˗ˏˋAmelia Stilinskiˎˊ˗

Daemon had acquiesced to the marriage and done his duty, taking you as his wife and putting a babe in your belly.

The very babe you delivered earlier today.

Unlike with his last wife, Daemon could not spurn you so openly as both the daughter of a Lord Paramount and cousin to Princess Rhaenys. The Queen Who Never Was, his beloved cousin, had made it known the consequences he would face should he mistreat as he did the Bronze Bitch.

Now hours after you have safely given birth to his son, Daemon now stood at the entrance of your chambers and watched in silence as you feed the babe from your own breast, something uncommon for women of your station to do.

Daemon would just barely make out the silver-gold wisps of hair on the crown of the boy's head where it remained tucked against your breast and partially hidden by the red cloth that swaddled him.

He was a fucking father.

He had a son.

Those two thoughts had sent the Rogue Prince into several jarring realizations. You were no longer just his wife but the mother of his son, a child that was just as much yours as they were his.

"The King spoke with me, after the birth, and said he would not begrudge you nor be offended, should you desire to name our son after your late father."

Clearly, he had not gone unnoticed like he previously had thought.

"I wouldn't either. I never met Prince Baelon, but my aunt Jocelyn always spoke of him fondly."

There was a beat of silence, your eyes had risen from watching your nursing son and turned on him. Daemon had always silently admitted you were a beautiful woman but the sight of you as you are now was striking. He could recall seeing Aemma a handful of times just hours after she had given birth to another stillborn child, she had always looked exhausted and haggard. You, on the other hand, were a vision of a goddess with his son at your breast.

"Would you like to hold your son?"

His son.

Daemon crossed the room in long, quick strides and came to a stop beside your bed. You had laughed, laughed, as sound as sweet as a song, and motioned him to sit beside you on the bed. Once he did, feeling terribly out of place in his black leather double and sword belt, you carefully removed the babe from your breast and placed him in his arms.

The last babe he had held had been Rhaenyra, his cousin's children before that, but the weight of his infant son tucked in his arms felt infinitely different. The boy was small enough to easily fit in just Daemon's hands, and it was hard to imagine that anyone had ever been so small.

This was his son, his child, born of his seed and nurtured in the safety of your womb.

"Aemon"

"What?"

"I would like to name him Aemon, for our shared uncle."

"Aemon, our Aemon."

Your smile was dazzling in the soft, defused light of the afternoon sun through the sheer curtains. You may have not been the bride he had wanted, the one he had desired, but with the weight of his son in his arms, a son you had given him, Daemon would not trade you for even the throne.

Your son begins to whine, and you are quick to take him back, guiding him back to your still bare breast and helping him latch to your nipple. A warmth spreads within his chest as Daemon watches you, the feeling can only be described as fondness.

'Baela.'

Daemon thinks that Baela would be a fitting name for the daughter he would give you, named for his father. Alyssa for a second daughter. There are other names too, ones he absently considered long ago when thinking of the children he would one day have.

Gaemon, Aenar, maybe even a Viseryn or Visenya.

All strong names for children of the Dragon. He'd have to decide on an egg too, for his son's cradle, but there was one he had in mind. A beautiful egg of swirling black and red, tucked away on Dragonstone, overlooked. If the Dragon Keepers were to be believed, the egg was from the same clutch that brought forth Caraxes and Daemon thought it fitting, for his son to be given an egg from the same clutch that his namesake's cradle egg had been chosen from.

Of course, he'd need more. An egg for every child you give him.

The balcony door was cracked open slightly, allowing a warm stream of sun to enter the room. You turned to look at the clock next to you - 11:01am. Of course you had slept in late. You shoved the covers away from you, shivering slightly as your bare skin hit the morning air. You bent over and retrieved your ivory silk panties, slipping them over your ankles and up to your waist, deciding to leave your top half completely nude.

Cracking open the balcony door further, you stepped out into the warm sun, smiling as your boyfriend came into view, dressed only in his underwear. He was leant over the balcony railing, elbows perched on the edge as he blew smoke from a cigarette which he held loosely in his fingertips.

