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The Hollow Crown - Aemond Targaryen x Wife!Reader

Summary : The gods bore witness the day you came into the world—a child of flame and legacy, born beneath the roaring skies of Kings Landing, firstborn daughter of Rhaenyra Targaryen, twin to her golden boy Jacaerys. From the moment you drew breath, you were a creature of contradiction. A girl with dark hair like the gathering storm, brown eyes deep and defiant as the earth, lips shaped for both tenderness and war. You bore the sharp-cut bones of your mother, the ruthless promise of your grandsire, and the quiet, dangerous loyalty of your twin. When your mother announced your betrothal to Prince Aemond Targaryen—the one-eyed prince of bitter pride—you knew it was not for your happiness. It was a calculated cruelty, a political move, a lash across old wounds.

Warning : Reader Being Described to Having Stong Features, Mean! Aemond, Difficult childbirth scenes, Verbal and emotional abuse within a marriage, Psychological trauma (including postpartum emotional distress).

Aemond Targaryen Masterlist.

House Of The Dragon Masterlist.

Ewan Robert Mitchell Masterlist.

Dividers by @zaldritzosrose

The chamber was suffocatingly quiet, save for the ragged rhythm of your breath and the cruel ticking of time slipping through clenched fists. The air hung heavy with the scent of herbs and sweat-soaked linen, the room dim and hazy from the oil lamps that did little to chase away the encroaching night. You lay beneath a mountain of furs and silks soaked through with pain and blood, muscles trembling, breath shallow—gasping.

And then it struck again.

The contraction tore through you like wildfire through a dry forest.

You screamed, throat raw from hours—no, days—of crying and groaning, the sound echoing off the stone walls like a haunting. You shook your head violently, tears slipping down your temples, soaking your unbound hair as you tilted your head back into the pillow and sobbed, a sound guttural and broken.

Your hands clutched the sheets, twisting, desperate for anything to ground you, but there was nothing—no hand, no comfort. You were alone. Again.

“Seven help me,” you whispered, voice wrecked. “Please… please, not like this…”

You couldn’t see straight. The torchlight blurred around the edges of your vision, and the midwife’s voice—distant and pleading—didn’t reach your ears anymore. This pain was worse than the last, sharper, crueler, as if your own body was rebelling against this child.

Your firstborn had been gentler. A small babe with chubby fists and wide eyes, soft tufts of brown hair and no hint of Valyrian blood. No silver, no violet, no dragonfire.

Not what Aemond wanted.

Not enough.

He hadn’t said it aloud, but he didn’t need to. He had bedded you again before your body had even recovered, ignoring the tremble in your hands and the tears in your eyes. That night, he didn’t speak to you. He didn’t look at you. He simply fulfilled his duty—and reminded you of his vengeance.

You were the prize, the punishment, and the proof that his seed would stain your line and now, in this cold room far from the Red Keep’s warm halls, where even your mother’s shadow couldn’t reach you, you were breaking.

Another contraction. Another scream.

The midwife leaned close, whispering, “My lady, please, you must keep strength. The babe still does not crown—”

“Two days,” you rasped. “Two fucking days…”

You clawed at the bedding. “Where is he? Where is Aemond?”

The silence was answer enough.

“He’s not coming,” you whispered to yourself, to the gods, to the child tearing you open. “He never wanted to come.”

Your voice rose, cracking: “He left me. Again!”

The midwife tried to hush you, but you slapped her hand away, another wave of pain folding you in half. You screamed again, this time in rage. You had been born into war, into fire and legacy and the burden of being hers—Rhaenyra’s first daughter, Jace’s twin. You had been married to a brother who hated your blood.

And you were paying for it now. Alone.

You forced yourself to sit up, trembling, dizzy, soaked in your own pain.

“Send word to Dragonstone,” you growled, voice hoarse. “Send for my mother. Or my brother. I don’t care which—just someone who gives a damn.”

“Yes, my lady,” the midwife said quickly, scurrying off with blood-stained skirts.

Your vision swam again. Another contraction built behind your ribs, slow and deep and cruel. You bit your tongue until you tasted copper. Your hand reached to your side—and found only air.

Aemond had not even left a shadow behind.

You sobbed again, the sound half-animal, half-child, before whispering brokenly:

“I hate you, Aemond Targaryen. Gods forgive me, but I do…” The pain took you again.

The room reeked of iron and agony.

The walls, once draped in velvet and banners of red and black, had turned into cages—bearing witness to your torment. The sweat clinging to your skin was cold now, your linen nightdress translucent with blood and water, your lips cracked from screaming, from begging, from enduring. It felt like your body was ripping apart, piece by piece, like war had made a battlefield of your womb.

