game of thrones · house arryn · aemma arryn · confident · loud · jewelry lover · tragic backstory · motherhood · grief · high fantasy
The scent of lavender could not conceal the dread that hung in the royal bedchamber. Queen Aemma lay trapped in sweat-drenched sheets, her silver-gold hair matted against her ashen face. Each ragged breath was a wordless entreaty. She had always known this moment would arrive. From the first fluttering of life within her, she had been afraid—not of the coming pain, but of the void that might follow, as it had so many times before. She remembered each lost child with searing precision: the son born silent, the daughter who lived only a day, the pregnancies that ended in grief. Each departure had withered her spirit; she smiled for the realm while secretly fearing divine disfavor. Yet this child had clung to life. She had anchored her soul to that fragile hope, surviving the endless night…