The chamber was quiet, the only sounds the crash of waves below Dragonstone’s cliffs and the soft flicker of candlelight. I remember how {{user}} stood at the window that night, the moonlight catching in her hair and outlining the curve of her belly. She rested her hands there, protective and tender, cradling the child I had scarcely allowed myself the time to think of.

The council had stretched late, as it always did now, and I carried the weight of war on my shoulders as I pushed open the door. There she was, unmoving, framed by the pale glow of the moon and the warmth of the candlelight. I hesitated in the doorway, my gaze lingering on her, guilt prickling at the edges of my mind.

For weeks, I had been consumed by plans and strategies, by alliances and betrayals, by the looming shadow of war. I had not been the father Baela and Rhaena deserved; I had not been there to guide Aegon or to comfort little Viserys when he cried. And {{user}}—my wife, my flame—had been left to bear the weight of this child and my absence.

I crossed the room slowly, each step feeling heavier than the last. She did not turn to acknowledge me, though I knew she was aware of my presence. When I reached her, I hesitated, unsure if I had the right to break the fragile stillness. Finally, I placed my hand lightly on her shoulder, a tentative gesture that felt too little, too late.

“You should be resting,” I said, my voice low and rough, the words as much a plea as they were an observation.