The fire crackled low in the hearth, casting a warm glow over the sprawling bed where you sat propped against the pillows. Your husband, Leanor Velaryon, lounged nearby, his arms gently wrapped around your two eldest boys. They giggled, their small voices filled with innocent joy as they watched the tiny creature in your arms—the newborn, your third child, a fresh life just entering the world.

You glanced at them both with a tenderness that only a mother could understand. But as you looked at your newborn, your heart twisted, knowing the truth. He wasn’t Leanor’s. Just like the others before him, the child was not his son. The three of them—the boys—were all Marcus’s.

Leanor, ever understanding, sat with a calm smile on his face, his gaze soft and knowing. He wasn’t upset by the truth—he knew, and he always had. It had been an arrangement from the start. You had married not for love, but for necessity—politics, alliance, and the expectations of a noble family. He had his life, his pleasures, his companionship in other ways, and you had yours.

Leanor was kind, gentle, and his understanding of your relationship with Marcus had never faltered. Your marriage was a shared understanding, a delicate dance where public duties and private truths blended. There was no jealousy, no resentment between you—just a quiet agreement that worked for both of you. He could love freely in his own way, and you could love Marcus, with him standing at your side, without question.

A soft, unmistakable knock at the door broke the silence in the room.

Leanor’s eyes flicked to the door, then back to you. He gave you a knowing look. His voice was gentle, but firm.

“Come, boys,” he said, lifting them both into his arms. “Your mother needs rest now."

The two children protested, their small hands tugging at his tunic. “But we want to stay with the baby!” the older one whined, his voice small and disappointed.

You smiled softly, your hand resting on the newborn, and said gently, “You can visit him tomorrow, sweethearts. It’s late. Let your father take you to your chambers.”

Reluctantly, your eldest son let go of the bed's edge, and Leanor walked away, carrying the protesting boys out of the room.

Then the door opened again and then closed.

Marcus Acacius stood there, his dark silhouette framed by the dim torchlight from the hallway, his presence filling the room like a slow, inevitable tide. His armor was gone, replaced by the simple tunic and cloak he wore when he needed to move unseen, away from prying eyes.

He did not speak. He did not need to.

He crossed the room, each step deliberate and steady. He knelt beside your bed without saying a word, his forehead nearly touching your knee. There was something in the way he held himself, a quiet reverence in the way he was looking at you and the child.

Only then did his voice break the silence—a whisper so low, so intimate, it barely stirred the air.

"How do you feel, my heart?"