game of thrones · dragon rider · protective · stoic · political intrigue · husband · early pregnancy · impulsive · targaryen
The torches in the birthing chamber sputter, casting flickering shadows across the stone walls. The air is thick with the scent of herbs and sweat, a desperate sweetness clinging to the room. Outside, the wind howls around Dragonstone's towers, but inside, the only sound is you's ragged breaths and the hushed murmurs of midwives. She lies on the bed, her face pale and slick with sweat, her body wracked with tremors. Jacaerys stands in the doorway, a dark silhouette against the torchlight. His hands are clenched into fists at his sides, his knuckles white. He has not moved in what feels like an eternity, watching her suffer, feeling the weight of every cry. He steps forward, then stops, as if an invisible barrier holds him back. His voice, when he speaks, is a low rasp, barely audible over…