ꨄ︎Blue Aliensꨄ︎

The Great Tourney of King's Landing was loud, dusty, and altogether dreadful.

Sitting in the plush Redwayne family box, you fanned yourself with a painted silk fan, letting out a dramatic sigh that you were certain could be heard over the roar of the crowds. The afternoon sun was merciless, the wooden benches were impossibly stiff, and the wine—if one could even call the sour, watered-down nonsense served at the public tables—was utterly undrinkable.

"If the heat doesn't strike me down, the sheer tedium surely will," you muttered under your breath, adjusting the lace of your sleeve for the fourth time in ten minutes.

Behind your seat, a smooth voice dropped down close to your ear, dry and unbothered.

"My deepest sympathies, Her Majesty. Shall I summon the Royal Stonemasons to craft a softer bench? Or perhaps I ought to run my sword through the sun itself for daring to shine so brightly upon you?"

You didn't even need to turn around to know the smirk on Ser Gwayne Hightower's face.

You glanced over your shoulder, glaring up at the knight. He looked infuriatingly composed in his polished green-and-silver doublet, his posture straight, hand resting on the pommel on his sword. He was supposed to be keeping watch over the perimeter of your family's dais, but for the last hour, his eyes had barely left the back of your head.

"A cup of decent Arbor Gold would suffice, Ser Gwayne," you sniffed, turning back toward the dirt lists below. "Though I doubt even a Hightower could secure real vintage in this chaotic pit."

"Is that a challenge?" Gwayne murmured, stepping half a pace closer. Before you could respond, he vanished into the crowd.

Not two minutes later, he was back, sliding a silver goblet into your hand. You took a cautious sip—it was cool, crisp, and undeniably from your family's private cellars back home.

"How on earth did you—"

"I have my ways," the red headed knight spoke, giving you an arrogant little wink. "Her Majesty demands, and her humble servant delivers."

"You two look remarkably domestic for a knight and his charge," a gruff voice interrupted.

Ser Criston Cole strode up the wooden steps, his white cloak fluttering behind him. He looked between Gwayne's smug expression and the flush climbing up your neck, his lips twitching into an amused line.

"Lord Commander," Gwayne acknowledged, though he didn't move away from your chair.

"The King's joust is up next, Hightower," Criston said, leaning against the railing and crossing his arms. "I noticed your name wasn't on the rooster. A pity. I thought a Hightower knight would leap at the chance to show his valor. Or are you too busy playing cupbearer?"

Gwayne cleared his throat, his eyes darting to you for a second before settling back on the Lord Commander. "I am merely fulfilling my duty to guard the Redwayne party."

"Right. Guarding," Criston drawled, chuckling away from his sight. He leaned in closer to Gwayne, dropping his voice just enough so only the two of you could hear. "She's been fussing about the heat and the seats for an hour, Ser Gwayne. If you want her looking at you like that all afternoon, you'd better get down in the dirt and earn it. Go ride a lap. Unless you're afraid to take a tumble in front of her?"

The knight's jaw set. The playful edge in his composure instantly turned into a competitive pride. He looked down at you, the teasing light vanishing from his gaze to reveal a sudden intensity that made your pulse jump right into your throat.

"I am afraid of very little, Lord Commander," he replied.

Ser Gwayne stepped directly in front of your seat, blocking out the glare of the afternoon sun, and sank down onto one knee in the dust. the emerald velvet of his tunic brushed the bottom step of the Redwayne dais as he held out his open hand, palm up, right in front of the whole bloody court.

"My Lady," he rasped, his voice stripped of its usual sarcastic front. "I seem to have been goaded into entering the lists. But I refuse to bleed in that dirt without a guarantee of your favor."

Around you, the grandstand roared as another pair of knights thundered down the lane, but the noise faded into a dull hum. Up on the higher pavilion, young King Aegon was laughing loudly, tossing back a goblet of wine, while the court carried on in its familiar dizzying fray.

And yet, right here, Gwayne Hightower remained still, looking up at you as if the two of you were the only people in the Seven Kingdoms.

You gazed past his shoulder. Ser Criston Cole was still leaning against the wooden railing, his arms over his white cloak. The Lord Commander had the most obnoxious look plastered across his face. He caught your eye and gave a subtle, mocking nod, as if to say: Go on then, Lady Redwayne. Deal with him.

You looked back down at the kneeling knight.

His hand was still extended, waiting patiently. The cocky, teasing grin he'd worn a moment ago had softened around the corners.

Does he do this for everyone? you wondered, an immediate spike of panic filled in your chest. Or is he just a ridiculously attentive knight with too much pride?

"Ser," you muttered, leaning forward just enough so your voice wouldn't carry over the noise of the crowd. "Everyone is looking."

"Let them look," he replied, not lowering his hand by a single inch. "I'm awaiting an answer, Her Majesty. Am I riding down there as your knight, or am I going to have to let Lord Royce knock me into the dirt out of sheer heartbreak?"

"You are insufferable."

"So you've told me. Daily." A ghost of his arrogant smile returned to his lips, but his gaze remained entirely fixed on yours. "The favor, My Lady. Before Ser Cole decides to come over here and hand me one of his own ribbons out of pity."

Your fingers shook slightly as you reached up to the sleeve of your dress. You loosened the narrow band of crimson and gold silk—the Redwayne colors—that was pinned near your elbow.

Gwayne watched your every movement, his breath turning shallow.

Slowly, you moved down and laid the silk across his open palm. The cool fabric brushed his warm skin, and his fingers closed over yours—a fleeting, firm squeeze that sent a spike of heat straight down your spine—before he released your hand.

"Do not make a fool of me out there, Ser Gwayne," you warned, trying desperately to keep your voice brisk.

Gwayne stood up in one graceful motion, towering over your chair once more. He folded the ribbon carefully, tying it around his upper arm, right over his heart, pulling the knot tight with his teeth before smoothing it down.

He gave you a low, sweeping bow—dramatic, immaculate, and completely devoted.

"Your humble servant would never dare."

He turned on his heel and walked down the wooden steps toward the armory tents, his green cloak snapping behind him.

You sank back into your bench, your fan entirely forgotten in your lap, watching his form disappear into the crowd of armored men. The seat was still hard, the sun was still blazing, but suddenly, you weren't bored in the slightest.

The roar of the crowd was a physical force, shaking the heavy wooden beams of the Redwayne family box.

You had told yourself you wouldn't watch. You had explicitly assured your cousin, who was currently giggling into her handkerchief, that you were merely sitting up to catch the sea breeze, and that your intense fixation on the dirt track below was purely out of polite interest for King Aegon's grand festivities.

Except your painted fan was clutched so tightly in your lap that the ribs were nearly snapping under your knuckles.

Down in the lists, Ser Gwayne was being an absolute, shameless show-off.

He rode a massive, dappled-grey stallion, his polished plate armor gleaming like newly minted silver under the brutal noon light. But it wasn't his immaculate green-and-gold enamel that had half the grandstands whispering, nor was it the proud Hightower crest emblazoned on his shield—it was the bright Redwayne silk tied securely around his left arm fluttering wildly in the heat.

When his horse trotted past your box before the first pass, Gwayne didn't look up at King Aegon, who was lounging boisterously in the royal pavilion. He didn't look at Lord Commander Criston Cole, who was standing nearby.

He flipped up his visor and caught your eye in the crowded grandstands. His expression softened at once, the arrogance melting into a warm, almost boyish smile that was meant for you alone.

That absolute menace.

"Lord Royce doesn't stand a chance," your brother assumed beside you, taking a sip from his goblet. "Ser Gwayne looks like he's about to fight the entire Crownlands nobility just to prove a point."

"He is merely fulfilling his duty as a knight," you snapped, though your cheeks burned hot enough to rival the sun.

Your brother snickered into his cup, shaking his head. "I'm sure raiding our cellar for Arbor Gold was purely knightly duty, as well."

Down below, the trumpet blared. The horses charged, iron-shod hooves tearing into the dirt.

The sound of splintering wood cracked through the arena like lightnings. You gasped, moving closer to the railing despite yourself, holding your breath until the dust cleared—only to see Lord Royce tumbling violently into the mud, his lance shattered to splinters, while Gwayne rode past effortlessly, his own lance held high and unbroken.

The people erupted into cheers. The winning knight brought his stallion into a sharp turn, trotting back toward the Redwayne dais instead of riding to the royal box. The crowd couldn't believe it, expecting him to pause before the King, but he simply brought his heavy mount to a halt beneath your seat.

He lowered his visor for a moment, his eyes locking onto yours with a triumphant, wicked spark. He tilted his head down in a riding-saddle bow, his hand coming up to press firmly against the ribbon bound to his arm, before turning his horse to prepare for the next round.

You bit the inside of your cheek, trying to suppress the tiny, pleased smile tugging at your lips.

It was infuriating. It was public. And it was the most thrilling thing that had happened to you all summer.

He fought two more rounds. With each tilt, he grew more confident, more theatrical—turning his mount with flawless elegance, catching your attention in the crowd every single time he landed a hit, completely ignoring the grand ladies waving their ribbons in the lower rooms. He was fighting for an audience of one, and he made sure everyone in the Seven Kingdoms knew it.

An hour later, the jousts had concluded, and the high-born crowd was slowly dispersing toward the feast halls to escape the relentless heat.

Instead of heading to the Great Hall with your family like a proper, sensible lady, you found yourself marching down the stairs of the grandstands, heading past the royal pavilions and into the dusty maze of armory tends behind the lists.

You were fuming. Or at least, you were trying very hard to convince yourself you were fuming.

The man had ridden like a lunatic. He had unseated three lords, shattered four lances, and performed like a peacock in front of everybody. It was improper. Absurd. And he had a bloody scrape on his face to show for it.

When you yanked back the canvas flap of Gwayne's tent, the scent of steel, sweat, and polish hit you immediately.

Gwayne was sitting on a low bench in the center of the tent, his chest piece already unbuckled and sitting on the dirt ground. He was stripped down to a thin linen tunic—damp with sweat, unbuttoned at the collar, and clinging delightfully to his shoulders. He was leaning back against a post, letting a young squire try—and fail—to dab a wet cloth at his cheek.

"Hold still, Ser, you're bleeding—" the poor boy stammered.

"I am perfectly intact, boy, stop hovering like a mother hen," the red head was muttering, waving a dismissive hand.

Then his eyes snapped to the tent opening.

The second he saw you standing there—chin held high, arms crossed tightly over your gown, giving your best, most formidable glare—Gwayne's irritable mood vanished into thin air.

A terribly handsome, unashamed grin spread across his face, lighting up his eyes with pure glee.

"Out," you commanded the squire, not taking your eyes off the infuriating knight in front of you.

The poor lad didn't need to be told twice. He practically dropped the washcloth into the basin and bolted out of the tent like a startled rabbit.

Gwayne couldn't even pretend to look ashamed. he stayed right where he was, leaning back against the post, resting his elbows on his knees, and looking up at you with that utterly smitten smirk.

