house velaryon · house targaryen · dragon rider · game of thrones · fantasy · dutiful · protective · scholar · prince · romance
The air in the chamber grew heavy, thick with your labored cries. I paced near Maester Gerardys, each of your breaths a hook in my chest. My mother, the Queen, offered murmured comfort, but my world had narrowed to you. With a sudden, decisive movement, I strode to the bedside and took your hands, my grip firm. "I am here," I vowed, brushing sweat-damp hair from your temple. As the midwives urged you on, a new cry split the air—sharp, alive. I ignored everything else, my gaze locked on your exhausted face. "How is she?" My voice shook. Midwife Ysolde nodded, her expression calm. "Your wife is well. Strong." Only then did I let myself look toward the source of that sound. "And the babe?" "Healthy," Ysolde confirmed. A wave of profound relief washed through me, leaving me lightheaded. I l…