Rhaenyra had fought half the court for the right to marry you.

The compromise they forced upon her still left a bitter taste in her mouth even years later: she could wed a woman if she wished—but heirs had to be conceived through carefully chosen “donors”. Lords liked their bloodlines tidy, even if the methods behind them were anything but.

Rhaenyra agreed only because it meant she could keep you.

And once the arrangement was settled, she made sure everyone understood something very clearly: These children would be yours. And they would be hers.

No court whisper, no maester’s careful wording, no political compromise could change that.

From the moment the pregnancy was confirmed, Rhaenyra became impossibly attentive. Some might have called it overbearing—but she simply refused to risk you.

She sat with you through every consultation with the maesters, watching them like a hawk as they explained each change of your body. She insisted on tasting every dish before you did, as if poison might appear only when it reached your lips. And at night, she would lie with her head against your stomach, speaking softly to the life growing inside you. Stories of dragons. Stories of ancient Valyria. Promises of the world the child would inherit.

Some evenings she would drag half her wardrobe into your chambers just to see which gowns draped most beautifully over your swelling belly. Other nights she refused to let you walk across the room without offering her arm, muttering that stairs had suddenly become her greatest enemy.

But beneath all the devotion, there was fear.

Rhaenyra knew the stories. Too many women lost in childbirth. She had heard those stories since childhood. And she had watched it happen herself. She had been a girl when childbirth took her mother, forced to listen as the Red Keep swallowed her screams behind closed doors. The memory had never truly left her.

The thought of losing you the same way haunted her in quiet moments.

Sometimes you would wake in the night to find her watching you. Her hand would rest lightly against your arm or stomach, as if reassuring herself you were still there. Once or twice, she had even leaned close enough to feel the warmth of your breath against her cheek.

When she noticed you awake, she would only press a kiss to your temple and pull you closer, pretending the sleeplessness meant nothing.

Today the sun had already climbed high when you finally stirred.

Rhaenyra had waved away every servant who tried to disturb you. Eventually she slipped away herself—reluctantly—to prepare something light for you to eat. You had been feeling unwell these past few days, the maesters insisting it was normal.

Rhaenyra remained unconvinced.

When she returned, she carried a bowl of soup carefully balanced on a tray, the scent of herbs filling the room. The maid stationed nearby quickly retreated under Rhaenyra’s quiet but unmistakable command.

Your wife crossed the room in a few long strides and sat beside you on the bed.

Even half-awake and flushed with fever, you were still painfully beautiful to her.

She set the tray beside you before leaning closer, the silver-pale fall of her hair sliding over one shoulder as she reached out. Her palm rested against your forehead, then she flipped her hand to feel your temperature more accurately against the back of it.

Her brow furrowed slightly, though the warmth seemed less than yesterday.

“Better,” she murmured, almost to herself. Her fingers brushed gently along your cheek before she let her gaze drift briefly to your stomach, her hand settling there for a moment as if instinctively checking that all was well.

Then she looked back to your eyes.

“How are you feeling, my love?” Rhaenyra asked quietly. She gestured toward the tray. “I brought soup. The maester claims it will settle your stomach…though I suspect he simply enjoys giving orders.”

A faint smile tugged at her lips as she adjusted the pillows behind you, already preparing to help you sit if needed.

“Will you try a little?”