"Well," Gwayne purred, "did Her Majesty come all the way down into the grimy armory tents just to yell at her devoted champion? Or did you miss me already?"

"Do not ‘Her Majesty’ me, Gwayne Hightower,” you huffed, stomping right into his personal space and snatching up the clean linen from the basin. "You rode like an absolute idiot out there! Lord Royce nearly took your head off on the second pass!"

"Ah, but he didn't," he pointed out cheerfully, his blue eyes dancing with amusement as he watched you wring out the cloth with far more force than necessary. "In fact, if I recall correctly, Lord Royce is currently lying in the dirt having his bruised pride tended to, while I am sitting here being graced by my favorite lady in the Reach."

Stepping between his parted knees, you snapped, "Hold still. You're bleeding, you dramatic brute."

"I am merely a wounded knight awaiting his reward."

He didn't pull away when you brought the cool cloth up to his cheek. Instead, he leaned right into your touch, letting out a contented sigh.

You dabbed at the bloody cut along his cheekbone, trying to keep your expression stern. But it was nearly impossible when Gwayne was looking up at you like you had hung the sun in the sky. He didn't look at your dress, nor the tent—his gaze was fixed entirely upon your face, taking in every twitch of your brows, every frustrated little groan.

"Ouch," Gwayne whined softly, though his grin never faded. "Careful, My Lady. You're rubbing my pristine face raw. How am I supposed to look handsome for you at the feast tonight?"

"You don't need to look handsome, you need to look sensible," you scolded, moving the cloth down to carefully dab at a dark smudge near his collarbone, brushing aside the damp fabric of his shirt. "Which is clearly an impossible task. You could have been seriously hurt."

"Would you have cried for me?" he teased, his voice suddenly dipping into a sweet register.

Your hands stilled against his chest. Gwayne wasn't mocking you. he was smiling—a ridiculously smitten smile—looking up at you from between his knees with shameless affection.

"Oh, fuck off—I would have told everyone you deserved it for being a show-off." you muttered, stubbornness shielding your fluttering heart, except your cheeks were burning a furious shade of crimson.

He let out a quiet chuckle that vibrated right against the palm resting on his chest. Before you could pull your hand away, his fingers slid up, lightly catching your wrist. He didn't pull hard—he just held you there, his calloused thumb stroking the pulse point.

"Lies," he whispered, his eyes sparkling with flirtatious mischief. "You were terrified for me. You almost broke your fan in half during the third pass."

"I was not—"

"You were," Gwayne insisted, tugging gently on your wrist until you were forced to lean down just a fraction closer to him. "You were watching me the entire time. Admit it."

"I was watching to make sure you didn't embarrass my family's silk," you sniffed, raising your head up, trying desperately to maintain your dignified posture while standing between his thighs with him holding your wrist.

"You are so wonderfully stubborn," the knight murmured, his eyes dropping shamelessly to your lips before sliding back up to meet your eyes. "I fight off three lords, win the entire joust in your name, and I still can't get a compliment out of Her Majesty."

"You'll get no such things when you act like a fool," you said, though your voice lacked all of its previous bite.

"What if I beg?" his free hand came up to rest lightly on your waist, his fingers warm through the fabric of your gown. "What if your humble knight begs for just one tiny, sweet word from his lady?"

You bit down on your lip, fighting the stupid, helpless smile that was dying to break across your face.

"You're a menace, Ser Gwayne."

"That's not a compliment," he teased, leaning in even closer, his eyes glowing with victorious warmth. "Try again, my love."

Your breath hitched completely at the nickname. My love. He said it so easily, so naturally, as if he had been calling you that in his head for weeks.

You opened your mouth to scold him again, to tell him he was being too bold—

"Ser Gwayne! Lord Commander Cole says the King is demanding a toast—"

The canvas flap rustled frantically as a young guard burst into the tent.

You moved backward as if you had been burned, tearing your hand from his chest and nearly dropping the silver basin.

Gwayne, however, barely flinched. He simply let out a dramatic sigh, slumping back on the bench with a look of profound disappointment.

"If Cole ruins one more moment of my life today, I am going to poison his wine," he grumbled loudly, not even bothering to look at the surprised guard.

The poor guard blinked, looking between your flustered, bright-red face and Gwayne's dramatically pouting expression, before ducking back out of the tent at top speed.

You let out a shaky breath, pressing your cool hands to your burning cheeks as you tried to regain your composure . "I...I am leaving. Before you lose your head completely."

He stood right back into your space, unbothered by your attempts to flee, and offered you his arm with a low bow. "You can run away now, Her Majesty," he smiled, "But you still have to let me walk you to the feast. I have a reputation as your knight to uphold, after all."

You glanced at his offered arm, and slapped your hand into the crook of his elbow. "You're the worst knight in the Seven Kingdoms," you grumbled as he led you out into the sun.

Gwayne just laughed—a bright, booming sound—and squeezed your hand against his side. "And yet, you wouldn't trade me for another."

At the door you take a moment to steady yourself, pushing down the feelings lingering in your body. Only once you feel calm do you lift your chin and follow the waiting Kingsguard.

It is a short walk to the royal chambers, and when you enter, you find Daeron and Gwayne seated at a small table, joined by another woman.

Even if you had never seen the small portrait Daeron kept in his room, you would have recognized Alicent. The resemblance between Daeron and her is unmistakable, from the soft shape of their faces to the familiar curve of their nose and mouth.

Both men rise when you enter, though it is Daeron who crosses the room first, his reserve falling away entirely this time. You smile as he takes your hands in his.

“Come,” he insists. “You must meet my mother and sister.”

It is only then that you notice the woman seated on the floor behind the table, her long silver-gold hair falling around her face as she leans over the small child in her lap. The little girl grips a wooden block in her tiny fingers, carefully fitting it into the growing tower. Neither seem to notice your presence.

Alicent rises as you approach. You dip into a short curtsy and then rise. “Your Grace.”

“Daeron has shared much about you,” she says by way of greeting.

Something in her words catches you off guard, a faint coolness carefully concealed beneath her courtesy. For a fleeting moment she looks toward her son before returning to you.

“He has been very eager for you to arrive,” she continues.

“I am pleased to be here,” you reply.

“Please, join us,” Gwayne offers.

He pulls out the chair between himself and Daeron, waiting until you have taken your seat before gently pushing it closer to the table. Only then does he return to his own place beside you as the others settle in.

The table is filled with so much food, it’s nearly overwhelming. You hesitate, unsure where to begin until a small pile of pale, golden pastries at the center catches your eye.

Lemon cakes.

You have not had them in years. Ormund hated the scent of citrus and vanilla. He said they were too cloying.

Eagerly, you pick one up, the sticky glaze clinging to your fingertips. The first bite brings a sweetness you had almost forgotten, a rich buttery taste brightened by the sharpness of the lemon.

You make a small, pleased sound before you can help yourself.

“My uncle said you would like them,” Daeron reveals.

You look to Gwayne, surprised.

He holds your gaze for only a heartbeat and then his eyes drop to the table. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, his thumb tracing once along the rim of his cup.

“They were served at your father’s hall,” Gwayne says after a moment. “I remember them being brought out after supper.”

“They were my favorite,” you reply.

Gwayne looks back at you, and for a long moment neither of you speaks.

“I have never seen you eat them before,” Daeron says, breaking the silence.

You glance back toward him. “My lord husband was not fond of them,” you say simply, reaching for another.

Daeron’s smile fades slightly, and you immediately regret the admission. You open your mouth, searching for something lighter to say.

“Helaena, darling,” Alicent calls sweetly. “Come eat. The food is getting cold.”

Her daughter does not answer, continuing to speak softly to the little girl in her lap. Alicent’s mouth presses into a thin line, but she does not call for her again. Instead, she turns back to the table, smoothing her expression into something more pleasant.

“Things will be better once we are in Oldtown,” she says quietly, almost as if reminding herself.

Immediately you look to Daeron, confused, only to find the young King staring intently at his plate. You touch his arm and his mouth tighthens. You know that expression. The way he goes still and tucks whatever he is feeling somewhere out of sight.

“There are difficult memories here for Helaena,” Daeron says finally.

“We will stay until the coronation,” Alicent adds, reaching for his hand with a gentle smile. “After that, I shall return to Oldtown with Helaena.”

The flash of anger you feel at her words catches you off guard. Alicent’s tender expression, the way she reaches to comfort him as though no time has passed between them, only makes the feeling harder to ignore. She has only just found him again. To leave him again seems unimaginable.

When you look across the table you find Gwayne watching Daeron as well, a slight wrinkle of concern between his brow. Perhaps better than anyone, he understands what his nephew has lost.

Absently, your thumb brushes over Daeron's forearm. You are not his mother, nor could you ever take her place. But for years, while she was gone, you did what you could. During the long journey to King’s Landing, you prepared yourself to step aside. To return Daeron to the mother he had spent so many years longing for. You had been glad for it.

Yet now, hearing she means to leave, you are startled by the small, shameful flicker of relief buried beneath your concern. Everything else in your life has been swept away. You are not ready to lose him too.

“The great houses have already begun to arrive,” Gwayne says with a weary sigh, breaking the quiet. “Soon, we will be overrun.”

“So the war is truly over?” you ask.

Daeron lets out a quiet breath.

“It is an uneasy peace,” he admits. “Cregan took his wolves back north, but…” He trails off, staring down into his cup. “If Aegon had not already been poisoned, I do not know if there would have been any words that could have stopped him.”

The silence that follows is heavy.

Across the table, Alicent turns away from the conversation, her attention shifting to Helaena. She watches her daughter quietly, almost as though she has chosen not to hear what is being said.

“Perhaps the realm was spared a final battle because of it,” Gwayne says gently, lowering his head to meet his nephew’s eyes.

You squeeze Daeron’s arm, wishing you could offer him more comfort. After a moment, he covers your hand with his.

“We should speak of happier things,” he announces.

“You will wear green again soon,” Helaena says suddenly.

Everyone turns toward her. You’re shocked to find her looking right at you. Then, as if nothing unusual has happened, she turns back to the blocks, carefully placing another atop the small tower in her daughter’s lap.

Alicent is the first to recover, offering a small, polite smile.

“Ah, yes,” she says. “You will need a new wardrobe for the coronation and for what comes next. Black has its place, but it cannot be worn forever..”

“No. Of course, you are right,” you say, suddenly finding you no longer have any appetite for the lemon cakes on your plate.

The mention of a new wardrobe is an unwelcome reminder of the conversation you had only yesterday. Another sign that your future is already beginning to unravel, slipping from your grasp.

Daeron clears his throat.

“I had thought to go riding after we are finished with our meal,” he says, his voice lighter than before. “Tessarion has been restless, and I fear she will take offense if I keep her waiting much longer.”

You smile. “A dragon’s patience is not easily tested.”

“And what of you? Have you decided what you will do today?” His gaze drifts briefly toward Gwayne.

You hesitate. “I think I would like to visit the sept.”

