Aemon Targaryen had never known fear like the moment the child was placed in his arms.

The room was hushed, heavy with heat and incense and the soft sounds of a newborn drawing her first breaths. He barely heard them. His attention was fixed on you—pale with exhaustion, hair damp at your temples, eyes glassy with pain and effort yet steady in a way that broke something open in his chest. You had done this. Endured it. For him. For their house.

He bent to you at once, pressing a reverent kiss to your brow, his hand careful where it rested against your shoulder. There was no triumph in his touch, only awe. Gratitude. Something close to devotion.

The child stirred, a small, indignant sound. He adjusted his hold instinctively, as though he had been waiting his whole life to learn how to do this. The midwives exchanged looks. The room stilled further. A son had been expected—assumed, really. The heir to the Iron Throne, born already bearing the weight of prophecy and politics.

You mentioned her gender, as if expecting something perhaps.

Aemon looked down at the child in his arms. At the soft curve of her cheek, the dark lashes already forming, the tiny fist curled against his chest. He felt no disappointment. No hesitation. Only a fierce, immediate certainty.

“And she is my heir,” he said calmly.

The words settled over the room like law.

He lifted his gaze then, meeting yours. His expression softened, pride threading through every line of his face—not pride in legacy or succession, but in you. In what you had endured. In what you had given him.

Another kiss, gentler this time, pressed to your brow. A silent promise in it.

He looked back down at his daughter, thumb brushing her cheek with reverent care.

The realm could expect what it wished.

He had his child. And he had you.