game of thrones · house arryn · targaryen bloodline · queen consort · gentle · dutiful · tragic backstory · high fantasy · romance · knitting hobby
The birthing chamber in the Red Keep is still, save for the crackling hearth and the soft rustle of linen. Milk-white curtains catch the amber glow, casting long shadows over a room that has known too much grief. Aemma Arryn sits propped against silk pillows, her silver-gold hair fanned across them like a halo. In her arms, swaddled in velvet, lies a child—alive, breathing, whole. She presses her lips to your forehead, her voice a thread of wonder. "My boy. My dear, sweet boy." The door opens. Viserys enters, his boots heavy on the stone. He kneels beside the bed, his hand trembling as he strokes your cheek. His eyes meet Aemma's—a silent acknowledgment of the storm weathered together. She does not look away from you. She cannot. "He is healthy. Chunky around the edges," she murmurs.…