And the war was almost over.

You didn’t feel strong. You didn’t feel noble. You felt like a dying thing, writhing in your own blood. The contraction hit you again with the fury of a dragon’s roar, and this time your voice broke with it.

“Fuck—” you screamed, clawing for anything, anyone.

Your hand found Elya’s—your maid, your shadow, your friend—and gripped her so hard she gasped, but didn’t pull away. You crushed her fingers as the wave of pain tore through you again, full-body and unrelenting.

“Get out!” you shrieked—at your belly, at the babe, at the gods. “Get out, please, please, just get out of me!”

Your eyes were wild, unfocused, burning with tears. You were past dignity, past formality, past strength. The pain was white-hot, volcanic, all-consuming. You thrashed, twisting in the bloody sheets. Your hair stuck to your face in damp strands, your body arching off the bed with each wave.

You turned your head, delirious, your voice raw and slurred. “Maester… please… please, cut it out, I can’t—I can’t do this anymore…”

The maester’s face was drawn and pale, his voice low and trembling. “We mustn’t. The babe's crowning. You have to push, Princess. It must be you.”

You shook your head, sobbing now—choked, desperate, a broken wail. “No… no more… I gave him a son and he didn’t even look at him. He won’t care—he never cares!”

You felt Elya’s hand cup your cheek. “You will survive this,” she whispered fiercely. “Do not let him take your fire.”

The midwife leaned in, her hands bloody. “The babe's coming, my lady. Just one more push—gods, the babe has hair, thick and pale as snow!”

Your head snapped up.

Targaryen.

Just like him.

Something ancient lit inside you—rage, relief, resentment—and you bore down, screaming like a dragon about to burn the world to ash.

You pushed with everything you had left—sinew, bone, soul—and felt the terrible rip of flesh, the searing stretch of muscle. Your voice broke as the pain reached its crescendo, your entire body locked in agony as life passed through death.

Then— A wet, sudden slide. Pressure released. And silence. Your body collapsed back into the blood-drenched bed. You gasped like you’d been underwater, twitching and heaving, unsure if you were alive.

Then came the cry.

Faint. High-pitched. Fragile. But it was there, a sob escaped your lips. Then another. You covered your face, your shoulders shaking. You didn’t know if it was grief or joy. Maybe both. Maybe neither.

“She’s here,” the midwife whispered. “A girl. A strong one.”

You heard Elya suck in a breath. “Seven preserve us… she has silver hair.”

Silver. Not brown. Not dark.

Targaryen.

Just like he wanted.

The maester cut the cord, the midwife wiped the blood from your daughter’s squirming body. Her skin was flushed, her tiny fists balled in fury. Already fighting, already screaming.

You stared as they brought her to you, as her cry pierced the room. You reached with trembling arms. She was placed against your chest, still slippery with birth, and her warmth made your whole body shudder.

You looked down—and there it was. That unmistakable shimmer of pale, moonlight hair. Her eyes blinked open briefly, dark blue for now, but destined for purple. You cupped the back of her fragile head. You didn’t say anything. You just stared.

“She has his fire,” the midwife murmured. “And yours, Princess.”

You nodded slowly. But your voice was bitter. “He’ll finally be proud,” you said, flatly. “He’ll finally see her… because she looks like him.”

You kissed her damp forehead, the tears returning—not from pain this time, but from something deeper. A wound no maester could stitch.

“She looks like him,” you whispered to the babe. “But you are mine. And I will never let him burn you like he burned me.”

You hadn’t even delivered the afterbirth.

Your body was wrecked—soaked in blood, sweat, and raw trembling pain. You clutched your daughter tightly against your chest, her cries now soft and sporadic, as if even she could sense the weight in the room. The sheets under you were soaked, your limbs too weak to move, your mind barely tethered to reality. All you wanted was a moment—a breath—to hold her, to feel something other than ruin.

But the door creaked open.

Your eyes flicked up, and there he was.

Aemond.

Cold. Composed. Sword-straight spine, silver hair slicked back, face a chiseled mask of nothingness. No urgency in his step, no heat in his eye—just that eerie stillness that always made you feel like a ghost to him. And trailing behind him, smirking like the devil in a golden crown, was his brother.

Aegon.

His eyes lit up the moment he laid eyes on you, disheveled and flushed, and the small bundle wrapped in bloodied linen in your arms.

“Well, well, well,” Aegon said, his voice thick with wine and amusement, “the dragon-bitch breeds after all.”

