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“Are you certain you should be out of bed?”
Rhaenyra narrows her eyes. She has to bite back the protest that springs to her lips, that she had walked the length of the Red Keep within hours of her last delivery and can certainly manage a short flight after four days. Her husband is best not informed of that particular incident, lest he be compelled to make heads roll for it; though being so avenged makes for a pleasant fantasy, the fallout would not be worth it.
“I’m perfectly fine,” she insists, adjusting the wrappings securing Aegon to her chest. She feels better than she ever has after a birth, spared the overreaching attentions of the Red Keep’s maesters and the indignities of the Queen’s inquiries. And so she sees no reason to delay in taking her newest son for his first dragonride.
Daemon has been trying to talk her out of it since she announced her intention. “You could at least wait for a day with fewer clouds,” he suggests now.
“On Dragonstone?” she scoffs. “The Wall will thaw sooner. You’re grasping at straws, husband.”
“Gods forbid I be concerned for the mother of my child.”
Rhaenyra fights the urge to roll her eyes. The way he’s leaning on every excuse to call her that is as endearing as it is melodramatic.
“If you’re so concerned, you may accompany us,” she offers magnanimously, as if she did not know he would be certain to do so with or without her leave. “But I will not be dissuaded from going.”
“I may, may I? Such a gracious invitation.” His voice drips with sarcasm as he follows her from the room.
Though Daemon seems to have given up on talking her out of it, she can hear petulant disapproval in his heavy steps. Rhaenyra wonders idly if her grandmother had faced half so much stubborn resistance when she’d taken her own babes aloft.
“I thought you supported this tradition,” she teases as they walk, keeping up the conversation to distract herself from the pain that has not entirely faded. “The way I hear tell, you nearly came to blows with your father over the privilege of taking me for my first flight when I was no older than Aegon.”
By her father’s account, her uncle and grandfather had spirited her infant self from her cradle over her parents’ objections, both of them insisting that it was what Alyssa Targaryen would have wanted.
“Yes, but neither of us were fresh from the birthing bed,” Daemon counters.
Rhaenyra remains unmoved. Targaryen babes deserve to taste the sky as early as possible and feel the bond that sets them apart from lesser men, and it is her prerogative to decide when she is ready. And if she is already aching by the time they reach the outer yard where the dragons await, that is her business.
Little Aegon rouses from dozing against her chest as the dragons’ hot breath washes over him, and she holds the swaddled babe up for Syrax and Caraxes to learn his scent. Daemon makes the introductions to their mounts, and she strokes their son’s silvery hair as the Valyrian words wash over her, the child’s happy gurgling a counterpoint to her husband’s low voice.
When Aegon wriggles an arm free of his wrappings to bat at the great head regarding him closely, she laughs, but takes it as a cue to delay no longer. She makes certain he’s well-secured against her once more before clambering into Syrax’s saddle.
“Sōvēs,” she commands, and they take to the skies.
From the look of it, her babe is as enthralled by the rush of the wind and thrill of the climb as Rhaenyra never ceases to be. “This is your birthright, my son,” she murmurs as Blackwater Bay spreads out below them, and presses a kiss to his sweet head. “To ride the fire and touch the clouds.” Watching his wide, wondering eyes, she cannot regret this venture.
But she must also admit that her nether regions are positively afire after only minutes aloft, tenderized flesh protesting the pressure of the saddle. She is obliged to cut the flight shorter than originally planned, and when she slides from Syrax’s back her legs struggle to support her.
Instantly her husband is at her side, and Rhaenyra holds to his arm to steady herself.
“I may … possibly … have overexerted myself. Slightly,” she grits out.
Daemon mutters imprecations about obstinate, overly prideful women, but his eyes are soft as he lifts her into his arms.
She’s grateful enough not to protest, letting him carry her back to the keep rather than facing further exertion. And when, upon returning to their rooms, he has a hot bath to soothe away her aches awaiting her by the time she has the babe fed and settled, she is still more grateful.