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Chapter 12 - -12-

~Chapter XII~

The first signs were subtle, like whispers in the golden tapestry of autumn. As the leaves in the Godswood turned to hues of amber and crimson, Aelora noticed changes within herself—a delicate tenderness, a new warmth that bloomed in her core, and mornings that ushered in a peculiar queasiness. She held these transformations close, a private wonder that danced at the edge of possibility.

One dawn, as they lay entwined in the sanctuary of their bed, Jacaerys observed her gentle hand pressed against her lower abdomen, a gesture both protective and questioning. His violet eyes, deep pools of understanding, met hers. Without words, he covered her hand with his own, a silent communion of hope.

"My love," he whispered, emotion thickening his voice, "could it be?"

Aelora's smile was radiant as the first light of morning. "I believe the gods have blessed us, my prince," she replied softly, her free hand tracing the sharp line of his jaw with tender reverence. "Though perhaps we should wait before sharing our joy with the court."

Jacaerys gathered her closer, pressing reverent kisses to her temple, her cheeks, her lips. "Let this be our secret for now," he agreed, his hand resting protectively over her stomach. "Our private miracle."

The following weeks, Jacaerys approached her with an even greater tenderness, his passion undiminished but infused with a new sense of reverence. His touches mapped the subtle changes in her body with careful attention, each caress a silent vow.

During their evening baths, he would trace the barely perceptible curve of her belly with wondering fingers. "Our love made manifest," he would murmur against her neck, his voice a melody of pride and wonder. Aelora would lean back against his chest, letting the warm water and his gentle touches soothe the mild discomforts that sometimes accompanied her changing form.

Their private moments took on new meaning. When morning sickness woke her before dawn, Jacaerys was there instantly, holding her hair back and pressing cool cloths to her forehead. He ordered special teas from Yi Ti to ease her nausea and had the kitchen prepare small, frequent meals that she could better tolerate.

"You don't have to attend every moment of this," Aelora protested one morning, her heart swelling at his devotion.

"I want to share every part of this journey with you," he replied firmly, helping her back to bed. "The challenging moments as much as the joyous ones. You carry our child—the least I can do is carry you through the difficult times."

As Aelora's dresses required subtle adjustments, whispers began to circulate among the court, but the couple maintained their serene silence. In their chambers, they would often lie together, hands intertwined over her growing secret, sharing dreams of their future.

"What do you think our child will be like?" Aelora mused one evening, as they watched the sunset from their balcony. She sat nestled between Jacaerys's legs, her back against his chest, his arms wrapped protectively around her.

"Strong and beautiful, like the mother," he replied, nuzzling her neck. "With your kindness and perhaps my stubbornness." His chuckle vibrated against her back. "Though hopefully not too much of the latter."

As her body changed, their lovemaking adapted. Jacaerys discovered new ways to pleasure her, learning how certain positions now brought her more comfort and delight. He reveled in her increased sensitivity, in the way the slightest touch could make her gasp and arch against him.

"You're even more beautiful now," he would whisper, his hands spanning her waist, thumbs stroking the gentle swell of her belly. "Carrying our love within you... you're magnificent."

Their private happiness seemed to radiate outward, touching everything around them. Even Vermax seemed more protective, circling their tower more frequently and responding to Aelora's presence with gentle huffs of warm air that made her laugh.

One particularly memorable evening, as they lay in their massive bed, Aelora took Jacaerys's hand and pressed it firmly against her abdomen. His eyes widened as he felt the first subtle flutter of movement.

"Was that...?" he breathed, barely daring to move his hand.

"Yes," she smiled, tears of joy gathering in her eyes. "Our little dragon is making their presence known."

Jacaerys pulled her into a passionate kiss, then slid down to press his lips against her belly. "Hello, little one," he whispered in Old Valyrian. "We've been waiting for you."

The moment was interrupted by a knock at their door—a messenger bearing news of some court matter requiring Jacaerys's attention. Before he left, he kissed Aelora deeply.

"Don't wait up for me, my love," he said softly. "Rest well—both of you."

But Aelora did wait, as she always did, and when he returned hours later, she welcomed him back to their bed with open arms.

In the quiet aftermath, as moonlight painted silver patterns across their tangled limbs, Jacaerys traced gentle patterns on her skin. "Remember when the court pressured us?" he mused. "And now look at us—creating life in our own time, in our own way."

