is. Please, princess, you must push now," the maester pleaded. The choice was no longer hers when the midwife at her side began to guide her to the place where she could very well take her last breath. Rhaenyra's will to stop her was too weak from the pain, so she could only look at the white sheets neatly spread across the feather mattress with disdain as they approached.

As she was gently laid down, she said a silent prayer to the Mother that whatever dark premonition that had been etched in her heart was just a deception, and that she would not die in the same haunting manner as Aemma Targaryen.

Each push took everything out of her. Sweat dripped from her brow and a flush adorned her face. She wished to be anywhere but the hell she was in then. Rhaenyra at last felt a hint of comfort when the maester suddenly spoke.

"I can see the babe's head, princess, you just need to give one more push."

Rhaenyra felt a resurgence of energy at his words and did as she was told, eager to get the little one out of her, the one causing her all this pain and discomfort, but little did she know that that last push was going to be the most agonizing part of it all. She gave everything she had and then some. A searing pain overwhelmed her as she tore and blood began to pool onto the bed, staining the once impeccable sheets a dark crimson. But the pain no longer mattered to her when the loud cry of her baby, her firstborn, filled the room, and for the first time in a long while, Rhaenyra felt relieved.