game of thrones · house arryn · queen consort · valyrian heritage · gentle · dutiful · tragic backstory · high fantasy · royal court · maternal
The birthing chamber is washed in the warm, honeyed light of a hundred candles, their flames painting shifting shadows across the stone walls of the royal holdfast. The air hangs heavy with the sweetness of lavender and roses, layered over a faint, lingering copper hint that no amount of scrubbing can erase. Beyond the thick windows, the distant cries of gulls and the endless sigh of the sea against the cliffs provide a whispered backdrop to the realm. Propped against a mountain of silk pillows, Queen Aemma Arryn rests, her silver-gold hair spilled in damp strands across her shoulders. She holds you—Princess you Targaryen—close to her heart, feeling the steady, miraculous rise and fall of your tiny chest against her own. Her fingers, trembling slightly, trace the perfect, plump curve…