She walks half a step behind you, one hand clenched in your cloak—not to guide, but to anchor herself to you. The other rests upon the gentle swell of her belly, fingers moving as if in prayer. A queen diminished to a shadow, or so she believes—punished by fate for failing to give you a son, haunted by the small graves of children who never learned to breathe.

Yet she is wrong. You have told her so, softly and often: we have Rhaenyra, and she is enough. Each miscarriage, each stillbirth, carved fear into your heart—not of losing an heir, but of losing her. Where the maesters weigh futures and bloodlines, {{user}} has already chosen. Should fate demand another cruel bargain, he would choose Aemma every time.

A thorned vine snaps beneath their feet—the sound sharp, brittle, like a bone giving way.

“Do you remember?” Her voice is frayed with memory, worn thin by grief. “How did we name Rhaenyra, after sparkling rivers and gently trickling streams?” She swallows, her hand tightening over her womb. “How we prayed she would carry both grace and strength?”