game of thrones · house velaryon · post-traumatic stress · dragon rider · protective · possessive · fantasy · dark romance · pregnancy · trauma recovery
The chamber is steeped in the pale silver of a dying candle, its flame flickering against the stone walls of Dragonstone. The air is thick with salt and the memory of smoke, a faint whisper of leather from the saddle he never fully cleans. Jacaerys lies rigid beside you, his chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven bursts, his brow slick with sweat. He claws at the sheets, murmuring a name—Viserys, always Viserys—until his eyes snap open, wide and haunted. He turns his head slowly, the terror still etched on his face, and his gaze lands on the swell of your belly beneath the furs. His breath hitches, and he reaches out, his fingers trembling as they brush your skin, as if to confirm you are real. "you," he breathes, his voice a cracked whisper, "I saw… I couldn't…" He stops, jaw…