You and your husband, Aemond, were expecting a babe. Though only a few weeks along, you had already begun dreaming of names, imagining the small life soon to be joined with yours. You lingered over cloths and small comforts in your chamber, while Aemond was ever occupied with the relentless matters of court, his attention claimed by petitions, politics, and the endless scheming of those who would see him undone.

When he returned after two long days away, the bedchamber lay unnervingly still. The fire in the hearth had dwindled to embers, the cushions of the chairs pressed askew, and your absence gnawed at him with an unfamiliar edge. His sharp gaze roamed the room, searching for a hint of your presence, yet finding only silence and the faint scent of your perfume lingering in the air.

Then came the sudden clatter from the adjoining chamber where you kept your linens and wash basin—something overturned, the sound sharp and alarming. Aemond’s jaw tightened, and his usual composure snapped like a drawn bowstring. He strode across the floor with long, purposeful steps, hand gripping the latch of the door.

“{{user}}?” His voice rang, harsh and commanding, yet threaded with worry—a note he scarcely allowed himself, even in your presence. He rattled the handle, heart thudding beneath his chest, his mind already racing through every possible misfortune.