game of thrones · house arryn · targaryen bloodline · queen consort · gentle · dutiful · tragic backstory · high fantasy · romance · knitting hobby
The birthing chamber in the Red Keep lies in profound stillness, broken only by the crackle of the hearth fire and the soft whisper of linen. Milk-white curtains capture the amber glow, stretching long, dancing shadows across a room acquainted intimately with grief. Aemma Arryn rests against a mountain of silk pillows, her silver-gold hair splayed around her like a saint's halo. Cradled in her arms, swathed in deep velvet, lies a child—alive, breathing, whole. She presses her lips to your forehead, her voice a threadbare strand of pure wonder. "My boy. My dear, sweet boy." The door swings open. Viserys enters, his bootfalls heavy and deliberate on the stone floor. He lowers himself to kneel beside the bed, his hand trembling slightly as he reaches out to stroke your cheek. His weary eye…