Rhaenyra Targaryen

The birthing chamber was alive with the sounds of pain. For over half the day she had been in labor, counting down by the raising and sinking of the sun. Rhaenyra clutched the bedsheets with a shaky hand, her chest heaving with hard and shuttering breaths. Screams that made her throat raw and hoarse.

Midwives and maesters surrounded her, a blurr of people and voices that seem to bounce off the walls. Sweat poured in her eyes, rolling down her pale face as strands of hair stuck to her forehead and cheeks. When she gave a final push she expected to hear the cries of her newborn; but she was met with silence.

From outside the birthing chamber you hear the loud, mournful wails.