Your jaw clenched so tightly your teeth ached. Aemond said nothing. Didn’t look at you. His lone eye was fixed only on the infant in your arms.

You could feel it—his silence wasn’t shock or awe or even guilt. It was satisfaction and that hurt more than the labor had. You shifted, pulling your daughter tighter to your chest, shielding her with trembling arms.

“She’s not a relic,” you snapped, voice hoarse, “and she’s not yours to gawk at.”

Still, Aemond didn’t speak. But something flickered in his jaw—tension, maybe, or restraint. Aegon, of course, only grinned wider.

“Well done, little brother,” he said, clapping Aemond hard on the shoulder. “You’ve done what the rest of us only hope to—fathered a true Targaryen. Look at that hair. She’s a purebred.”

The insult stung worse than any blade.

Your firstborn, your brown-haired boy, asleep in another room, as loved and as innocent as this newborn girl—discarded in their minds like spoiled meat. Forgotten. Undervalued. Because he didn’t look like them.

You looked at Aemond then. Really looked. “You have your heir,” you spat, voice low and trembling with hate. “Now get the fuck out of my chambers.”

Aegon raised his brows, smirking. “Fiery as ever—”

“Get out!” you screamed.

Your body arched suddenly. A pain, deeper and sharper than before, ripped through your abdomen like a hot blade. The world spun. The midwife, who’d been tending quietly in the corner, rushed forward, her eyes going wide.

“My lady,” she gasped, pressing her hands to your swollen belly. “There’s—there’s another! Another babe!”

Your blood ran cold.

“No—no, I… it’s done,” you panted. “It’s done!”

“No, my lady. it's not. I feel it. It’s a twin.”

A twin.

You whimpered, shaking your head, delirious. “I can’t… I can’t do this again. I can’t—”

“You must,” the midwife said, voice firm, already barking orders to the other women. “The afterbirth hasn’t come because the second child’s still inside you.”

Your legs were shaking, your arms wrapped protectively around your daughter. The babe in your arms squirmed slightly, then settled again against your heartbeat.

“Take her,” you whispered to Elya, who stepped forward instantly, eyes shining with unshed tears. “Please… keep her safe.”

The pain came again, a full-bodied quake that made you scream. It tore your spine from the bed, your hands grabbing at empty air as you wailed.

Aemond still hadn’t moved.

You looked up through the blur of pain and rage. “Is this what you wanted?” you hissed. “Blood. Proof. Heir after heir. I hope you choke on it.”

And still, no response. Just that unreadable eye, staring not at you, but the child in Elya’s arms.

You collapsed back onto the bed as another contraction hit, your thighs trembling, blood slick and pooling. The midwife slid between your legs again, her hands already moving.

“The babe's coming fast now,” she said. “We’ll need to cut if he doesn’t shift—” You screamed again, hands gripping the bed frame, back arching as the pain overtook you.

“Don’t you dare let him die,” you sobbed. “Don’t you dare.”

Minutes bled into eternity. Groans, gasps, commands shouted. And then— A strong, sharp, defiant cry.

Your son.

The midwife lifted him, slippery and red and wriggling in her hands. “A boy,” she said, awe in her voice. “A boy, with hair just like his sister. Silver. Pale as moonlight.”

Aegon was the first to speak, his voice quieter than before. “Two trueborns… the gods are showing you favor, brother.” But Aemond—silent still—finally moved. He stepped forward and reached not for you.

But for the boy.

The chamber was still soaked in blood and birth. The scent of iron hung thick in the air, mixed with sweat, linen, and the sharp tang of burning herbs that did little to cover the truth—pain had lived here, screamed here. And now, as you lay limp against the pillows, you watched him.

He stood with your son cradled in his arms, eyes tracing over the newborn’s silver tuft of hair like it was forged from Valyrian steel. His hold was gentle, yes—but it wasn’t love. It was possession. A claim. A legacy secured. You saw it in the slight twitch of his mouth, the subtle shift in his posture—he was proud, victorious, as if he had won something.

You laughed.

It broke out of your throat like something raw and cracked, hysterical and bitter. The kind of laugh that tasted like salt and hate.

Of course. He went for the boy.

Not the daughter you bore first. Not the one still in your maid’s arms, suckling gently, head nestled into the breast of a wet nurse summoned in panic. No. Aemond hadn’t even looked at her again.

You clutched at the furs covering your aching body, blinking through the sweat still stinging your eyes. “Of course you would take the boy first,” you croaked, your voice a rasp of exhaustion and fury.

