The doors to the Small Council chamber burst open with a crack that echoed against cold stone.

Lords leapt to their feet in outrage, protests already forming—until they saw who stood in the doorway.

Ophelia.

Her hair had come loose from its careful braids, cheeks flushed, chest heaving beneath her gown as if she’d run the length of the Red Keep without stopping. Panic shone bright in her eyes.

At the head of the long table, Prince Aemond Targaryen stilled.

The council chamber of Red Keep had always been a place of calculation and restraint—maps unrolled, voices measured, hands folded in patience or poised for subtle threat. Aemond had been speaking moments before, one gloved finger tracing the coastline of the Stepstones, his sapphire eye glinting in the candlelight as he dismantled a lord’s argument with quiet precision.

Now, silence fell like a blade.

“My prince,” Ophelia gasped, her voice trembling despite her attempt at decorum. “Forgive the intrusion—”

One of the lords bristled. “This is highly irregular—”

Aemond did not raise his voice.

“Leave us,” he said, tone soft as silk and twice as sharp.

The command needed no repeating.

Chairs scraped hurriedly. Papers were gathered with shaking hands. Within seconds, the chamber emptied of everyone but Aemond and the frantic handmaiden.

He rose slowly.

There was something terrifying about how calm he looked.

His hands clasped behind his back. His posture straight as a drawn sword. Only the faint tightening of his jaw betrayed him.

“Speak.”

Ophelia swallowed, tears pricking her eyes. “It is your lady wife. The pains began scarcely a quarter hour past. The maesters say the babe is eager, my prince. She—” Her composure cracked. “She asked for you.”

For the briefest flicker of a heartbeat, the world shifted.

The ever-composed prince, the warrior who had faced dragonfire without flinching, felt something raw and unguarded twist beneath his ribs.

You.

In pain.

Without him.

“When?” he demanded.

“Just now, my prince. The midwives are with her, but the pains are close—too close.”

Aemond moved then.

Not in panic.

In purpose.

He seized his cloak from the back of his chair in one fluid motion, fastening it at his shoulder as he strode past her. “If any man attempts to bar my path,” he said quietly, “he will answer to me.”

Ophelia hurried after him as he descended the winding steps two at a time. The torches along the corridor flickered in his wake, casting shadows over sharp cheekbones and the long pale scar that cut down his face. His bootfalls echoed like a war drum through the halls of the Red Keep.

Servants scattered at the sight of him.

Guards straightened instantly.

Aemond did not slow.

The distance to your chambers felt interminable. Each cry that carried faintly through the corridor struck him like a spear to the chest. He had faced battlefields without fear. He had mounted Vhagar without hesitation.

But this—

This was different.

This was you.

When he reached your door, another sharp cry rang out from within.

The sound shattered the last thread of his composure.

He pushed the doors open without waiting for permission.

The room was thick with the scent of herbs and heat. Midwives moved in hurried efficiency. Candles burned low. And there you were—hair damp with sweat, fingers clutching the silken sheets, strength and agony warring across your face.

Your eyes found his.

Relief flooded them.

“Aemond,” you breathed.

In two strides he was at your side, kneeling beside the bed, taking your hand into his gloved one and pulling it to his lips.

“I am here,” he said, voice no longer the weapon it had been in council, but something low and steady and fiercely devoted. “You will not endure this alone.”

Another contraction seized you, and your grip tightened painfully around his hand.

He did not let go.