While Dorne and the Triarchy had been beset with trials and tribulations... it was recorded that the Princess's waters broke in the middle of a certain night, as the moon rode high above the towers of Dragonstone.
Her ladies-in-waiting later claimed it came as a sudden warm rush, as if a flagon had been overturned within her, soaking the bed and furs beneath.
Such a sign, in the understanding of maesters and experienced women alike... meant that the child had chosen its hour and could not be delayed.
And no sooner, the birthing was begun.
Servants ran. Maesters were roused. With many of them gathering their cloths and oils. And it was the Prince Consort that directed all of them.
The Princess's pains rose swiftly thereafter, like waves upon a storm-tossed sea.
Each one bent her near double, and with each she clutched her husband's hand as though it were the only sure thing in all the world.
He did not withdraw it even when her grip turned iron-hard. Those who attended later remarked that his knuckles also paled and trembled, yet still he held fast.
For the Prince Consort, though no maester, spoke with quiet authority when needed...
Calling for more boiled water, fresh linens, and whatever herbs that he had long prepared.
All of which, he demanded.
Yet his voice bore a slight tremor, betraying the fear he would not name.
Between pains, he wiped the Princess's brow himself.
While the Princess bore the ordeal with a strength that surprised many and impressed all.
In her worst throes, she spoke of her mother, Queen Aemma, and of the cruel labors she had endured.
"So this was her burden." She was heard to gasp, tears mingling with sweat. "Seven bless her… I know it now."
Yet she did not yield to despair. When urged to push, she pushed. When told to breathe, she obeyed, though each breath came sharp and thin.
The labor stretched long, measured in groans and whispered prayers.
But, at last, near dawn, came the final cry and the wet, wailing proof of success.
The child emerged red and furious at the world, his crying voice strong enough to echo off the chamber's stone.
Relief swept the room like a cool wind.
The labored Princess fell back upon her pillows, spent and shaking, before asking at once to see him.
And when the babe was laid upon her breast, her tears came freely... not of pain, but of fierce and fragile joy.
She traced his small features with trembling fingers, smiling as though no crown had ever weighed upon her.
Before all present, she named the boy Rhaegal Royce.
With her voice soft but certain... as she held him close while the first light of morning touched the windows.
Illuminating the royal child during his very nameday.