“Morning,” you spoke, walking over to him and perching yourself next to him. He turned to look at you, his messy morning curls hanging over his eyes. “Good morning, mon amour” he replied, smirking softly at your bare chest, and at the way your skin glistened in the morning light. He snaked his arm around you waist, squeezing your hip softly and lightly kissing you on the lips, the taste of cigarette smoke tickling your tastebuds.

“Did you sleep well?” He asked, leaning down to press a light kiss to your bare shoulder and holding out his cigarette for you to take a drag from. You leant your head forward to inhale from it, blowing out smoke and watching it disappear into the array of skyscrapers. Timothée placed the cigarette between his own lips to take another puff.

“Very well, did you?”

He nodded. “Only because I get to sleep next to my girl” he winked, inhaling the last few remnants of his cigarette before pressing out its flame on the ash tray next to him. He turned to you once again, his eyes roaming over your body. “What are you thinking about?” You asked him, biting your lip softly as you stared up at him.

“How fucking sexy you look”

You giggled softly, leaning up to kiss his lips, running your tongue along his bottom lip. He slowly smoothed his hands upwards along your torso, his touch creating tiny goosebumps upon your skin, which followed the trail of his fingers. His hands came to a stop on your breasts, cupping them gently as he rubbed his index finger against your nipple. You moaned softly, pressing your hands carefully upon his bare chest and pulling away. “People might see us,” you giggled, looking towards the buildings surrounding you. Timothée rolled his eyes and nuzzled his face into your neck, making you giggle harder. “I don’t think anyone cares, mon ange” he replied, beginning to make little kisses along your neck. You hummed, leaning into his touch as he trailed his hands down to your waist, pulling softly at the waistband of your silky underwear.

You pulled back, smirking at him softly and kissing him quickly on the lips before turning towards the balcony doors. “You coming?” You asked seductively, slowly walking towards your bedroom. You squeaked lightly as Timothée roughly smacked your ass, smirking to himself as he did so. “Couldn’t help myself” he chuckled as your cheeks flushed a light shade of pink, you couldn’t deny that you enjoyed when he did that.

Timothée lay down on the bed, fiddling with the box of cigarettes on his nightstand before lighting one up and loosely hanging it between his lips. You watched him as he did so, your almost naked figure stood next to the bed. He reached out to you, beckoning for you to sit atop him. You smiled and straddled his waist, leaning over to kiss the corner of his lips which didn’t hold the cigarette.

“Fucking hell,” he whispered to himself, his lust full eyes scanning up and down your body. He removed the cigarette from his mouth, blowing out the smoke and keeping it dangling from his fingers. “C’mere” he said, as you leant down once again to re-attach your lips to his, his teeth grazing your bottom lip as you opened your mouth to deepen the kiss further.

Timothée’s free hand grabbed your ass, squeezing it roughly, giving it a light smack every so often. You trailed your fingers up his torso and gripped his shoulders, your legs tightly pressed to either side of him. He lightly traced his index finger along your thigh before stopping to reach back up to your breasts, squeezing them softly as you lazily but passionately continued to kiss one another.

He pulled away momentarily to take another drag from his cigarette, his hand still caressing your exposed nipple, flicking it once in a while to receive a breathy moan from your lips.

You turned to the clock, seeing that the time was now 11:30am. “We should probably get up and start the day,” you said teasingly, slowly pretending to lift yourself off of Timothée. He creased his eyebrows as he roughly grabbed your thigh, quickly snubbing out his cigarette on the tray, smoke hazing around the room, as he now pressed both hands to your thighs. “Don’t you dare leave” he whispered, as you smirked to yourself, curling your fingers through his hair. He squeezed the inside of your thighs, lightly tracing the lace hem of your panties with his pinky finger and kissing along your collarbone, down to your chest, his lips grazing your nipple.

“I suppose the day could wait” you tried to tease, but it coming out as a moan. Timothée chuckled.

“You mean to tell me that you’re currently vomiting up the baby?” He asked while I was hunched over the toilet puking.

“That is absolutely foul,” he sighed while watching me eat pickles that I had coated with peanut butter.

When I reached the second trimester, I took Tom to the doctor’s with me for an ultrasound appointment. When the black and white image appeared on the screen, Tom got up out of his seat to study it. The doctor, who was a cheery middle-aged woman, told us that we were having a boy. Tom stared at the screen for a good ten minutes before deciding,

“It looks like an alien.”

