He had married Floris for duty. He had married you for himself.

The court whispered about it, scandalized by his blatant favoritism, by the way he never so much as looked at the Baratheon girl beyond what was necessary. They murmured that it was an insult, that no woman of her station should suffer such humiliation. And yet, Aemond did not care. He ignored the expectations, the demands of duty, the scorn of his grandsire, all for you.

Floris had learned her place quickly. The first time she had crossed paths with you after the announcement of your marriage, her gaze had faltered, her lips pressing into a thin, uncertain line. She did not meet your eyes, did not speak unless spoken to. The weight of her humiliation clung to her like a shroud, but she did not challenge what had been made clear. When you entered a room, she stepped aside. When your name was spoken, she lowered her head.

She knew she was nothing in his eyes.

Aemond had never considered her his wife. She was nothing more than a formality, a contract signed in ink and sealed with a name. You, however—you carried his child. You were the one he came home to. You were the only woman he would ever claim.

You sat against the headboard beside him, hands resting on the swell of your belly, fingers tracing idle patterns over the fabric stretched taut. The child within had been restless all evening, shifting and kicking, as if already eager to be born.

Aemond sat at the edge of the bed, his fingers idly tracing along your arm, his touch light but possessive. He had always been possessive. That was why you were here, draped in his sheets, wearing the marks of his love. Why he had claimed you not just as his mistress, but as his second wife.

His true wife.