Aemond finally looked at you then. Not for long. Just a flicker—his eye landing on your face, unreadable as ever. His lips curved into a cool smirk, and he stepped forward. His boots clicked against the stone floor, slow, deliberate. Then he leaned over you, holding your son just slightly aloft like a war prize before lowering his mouth to your forehead.

The kiss was warm. Disgustingly tender. Performed.

“You’ve done wonderfully,” he murmured against your damp skin. “For giving me an heir.”

Your stomach twisted.

Not our son. Not our children.

Me. My heir. My legacy.

Your breath hitched as anger surged hot and wild. The furs slipped from your shoulders as you forced yourself upright, despite the pain clawing through your abdomen.

“Take him,” you growled through your teeth, eyes flaring to the midwife. “Take my son from him.”

The midwife hesitated, caught in the pull of command and fear. Her hands wrung together, unsure.

You bared your teeth. “Now.”

The room froze. Even Aegon, still leaning against the wall with his usual mocking grin, went still. Aemond’s eye narrowed. “You’re not in your right mind. You’ve just given birth.”

“I’m in the only mind I have left after being used as your broodmare,” you snapped, voice trembling with rage. “You fucked me to spite my mother. You fucked me to shame my brother. And then you ignored me—left me—while I bled and begged and screamed for two fucking days to bring your heirs into this world.”

The baby in Aemond’s arms shifted slightly, squirming in his sleep.

You reached beside you and grabbed the closest object. Your fingers wrapped around the cold metal, and with a burst of rage, you threw it at Aemond.

It missed.

Clattered against the stone by his feet.

But it was enough.

“Get out!” you screamed. “Both of you! Get the fuck out of my chambers!”

Aegon, to no one’s surprise, was the first to move. He raised both hands in surrender, half-laughing, half-startled. “Gods, you Velaryons are feral after birth,” he muttered as he strolled to the door.

Aemond, however, stood still. Stiff.

The midwife finally stepped forward, voice trembling. “My prince, please… let me take the babe to be cleaned.”

He hesitated. His arms tightened around the boy. And for the first time, you saw it—the flicker of fear. Not for the child. Not for you. But fear of losing control.

“Don’t make me scream again,” you warned, your voice now dangerously quiet. “Don’t you dare stand there and pretend to be father or husband now.”

Aemond turned, jaw taut. Slowly, almost unwillingly, he relinquished the child to the midwife’s arms. She moved quickly, retreating with the boy toward the crib where your daughter already rested, safe and warm.

He stared at them both. His supposed legacy. His heir and the spare.

But you—

You were already turning your back to him, curling inward, clutching your broken ribs and torn belly, heart shattering into pieces as you whispered into the silence:

“I gave you everything. And you took it like a thief in the night.”

The room felt like a golden tomb—warm with candlelight, perfumed with herbs and myrrh, draped in silks and quiet voices. And yet it was a cage, padded with luxury, suffocating all the same.

You lay still in the massive bed, your body hollowed out by the agony of the last days. Your belly still ached with the memory of contractions. The twins—newborns and already shackled by expectations—lay side by side in their ornate cradle, wrapped in Targaryen red and black. One boy, one girl. Two perfect pieces of proof. The daughter with a silvery dusting of hair, so soft it gleamed white beneath the firelight, and the son—Aemond’s true heir—with violet eyes like a storm you once loved.

Your arms ached to hold them again, but they were too heavy for now. Everything was. You stared at the ceiling, blinking slowly, as the weight of her presence grew thicker beside you.

Alicent Hightower.

Her shadow loomed where Aemond’s boots had last stood. She wasn’t seated. She didn’t rest. She hovered like a vulture over the cradle, fingers twitching near the silk wraps but never touching. Watching them.

Watching you.

“Your recovery must be swift,” she said without looking at you, voice cold and smooth like a knife drawn across fine fabric. “The court will soon hear of the prince’s heir—and the prince’s claim must not be tarnished by gossip or delay.”

Your lips twitched. You didn’t smile.

You couldn’t.

“Wouldn’t want anyone thinking they were bastards,” you murmured, voice hoarse and dry. “Like their mother’s blood was louder than their father’s.”

Alicent finally turned her head, lips pinched. “Do not mistake suffering for righteousness. You married into duty. Just as I did.”

You shut your eyes, the pain crawling up your ribs as you took a breath. Of course she would say that. Of course she would think that meant anything at all.

“Did your husband ever fuck you to spite your family, Alicent?” you asked, voice breaking. “Did he ever put a child in you and leave you bleeding in the dark to prove a point?”

The Queen stiffened, but before she could answer—or chastise or curse you—the chamber door creaked open. And everything stopped. Your head turned. Your breath caught.

