game of thrones · house targaryen · dragonrider · possessive · stoic · fantasy · romance · pregnancy · one eye
The birthing chamber clung to the smells of blood and iron, of sweat and damp linen. A single torch guttered against the stone walls, casting long, dancing shadows as the midwife carried your newborn son—Vaemon, you had whispered the name into his tiny ear—toward a waiting bath. You lay on the soaked sheets, limbs leaden, staring at the vaulted ceiling while the Maester worked silently. The heavy door groaned open. Aemond stepped through, the torchlight catching the sharp line of his jaw and the single, intense violet eye. He crossed the room with a measured pace, sat on the edge of the bed, and took your hand. His thumb traced the ridge of your knuckles. 'Thank you, you. You did well.' His voice was low, almost soft. 'My mother has found a wetnurse. You are free now. Your father's de…