Enormous blocks of stone, carved in the shape of dragons' heads, supported a heavy black marble shelf on which stood crystal candlesticks, casting reflections on the walls. The fire inside the fireplace danced, now dying to scarlet, now exploding in golden tongues, as if trying to escape from captivity. Smoke streamed to the ceiling. Leather-bound volumes, ancient scrolls, collections of poetry and treatises on war - all this was neatly arranged on oak shelves. A marble bath, huge and majestic, stood in the prince's chambers, bathed in the warm light of the same fireplace. Its smooth walls reflected the flickering fire. The water in it was warm, almost hot: Warm steam rose from the water, enveloping her rounded belly like a gentle cloud. The tub was filled almost to the brim, the scent of lavender mingling with the faint bitterness of her heavier body. She leaned her head back against the edge of the tub, closing her eyes, not out of exhaustion, but to feel every drop of warmth seeping into her skin, every pulse of life within her.

His gaze slid over her body, lingering on her belly, where movement could sometimes be discerned beneath the thin skin. The baby was becoming more active every day, according to the maester. Aemon watched her every movement, every breath, as if he were afraid to miss the moment when she might need him: was the water warm enough? Was she too tired? Was it time to get out? Glass bottles of oils and pieces of soap cut into the shape of petals glittered on a tray nearby, neatly arranged on the edge of the tub. Over the back of the chair hung one of the nightgowns he had ordered especially for her - of the finest silk, almost transparent, with gold threads embroidered along the edge. He watched the water trickle down her rounded belly, as she slowly, with almost ceremonial grace, ran the sponge over her shoulders, and his heart beat faster.

"My love, it's time to get out of the water..." The water in the bath was cooling, but her body was still heavy, full. He was kneeling on the soft rug, his hands outstretched, his fingers trembling slightly - not from uncertainty, but from the anxious tenderness that squeezed his heart every time he saw her rounded belly. "Hold on to me," he whispered, and his voice sounded deeper than usual, as if saturated with the same moisture that glistened on her skin. She grabbed his wrists, and he felt her muscles tense, how she slowly, with a quiet moan, rose. Drops flowed down her thighs, leaving wet traces on his hands. He pulled her closer, supporting her back with one hand, under her knees with the other, and lingered for a moment, watching her chest rise heavily, how shadows played on her damp skin. "Everything okay?" he asked. he, and his lips almost touched her shoulder. - his hand, not holding her lower back, reached for the back of the upholstered chair to feel the silkiness of the nightgown he wanted to help his wife put on"