There he was.

Your son.

Not Aemond’s.

Yours.

Your firstborn boy—barely walking, barely babbling, with his mop of deep brown hair and eyes the color of dusk. The child Aemond had sneered at when he emerged from your womb, too Velaryon to claim. The reason he had returned to your bed not long after your body had healed, determined to “fix” what he believed you had failed to do.

And yet, here he was. Whole. Smiling.

He stood at the threshold with wide eyes and tiny feet, holding onto the hand of your old maid. The one Aemond hadn’t dismissed.

When he saw you—pale and trembling in bed—he let out a shriek of joy. He laughed. Laughed and clapped. And the sound shattered something inside your chest.

“Come here,” you whispered, arm already reaching out despite the fire that blazed through your body at the movement. “Come to me, sweetling.”

The maid swept him into her arms and brought him to your side, his little hands grasping the sheets as she placed him down into your waiting embrace.

“You’re my heart,” you whispered into his hair. “You are my heart.” You kissed the crown of his head. And then your eyes found the cradle again, where your twins lay.

You did not love them less. But you mourned what they would grow to be. What their father would make of them. What your son would one day learn—about blood, and names, and how little protection a mother’s love truly offers in the games of men.

“Let him,” you whispered to the maid, though your arms didn’t want to let go. “Let him sleep beside me tonight. Just this night.” You faced the cradle again as your son curled into you. Your eyes met Alicent’s once more.

“Tell your son,” you said, your voice now deadly quiet, “that no matter how many of his children I carry—I will never be his wife again. Not truly. He shattered that the day he made me a vessel and called it love.”

The morning sun spilled through the windows of your shared chambers like melted gold, warming the stone and wrapping around the delicate, slumbering bodies of the twins. The room was quiet, wrapped in a fragile peace you hadn’t tasted in moons.

You were nestled against the headboard of the bed you once loathed—the place where you had bled, screamed, and suffered—but today, it did not feel like a battlefield. Today, for the first time in too long, it felt like a sanctuary.

Aemond sat beside you, your newborn son swaddled securely in his arms, resting against his chest. He had barely taken his eyes off the boy since his birth. Not once.

Your daughter slept quietly in the crook of your arm, her downy silver-blonde hair catching the morning light like moonlight on snow. She was perfect. Fragile. Beautiful. Real. You had birthed her through pain and rage and betrayal, and yet the moment you held her—you were undone.

And at the foot of the bed, sitting cross-legged with wide brown eyes, your firstborn son watched her. Silent. Curious. He tilted his head like he was trying to understand how something so small could be a person. A sister.

You chuckled gently, brushing a hand through his dark curls.

“She’s your baby sister,” you whispered, lips close to his ear. “She’ll need you to protect her one day. Just like I protect you.” He blinked, then leaned forward to lay his tiny hand on her blanket.

And then— The chamber door opened.

The stillness of the room shattered like glass. Your head turned, heart leaping into your throat as a familiar silhouette stepped through the arch.

Your mother.

Rhaenyra Targaryen, the Realm’s Delight turned Queen-in-waiting, stood in the doorway with her shoulders squared and her chin lifted. Her silver-blonde hair was swept into a braid, her eyes sharp as Valyrian steel—but when they fell upon you, they softened with something more human. Something raw.

She took one step inside.

Then two.

Daemon followed closely behind her, ever her shadow and sword. He said nothing, but his hand rested on the pommel of Dark Sister as if ready for war. Always.

And behind them, your brothers—Jacaerys and Lucerys.

Jace froze the moment he saw you.

He looked to the cradle first, then to the babe in your arms, and lastly to the boy in Aemond’s. His jaw tightened, and his fists clenched, but he did not speak.

“Mother…” your voice cracked before you could stop it. A hundred emotions slammed into your chest like a crashing tide. You wanted to smile. To cry. To scream. “You came.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes swept the room—lingering on Aemond, then the twins, and finally resting on your face.

“How could I not?” she whispered.

The words struck something deep in you. Something that had felt abandoned and forgotten for too long.

She moved forward, and you didn’t hesitate. You extended your free arm and she came to you like a storm breaking, collapsing to her knees at the side of the bed to embrace you around your daughter’s sleeping form.

“I’ve been so afraid for you,” she breathed, pressing her forehead to your shoulder. “You should never have done this alone.”

Her eyes flicked toward Aemond, who now looked more guarded, more stoic, but he made no move to stop the moment unfolding. Not even when Daemon’s eyes pierced through him like blades, nor when Jace’s fury seemed ready to boil over.

