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If one had foretold to Miriam Baratheon that she would give birth to bastards — bearing children not of her husband, but of her husband's brother — she would have summoned a Maester to examine that person.
The Baratheon lady had always been the embodiment of duty. Her loyalty to her house knew no bounds, and she was prepared to make any sacrifice for the sake of her family's honor.
Her marriage to Aemond Targaryen, a dutiful son who mirrored her unwavering commitment, was not born of love but of obligation. It was an arranged union, a marriage of duty, as was expected of them.
While love was absent between them, neither took issue with this void. They were two strangers compelled to share both a room and a bed. Conversations between them were brief and frosty, polite but devoid of warmth.
In public, they masqueraded as the picture-perfect couple, with Miriam wearing a doll-like smile and Aemond carrying himself with a regal demeanor, creating the illusion of a perfect marriage.
Once they were alone, they drifted apart like shards of glass, each seeking their own space.
Miriam didn't mind this arrangement. She was, after all, wed to a Prince, second son or not. At least, he was a man of respect and intellect. Her personal credo had always been "Expect nothing, and you shall not be disappointed." She would prefer a silent and cold man to a brutish one.
However. . . deep within her, there lurked an insidious longing, gnawing at her very core—a yearning she could not voice, not even to her sisters. It was something she had anticipated in her marriage, something she had hoped for and desired but never received.
A child.
When Aemond declined the customary bedding ceremony, the ladies praised his gentlemanly behavior, while the lords whispered of his timidity. Yet, the truth lay elsewhere.
The dutiful Aemond Targaryen found himself unable to perform his most essential marital duty. No matter how hard he tried to consummate their union and bed his wife, each touch transported him back to the age of thirteen — to that wretched brothel, where the stench of debauchery clawed at his stomach and made abhor rise from his throat, and a dirty bed with that old woman whose hands couldn't stop touching him in the most intimate places and making him feel dirty.
On their wedding night, Aemond left his wife, Miriam, half-naked and abandoned in the room they were meant to share.
He didn't even try to touch her after that night and neither spoke of it again.
