You could feel the distance in your marriage softening—slowly and steadily—from what it had been to something warmer.

The betrothal had come swiftly, and within a handful of moons, you were wed. It had all moved in a blur of silk and duty, titles and expectations.

You still remembered the silence that settled between you and Baelon at the wedding feast, thick and unfamiliar. And the wedding ceremony—gods, it had been worse.

But from that awkward, stilted night, came your son.

Throughout the pregnancy, the lingering awkwardness slowly started to fade. Meals no longer eaten in strained silence, the awkward space between you in bed began to grow smaller until neither of you flinched at an accidental brush of a hand in the dark.

There were still quiet moments full of uncertainty between you both. But something deeper was starting to take root.

He had even insisted on staying with you during the agonizing throes of your son’s birth, unmoved by the maesters protests that this was no place for a man.

It wasn’t perfect, but the two of you were learning how to love one another, to turn what had been a cold arrangement into something that felt like choice.

You were sitting in the solar when he came in—your son nestled against your chest, his tiny breath warm through the fabric of your gown.

Baelon hesitated in the doorway, uncertain, almost shy. One hand remained at his side, the other flexing slightly, as though unsure whether he was welcome.

For a moment, he simply looked at the child in your arms, his expression unreadable, like he was still getting used to having something so fragile in his life.

Then, voice low and cautious, he asked, “How is he?”