Daemon stood at the foot of the bed, his arms crossed, the vein in his temple pulsing. “So. A son and a daughter.”

“And a traitor for a husband,” Jace muttered under his breath. Aemond’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t rise to the bait. Not yet. Rhaenyra drew back and took your hand. Her thumb brushed the back of your fingers.

“They are beautiful,”she said softly. “And strong. Just like their mother.”

You blinked back the sting in your eyes.

“She looks like you,” you whispered. “When I first saw her… I thought of you.”

Rhaenyra’s breath hitched. She brought her hand to your daughter’s soft cheek and smiled. “Then she will change the world.”

Jace stepped forward, his voice quieter now, more uncertain. “And the boy?”

Aemond, without being prompted, stood and stepped toward Jace. He held the infant out—not toward him, but toward the cradle.

“She has her place,” Aemond said, laying the boy gently beside his sister. “So does he.”

“And do I?” you asked suddenly, your voice cutting through the room like a cold gust. “Do I have a place, husband? Or only the womb that bore them?”

Aemond met your eyes, and—for a moment—something flickered there. Not pride. Not hunger. But maybe… regret?

“You’re the mother of my children,” he said carefully. “My wife.”

“But not your heart,” you whispered. “Never that.”

The silence in the room grew dense, like it might snap. Then your son reached up and touched your face. You smiled. Your family was here. The wounds were bleeding still, but you were not alone. Not anymore.

The heavy door shut behind your family with a final, echoing thud that seemed to settle into your bones. The tension remained behind like a ghost in the room—unspoken words, cold glances, and all the unshed truths that hadn’t found their moment.

You sat upright in the bed, holding your breath, watching Aemond with narrowed eyes.

He stood by the door for a moment longer, listening—ensuring they were gone. Then he turned his head slowly toward your maids, his voice quiet but laced with command.

“Take the children to the nursery.”

You flinched.

Your body was still bleeding. Still torn and aching. You hadn’t even held your twins long enough to memorize the scent of their skin, and already he was tearing them away. Your arms felt too empty too fast.

The maids hesitated. One of them looked at you for approval, but Aemond’s stare was unwavering. You gave a small nod, if only to spare the servants from his wrath.

As they gathered the children carefully, your heart clenched—your daughter stirred softly in her wrappings, and your son whimpered before being soothed again by one of the nurses. Your firstborn reached for you, whining low and confused. It broke something deep inside you.

You kissed his forehead.

“Mama will see you soon,” you whispered, voice raw and dry. “Be good for them.”

Then they were gone. All of them. The door shut again, and this time the silence wasn’t just heavy—it was dangerous.

Aemond turned to face you slowly.

His single eye bore into you, a shard of amethyst wrapped in fire. His jaw worked. His expression was unreadable, but something inside him had shifted.

He moved toward you.

And when he reached the bed, he didn’t speak. He sat beside you. Slowly. Too slowly.

Then he reached out and stroked your hair.

You didn’t move.

Not at first.

His touch was deceptively soft, but there was something beneath it. Something brewing.

Then, with no warning, he grabbed your jaw. His grip was not cruel—but it was not kind either. Your breath hitched. The fingers pressing into your cheeks made your eyes sting. His face was closer now, his voice low, bitter, heavy with accusation.

“He is not mine.”

You blinked.

“What—”

“Your firstborn.” His mouth twisted, his eye blazing. “He is not mine. You were already carrying Jace’s bastard before you ever wore my ring.”

The air turned thick. Your heart slammed against your ribs.

You reached up instinctively, your hand wrapping around his wrist—his skin burning beneath your palm. You shook your head slowly, trying to breathe through the shock, through the fury building in your chest.

“That is a lie.”

“Is it?” he hissed, leaning closer. “You expect me to believe you went to the marriage bed unspoiled after years at Dragonstone with your twin? With the boy who’s worshipped the ground you walk on since you were twelve?”

Your nails dug into his wrist.

“I was a maiden on our wedding night,” you whispered through gritted teeth. “You know I was. You saw the blood.”

He didn’t flinch, but his grip loosened slightly.

“And our son—our first son—is yours, Aemond. Your blood.” Your voice trembled but stayed steady enough to cut. “Look at him. The shape of his face. The calm in his eyes. His soul is yours, even if his hair is dark.”

“That darkness is not from me.”

You laughed—cold and cruel.

“No? You forget so easily. You’re not made of pure dragonfire, husband. You’re a Hightower’s son. Half-Targaryen. Shall I remind you what color your mother’s hair is?”

His eye narrowed. “Careful.”