The raven arrived as dusk painted the sky in hues of blood and shadow. Aemond stood at his chamber window in the Red Keep, his single sapphire eye reflecting the dying light as he broke the seal—a simple servant's mark, unremarkable to any who might intercept it. But this was no ordinary correspondence. His spy in Dragonstone, carefully placed among the household staff, had finally sent the report he'd been dreading.

The parchment trembled slightly in his hands as his eye devoured the carefully penned words. Each line felt like a dagger twisting deeper into his heart, but he forced himself to read every detail, every cruel confirmation of what he had feared most.

"...the Princess's condition becomes more apparent with each passing day... Prince Jacaerys dotes on her constantly... healers confirm the child grows strong within her... their joy is evident to all who serve them..."

A sound escaped him then—something between a snarl and a cry of anguish. The letter crumpled in his clenched fist as rage and despair warred within his chest. Aelora, his Aelora, carried another man's child. Not just any man—Jacaerys Velaryon, the bastard who had stolen everything from him.

Memories assaulted him with merciless clarity: Aelora's silver-gold hair catching the sunlight as she danced at feasts, her laughter echoing through the corridors of the Red Keep, the way her violet eyes would sparkle when she spoke of dragons. All those moments he had hoarded like precious gems, now tainted by the knowledge that she carried Jacaerys's heir.

"DAMN HIM!" Aemond roared, his voice echoing off the stone walls. In a sudden burst of violence, he swept everything from his desk—maps, letters, goblets all crashed to the floor in a cacophony of destruction. The sound was satisfying but insufficient to quell the storm raging within him.

He stalked to the hearth where flames danced mockingly, reminding him of the Targaryen words—Fire and Blood. With deliberate slowness, he unclenched his fist, staring at the crumpled parchment that had shattered his world. "She was meant to be mine," he whispered hoarsely, before casting the letter into the flames.

The parchment caught quickly, curling and blackening as fire consumed the hateful words. Aemond watched it burn, his sapphire eye reflecting the flames, his dragon eye patch seeming darker than usual in the firelight. The rage within him transformed, crystallizing into something colder, more dangerous.

His chambers became a battlefield as he unleashed his fury. A heavy oak chair splintered against the wall, tapestries were torn from their hangings, wine bottles shattered and bled red across the stone floor like the blood he yearned to spill. Each act of destruction was accompanied by a roar of pain and rage that would have sent servants scurrying had any been foolish enough to remain within earshot.

"First he takes her hand," Aemond snarled, overturning a massive table with strength born of fury, "then her maiden's gift," another crash as he put his fist through a wooden cabinet, "and now he plants his seed in her!" The mirror shattered under his assault, fragments reflecting his twisted expression like a kaleidoscope of hatred.

Outside his window, Vhagar stirred restlessly, sensing her rider's distress, her presence both a comfort and a reminder of the power at his command. Power that had proved useless in keeping Aelora by his side.

Blood dripped from his knuckles, but he welcomed the physical pain—it was nothing compared to the agony in his heart. He had watched their wedding from afar, had endured months of reports about their happiness, had forced himself to maintain his composure in small council meetings while Jacaerys spoke of Dragonstone's affairs. But this... this was different. A child meant permanence, a living embodiment of their union, proof that Jacaerys had claimed Aelora in every way possible.

"It should have been mine," he whispered to the ruins of his chamber, his voice raw with emotion. "She should have been mine. Our blood combined, our legacy continued..." His words trailed off as he sank to his knees amidst the destruction, his head bowing under the weight of his loss.

For a moment, the fearsome warrior prince allowed himself to feel the full measure of his grief. Alone in his devastated chambers, Aemond Targaryen wept—not the quiet tears of sadness, but the harsh, wracking sobs of a man whose dreams had turned to ashes in his mouth.

But as quickly as the moment of vulnerability came, it passed. Aemond raised his head, his single eye now burning with cold fury. He rose slowly, deliberately, like a dragon uncoiling before the hunt. The chaos around him seemed to settle into new purpose as his mind began to work, calculating, planning.

"Enjoy your happiness while it lasts, dear nephew," he murmured, walking to the window where Vhagar's massive head turned toward him expectantly. "For nothing in this world is certain... not even the joy of expecting parents."

As night fully descended over King's Landing, Aemond stood in his destroyed chambers, plotting and brooding, while the last embers of the spy's letter glowed in the hearth—a fitting metaphor for the last remnants of his hope for Aelora's love dying in the darkness.

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