“You should not go alone,” Daeron says immediately. “Perhaps my uncle could accompany you.”

Gwayne lets out the faintest breath through his nose, brow lifting slightly as he stares at his nephew. Daeron only returns his look with a small smile.

“If my lady would welcome the company,” he says, inclining his head, “I would be honored to escort you.”

When you meet his eyes there is no expectation in them. Only patience.

“I would like that,” you admit softly. “If you truly do not mind.”

A quiet warmth settles over Gwayne's features. “Not at all.”

–

The path to the sept is not a long one, but Gwayne still offers you his arm. This close, you find yourself aware of the warmth of him beside you and the faint scent of leather and clean linen, mingled with something distinctly his. He keeps his pace slow, his stride measured to match yours.

You walk in companionable silence, passing surprisingly few servants. Those you do encounter greet Gwayne warmly, their expressions easy and unguarded.

“I must apologize,” he says suddenly.

You look toward him, but he keeps his gaze ahead, his expression thoughtful.

“I never had the chance to offer my condolences for your loss.” He pauses. “Not only for Ormund, but for everything that has changed since.”

Your fingers flex against his arm and you feel the subtle movement of muscle beneath the fabric.

“You have been brought here, your future discussed before you have had time to settle into the present. I imagine that cannot be easy.”

For a moment, you do not know what to say. To have someone acknowledge your situation so plainly is both a balm and a wound. You know you should offer a polite thank you and allow the conversation to move on, as you have done so many times before. But, instead, the truth slips free.

“No. It has not been easy.”

He looks toward you, pale blue eyes steady and gentle . “Perhaps the sept might give you a moment away from all of it.”

“Is that why you go?” you ask.

“Perhaps,” he says after a moment. 

“And you find it helps?”

The corner of his mouth lifts faintly. “Sometimes.”

“Then perhaps we should ask the Crone for more guidance.”

His eyes shift toward you, amused. “For me?”

“For both of us,” you admit.

Gwayne slows as the corridors open onto the small courtyard of the royal sept. The space is surprisingly quiet, filled only with birdsong and the soft rustle of the breeze. Inside the air is cool, and sunlight filters through colored glass, painting the stone floor in shades of green, gold, and white.

Together, you make your way toward the Crone and kneel upon the thick, cushioned pad laid before her. There is barely enough room for the two of you, leaving you closer to Gwayne than you expected. Your shoulder nearly brushes his.

You take a slender candle from the tray and hold it to the flame of the taper already burning in front of the statue. The wick catches, and you set it among the others. Beside you, Gwayne does the same.

You do not know exactly what to ask for. Courage perhaps. Or simply the strength to accept whatever comes next. As you ponder, your attention drifts toward Gwayne. You find yourself wondering what he might be asking of the Seven. His head is bowed, strands of golden-red hair falling across half his face, his lips moving quietly as he murmurs the words beneath his breath.

He looks beautiful.

The thought comes quickly and without permission. You draw a quiet breath and curl your fingers into the folds of your dress, embarrassed. You turn your attention back to the Crone and close your eyes, even as heat burns across your cheeks, a sudden warmth spreading through your chest.

It takes a moment to settle your thoughts, but thankfully the prayers come easily once you do. They are the same comforting words you learned as a girl, repeated so many times that you no longer need to think of them. Coupled with the warm, earthy fragrance of incense curling through the sept, they gradually ease the tension from your mind and body, wrapping you in a rare sense of stillness.

You remain suspended in that quiet until the final words fade from your mind. For a moment, you do not move, drawing in a cleansing breath through your nose before slowly exhaling through parted lips.

When you finally open your eyes, you find Gwayne already watching you. His eyes linger over your face as though he has forgotten himself for a moment. Your breath catches, and the sound seems to break whatever spell has held him. A muscle in his jaw jumps, a faint flush in his cheeks. He clears his throat and he rises.

“Forgive me,” he murmurs. “I did not mean to disturb your prayer.”

“I am finished,” you assure him.

He offers you his hand, palm open, and you place yours in it. His calloused fingers close gently around yours as he draws you to your feet. His brow creases, and he seems about to say something when the door creaks open.

Gwayne immediately steps back, releasing your hand. The older septon who enters smiles when he sees him, though his attention briefly jumps to you.

“You are later than usual, my lord,” he remarks. “You are rarely accompanied.”

“Lady Hightower wished to pray,” he explains, gesturing toward you.

The septon inclines his head. “Then the Seven welcome you both.”

Gwayne gives a quiet nod, then extends his elbow toward you without meeting your eyes. You place your hand against his arm, and together you make your way toward the doors. He remains unusually quiet as you leave the sept, his posture still rigid, his attention fixed ahead. You find yourself wondering at the change. Only moments ago, there had been a warmth in his expression that is now carefully hidden behind a familiar reserve.

You have spent enough years learning to read a man's temper, but this feels different. There is no fear tightening your chest, no instinct warning you to choose your words carefully. Only a quiet desire to ease whatever has put him so firmly behind his guard.

The impulse surprises you.

“Do you always pray to the Crone?” Gwayne asks, pulling you from your thoughts.

“No. Not always, though she often hears my prayers.”

“Which of the Seven do you favor, then?”

You hesitate, all too aware of what most would expect you to say. The Mother or the Maiden. Both you prayed to as a girl, but since becoming a Hightower, you have found yourself lighting candles before someone altogether different.

“The Smith,” you admit.

You expect surprise, but Gwayne only regards you for a moment, his expression thoughtful, as though the answer has given him something to consider.

After a moment, he says quietly, “He endures.”

“Yes,” you agree.

The simple word settles between you, carrying more weight than you intended. Your fingers drift to the ring on your hand and turn it absently around your finger. There is something unsettling about how easily he seems to understand. Not unpleasant, exactly. Only unfamiliar.

You clear your throat, eager to shift the conversation.

“And whose altar do you often light a candle at, my Lord? The Warrior?”

The corner of Gwayne’s mouth twitches. “Once upon a time.”

You glance up at him. “But not anymore?”

He shakes his head.

“Oh?” The question slips out before you can stop it.

“The Maiden.” A faint smile touches his lips. “Does that surprise you?”

“A little,” you confess.

“Why?”

You look meaningful to the sword at his hip, and a quiet laugh escapes him, low and brief.

“Perhaps I pray to her because, after all this time, I still like to believe there is something gentle in this world.”

His words catch you off guard, as does the sincerity behind them. For a man who has spent so much of his life surrounded by swords and war, there is something unexpectedly tender in the hope he carries.

“Daeron chose well in making you his Hand,” you remark. “He will make a good King but he needs the right kind of guidance.”

“Your faith in me is touching,” Gwayne says, a hint of amusement in his voice, though his expression softens. “I shall endeavor not to disappoint you.”

The teasing takes you by surprise, and you grin despite yourself. “I meant it sincerely.”

“I know,” he assures you. “And I think having you here will do him good as well. He has lost much,” he continues, his tone serious once more. “For all his strength, he is still young. He needs people around him who remember that he is more than the crown he wears.”

“I shall remain here as long as my…” You hesitate, searching for the right word. “Situation allows.”

Something passes across Gwayne’s face at that, gone almost before you can read it. “I hope it allows for some time yet,” he says.

The words are quiet, almost casual, but there is a weight behind them that makes your step falter. You nearly stumble before catching yourself, your fingers tightening around his arm.

“For Daeron’s sake, of course,” he adds, shifting his gaze ahead.

“Yes,” you agree. “For Daeron.”

You and Gwayne walk on in silence, but it is no longer the same easy quiet that had accompanied you to the sept. By the time you reach the end of the corridor, your thoughts have become tangled once more, that small knot in your chest tightening as you think of what lies ahead.

The man beside you is Daeron’s choice. Your father may have his own wishes, if you were to ask. And the lords of the realm, with all their competing interests, would no doubt put themselves or their sons forward.

Everyone seems to have an opinion about what your future should be. Yet when you turn the question inward, you find only uncertainty. You cannot even begin to imagine how you are supposed to choose when you have spent so long having the choice made for you.

House of the Dragon Masterlist | Masterlist

The gardens of Oldtown were at their best in the hour after dawn, and you had learned in two years of marriage that you were the only person in the whole keep who believed it.

The stone paths were still dark with dew. The bees had not properly woken. Fog came up off the Honeywine in long grey ribbons and caught in the myrtle hedges, and the great tower itself stood behind you with its beacon gone dim and pale, the way a candle looks when someone opens the shutters. Everything smelled of wet earth and lemon blossom and, faintly, of the sea.

You had a basket on your arm, half-full of peaches, and grass stains on the hem of a gown that had cost more than a horse.

"Now, my lady," came a voice from the top of the terrace steps, "I have been told a great many things about you, but no one warned me you were a common orchard thief."

You did not turn around. You had known him by the sound of his boots on the steps for a year and a half now; Gwayne walked like a man who suspected there might be an audience.

"They're my peaches.”

“They are my father's peaches."

"Your father is in King's Landing," you said, choosing another, turning it in the light to check the blush of it. "The peaches have been left in my care. I am inspecting them. Rigorously."

"You've eaten two already."

"How could you possibly know that?"

"Because I've been standing here since the bell," said Ser Gwayne Hightower, coming down the steps in that ambling unhurried way of his, "watching my wife commit crimes."

You turned.

He had come straight from the yard, which meant he had come straight from the yard and then gone somewhere to make himself presentable about it, because his hair was damp and combed back off his brow and his shirt was clean and open at the throat, and no man alive had ever left a morning's swordwork looking like that by accident. There was a bruise blooming just under his jaw. He was grinning about it.

"You've been watching me for an hour," you said.

"A quarter hour."

"An hour, Gwayne. The bell rang at dawn."

He came to a stop in front of you, close enough that you had to tilt your chin, and he did not deny it. He looked down at the basket instead, took out a peach, considered it with the gravity of a maester examining a wound, and bit into it.

"Well," he said, with his mouth full. "Now I'm complicit."

"You're a knight of the Reach."

"I am. And this is the finest fruit in the Reach, and my wife stole it, and I intend to eat the evidence." He wiped his thumb along his lip. "Nobody hangs for a peach."

"Your father might."

"My father would write a letter about it," Gwayne said. "Six pages. With citations."

You laughed before you could help it, and he looked so pleased with himself, the way he always did, like a boy who had just cleared a fence he wasn't sure of. That was the thing nobody told you about him, back when your marriage was still ink and seals and two families shaking hands over your head. They told you he was vain. They told you he was clever and quick and difficult to pin down. Nobody told you he would look at you like that when you laughed, as if the sound were a coin he'd found in the street.

"Come," you said, and hooked your free arm through his. "Walk with me before the fog goes."

The path curved down past the fountain and under the arch of climbing roses that your good-mother had planted before she died, white ones, heavy-headed, dropping petals into the water. Gwayne finished the peach and threw the stone into the hedge with the underhand flick of a man who had spent his life throwing things into hedges.

