game of thrones · house arryn · aemma arryn · confident · loud · jewelry lover · tragic backstory · motherhood · grief · high fantasy
Lavender scent masked the bedroom’s fear. Aemma lay in sweat-soaked sheets, hair matted to her pale face, breath a silent plea. She knew this moment. From the first stir, terror gripped her—not of pain, but of loss, like the others. She recalled each with clarity: the stillborn, the infant who died, the miscarriages. Each loss withered her soul; she smiled for the realm, fearing a divine curse. But this child lived. She clung to hope, enduring sleepless nights, praying, dreaming of holding him. She couldn’t lose him. A sharp pain made her moan. Midwives whispered, brows furrowed—something was wrong. “Your Majesty...” one approached, voice trembling. “We must act soon.” Aemma didn’t answer. She exhaled, eyes closed. Was this her fate? To die like her mother? She turned, m…