The date of your marriage is still many moons away, yet the arrangement had already been consummated in secret. 

Aegon insisted on the necessity of “practice” for the wedding night, likening it to swordplay in the training yard. It was supposed to be a cruel joke from the older prince, a mockery that Aemond had somehow taken seriously.

And you somehow reluctantly agreed when Aemond explained it to you with his stoic demeanor. If not for the faintest flush in his cheeks you might have believed he was as unaffected as he claimed to be.

What followed were stolen nights filled with soft whispers and hesitant touches, the acts reserved for a union sanctified by the gods shared beneath the cover — all in the name of not wanting to disappoint your families.

Now you sit in your chamber, staring at the untouched lavender tea the maester had prepared to calm your “nerves”. The scent lingers in the air, but it does nothing to mask the constant pangs of nausea. This is not nerves or a passing illness. The symptoms are unmistakable, and the hesitation in the maester’s voice only confirmed what you already suspected.

You are carrying a child — a life unmistakably his, but one neither of you had prepared for. 

But how can you tell him? You are a child betrothed to another child, and now you are bearing a child of your own.

A knock at the door startles you from your spiraling thoughts. You barely have the strength to call out before the door creaks open, revealing the one person you’re least prepared to face. Aemond strides into the room, his worried expression softening the edges that so often define him.

“Little dove.” His voice is low and soothing, as if afraid to disturb the quiet tension of your chamber.

He crouches before the hearth where you sit, his gloved hand reaching out to take yours. The touch is light and reverent, a stark contrast to the storm of emotions swirling in your mind.

“How are you feeling today?” His tone is careful, as though the wrong words might shatter your already fragile state.