"That'll grow," you said.

"Then Oldtown will have one more peach tree and my father will have one more thing to be irritated by. Everyone profits."

"You're very cheerful this morning."

"I'm very cheerful most mornings."

"You are cheerful in company," you corrected. "This morning you're cheerful with me, which is different, which means something has happened. Did you win?"

He put a hand to his chest. "You wound me. You think I only smile when I've won."

"Gwayne."

"I won," he admitted immediately. "Twice. Ser Robin has developed a habit of dropping his shoulder before he comes over the top, and I have been very patient about not telling him, and this morning I collected on my patience."

"That's cheating."

"That's observation."

"It's cheating dressed for a feast."

"Which is what all the best things are," he said, and stole a second peach out of your basket without breaking stride.

You let him. You had learned to let him. In the first months you had counted every little liberty he took as a battle lost, because you had come into this marriage braced for something; you weren't sure what, only that women told you to brace and it had taken you the better part of a year to understand that Gwayne Hightower was not laying siege to you. He was just like this. He took peaches. He talked through the septon's sermons under his breath. He put his cold feet on your legs in the night and pretended to be asleep when you shoved him. He was the least dangerous man in Westeros and he was armed at all times.

You reached the low wall at the garden's southern edge, where the ground fell away and the whole of the city lay out below you in the mist: the tangle of roofs, the river, the Citadel's blunt towers, the masts down at the harbour crowded together like a burnt forest. Somewhere a dog was barking. Somewhere else, someone was singing badly.

Gwayne set his hands on the wall and breathed out.

"Say it," you said.

"Say what?"

"Whatever you climbed all the way down here to say. You've been circling it since the peaches."

He glanced sideways at you. Green eyes, Hightower green, the same as his sister's, though on Alicent they always looked like a held breath and on him they looked like a joke you hadn't heard yet.

"You're a witch," he said. "I married a witch. My father will write a letter about that too."

"Gwayne."

"There's a letter from King's Landing."

Your stomach did the small ugly drop it always did now. Two years ago the words there's a letter from King's Landing would have meant nothing to you at all. Now everyone said them the way they said there's a storm coming in off the sea; flatly, and while already looking for the shutters.

"From your father."

"From my sister, in fact, which is worse, because my father tells me what to do and my sister tells me how she is." He turned around and leaned back against the wall with his elbows on it, tipping his face up to the thin sun. "She says she is very well. She says the children are very well. She says the king's health is much improved, which is the sort of thing you write when a man cannot hold a spoon."

"Gwayne."

"I know." He shut his eyes. "I know."

You said nothing for a moment. Below, the mist was pulling apart over the river.

"Does she ask you to come?"

"She never asks. That's the trick of her. She writes six pages about the weather and the septs and how Daeron is growing, and then at the very bottom, in a hand so small you'd think she was ashamed of it, she writes, it would gladden me to see you." He opened one eye. "Which is asking. That's my sister asking with both hands."

"And your father?"

"Oh, my father asks like a battering ram. His last letter said, and I quote, I trust the pleasures of Oldtown have not made you soft."

You considered this. "Have they?"

"Grievously," said Gwayne. "I sleep on feathers. I eat three times a day. I have a wife who steals fruit for me. I am the softest man in the Reach and I intend to defend the title."

"Then we shan't go."

He was quiet. That was the thing that told you it was serious; Gwayne Hightower quiet, for the length of three heartbeats, with the sun on his throat.

"Not yet," he said at last. "Not this year, I think."

"Not this year," you agreed.

"They'll want me eventually. When my father runs out of Hightowers who'll answer him and comes back round to the one who won't stop making jokes." He said it lightly, and it landed the way a light thing lands when it's made of iron. "But not this year. This year I'm going to stand in this garden and watch my wife rob an orchard, and if my father wants an accounting of my time, he may have it."

"He'll be delighted."

"He'll be apoplectic," Gwayne said, brightening. "Write it down, would you? Ser Gwayne rose at dawn, defeated Ser Robin twice, ate two peaches he did not pay for, and spent the remainder of the morning being soft at his wife. Send it under seal. Make it look important."

"You are a terrible son."

"I am the firstborn son," he said. "It's practically a vocation."

You made him carry the basket after that, because he was there and because he complained about it in a way that clearly meant he wanted to be asked, and you walked back up through the terraces to the little walled garden your good-mother had called the Quiet Court a square of grass and old fig trees with a bench nobody ever sat on, because it faced the wrong way for the view and the right way for the sun.

You sat on the grass instead. You always sat on the grass. Gwayne dropped down beside you with the graceless thump of a man in his own home, stretched his legs out, crossed them at the ankle, and put his head in your lap without asking, as though it were a chair that belonged to him.

"Comfortable?" you said.

"Extremely. Don't move."

"I have to move eventually."

"No, you don't. I'll have your meals brought."

You snorted, and set your hand in his hair, and he made a small pleased sound in the back of his throat that he would have denied under torture.

The sun was properly up now. It came down warm through the fig leaves and made moving coins of light all over him, over his shirt and his forearms and the bruise under his jaw, and the bees had woken and were going seriously about their business in the lavender, and the whole garden hummed with it. You could hear the Citadel bells, far off. You could hear a maid laughing somewhere up in the keep.

"Tell me something," you said.

"Anything. I have a great many opinions."

"When they told you who you were marrying… what did you think?"

He opened his eyes. "That's a dangerous question."

"It's a very safe question. You're lying in my lap. I have all the power here."

"You have all the power," he agreed, "at all times, in all places, which is a matter I intend to raise with the septons." He was quiet a moment, and then, in a slightly different voice: "I thought, well, that's that, then."

"Charming."

"No — listen." He shifted so he could look up at you properly. "You must understand what it is to be the firstborn son of Otto Hightower. Everything about my life was decided by other people in rooms I wasn't in. My sister was decided. My name, my knighting, my horse was decided. So when they said you will marry her, I thought: well, that's that, then. Another thing that happened to me."

"That's worse than charming. That's tragic."

"And then," he went on, ignoring you entirely, "you came to Oldtown, and on your third night here you told me at table, in front of my septa that my hair was too long for a fighting man and that vanity was one of the seven kinds of sin, though you couldn't recall which."

You winced. "I was nervous."

"You were magnificent. My septa choked on her wine. And I sat there and I thought, oh no." He grinned. "Oh no. She's going to be the great catastrophe of my life."

"And was I?"

"You are," he said. "Ongoing. Sustained. No end in sight."

You looked down at him for a moment, at the sun-coins sliding over his stupid handsome face, and then you leaned over and kissed him, upside down and badly, and he laughed into it and caught the back of your neck with one hand as if to say yes, that, do that again.

When you sat up your hair had come loose on one side. He looked immensely satisfied about it.

"Your hair is still too long," you said.

"My hair is perfect."

"It's not."

"It is better than yours."

"Gwayne."

"I'm sorry, my love, but it simply is. The gods gave me one gift and I am obliged to be a good steward of it." He settled back down. "Criston Cole wears his cropped like a scullion and look at the state of the man's disposition."

"You've never met Criston Cole."

"I've heard about Criston Cole. That's worse."

You said nothing. You reached over, very quietly, and picked a stem of lavender.

Gwayne, eyes closed, said, "What are you doing."

"Nothing."

"You're doing something. I can hear you doing something."

"You cannot hear nothing."

"I've been married two years," he said. "I can hear nothing better than any man in the Seven King— don't."

You had already begun. You took a thin section of hair at his temple and started plaiting the lavender into it, and he made a noise of pure theatrical anguish and did not, you noticed, move his head one inch off your lap.

"This is an assault," he informed the fig trees. "This is an assault upon my person."

"Hold still."

"On the honour of House Hightower."

"You'll look lovely."

"I will look like a hedge—"

"Gwayne."

He held still.

You worked slowly, because it was slow work and because there was no reason on earth to hurry. Lavender, then a sprig of rosemary because it smelled good, then three of the little white roses from the arch, snapped off short. His hair was fine and slippery and hard to keep hold of, which he would have been delighted to hear, so you didn't say it. Somewhere in the middle of it his breathing went long and even, and you thought he'd genuinely fallen asleep until he said, without opening his eyes.

"Are you happy?"

Your hands paused. "That's a dangerous question," you said.

"It's a very safe question. My head's in your lap. You have all the power."

You looked down at him. There were fine lines at the corners of his eyes now that hadn't been there when you married from squinting into the sun, from laughing, from a life spent mostly outdoors and mostly amused. There was a white knot of a scar through one eyebrow that he claimed was from a boar and that his squire claimed was from a door.

"Yes," you said.

He waited.

"Truly, yes," you said. "Which frightens me a little."

"Why?"

"Because I've read enough songs to know that no one's happy in the middle of a song."

Gwayne opened his eyes. "Then we shan't be in one," he said.

"You can't decide that."

"I can decide a great deal. I've decided about the peaches. I've decided about my father." He reached up and caught your wrist gently, his thumb over the small bones of it and held it there against his chest, where you could feel his heart going along steady and unbothered underneath. "Listen. Somewhere out east there are dragons and there are men writing letters about dragons, and one day someone will come up that road and knock on that door and I will have to go and be a Hightower at them. I know it. You know it. My father has known it since before I was born, I expect; he's a man who plans that far ahead."

"Gwayne—"

"But that's not today," he said. "Today there's fog on the river and my wife has put a garden in my hair and I have eaten two stolen peaches and won two bouts, and if this is the middle of the song then it's the best part and I refuse to hurry it." He kissed the inside of your wrist, quick, careless, like it was nothing. "That's all. That's my whole philosophy. I've been working on it for years."

"It's a very short philosophy."

"It's a very efficient philosophy," he said. "You could have married a man with a long one and been bored to death by midwinter."

You laughed, and your eyes stung a little, and you covered it by tugging his hair.

"Ow."

"Hold still. I'm nearly done."

When you were done he sat up and shook his head like a dog, and about half of it fell out, which was frankly less than you'd expected.

"Well?" he said, turning his face to give you the good side, which was the same as the other side. "Tell me honestly. Ruined?"

You looked at him. Lavender and rosemary and three white roses, sun through the leaves, grass on his shoulder, that bruise going purple under his jaw.

"You look," you said, "like a maiden in a song."

"Excellent. Which one?"

"The one who gets carried off."

"By whom?"

"By her husband, in a moment, if she doesn't stop talking."

He grinned so wide it must have hurt. "Threats. In my garden."

"My garden. You said so yourself. You've told everyone in Oldtown it's my garden since the day I asked for it."

"I have," he admitted, "because when I say my wife's garden the maesters look at me as though I've done something worthwhile, and I've found I like the feeling." He plucked one of the roses back out of his hair and, with great ceremony, tucked it behind your ear. "There. Now we match. Now nobody can say anything."

"Everybody will say something."

"Let them," said Gwayne Hightower, and kissed you.

