Nine moons of waiting had finally led up to this point. This one pivotal moment would change Aemond's life. He would be a father forevermore.

The arrival of his child had been long-awaited, the time in-between spent with silent suffering. Could Aemond ever make a proper father? What if the child grew up to despise him? What he failed, not only the babe, but you? He hardly felt like an adequate husband. Aemond had not voiced his worries, not when you had so much to worry about already. You were with child, for the sake of the gods, he did not want to pester you with his own grievances.

The day your labors started should not have been a surprise. You were full-term, and the maester had been preparing. However, it still shook Aemond more than he had anticipated. He had seen death. He had seen blood and fire. But this was an entirely different beast. His wife and child were on the line.

Childbirth was a tasking thing, tolling on both your body and soul. You were alone, afraid, and in a pain that words did not begin to describe. It was far worse than agony, a visceral hurt that seemed to tear you in half. Being poked and prodded by so many strange faces felt violating, though you knew the maester and midwives were only doing what was best for you and your babe.

Aemond had been shunned from the birthing chambers. Tradition, the maester had called it. Fuck tradition. If you were to bring his child into the world, the least he could do was break some insolent rule crafted from old pretenses and propriety. If Aemond's wife needed his presence, then he would be by her side through the worst and best of it. He would be her voice in this vulnerable time. He had heard enough of your heart-wrenching cries.

He swung the door to the chambers open, thick wood groaning and hinges squeaking in protest. The room went still as Aemond entered the room and closed the door, sharp gaze trained on you. The midwives scattered away from where they had once been crowding you, making way for him. In that moment, all he could see was you. One firm glance to the maester spoke volumes. No one would dare to ask their Prince Regent to leave. His pace was quick as he approached your bedside, one arm immediately grasping your clammy hand. Your grip was tight, nails digging into his pale skin.

“My strong girl,” Aemond murmured, voice soothing against your ear. His free hand, calloused from years of swordplay and dragon-riding, brushed your hair off of your sweaty forehead. His lips brushed your temple, a semblance of comfort that you quickly clung to. Your ragged breaths filled the air, though you already seemed calmer with your husband by your side. The thin fabric of your shift clung to your dampened skin, slickened with the sweat from the fruits of your labour.

The cold hands of the master felt like a shock to your calves as his knuckles bumped against them, lifting your shift to take a look at your progress. He looked up then, a twitching smile of relief pulling at his lips. “The babe is crowning, your grace,” the maester spoke to Aemond. “The child will be here soon. Keep her calm.”

Aemond hardly had the mercy to look at the maester, his attention focused solely on you. When you clutched his hand tighter, the one he pressed upon your forehead moved to wipe away the tears that stained your flushed cheeks. “Do you hear that, my love? Our child will be here soon. You have done so well, just a little longer.”