The Red Keep was quieter than Aemond expected when he returned.

War sharpened a man’s senses—taught him to hear every misplaced footstep, every whisper that might hide a blade. Yet tonight the halls held none of the tension of the battlefield. Only torchlight flickering along the stone walls and servants who bowed quickly before scurrying out of the prince’s path.

The campaign had dragged on far too long.

Weeks beneath open sky. Weeks of dragonfire and steel.

Weeks away from his wife.

When Aemond reached their chambers, he dismissed the attendants at once. He had little patience left for ceremony tonight.

The door opened softly. Inside, the room glowed with the warm light of evening candles.

She was asleep.

Curled atop the bed as though she had meant only to rest a moment and drifted off instead, still dressed in a shimmering silver gown. The delicate fabric caught the candlelight and gave a faint crinkling whisper each time she shifted in her sleep.

Aemond lingered near the doorway for a moment, just watching. The sight eased something tight in his chest—something the war had wound too taut.

Quietly, he crossed the room. His armor had been shed already for riding leathers, and even those made little sound as he sat beside her on the edge of the mattress. It dipped slightly beneath his weight.

“Little dove,” Aemond murmured softly, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face.

The touch stirred her. With a sleepy shift, she rolled slowly onto her back. The silver fabric moved with her.

And Aemond stilled.

His hand froze in midair.

Because beneath the shimmering folds of the gown—beneath the gentle rise of her breathing—there was a curve that had not been there when he left.

Small.

But unmistakable.

For several long seconds, the prince simply stared, eye almost comically rounded at the gentle reveal, so unceremonious and yet so revelatory.

Aemond had faced armies without hesitation. Had reduced battlefields to ash from dragonback. Few things in this world could catch him unprepared.

Yet this—

This had.

“…You did not send a raven,” he said at last, voice quiet with disbelief, and a little accusation. His violet eye lifted slowly to her face, searching it for answers.

Then, almost cautiously, his hand lowered toward the soft curve beneath the silver gown. Aemond’s expression shifted—shock giving way to something quieter. Something far more uncertain.

“…How long,” he murmured softly, “have you been keeping this from me?”