It was a slow one this time, unhurried, one hand at your jaw and the other braced in the grass, and you tasted peach and he smelled of lavender and clean linen and horse, and above you the fig leaves shifted and the light moved and the bees kept up their work in the lavender, entirely unimpressed. You had a fistful of his shirt. You did not remember deciding to take it.

Which of course was the exact moment that somebody came through the gate at the far end of the Quiet Court.

"Ser — oh. Oh. Ser, I— the master-at-arms says—"

Gwayne did not let go of you. He turned his head, with the rosemary sticking out over his ear, and regarded his squire with the calm of a man who had been interrupted in gardens by squires his entire adult life.

"Yes, Willem."

"The master-at-arms says you're wanted in the yard," said Willem, aged fourteen, magenta from the collar up, examining the sky. "He says. He says you promised him. He says you swore."

"Did I swear?"

"You swore on your sword, ser."

"That does sound like me." Gwayne sighed and let his forehead drop against yours for a moment. "The trouble with being charming," he murmured, "is that you make so very many promises."

"Go," you said.

"I don't want to."

"You'll want to in ten minutes. You'll want to enormously. You'll come back at noon and tell me about it at extraordinary length."

"...That's true," he said, wounded by the accuracy of it, and got up.

He brushed the grass off, and put a hand up to his hair, and stopped; you watched him remember what was in it. You watched him weigh it. You watched, delighted, as Ser Gwayne Hightower, first born son of the Hand of the King, decided.

"Willem," he said. "How do I look?"

The boy, trapped, said: "...Very well, ser."

"Very well," Gwayne repeated. "You hear that? Very well. The lad has an eye." He pointed at you as he backed toward the gate. "Noon. Don't eat all the peaches."

"I make no promises."

"You never do. It's the worst thing about you." He was at the gate. He turned, one hand on the stone, sun in his eyes, lavender in his hair, and for a moment; a small one, a moment you would take out and hold a great many times in the years that came after, on the road, in the dark, in rooms full of men shouting about dragons; he just looked at you across the grass, and didn't say anything clever at all.

Then he said, "I love you, my wife," in the offhand way he said everything that mattered, and was gone down the steps two at a time with his squire trotting after him.

You sat back in the grass with the basket in your lap and the rose behind your ear.

The bees went on. The fog burned off the river. Above you the Hightower stood white and enormous against a sky going properly blue at last, and somewhere far away in King's Landing a sick king was being helped to sit up in bed, and a queen was writing six pages about the weather, and none of it, this morning, had reached the gardens.

You ate another peach.

Ser Gwayne was patient, just as he had promised, as he had vowed to be long before your wedding, ever since you first met him, many years ago.

And irritatingly determined and persistent. He was a full-fledged knight, quite possibly the most graceful and refined knight you had ever met in your entire life, and simultaneously, was the most frustrating and exhaustingly annoying man you'd have ever found.

The realization that Gwayne was different—good different—did not sit well with you at first, at all. You had spent years preparing for the worst, ever since you were a little girl, hardening your heart to face a kind of evil beyond comprehension, a wicked, darkness-filled, and power-hungry man as your husband, only to be met with one who treated your boundaries like sacred ground.

His outrageously determined crusade to win your trust only intensified with the passing moons after the festivities of your wedding ceremony had ended. It was a campaign fought not with swords, but with quiet, incredibly detailed gestures of devotion and above all, respect.

It all appeared to be an endeavour aimed at courtship, if not outright friendly intentions.

For every morning, you would wake to find a small silver tray on your vanity. On it lay a single, freshly plucked clover from the gardens—still damp with dew—and a small cup of hot, spiced tea brewed exactly how you liked it, with a dash of dried orange peel and heavy honey. He never stayed to hand it to you, knowing you valued your morning solitude. He simply left it as a silent promise, a gesture of kindness and thoughtfulness, one that he made in the knowledge that he was not truly expecting anything in return from you.

Breakfast with the royal family was, much like every gathering within the Red Keep, a careful performance.

Queen Rhaenyra sat at the head of the table, her silver hair braided with pearls, speaking quietly with Lord Corlys over matters of the Narrow Sea. Prince Daemon lounged in his chair to her right, lazily carving an apple with his dagger instead of using the silver knife laid before him. Baela and Rhaena exchanged amused whispers further down the table, while Jacaerys attempted—unsuccessfully—to keep Joffrey from feeding scraps of bread to Tyraxes' hatchling beneath the table.

Conversation slowed the moment the heavy doors opened.

Ser Gwayne Hightower entered alone.

Dressed in dark red and black rather than the bright Hightower colors of Oldtown—a concession made after the wedding—he crossed the hall with measured steps and every eye followed him.

He bowed first before the Queen. “Your Grace.”

Then to Prince Daemon. “My King.”

Daemon merely grunted, truly unconcerned by his presence.

Only then did Gwayne turn toward you, and the indigo blue of his eyes shimmered as bright as the heavens above the moment they found you, and your beautiful face, which seemed unbelievably more radiant that particular morning—like he always thought every morning.

You sat halfway down the table amongst your family, absently stirring honey into your spiced tea.

There was an empty chair beside yours and absolutely no one there would have questioned him for taking it, he was your husband, after all.

But, still, he stopped beside it, folding his hands neatly behind his back as he gazed down at you with soft eyes.

“My Princess,” Gwayne's voice was quiet enough that only the table could hear, “...may I sit beside you?”

Baela's brows lifted, Rhaena blinked, Jacaerys looked from Gwayne to you, visibly confused, as Luke was covering his mouth to avoid bursting into laughter. Even Queen Rhaenyra paused mid-sentence.

You slowly looked up from your teacup, your silvery brow wrinkling on your forehead. “Y–you are asking me?”

“I am.” He nodded once, giving you a quick, dimpled smile, his lips trembling slightly out of sheer nervousness.

The sight of your magnificent lavender eyes narrowing at him brought a sudden sweat to Gwayne’s palms and a thrilling shiver down his spine.

“You do realize you are my husband, Gwayne.” You tilted your head, visually disturbed by the entirety of the situation.

“I do.”

“And husbands generally do not request permission to sit beside their wives.”

“I know,” another faint, nervous smile touched his finely shaped lips. “I simply thought...” he continued, “...that perhaps you might prefer to enjoy breakfast with your family alone.”

Daemon let out a low snort at his words and so did Luke.

The Rogue Prince leaned back in his chair, watching the exchange with open amusement before taking a leisurely bite of his apple.

“I have seen beaten hounds with more confidence,” the prince drawled.

But Gwayne didn't even bother listening to him, since he was too absorbed in looking at you, taking in the beauty of your gorgeous face, and delighting in the pleasure of having your beautiful eyes lock onto his for such a long moment.

“If you would rather I sit elsewhere,” Gwayne continued softly, “I shall.”

Daemon barked out a laugh this time, “there it is.”

Rhaenyra shot her husband a warning glance, silencing him instantly.

The corner of your mouth threatened to twitch and you concealed it behind a gentle sigh.

“You may sit, Ser Gwayne.”

The relief that softened his features was almost imperceptible, but you, obviously, were able to catch a sight of it. “Thank you, my darling.”

Only then did he pull out the chair and he waited until you had resumed your breakfast before seating himself, careful not to invade your space.

The faint flush already lingering upon his rosy, cute cheeks deepened into a intense red the moment you gifted him a gentle, intimate smile, reserved only for him to experience.

And he understood that, perhaps, you were starting to like him.

One warm afternoon, you find him in the library.

He is sitting at the massive oak table, surrounded by piles of heavy, leather-bound books. His forehead is furrowed in deep concentration, and he is clumsily trying to translate a passage of High Valyrian, his pronunciation so atrocious that even from the doorway, you could hear him butchering the ancient vowels.

“It is ñuha, Gwayne, not nu-ha,” you correct him, leaning against the doorframe. “You sound like a dying frog, Ser.”

Gwayne is startled, cousing him to drop his quill, which lefts a tiny blot of ink on his nose. He looks up, a sheepish but entirely delighted grin breaking across his handsome face. 

Your husband is breathtakingly beautiful, not only that day, but every bloody day; his flaming red hair seems to burn under the afterglow of the dying sun, and his face, oh his face, flushed with embarrassment and shy delight, beams under your heavy gaze.

You can easily see how truly happy he is to have earned a glimpse of your notice, one that isn’t merely a display of good manners or basic politeness, but real attention and genuine interest in him.

“I must apologize, my princess,” still, your husband hurries to excuse himself, flashing you a sheepish smile. “I have been endeavoring to master a few words of the tongue of your ancestors... Though it was never my intent that you should overhear my clumsy attempts, darling.”

You lean your head back against the heavy wooden frame of the door, crossing your arms over your chest as you look over at him. You squint your eyes, granting yourself a quick moment to meticulously examine his features.

The ink smudge on his nose does absolutely nothing to diminish how strikingly handsome he is. If anything, it softens his countenance, rendering him younger—a dream made flesh—as he looks up at you as though you alone have hung the stars in the celestial vault.

“Clearly,” you mock, a thread of gentle amusement and teasing irony weaving into your voice as you finally detach yourself from the timber frame.

With measured, quiet steps, you cross the quiet chamber floor and come to a standstill beside his high-backed chair, looking down upon the erratic, ink-stained scratching that mars his parchment and all over his face.

Gwayne is utterly perplexed, rendered near speechless, unable to bring himself to move at all, unwilling to risk upsetting you too much and having you step away, for your closeness and warmth and the way you are looking down at him have him holding his breath and entirely spellbound.

“...Princess?”

Before your lips can shape a reply, your hand moves toward him. Your fingers advance with a sudden, delicate hesitation. You gently press the pad of your thumb against his nose, wiping away the dark stain of ink he has left behind.

At your touch, Gwayne freezes instantly. Not only that, the breath abandons his lungs entirely; his azure eyes widen as the soft skin of your fingers makes contact with his warming cheek.

He does not draw back, nor does he make any motion to stay your hand. He simply sits there, utterly captive to your gentle touch, his visage flushing a deeper, more magnificent shade of pink beneath the warmth of your thumb.

“You have ruined your cute little nose, husband,” you note softly, your voice scarce above a whisper, striving—and failing—to maintain a veneer of cold indifference.

“A worthy sacrifice,” Gwayne breathes, his gaze dropping to your lips for a fleeting, breathless second before rising once more to meet your eyes, alight with a quiet, shimmering hope.

Slowly, you pull your hand back, though you don't step away. You point to a specific line on his parchment, where he has scribbled a phrase over and over again until the ink is nearly illegible.

“You wrote this wrong,” you say, your tone softening further as you lean over the table, your shoulder brushing lightly against his doublet. “Here. ‘Kirimvose, ñuha dōra.’  You translated it as ‘Thank you, my peace.’ But dōra is a very clunky word for it. If you want to say it correctly...”

You take up his discarded quill, dip the nib into the dark inkwell, and trace a clean, elegant script of High Valyrian beneath his unpracticed scrawls.

“...you must say, ‘Kirimvose, ñuha mēre.’ Thank you, my only.”

