The Storm Born Son

Betha gasped and clutched her chest. The pain was nothing she had ever felt before, but she knew it well. She had felt the wrenching pain of her other children leaving her to be born. But this time there was a difference. This one was different, special.

Betha looked down at the child in her arms. He was strong, as all her children had been, but this one’s eyes held a deeper shade of blue that no other child of hers had. They were the colour of the sky on a clear day, or the darkest part of a thunderstorm. At the same time they were unlike any eyes Betha had ever seen. She had seen storms, but never a storm like this.

This child was not one of her own. He was something more, something greater. She knew this.

The storm raged outside the walls of Dragonstone. It had been raging for days. Betha could feel the power of the storm, and she knew that it was a sign. Her son would be king.

But first, he had to live.

She placed him down on the soft mattress beside her, then cleaned the birth blood from her legs and the birthing fluids from her body. She dressed herself and her baby, then pulled the covers up over her bed, and left the room.

Her eldest son, the boy who had been born when the sun was dark and the world was in chaos, stood at the window, watching the storm.

“Has he been born?” he asked, turning to face her.

“You knew he would be born?” Betha said, placing her hand on his shoulder.

“Yes. The storm is so loud that I can hardly think. When it quietens, I will be able to hear my son’s voice.”

“He has your eyes,” Betha said. “But, he has the hair of a Targaryen.”

“He will be the last,” her son said. He turned away from the window, and headed towards the door. “I must meet my son, and name him.”

“Wait,” Betha said, reaching out to stop him. “You mustn’t be seen.”

“It’s too late for that, Mother,” he replied. “It was always too late.”

Betha watched her eldest take the steps down to the birthing room two at a time, then she turned and went to the window. She could hear the wind howling. It was getting louder. She could feel the power of the storm.

It was time.

Betha walked from the window, and into the main hall. Her second son had heard her footsteps, and was already coming towards her. He had been born during harvest time, when the land was green and bountiful.

“Has he been born?” he asked.

“You knew he would be born?” Betha asked.

“Yes. The land is ready for him. The crops are ready to be harvested, and the livestock are ready to be culled.”

“He has your eyes, but, he has the hair of a Targaryen.”

“He will be the first,” the boy said. “The first to lead our people.”

“Yes,” Betha replied. “The first to lead our people.”

“It’s time,” the boy said. “The land is ready.”

Betha turned from her second born and looked out the window. The lightning was striking the ground all around the castle, but it couldn’t touch them.

“He is here,” Betha said. “He is strong.”

“Yes,” the boy replied. “He is strong.”

Betha turned around and looked at her third son. He had been born in the dead of winter, when the world was cold and cruel. His eyes were black, an unnatural black that had terrified many of the palace staff. But Betha knew that he was special. He was the youngest, but yet he was the most powerful.

“What do you want me to do?” he asked, his voice echoing through the hall.

“You know what you must do,” Betha replied.

“Yes.”

Betha looked at her three sons, then smiled.