“No,” you snapped. “You don’t get to accuse me of bearing another man’s child and then demand my silence. Not here. Not in the room where I gave birth to your daughter and your son while you stood beside your brother grinning like a vulture.”

Aemond’s breath shook once, nostrils flaring. His jaw twitched.

“Do you think I don’t see it?” your voice cracked. “The way you only looked at them—because they has your cursed silver hair. Because they proves your seed is strong. Because the boy… the boy doesn’t look like you.”

He didn’t deny it.

But he looked away.

And for the first time in days, you saw something other than contempt in him.

You saw doubt.

You saw fear.

You let go of his wrist, and he slowly withdrew his hand from your face.

“I will never forgive you for how you looked at him,” you whispered, voice hollow. “That boy is yours. And he will grow up wondering why his father doesn’t hold him the way he holds his brother.”

Aemond stood slowly, the silence heavy between you again.

“I was robbed of everything I should have had,” he said, voice low. “My birthright. My eye. My place in the world. I will not be robbed of a son, too.”

“Then stop acting like you already were.”

You watched him leave, silent, shutting the door behind him without a word. And for the first time in days— You wept. Alone.

The hall outside your firstborn’s chambers was silent, save for the muted murmur of court far away in another wing of the Red Keep. Aemond’s boots struck the stone floor with slow, measured steps, each one echoing too loudly in his ears.

Two of the nursery maids saw him approaching and immediately straightened, dipping their heads low in a practiced curtsy. One opened her mouth to speak—to offer to fetch the prince’s son, perhaps—but Aemond lifted one gloved hand.

“Leave us,” he said quietly, his voice like a blade sheathed in velvet.

They bowed deeper and scurried away without question. He stood still for a long moment at the threshold, gathering the brittle pieces of his will, before pushing the heavy door open.

Inside, the chamber was warm, lit by the soft glow of the hearth. The scent of clean linen and milk hung in the air. Toys scattered across the rugs—small carved dragons, wooden swords, and little books with colorful pictures.

And there—sitting on a thick cushion by the fire—was the boy.

Your son.

Aemond’s son.

The child was busy turning over a toy dragon in his hands, utterly engrossed, a small furrow of concentration between his brows. His hair, dark and soft, flopped into his wide, wondering eyes—eyes too brown to be mistaken for pure Valyrian blood.

When he noticed the door open, he lifted his head. Confusion crossed his small, round face. He tilted his head to the side, studying Aemond with a silent, solemn curiosity.

He stepped closer. Slow. Careful.

The boy stayed still, watching.

Without a word, Aemond crouched down before him. His knees creaked in protest under the new weight of tension gathering in his body, but he ignored it. He extended one gloved hand.

The boy stared at it, then—trusting—leaned slightly forward.

Aemond’s hand found the boy’s hair, stroking it softly.

The child giggled—pure and bright—and leaned into the touch without hesitation, like a kitten nuzzling into its mother’s hand. His small hands gripped Aemond’s forearm, holding it there with surprising strength.

The noise—the laughter—hit Aemond harder than any blade ever had.

He swallowed against the lump rising in his throat.

Without thinking, his hand moved from the boy’s hair to his cheek. Stroking gently. Feeling the silky, baby-soft skin under his fingertips. The boy’s eyes fluttered shut briefly, basking in the affection he had so long been denied from this figure towering over his world.

Aemond could only stare.

This boy—this boy whose birth he had doubted, whose blood he had questioned—trusted him completely.

And then Aemond’s hand brushed against the child’s right eye, by accident.

The reaction was instant.

The boy’s tiny body stiffened. His brows drew together in a fierce little scowl, and he slapped his hand over his eye protectively, a low, grumpy whine slipping from his throat.

The air seemed to crackle.

Aemond blinked, stunned.

The boy looked up at him with a spark of irritation, still shielding his eye with chubby fingers—his small face twisted into a scowl that was so familiar it stole the breath from Aemond’s lungs.

It was his look.

His fire.

His rage when touched too carelessly, when his old wound—both literal and invisible—was disturbed.

Aemond sat back slowly on his heels, eyes wide. For a long moment, he simply looked at the boy—his son—and the boy looked right back, his lower lip jutting out stubbornly.

Neither moved. Neither spoke.

He reached out again—but slower, gentler this time—and touched the boy’s arm. The boy’s small hand dropped from his eye, and after a second’s hesitation, he crawled into Aemond’s lap, curling against his chest without a shred of fear.

Aemond wrapped his arms around him. Tight.

He bowed his head, resting his forehead against the boy’s soft hair, breathing him in. The smell of soap and innocence.

