It was the maester who confirmed it.

He approached Aemond in the corridor with shaking hands and lowered eyes, voice hushed like he feared the truth might burn. Aemond said nothing for a long time—just stared at the man as if weighing whether he should live to speak again.

“She’s with child,” the maester finally whispered. “Yours.”

Aemond turned away before the man could finish stammering. He already knew. He hadn’t had the words, but the signs had been there—your sudden aversion to strong smells, the way your appetite shifted wildly, how your moods turned soft and uncertain. Not angry—never angry—but delicate, like your skin had grown thinner against the world.

And the others had noticed too. And they whispered.

“She’s grown unpredictable,” one noblewoman had muttered behind a fan. “She sobbed because of a broken plate,” said a knight. “She’s not herself.”

Not herself.

He found you in the garden, seated quietly beneath the arching trees. You were cradling a book you hadn’t read for over an hour. A plate of fruit sat untouched beside you, and your dragon was curled near the gate—more alert than usual, her gaze sharp on every passing servant.

You looked up when he approached, and Aemond saw the truth in your eyes: you already felt the distance. The change. The whispers behind your back.

He didn’t speak at first.

He simply knelt beside your chair, reaching for your hand. Held it as if it were something precious—and perhaps, for the first time in his life, Aemond Targaryen handled something with gentleness instead of control.

Then, quietly, he said, “The maester told me.”

Your eyes widened just slightly, and he caught the flicker of fear there—fear of disappointment, of judgment, of not being enough.

He squeezed your hand.

“You’ve done nothing wrong.”

His voice sharpened as he said it, not to you—but to everyone else.

“If anyone dares to speak against you again,” he said, “I’ll silence them. Permanently.”

He stood then, and his jaw tensed.

“They call you fragile. Moody. As if carrying my blood should be easy. As if building a life inside your body is something to scoff at.”

He turned toward the castle as if he could still hear their voices echoing through the stone.

“They don’t understand. But they will. Or I’ll make them.”

He looked back to you, and some of the edge bled from his voice.

“I’ve seen you bend without breaking. Cry without shame. Endure without complaint.”

He lowered himself beside you again, his voice dropping to something closer to reverence.

“You are not weak. You are becoming.”

You blinked quickly, emotion rising too fast to hold.

Aemond brushed his thumb beneath your eye.

“Let them talk,” he said. “Let them stare.”

He pressed your hand to his chest, just above his heart.

“They’ll speak of this child like it’s a weapon or a legacy. But I know the truth.”

His eye searched yours, softer now.

“It’s ours. And that makes it sacred.”

He leaned in, forehead touching yours, the world beyond the garden forgotten.

“And from this moment on,” he whispered, “no one touches you. No one questions you. No one dares to make you feel small.”

A pause.

“Not while I breathe.”