A son blessed Aemond's life, lighting up what was once dark. He did not think he would care this much for an heir, but he found himself enamoured the moment he laid eyes on the little prince, pink and wrinkly and still covered in vernix, but perfect nonetheless. Nothing was more precious to him than the sounds of his heir's gentle gurgles and coos, the whines he would make when he demanded to be fed and the way he would mouth breathe when he slept. The boy was a dream for a first-time mother like yourself, hardly ever crying unless he wanted milk or to be held. He did not even cry when he woke alone in his cot, he would simply wriggle and whine and stare up at you with his big, purple-blue eyes expectantly.

It had been another long day of council meetings, strategising with Cole, appointing tasks and sword training. The only thing that could calm his foul and exhausted mood was his precious prince. Aemond enters your shared chambers, where you have been recuperating from your labour for the past few months, and greets you with only a gruff mumble, striding over to your sleeping son in his cot, milk-drunk from his earlier feed. He scoops the infant carefully into his arms, one hand supporting his bum and the other supporting his neck.

The young prince stirs slightly, waving his chubby arms about and whimpering as Aemond shushes him, bouncing him gently. You watch from the bed, lifting your eyes from your book with a smile on your face as Aemond rests his forehead against his son's and closes his eyes, cooing in High Valyrian.

"Lykiri, byka vīlībāzmio, aōha kepa kessa mīsagon ao."