You took your hands to your belly. You were eight long months pregnant.

You entered the terrace, saw your husband, Daemon, visibly thoughtful. He didn’t grumble, he didn’t curse softly, he was just silent and staring at the night landscape.

"Hey." You whispered softly in your sweet maternal voice. "The children are asleep. I couldn’t find you anywhere."

When he looked at you, you saw him: he seemed genuinely worried.

"The next month." He murmured. "You’re going to give birth."