“He’s not an alien. Don’t say things like that,” I hissed at him. The poor doctor then had to explain to Tom how ultrasounds work, and why the image looked so distorted.

A few mornings later at the breakfast table, Tom decided to share an idea with me.

“I want to name it Salazar.” My fork slipped out of my hand and clattered to the ground.

“I hope that you’re joking.”

“Why would I be joking? Seeing as it has my DNA, it is a descendant of Salazar Slytherin. That would be the perfect name,” he explained while pouring his coffee.

“Absolutely not. I will die before I allow my baby to have such a stupid name.”

Although I made it perfectly clear that that name was not an option, Tom still had other ideas. I came home one afternoon to find him painting some large and ugly snakes on the walls of the nursery. He had even charmed the paintings so that they could slither and hiss. I had to explain to him why such images would be disturbing for a baby. When I had Abraxas come over the next day to paint little ducks over the serpents, Tom sulked for hours.

Even though his nursery paintings had been covered up, Tom was starting to become more involved with the pregnancy. He accompanied me on a trip to a Muggle baby store, inspecting every single sweater or onesie that I tossed into my cart.

“Why would it need socks? I thought that infants can’t walk,” he questioned as I tried to show him an adorable set of baby socks with polka dots printed on them. His voice had been rather loud, and other shoppers were giving us strange looks.

“Yes, Tom. Babies don’t walk, but they can still get cold feet.”

He wandered around the baby store for hours, examining strollers and baby-mobiles. Whenever an employee came up and asked if we needed help, Tom flashed them a menacing look and reached to hold my hand. He had started to grow more protective over me.

About three weeks before I was due to give birth, we hosted a baby shower at the manor. Tom never liked having guests over, but seeing as I was the one who was pregnant, my wishes were prioritized over his.

“Oh wow! I can feel him kicking!” My friend Briley, (who Tom and I had gone to Hogwarts with) exclaimed as she moved her hand around my swollen belly. Tom’s eyes widened in fear as he quickly shoved Briley aside.

“What is it doing? Is it trying to hurt you? Why would it do that?” Briley started laughing at Tom’s absurdity, while I simply rolled my eyes.

“He’s not trying to hurt me, he’s just moving around a bit. Give me your hand and I’ll let you feel.” I gently took his hand and placed it onto my stomach. Up until that point in time, Tom had not wanted to interact with my baby bump in any way.

“Strange,” he finally decided.

When it came time to unwrap the presents, Tom took it upon himself to open each one first, to determine if it was safe or not. Briley had wrapped up a Gryffindor onesie, and when Tom saw it he tried to kick her out of the manor. (I had to intervene before things got violent.) Abraxas and his wife had gifted us a lovely magical stroller that would spit poison at any stranger who approached it. Tom really liked that stroller.

As my due date rapidly approached, Tom grew much more interested in the baby. At night, he would ask to place his hand against my stomach so he could feel it. He began speaking to my baby bump in Parseltongue, which made me frown in confusion. I decided against reprimanding him, happy that he was finally interested in forming a bond with our child.

I went into labor while I was out having lunch with Briley. She quickly rushed me to the hospital and called Tom right away. We had chosen a Muggle hospital, (St. Mungo's wasn’t the best environment for a newborn.) Tom sat in a chair a few feet away during the entire delivery process, which ended up taking less than an hour. (Thanks to a lovely potion I had taken a few weeks ago that ensured a painless and smooth delivery.) The doctor asked Tom if he would like to cut the umbilical cord, but then immediately took back his offer when he saw Tom pull a large knife from his jacket in anticipation.

When my baby boy was handed to me, I couldn’t have been more happy. He was absolutely perfect, albeit a little slimy.

“Would you like to hold him, Tom?” He looked at our baby in disgust, shaking his head.

“Not until someone cleans it.” I sighed, but allowed the nurses to come in and take him away for his shots and bath. My son was returned a few minutes later, wrapped in a grey blanket, and free of any gunk or slime.

“Let his father hold him,” I instructed the nurse. A curious Tom allowed the baby to be placed in his arms. He studied him for a few minutes, unsure of what to say. Finally, he let a proud smile spread across his face.

“Hello, little Salazar. Welcome to the world.”