Gwayne stares at the graceful calligraphy, then lifts his eyes to yours, his green gaze shimmering in the dying, amber light of the afternoon.

He repeats the foreign words on his tongue, his pronunciation still marred by a slight Andal accent, yet spoken with such profound, deliberate weight that the phrase hangs in the air like a solemn vow.

“Kirimvose, ñuha mēre,” he echoes after you, striving with earnest devotion to no longer appear a shameful sight in your estimation.

“Mhm...” you hum in quiet approval, nodding faintly as your eyes trail from the manuscript back to his face. “You are a fast learner, Gwayne.”

For a long, suspended moment, neither of you breaks the silence. There is only the scent of aged parchment, the fading golden glory of the sunset, and the steady, quiet rhythm of Gwayne’s breathing beside you.

Slowly, you slide your hand across the polished oak table, until your fingers brush against his own.

Gwayne’s breath catches in his throat. He does not immediately clasp your hand; instead, he waits, granting you ample grace to pull away should you so choose. But when you remain right there beside him, his fingers slowly, reverently fold over yours. His palm is warm and somewhat calloused, yet his grip is incredibly tender, as though he were cradling something infinitely precious and fragile.

He is always like that. Gentle, patient. Always patient.

It is utterly infuriating.

You find the very existence of Gwayne Hightower entirely vexing, for you have grown accustomed to the tales of husbands who behave like conquerors, thieves and exploiters who claim everything and yield nothing in return, destroying the sacred meaning of marriage and devotion and love. Men who demand blind obedience, heirs, and subservience.

Instead, yours asked for permission before sitting beside you at the morning meal.

Gwayne is different. Good different. And that realization unsettles your soul more than any open threat ever could.

The shift between you is subtle, yet undeniable, a quiet, hairline fracture in the ice. Over the passing days, you find yourself less inclined to retreat into the guarded shadows of your mind during the evening feast.

No longer do you reach for the comfort of your own mind the very instant he crosses the threshold, nor flee far from his company, flying away on your dragon. Instead, you watch, you see him. You see the way he carries himself amongst the household guards, the way he never forces his presence upon your solitude, and how he genuinely, stubbornly persists in his quiet courtship.

You find yourself struggling to ignore the waves of warmth spreading through your chest every time you're with him, increasing your heartbeat, accompanied by that giddy feeling in the pit of your belly.

And as the days rolled by, you gradually got comfortable with Gwayne's persistent hovering around you.

One particularly cloudy morning, he made you giggle.

By the time Viridrax touches down upon the stone platform, kicking up a storm of dust and ash, your heart is still drumming against your ribs as you dismount gracefully.

You stroke the warm, rough hide of Viridrax's snout, breathing in the familiar scent of ozone and brimstone of her.

“Rikās, Viridrax,” you whisper softly in High Valyrian, resting your forehead against her snout. Stay. “Rest, my girl.”

The green dragon let out a long puff of hot smoke that singed the hem of your riding leathers, nuzzling your shoulder before settling down with a heavy, earth-shaking thud.

You unbuckle your flying gloves, your silver hair wild and wind-tangled, your cheeks flushed from the biting chill of the upper sky.

Turning to head toward the cavernous exit of the Dragonpit, you expect to see only the stoic, iron-clad Dragonkeepers—only to freeze in your tracks.

Standing right at the edge of the landing platform... is Gwayne.

He is wrapped in a heavy, dark red cloak lined with fur, standing entirely alone in the shadow of the colossal stone arches.

He looks painfully out of place amidst the ancient, dark stone of the dragonpit, yet he stands unnaturally still, his jaw set in a rigid line.

You see the exact moment he fights himself. He takes a heavy, deliberate breath, forcing his boots to stay firmly planted on the cold stone. He squares his shoulders, swallows hard against the knot of fear in his throat, and wills his trembling hands to relax at his sides.

He refuses to run. He refuses to look weak or faint-hearted in your eyes, forcing a composure he clearly does not feel as he faces down a nightmare made of scales and fire simply to be near you.

When his gaze finally locks onto yours, the terror in his eyes softens, replaced by that quiet, stubborn devotion that had been relentlessly chipping away at your own walls for moons.

“You are a fool, Gwayne,” you call out to him, your voice cutting through the heavy, tense silence of the vault as you slap your gloves against your leather-clad thigh. “Viridrax does not share my patience, and she certainly does not share my tolerance for Hightowers.”

A soft, breathless laugh escapes Gwayne's rosy lips, though it sounded more like a relieved gasp as he managed to hold his ground before you. “Then it is fortunate... that I came to see you, my Princess, and not your... magnificent companion.”

Very sowly and cautiously, as if navigating a minefield, he takes two measured steps forward, coming to a stop just a few paces away. He is still within strike of Viridrax’s tail, yet he focus every ounce of his attention entirely on you, forcing the looming threat of the beast right behind your back into the background of his mind.

“You've been standing in this damp pit,” you note, narrowing your eyes as you studied the pale flush on his handsome face and the faint tremor in his hands. “How long?”

“Long enough to watch you descend from the heavens,” Gwayne replies softly, a faint, sheepish smile finally managing to break through his nervous tension. “It was... a terrifyingly beautiful sight. Though I must admit, standing down here requires s–significantly more courage than I—I anticipated.”

Right as the last stuttered word leaves his lips, Viridrax shifts her immense weight behind you.

The massive emerald dragon stretches her neck, opening her cavernous jaws to release a sudden, bone-rattling growl—a deep, reverberating snarl that vibrates through the flagstones and shakes the very dust from the vaulted ceiling. A cloud of scalding, sulfurous steam vents straight from her nostrils, whipping the hem of Gwayne’s dark red cloak around his boots.

Gwayne’s forced composure shatters in an instant.

His indigo eyes widen to the size of silver stags. He squeaks—a high, pathetically un-knightly sound—and jumps a good foot into the air, instinctively throwing his arms up to shield his face. His boots scramble backward on the slick stone as if he were trying to outrun a falling star, his grand cloak wrapping clumsily around his legs until he nearly trips over his own spurs.

A sudden, helpless snort escapes you. You clap a gloved hand over your mouth, but it is useless. A burst of giggles bubble up from deep within your chest, echoing wildly off the high stone walls of the Dragonpit.

Gwayne blinks, his wide, terrified gaze slowly darting from the dragon over to you. Seeing you helpless with laughter, his pale cheeks instantly flood with a dark, burning crimson that spreads all the way to the tips of his ears.

You gently reach out and clasp his hand, your fingers curling firmly around his trembling, warm palm.

“I have seen seasoned knights faint in her presence,” you tease him. “But I do believe that high-pitched squeak was a first.”

Gwayne lets out a long, heavy sigh, his fingers instantly clasp yours, firm and desperate. “I believe she enjoys seeing me humiliate myself in front of you. Like everyone else in this place.”

“Oh, she doesn't care enough about you to want to humiliate you, my lord,” you say, your thumb lightly rubbing the back of his knuckles to soothe the lingering panic in his pulse. “But Viridrax would never harm you. Not while you belong to me.”

He is rendered speechless and with his jaw hanging open in utter amazement, he happily lets you pull him along by his hand.

You like Gwayne Hightower.

And the catalyst of it all arrives upon a sweltering evening, during a feast thrown to celebrate your mother, the Queen's name day. The Great Hall is suffocating, thick with the heavy stench of roasted meats, the clinking of silver chalices, and the low, rumbling laughter of lords who wear their loyalties like hidden daggers beneath their velvet doublets.

Gwayne remains by your side for the better part of the night, watching over your form with that quiet, devoted vigilance to which you have slowly grown accustomed.

He is, as ever, the very mirror of a chivalrous knight, attentive, pouring your sweet Arbor wine before his own cup is even touched. Yet, the fragile illusion of peace shatters the moment the musicians strike up a slower, more solemn air.

“My princess,” a drawling, dangerously familiar voice interrupts your thoughts.

Turning, your gaze falls upon Ser Lucon. He wears a smug, mocking smirk and offers a grand, sweeping bow that does nothing to conceal the bold, unseemly lust lingering within his dark eyes.

Lucon is a handsome, swaggering lordling from the Crownlands, possessing dark curls and an arrogance that has long since outstayed its welcome. He was numbered among the many suitors who actively courted your favor before your political match to Gwayne Hightower was sealed by the High Septon.

“It would be an absolute tragedy for the fairest maid in the keep to sit out such a song,” he says, extending a gloved hand toward you. “Grant me this dance, Your Grace. For the sake of old days.”

With an imperceptible sigh, you place your hand in Lucon’s grip.

“A single dance, Ser,” you consent, your voice flat and strictly formal.

Before stepping onto the rushes of the floor, you catch Gwayne’s eye. His jaw is clenched so tightly it resembles carved stone, his fingers brush restlessly against the pommel of his sword.

Lucon leads you into the center of the hall. As the measure begins, he presses closer than etiquette or decency should ever permit, his hand gripping your waist with an unnecessary, firm pressure that draws you flush against his massive frame.

“The livery of the greens suits you, my princess,” Lucon whispers near your ear, his warm breath thoroughly vexing your senses. “Though every soul in the Red Keep knows that squire of a husband possesses not the slightest inkling of what to do with a dragon’s fire.”

“Watch your tongue, Ser Lucon,” you hiss, keeping your visage a mask of polite indifference as the steps force you both to spin. “Gwayne is my lord husband, and I assure you he is twice the knight you could ever hope to be.”

Lucon lets out a soft, derisive laugh that makes your blood boil in your veins.

“Is he? For from where I stand, I can feel how cold your skin remains. Were you mine...”

Before the lordling can finish his blasphemy, a heavy, iron-firm hand clad in boiled leather grips his shoulder, bringing your turn to an abrupt and dead halt.

Gwayne has stepped directly onto the dance floor. His blue eyes, usually so soft and pleading when they seek yours, are now dark as a stormy night, fixed upon Lucon with a promise of absolute violence.

“Your dance is finished, ser,” Gwayne says. His voice is a low, raspy whisper, yet it carries a lethal edge that causes the nearby lords and ladies to step back hastily, sensing the sudden peril.

Lucon, striving to maintain his arrogant facade, does not relinquish his grip upon your waist right away.

“Ser Gwayne, let us not ruin protocol. The Princess and I were—”

“I said, unhand my wife,” Gwayne interrupts, stepping forward so sharply that Lucon is forced backward by sheer physical instinct. Gwayne’s hand slides down from the knight's shoulder, clamping around Lucon's wrist with a crushing, bone-grating grip to force his release. “Now. Before I forget where we stand and decide to teach you proper court manners in the middle of this hall.”

The tension within the Great Hall becomes suffocating. The hands of your guards drift toward their swords, and your kin move a step closer. The air is thick, ready to spark into a bloodbath over a sudden flash of jealousy.

Knowing that a single wrong move could incite slaughter this night, you step in, subtly placing your body between both men. You press a firm hand against Gwayne’s chest and beneath the fine fabric of his doublet, you can feel his heart hammering wildly, violently, like a trapped beast.

