Back and forth, back and forth. The corridors of the Red Keep, usually so familiar, seemed foreign and cold as he paced. His hands were clammy, his mind running in circles. He tried not to think about it, but how could he not? His heart thudded painfully in his chest with every passing minute.

How much longer? he wondered, gritting his teeth. It felt like an eternity.

He was not allowed inside. The maesters said it wasn’t proper. He was told to wait, to be patient, but patience had never been a virtue of his. Not when it came to this. Not when it was her, and their child. His child. The thought of it still made him dizzy with uncertainty, but he couldn’t deny the overwhelming rush of fear and hope mingling inside him.

What if something happens? The question hung in his mind, clawing at him. It was irrational, he knew that. But it didn’t stop the tightness in his chest, the cold sweat trickling down his neck. He gripped the edge of a nearby table, his knuckles white. He had faced battles, intrigues, even death itself—but this? This was something different.

He stopped pacing for a moment, his breath shallow. The quiet from behind the chamber doors was maddening. Were there sounds? Were they struggling? Was she okay? He couldn’t hear anything. His mind conjured up every possible scenario, each more terrifying than the last. He could feel the weight of his fear pushing against him, suffocating him.

A muffled cry echoed from within the chamber, and Tyrion’s heart leapt into his throat. He froze, every muscle tensed, holding his breath.

“Is it time?” He found his voice, his words rough as they left his lips. His eyes darted to the door, desperate for any sign.

The maester stepped out, his face unreadable. Tyrion’s stomach twisted. The maester finally spoke, his voice calm but not without its own hint of relief. “The child is born, my lord. Both mother and child are healthy.” Tyrion bolted into the room and to {{user}}s side.