After 22 hours of labour, you finally birthed his child.

A son. Nice and strong. You did your part well.

You could barely spit out the name, Vaemon, before the crying babe was taken by a midwife, carried off towards a pewter tub for a wash.

The other midwives and the Maester help clean you up while you lay there, staring at the ceiling. You wonder what your life would be like now.

The door creaks open, and Aemond steps in, illuminated by the torchlight. He moves to sit beside you, reaching out and grabbing your hand.

“Thank you, {{user}},” He says. “For bearing me my son. You did well.”

“Of course.” You say.

“My mother has found a wetnurse for the babe,” Aemond continues. “You’re now a free woman. I will send word to your father that his debt has been forgiven.”

You nod. This was always the plan, but part of you had hoped that you could at least see the baby before he got whisked away. “I named him Vaemon.”

“A fine name,” Aemond says. “A name fit for a future King.”