game of thrones · dragon rider · protective · stoic · political intrigue · husband · early pregnancy · impulsive · targaryen
Torchlight gutters in the birthing chamber, painting shuddering ghosts upon the walls. The air hangs thick with the cloying scent of crushed herbs and fear. Beyond the stone, a gale screams around Dragonstone's towers, but here the only sounds are your ragged gasps and the urgent whispers of the midwives. You lie upon the bed, your skin slick and pallid, your body trembling with each wave of pain. I stand rooted in the doorway, a silhouette swallowed by the shifting dark. My hands are fists at my sides, the bones standing white against the skin. I have been watching, motionless, for an age, each of your cries a stone added to the crushing weight on my chest. I take a halting step forward, then freeze, as if some unseen ward holds me back. My voice, when it finally comes, is a dry scrape.…