For almost her entire life, Daella Targaryen has lived as Mellara Rivers, the bastard daughter of Arnold Arryn and cupbearer of Lady Jeyne Arryn. First and trueborn daughter of Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen, Daella had but slight contact with her fami...
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F O U R T Y - E I G H T
There's a soft, strange kind of odd Giving company to all the lonely hearts ─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───
Daella lay in their bed, a thick layer of sweat covering her skin and her body covered in only a thin undergown the midwives had changed her into. There was some light spotting of red droplets on the fabric, but the Maester had assured her that it was normal for women being with child to flower slightly during this period. The head of the midwives had taken a look and she too had stated that there was no indication of early labour and that worry did little good for a mother-to-be. Daella herself had not been reassured until the cramps had started to lessen well into the evening.
"I will be staying in the chambers next to yours, Your Grace," one of the midwives said, curtsying deeply. She was barely old enough to bear children herself and yet the head of the midwives had assured Daella that there was no girl as helpful as her. Her eyes flickered to Aemond, who had retreated to the shadows of their chambers after he had so carefully laid Daella down on the bed. "You need only to call out and I shall be at the side of your bed."
Daella swallowed the lump in her throat and nodded, forcing a small smile on her face. "Thank you, Isamyn," she said, watching as the girl scurried out of the room.
Her blue eyes flickered to Aemond, slowly stepping out of the shadows and in the direction of their bedside. She did not have to look twice at him to realise that he was absolutely furious, the muscles in his hands and jaws clenching simultaneously. There was a grimace on his face that could possibly indicate the start of a war and letting out a soft groan, Daella pushed herself up against the pillows, so that she might look at him from a more upright angle.
"This should never have been able to happen in the first place," he said softly, the tone of his voice low. He was pacing at the end of their bed, the embodiment of deep unrest. "Where was ser Golding? Why were there no knights patrolling who would have noticed the men standing watch at the door being slaughtered? How were you taken away without a single soul except for your dragons noticing?"
"My beloved," Daella said in High Valyrian, her voice a hoarse whisper. Gently caressing the skin of her stomach underneath the sheets, she watched as her husband turned to look at her. "Do not beat yourself up over these things. The Grand Maester and the midwives say that the child is fine. We could not ask for more."
Aemond's facial expression softened. He crossed the distance to her and knelt down at her side of the bed, grabbing her empty hand and pressing a soft kiss against the palm of it. Daella smiled, pulling her other hand from underneath the sheets to brush one of his wild silver locks behind his ear. For the briefest of moments, it was only the two of them in a moment of utter peace, but then a sharp ripple of pain moved through Daella's belly and she clenched her eyes shut. When she opened them again, Aemond's face had hardened.
