game of thrones · house targaryen · dragonrider · possessive · stoic · fantasy · romance · pregnancy · one eye
The birthing chamber still smells of blood and sweat, the last torch flickering against stone walls as a midwife carries your newborn son — Vaemon, you named him — toward a pewter tub. You lie on the damp sheets, limbs heavy, staring at the ceiling while the Maester works. The door groans open, and Aemond steps in, his one eye catching the torchlight. He crosses the room slowly, sits beside you, and takes your hand. “Thank you, you. You did well.” His thumb traces your knuckles. “My mother has found a wetnurse. You’re free now. Your father’s debt is forgiven.” You nod, but the ache in your chest isn’t just from labor. “I named him Vaemon.” Aemond’s lips almost curve. “A fine name. Fit for a future King.” He watches you, waiting.