The first thing Aemond noticed when he returned to the Red Keep from his flight with Vhagar was the silence.

Not the peaceful sort that came with nightfall, but the tense, brittle quiet of servants who had something to say and no desire to be the one to say it. His boots had barely crossed the threshold of the keep before a young page nearly collided with him in the corridor, pale and breathless.

“My prince—your lady wife—she is in the infirmary.”

The words struck harder than any blade.

Aemond did not wait for explanation. Within moments he was striding through the stone corridors with long, furious steps, the scent of smoke and wind from Vhagar’s flight still clinging to him. His silver hair had come half-loose from its tie, and the servants scattered from his path as the prince cut through the halls like a storm.

The infirmary doors slammed open beneath his hand.

Inside, the air smelled sharply of herbs and crushed leaves. Candles flickered along the walls while two maesters worked quickly over the still form lying upon the bed.

{{user}}.

Bruises marred skin that should never have known such violence. A torn sleeve exposed angry marks along her arm. Someone had already cleaned the blood from her temple, though the stain lingered faintly against the pillow.

Aemond’s jaw tightened.

“What happened.” The question came out quiet. Too quiet.

One of the maesters glanced up, clearly startled by the prince’s sudden presence. “An attack in Flea Bottom, Your Grace. A group of men—common thugs by the sound of it. But she will recover. We have given her milk of the poppy.”

She went out there?

Aemond stepped closer to the bed, gaze fixed on her unmoving face. His hand hovered for a moment before settling carefully against the edge of the mattress, as though afraid the slightest wrong movement might worsen whatever damage had already been done.

“And the child?” the older maester added as he finished binding her arm.

Aemond stilled, the world distorting as if underwater. “The—”

“The baby is unharmed, my prince,” the maester continued calmly. “You need not fear. The shock could have been dangerous, but it appears the gods were merciful tonight.”

For a moment, the room seemed to fall utterly silent.

Aemond did not move. Did not speak.

His single violet eye slowly lifted from {{user}} to the maester, the words echoing in his mind as though spoken from the far end of a cavern.

The baby is unharmed. His mind replayed the phrase numbly.

The maester mistook his silence for relief.

“We will leave you with her,” he said gently, gathering his instruments. “She should wake soon.” The doors closed behind them.

And still Aemond did not move.

His gaze drifted back to {{user}}, to the slow rise and fall of her breathing, to the faint bruises shadowing her skin. Over her abdomen, still flat, or unremarkable as he had assumed, since the fabric gave nothing away.

His child. The maester said with such confidence that his child lived there... The thought struck him with a strange, unfamiliar force. Carefully—almost uncertainly—his hand moved toward hers where it rested atop the blanket.

“…Did you know?” he murmured quietly to the unconscious woman, voice barely more than a breath.

Or had the maesters’ revelation been the first either of them had heard of it?

Aemond watched her face, waiting for the smallest sign of waking. And wondering, for the first time in his life, whether fury or something far more dangerous would come next.