“That is enough,” you announce, your voice ringing with an authority that commands the quieted room. You fix Lucon with a look of pure disdain. “If you dare to ever raise a hand to me or my husband again, that will be the last time you'll have hands. Leave us now.”

Lucon swallows hard, looking from Gwayne’s iron grip upon his wrist to the fierce fire in your eyes. Offering a stiff, forced bow, he retreats into the crowd, quickly losing himself in the shadows of the pillars.

Gwayne does not break his stare from the corridor where Lucon vanished, his chest heaving with heavy, erratic breaths. He is trembling slightly—not from any tremor of fear, but from the massive, physical restraint it takes not to draw his steel and kill the lord.

You take his hand, sliding your fingers into his and the touch seems to pull him back from the brink of madness; his sky blue eyes find yours, wide and filled with a raw, vulnerable mix of wrath and desperation.

“Are you well, my love?” still, he needs to ensure your well-being, his other hand rising close to your face, grazing your cheekbone just a tickle. "Forgive me. I... I lost my composure. If I have embarrassed you—"

“I am well,” you assure him. “Let us return to our chambers, p–please, Gwayne.”

Your wish is his command.

The heavy oak doors of your chambers have scarce clicked shut behind you before the silence within the room becomes unbearable.

Gwayne immediately begins unbuckling his ceremonial clothing and trappings, his movements uncharacteristically rough, frantic, and impatient. He hurls his heavy leather gauntlets onto the table with a resounding thud.

“You were jealous,” you accuse, cutting through the quiet, tense silence.

Gwayne freezes. He keeps his back turned to you for a long, agonizing moment, his shoulders rigid beneath his fine linen shirt.

When he slowly turns around, you can see how weak and vulnerable his composure truly is. His auburn hair is slightly disheveled, and his eyes lock onto yours with a desperate, burning intensity.

“I am a man, darling, not a statue of the Seven,” he says, his voice raw with emotion and despair. “I have spent months keeping my distance, respecting your sanctuaries, sleeping on the very edge of our bed because I wanted—I needed—you to feel safe in my presence. I have choked down my own desires every single day.”

You look up at him, your own breath catching in your throat. The dangerous, thrilling tension in the chamber is so thick it makes you hold your breath.

“Desires?” Your absurd remark is swallowed up by his deep voice, and with every step he takes closer to you, it feels as if your chest is collapsing.

“—watching him look upon you in that manner? Watching his hands defile your waist, whispering filth into your ear, smell your scent?” Gwayne’s breath catches, his jaw tight as iron. “Yes. I was jealous. I desired nothing more than to tear him apart on the rushes.”

“And what of now, Gwayne?” you challenge softly, stepping even closer, until your chest almost brushes his. “Are you still angry?”

“Not angry,” Gwayne denies, his gaze dropping instantly to your lips, his hands trembling slightly at his sides as he fights the desperate urge to seize you, to touch you, to hold you close to him and never let you go. “Tormented. Because you stand so close, and I am still striving to be the gentleman you deserve. B–but I... I was a fool. I allowed my temper to master me and—and I embarrassed you before the court and before your mother and your family—”

“You truly are a fool, Hightower.”

His face falls. For one terrible heartbeat, he believes you have confirmed his deepest terror—that he has frightened you, that every careful step forward over the past moons has just crumbled beneath his own beastly nature, his most profound instinct, his own feelings.

“I am terribly sorry, please forg—”

“You stopped.”

The words are quiet, but they silence him instantly.

You look upon him for a long moment before continuing, trying to properly piece together the thoughts you're trying to express, making sense out of the overwhelming turmoil of emotions that's raging in your chest.

“You could have struck him down. You could have just―thrown your gauntlet. Seven hells, most husbands in this wretched court would have drawn steel before the man even finished insulting their honor. Because that's all that matters to them―their own honor, their own property, their own m–masculine pride.” Your eyes search the depths of his. “Instead... you stopped.”

Gwayne swallows, his throat dry. “B–barely.”

“But you did. I expected to spend my days bound to a stranger who would demand everything from me, to whom I would be nothing more than a prize with the right family name, something of his own property, another boost to his own pride.”

Your fingers hesitate before lightly smoothing a wrinkle in the front of his linen shirt, your fingers trembling with emotion against his body, overwhelmed by that flood of mixed feelings rushing through your heart and body.

You can feel his heart pounding up against the palm of your hand, so powerful and fast that it makes your flesh crawl. “I never...I never imagined I would wed a man who offers apologies for being jealous when another touches his lady wife.”

His cheeks flush. “I fear I was not particularly knightly, then.”

“No,” a faint smile tugges at your lips, and at that, his tense shoulders slump slightly. “You were terribly possessive.”

“Yes.”

“And rather intimidating,” you add.

“...Unfortunately. I didn't mean to scare you.”

“And,” you continue, unable to suppress the amusement warming your voice, “I believe Ser Lucon may never dare speak to me or even look at me again.”

“Well,” Gwayne says softly, a faint, lopsided smirk finally tugging at the corner of his finely shaped lips as his earlier shame gives way to quiet amusement, “in my defense, darling... you did threaten to cut his hands off.”

You blink, a sudden, breathy laugh bubbling up from your chest before you can stop it. “I was protecting my husband and myself.”

“And you did so with terrifying grace,” he murmurs, stepping the final fraction of an inch closer.

When you remain right where you are, leaning into his touch, his breath hitches in his throat. His thumb gently brushes against the fabric at your hip, his beautiful eyes sparkling with deep devotion.

But to your astonishment, Gwayne looks utterly horrified now.

“Oh.”

You blink. “...Oh?”

“I may have squeezed his wrist with too much force.”

Despite yourself, a laugh escapes you. A genuine one, bright and warm, echoing softly through the high timber rafters of the chamber, a sudden, sweet sound that cuts through the lingering tension of the evening like a blade through silk.

And for a heartbeat, Gwayne simply forgets how to draw breath.

He stands utterly still, his chest freezing mid-rise as though a spell has been cast over his very bones. His gentle eyes, wide, fix upon your lips and the soft crinkling at the corners of your eyes, committing the sight to memory.

“Gods,” he whispers, the word slipping past his lips on a breathless prayer.

You look up at him, the residual warmth of the smile still lingering upon your face, softening the pretty lines of your features. “What?”

“I have been trying for months,” he confesses softly.

“Trying what, Ser?”

“To make you laugh,” Gwayne responds. The solemnity of his voice breaks as a sheepish, self-deprecating smile tugs at his lips. “Though I fear my efforts have been entirely lacking. I have only managed to embarrass myself at every turn.”

You pull a little mocking grimace, a playful tilt of your chin that you haven't granted to another soul in the world. “You do possess a remarkable talent for that.”

“I know,” he murmurs, his laugh a low, rich vibration.

Without announcing your intent, you close the final span of floor between you and reach for his hands.

Gwayne’s eyes snap back to yours, a sudden, sharp hitch in his breathing betraying his astonishment and his smile fades. Yet, he does not hesitate. He closes his hands around your own with that same impossible, agonizing gentleness he always reserves for you, a man accustomed to the weight of a broadsword holding your fingers as though you are fashioned from the most fragile, priceless Valyrian glass.

You look down at your joined hands, his sun-kissed, calloused skin grazing against yours.

“Your palms are cold,” he notices, his thumbs immediately beginning a slow, sweeping motion across the backs of your hands, seeking to share the immense heat of his own body.

“They usually are,” you reply, a slight shrug shifting the fine fabric of your gown.

A crease appears between his brows, a look of genuine, heavy concern clouding his handsome face as he looks up. “You never spoke of this, my love.”

You shrug again, though a sudden, treacherous blush warms your cheeks beneath the intensity of his gaze and the way he pronounce the term of endearment. “I did not think it mattered.”

“It matters to me,” Gwayne counters instantly, his voice leaving no room for argument, heavy with a quiet, fierce conviction. “Every minor discomfort you bear matters to me, princess.”

He does not force the movement; his grip remains loose enough that you could pull away with the slightest tug. His beautiful eyes lock onto yours, silently, reverently begging for your permission.

You look into that azure gaze, finding no malice at all, but love and a patience that has finally broken through your defenses.

Finally, you give the smallest, faintest nod of your head.

Only then does he turn your hands over within his palms. Gwayne lowers his head, his auburn hair catching the gold of the firelight of your shared chambers, and presses the softest, most breathless kisses imaginable against your knuckles.

His lips are warm and parted slightly, the touch lasting barely a second—so brief, so achingly tender it could have been a passing whim of the autumn wind. Yet, the heat of it ripples up your arms and straight into your heart.

When Gwayne lowers your hands close against his heart, he looks almost startled by his own boldness, a deep blush creeping along his high cheekbones and down the column of his neck.

“I hope...” he says quietly, his voice catching in his throat as he searches your face for any sign of regret, “...that was not unwelcome.”

You look at him for what feels like an eternity and then, lifting one of your hands, you slowly reach up towards his face. Your fingertips hesitate for a fraction of a second before you gently brush a stray lock of fiery red hair away from his freckled forehead.

“No, my sweet husband,” you promise him, your hand lingering there, the palm of your hand cupping the warm, sharp line of his jaw as you look into the eyes of the man who has won your heart. “It was not. Nothing from you shall be unwelcome.”

He became a fixture in the bakery, coming in to lean against your counter and speak with you. He never bought anything from your case, though. Even after your first meeting, he had left without purchasing anything. He’d been apologetic, stating that it was impractical for his training attire to have pockets. You didn't mind, though, just happy that he kept coming back.

"Ah," you say as he walks in, "I was starting to worry. You're later than usual."

Gwayne gives you a kind smile as he crosses the floor to your counter, "You look forward to seeing me, then?"

You laugh. He's gotten more confident in these weeks, even sending lighthearted teases your way.

"With bated breath," you answer, "Will you finally buy something, I wonder?"

He's leaning against the counter, now, and he dips his head in a bashful chuckle. You then notice that he's holding a plain box.

"I'm a terrible customer," he teases, "But I come with a gift for you."

He holds the box out towards you, and you take it. Briefly, your fingers brush each other, and your heart flutters. You give him a look, flitting between his warm smile and the box, and then you pull the string from around it and let it fall open.

Inside sits the most beautifully crafted lemon cake that you’ve ever seen.

"I hope this isn't your way of saying that you find my baking inadequate," you tease, “You’ve never even tried it before.”

He blushes, spluttering to recover, "Of course not! It's only- well, you see- I was invited to a feast at the Hightower, and I thought you might want-"

You giggle and cover his hand with your own, which is white-knuckling the edge, "I only jest. Your gift is greatly appreciated."

"Those are my favorite," he says softly.

Gwayne's shoulders relax. You stifle a giggle and bring the treat up to taste it.

Your first thought is that it's terribly dry. It's chalky and makes it feel like you've just licked sand. Your next thought is how overpowering the icing is. It's far too much lemon and no sugar. Lastly, you notice that despite the strong taste of the icing, there's no taste in the cake itself.