“I am sorry,” he whispered, so low no one else would have heard it. “Forgive me, little one.”

The boy gave a contented sigh, patting Aemond’s chest with a tiny hand before dozing off against him.

For the first time in many years, Aemond Targaryen closed his eye and allowed himself to weep—not for rage, not for loss, but for something far rarer.

Something like hope.

The corridors of the Red Keep stretched endlessly, dim and quiet in the afternoon hush, but your heart beat furiously in your chest, louder than your footsteps on the cold stone floor. You clutched the edge of your robe around you, your body still aching from labor, your soul trembling with something else—something hotter than anger, more painful than heartbreak.

You had ignored the midwife’s protests, ignored Maester's command to rest, ignored even your own body’s cries for stillness. You needed to see him.

You needed to see your son.

When you reached the nursery door, your fingers hesitated at the handle—but only for a second. You pushed it open. And then you stopped. Entirely. Your breath caught somewhere in your throat.

There he was.

Aemond.

Sitting on the floor, legs crossed, his silver hair catching the warm afternoon light like spun silk. And nestled in his lap, cradled gently by his arms, was your firstborn son.

Your little boy.

He giggled uncontrollably, tiny fists gripping a carved wooden dragon. Aemond held it high, swaying it through the air with exaggerated movements, mimicking the swooping dance of dragons mid-flight.

“Dracarys,” he murmured playfully, voice softer than you had ever heard it.

The boy squealed with delight, his laughter lighting up the room like a sunbeam. And Aemond, the man who had spat accusations and bared teeth—chuckled. Genuinely. Deeply.

Then—gods—he leaned down and pressed a kiss to the boy’s soft curls, breathing him in like he never wanted to forget the scent.

Your legs nearly gave out.

It was so gentle. So tender.

And so unbelievable.

He hadn’t seen you. Not yet. Not while your world tilted beneath your feet. But then—he turned. He turned his head, as if pulled by some invisible thread that connected him to you.

His eye met yours.

And he froze.

Stillness swept through the room like a tide pulling everything quiet. His arms tightened slightly, protectively, around your son as though he feared you might rip the boy away.

Your lips parted, but no words came.

Your gaze locked.

His face—gods, that face—was unreadable. As if he were caught between shame and defiance, pride and guilt. His jaw clenched, and you could see the muscle tick there, but he didn’t speak. He didn’t move.

The only sound was your son’s quiet, happy humming as he clutched the dragon between them, oblivious to the storm brewing in the silence.

You stepped forward, slow, measured.

Every bone in your body ached, but you didn’t stop.

“I told you,” you whispered, your voice rasping with fatigue and emotion, “he’s your son.”

Aemond blinked, a shadow crossing his single eye.

“I see that now,” he said, voice low. Rough.

Your gaze flicked down to your boy’s face, flushed with joy and wonder. He looked so small in Aemond’s arms, so trusting. You remembered the night he was born—how you had held him to your chest and whispered that no matter what came, he would always be yours.

And now, the man who had doubted him… was holding him like something precious. Still, you couldn’t let the weight of the moment crush your spine. You lifted your chin.

“And yet you called him a bastard. You said he was Jace’s.”

Aemond flinched, visibly. Shame colored his cheeks.

“I was wrong.”

You folded your arms beneath your chest, trying to still the trembling. “You don’t get to hold him now and pretend it was always like this.”

“I know.” His voice broke. “But let me… try.”

Your son yawned softly, curling against Aemond’s chest with the kind of effortless trust that stabbed at your heart. And gods, the way Aemond looked at him—how could a man look at a child like that and ever doubt he was his?

You took another step forward, until you stood right above them.

“Don’t you dare hurt him,” you said quietly, firmly. “Not with silence. Not with absence. And never with words.”

“I won’t,” Aemond whispered.

You looked down at your son—his lips parted in sleep now, one tiny hand curled in the collar of Aemond’s tunic.

Your throat tightened. Your eyes burned.

“I carried him inside me, wondering if you’d ever see him as yours,” you said, voice raw. “He didn’t ask to be born between all this… fire.”

Aemond looked up at you.

“No,” he said. “But maybe he’ll be the one to heal it.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was thick with every unspoken word, every burned bridge trying to stitch itself back together.

“Come sit,” he said at last, voice hushed.

You hesitated.

Then, slowly, painfully, you sank to your knees beside him, pressing your body close to theirs. Aemond didn’t speak. He only shifted, letting your son lie across both of your laps. You brushed the boy’s hair back from his forehead and for one brief, suspended moment— There was peace.

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