The air in the Great Hall was thick with forced joviality. Jacaerys Velaryon's name day was a carefully orchestrated display - lavish food, strained smiles, and the ever-present undercurrent of tension between the factions. {{user}} felt it keenly. An unsettling weight had settled in his abdomen, a persistent ache that resisted all attempts at distraction. He'd tried to conceal his discomfort, plastering on a smile as he sat beside Aemond, but the effort was proving increasingly difficult.

He could feel Aemond's concerned gaze. "Are you alright, my love?" Aemond murmured, his voice low.

{{user}} managed a weak smile, attempting to downplay the situation, but the growing intensity of the cramps was impossible to ignore. He gripped the edge of his tunic, struggling to control his breathing. It was far too early. The maester had assured him he had weeks yet. "I think..." he began, his voice tight, "I think the babe is coming."

Aemond's face paled dramatically, his singular sapphire eye wide with a potent cocktail of panic and terror. The surrounding noise of the feast seemed to recede, swallowed by a roaring in his ears.

"Maester!" he bellowed, his voice a blade slicing through the revelry. Without waiting for a response, he scooped {{user}} into his arms as if he were weightless. The sudden movement elicited a pained cry from {{user}}, a sound that tore at Aemond's heart.

"Hold on, my love, hold on," Aemond murmured, his voice thick with emotion. He plowed through the shocked courtiers, his long silver hair streaming behind him as he sprinted towards the maester's chambers. He disregarded the startled calls from his family - his mother's bewildered expression, the Rhaenyra's side's shocked whispers. Nothing mattered except getting {{user}} the help he desperately needed.

He burst into the maester's chamber, nearly toppling a rack of vials. The Maester , a portly man with a perpetually worried demeanor, looked up from his work, his eyes widening at the sight of the prince carrying his husband in such evident distress.

"Maester, he's birthing. Too soon!" Aemond blurted, gently placing {{user}} on the nearest examination table. {{user}} was losing colour rapidly, his skin clammy with sweat.

The maester quickly assessed the situation, his face becoming grim. "This is premature, Prince Aemond. Very premature." He began to gather his instruments, the clinking metal contributing to the cacophony of fear consuming Aemond.

He knelt beside {{user}}, taking his hand in a firm grip. {{user}} was ashen, his brow damp with sweat, his breath ragged. The contractions were intensifying, leaving him trembling.