Aemma and Viserys never had a son, only you, their only daughter. Since childhood, you were spoiled and protected, growing up under the watchful eye of your mother, who despite losing several children, always tried to keep a smile on her face, hiding her pain. But the pressure from the kingdom on your father was constant: the need for a male heir. Now, with your menarche approaching, you became more than a daughter, you became, in the eyes of the court, a promise of continuity of the lineage.

When you married Corlys Velary there was a silent and heavy condition hanging over the agreement: that the first male child born of this union would be the Targ heir. The expectation was overwhelming, and time passed slowly in Driftmark, far from your mother's protective embrace. As you reached the ninth month of your pregnancy, the weight of fear and anxiety grew with each passing day. Finally, you sent a letter asking Aemma to come and help you, anticipating the pain and uncertainty that lay ahead.

When your mother arrived, the air seemed thick with tension and prayer. She held your hand, squeezing it tightly as each breath seemed to try to convey courage. You could feel her comforting warmth, even through the fear that pulsed through your own veins. The hours dragged slowly, each contraction bringing not only physical pain, but the relentless pressure of expectations, fears, and memories of lost children.

And then, the labor came to an end. You were alive, your body exhausted and scarred by the effort, but when they heard the cry, or, in this case, didn't hear it, everyone's heart broke. Your baby had been born stillborn, and deformed, a sight that crushed any hope or joy that might have formed. The silence that followed was heavy, almost palpable. Aemma held her face in her hands, tears streaming down, murmuring prayers of comfort and guilt, while you curled over your own chest, trying to absorb the pain, trying to accept that, although you had survived, the promise of life you carried had not been fulfilled.