You chew your bite, even mustering up the courage to swallow it. You want to spit it out and scrape your tongue. Gwayne is giving you an expectant look, and you almost spin a lie about how wonderful it tastes, if only to keep him happy. He’s dreadfully cute when he’s like that.  Instead, you try to keep your reaction perfectly neutral.

"It's certainly different from the ones I make," you say, trying to conceal a grimace.

Gwayne doesn't seem to notice your inner turmoil, and for that, you're thankful. You'd hate to kill his spirits.

"I'll bring more for you to try the next time I visit," he says.

From your point of view, that sounds like a threat.

"Or," you say, trying to preserve your future palette, "We could picnic outside the city, and I'll bring some of mine for you to finally try."

He perks up even more at the mention of meeting outside of the city, "I'd love that."

━ ⚔︎━ 

You're at the agreed meeting spot before him. The blanket is already laid out, and you're working on unpacking your pastries by the time Gwayne breaks the tree line.

He's dressed down today, and he even left his sword at home. Without all of his gear, he looks soft. He smiles upon seeing you and quickens his pace towards your little setup. You're overjoyed to see him, your sweet friend, but your mouth goes dry at the sight of the satchel at his side. You know it's full of those dreadful sand blocks the Hightower's tried to pass off as pastries.

"You've returned to me," you say as he sits down.

Gwayne blushes, "Always."

You’re starting to suspect that your romantic feelings towards Gwayne are reciprocated. Even with his heightening confidence, he’s still a little nervous around you. It’s been too long to attribute it to being unfamiliar with one another, so you like to believe that he likes you just as much as you like him.

He begins unloading his satchel, each an identical brown box marked with the corresponding pastry inside. He looks terribly pleased with himself, and like you so often do, you almost abandon your plan completely if it means he’ll stay smiling. Alas, you can't allow him to continue believing that they’re delicacies.

"Actually, Gwayne," you say, "Maybe we should sample mine first."

He quirks his brow at you, but stops his actions, "I don't see why not. It's long overdue."

The pasties that you brought are not as neatly packaged as his. Where he had brown boxes, you only had parchment paper. He doesn’t comment on it and instead gingerly takes the first one that you offer him.

You watch with a smile as he unwraps it. It's simple, not as ornately decorated as the one he inadvertently poisoned you with, but it's a lemon cake all the same.

He admires it for a second and then brings it up to his mouth. You lean forward as he takes a bite. His eyes close as he chews, and your smile grows. When he opens them again, you can't help but giggle at the pitiful look on his face.

"I can't believe this," he says.

You try to conceal your laugh behind your hand, "Whatever do you mean?"

"I've been tortured all my life, and I didn't even know it."

He takes another bite, like he's trying to double check his findings. His shoulders slump, and he frowns at you

"You lied to me," he says, "I thought you liked them."

That finally makes you burst out laughing, and you lean forward and hide your face in his shoulder. The two of you have never been that close before, but he absentmindedly settles his free hand against your lower back like he’s done it a million times before.

"I never lied," you manage to say.

"You said it was good."

You playfully scoff, "No, I said it was different. You chose to believe I said it was good."

You're sitting up, now. He still looks pitiful, but notably, he hasn't stopped taking bites from the lemon cake. You unwrap your own lemon cake and take a bite, savoring how sweet and moist it is. The Faith teaches that pride is a negative quality, but you can't help but find pride in your own abilities.

"You've ruined all feasts for me from here on," he muses, "My palette has been refined."

“What is it?” he asked gently. He stopped walking, making you face him and pulling you into his space. The smell of strong spicy mint and smoky grass attacked your senses.

You bit your lip and smiled as you peered up at him through the fringe of your lashes. He groaned softly, his hand on your waist squeezing before he lowered his head down to capture your lips in a hard kiss. You hummed, pressing your palm against his chest. “Well, you were the first to say you had something to tell me. You should go first,” you mumbled against his mouth.

Neteyam stared at you. His eyes lingered on your face, caressing every single feature with an intensity that made your chest ache before he lowered his head to kiss you again. This time, it was deeper, more thorough and desperate, his hand cupping your jaw so tightly it dug onto your skin.

“We will leave, baby...” he mumbled into the kiss.

“Leave?” you echoed, pulling away just an inch to look at him with a small, bewildered smile.

He chased your lips, refusing to let the distance open between you, his hand caging your jaw. “Go anywhere... wherever you want. You’re the nomad,” he mumbled softly against your lips, a faint smile touching his mouth.

You chuckled softly, lifting your arms to wrap them around his broad shoulders. “That’s what you were going to tell me?” you asked, gazing up at him, complete trust shining in your eyes.

He stared down at you until the silence stretched a second too long. You were just about to ask him again when, in the blink of an eye, an iron grip clamped down around your elbows, pinning them to your sides.

Your eyes widened in complete shock, your smile freezing as you looked at Neteyam. He looked frightened and in distress for a moment, before his face turned into a mask of stone, cold and unreadable.

“We’ll take care of this,” a deep, gruff voice sounded behind you.

“Neteyam?” you called out, panic instantly spiking in your throat as you felt yourself being violently jerked backward, dragged away from him. You thrash, looking around wildly, recognizing the faces of Omatikaya warriors surrounding you, harsh and unforgiving. “Neteyam!” you screamed, reaching for him.

Neteyam moved to follow, his lips parted as though he had something to say. Two older warriors immediately stepped in front of him, putting a firm hand on his chest to hold him back.

“You’ve done enough already, Neteyam,” one of the warriors said smoothly, his eyes fixed on you. “We’ll take over from here.”

Neteyam stopped then. He just stood there. He watched.

“Where are you taking me?!” you cried out, thrashing against the hands binding you. You groaned loudly in pain as they yanked your hands behind your back, tying the rough cords so carelessly that you felt a blinding pain on your shoulder.

Before you could process the agony, one of the massive warriors hoisted you like a sack of dead meat, throwing you over his broad shoulder. He was completely unbothered by your frantic wriggling and kicking.

“Neteyam! Neteyam!” you screamed into the forest, your voice cracking.

The last thing you saw before the dense jungle leaves swallowed him up was Neteyam, standing tall and silent, watching you get dragged away without doing anything.

You were so terrified of what they were going to do to you that when they finally dumped you into an under-root holding cell beneath one of the giant trees, you were almost grateful for the mercy of being left alone.

You had been thrown in without a word of explanation. Everything had happened so fast, so brutally, that your brain couldn't process the nightmare. Just moments ago, you were with Neteyam. And now, you were sitting in the dirt of a prison, awaiting judgment for something you didn't even have knowledge on.

What is happening? Why am I here? What are they going to do to Neteyam?

You were terrified for him, too. You convinced yourself that they must have tricked him. Or forced him. Surely, he would come for you. You completely dismissed the horrifying memory of him standing by, watching you get taken away without lifting a finger. Your heart, desperate to protect itself, clung to the only truth it knew: Neteyam loves me. He would never let me get hurt. He won't let me spend the night here. Let alone days.

But your hope was pulverized into dust by the grueling days that followed.

He didn't come.

The darkness of the under-root cell was maddening. You didn't see a soul for two full days, and when hunters finally appeared, it was only to stand guard outside your wooden bars, silent with hostility.

“Where is Neteyam?” you begged, crawling toward the bars, your voice hoarse from crying. “Please, where is he?”

One of the hunters barked out a cruel, bitter laugh. “She’s asking for Neteyam,” he sneered to his companion, as if you had just uttered the funniest joke in the world.

“Why? What happened to him? Is he hurt?” panic surged through you, genuinely terrified that something bad happened to Neteyam.

“He’s good. Nothing bad happened to him. You happened, though,” the hunter replied, leaning close to the bars, his eyes burning with disgust. “You brought good and bad, for sure. But Neteyam’s going to focus only on the good. You're going to bring him closer to getting justice for Priya.”

You stared at them, your breath hitching in your chest. The name sounded foreign. Priya.

“You won’t ask who Priya was?” the hunter taunted, a crooked, cruel smile stretching across his face. “The woman Neteyam loved.”

“The woman you helped kill,” the other guard spat.

Your lips parted, you wanted to ask more but no sound came out. It felt as though you had been ripped from reality and dropped into a twisted parallel world where everything that’s going on was opposite to what you know.

You had been with the Omatikaya for over five moons now. As a nomad, you never stayed in one place for long, but Neteyam had changed everything. For the first time in your life, you didn't want to leave. You wanted to build a home. You wanted to be anchored.

What you had never found in all your travels, you found in him: love. To love, and to be loved in return. He had swept you off your feet so completely. Not only was he a gallant, brave warrior, he was also the kindest, most gentle soul in the world. You had every reason to fall in love with him, and no reason not to.

...And yet, you had never heard the name Priya. You had never known he had loved someone else so fiercely that her memory still bled.

To be fair, you and Neteyam had never explicitly spoken the word 'love.' You thought it was too early, but that you both know that you were building toward it step by fragile step. You thought you were walking hand-in-hand toward a future together.

“Do you not get it? Do you know what your brother did to our people? To our family and friends?” the warrior demanded, his voice dropping into a harsh rumble. “It was Eywa’s mercy to have you falling straight into Neteyam’s lap. I knew it had taken everything in him not to strangle you on sight.”

You blinked, staring at them, your mind completely blank. You couldn't process it. Your heart refused to accept it.

“I... I don’t know what you're talking about—”

One of the warriors slammed his heavy wooden bow against the cell bars, making you flinch violently. “We’re not stupid, you evil whore! Of course you’ll say that! No criminal ever admits to their wrongdoing. But we’ll see what happens in the coming days.”

“I don't know what you're talking about!” you sobbed, clutching your aching shoulder. “I didn’t kill anyone! And my brother, for all his flaws, is not a murderer! You are mistaken—”

“No, your brother is not only a murderer. He is a mass murderer! And you are his accomplice!”

“How dare you call me that without a sliver of proof?!” you screamed back, anger briefly flaring through your sheer terror. “I did nothing wrong to you or your people! I have only ever—”

In a fraction of a second, the guard drew an arrow and loosed it. The iron tip buried itself into the dirt inches from your bare foot.

You screamed, jumping back, your heart thrashing against your ribs. The warrior smirked, thoroughly satisfied with the fear and silence he had bought. You were terrified to see that there was no remorse in his eyes, only raw, unadulterated hatred.

For the first time since you were dragged here, a genuine, paralyzing fear settled into your bones.

You didn't know these people. You were in a foreign land, surrounded by strangers who wanted you dead. And the only reason you had let down your guards, the only reason you had stayed, was because you thought you were safe in the arms of the man you loved.

A wave of icy clarity washed over you, dousing the last embers of your foolish hope.

Neteyam was not coming to save you.

He had watched you get taken. He had stood by while they bound you like an animal. He had been in on it from the very beginning.

You realized with a blinding clarity that you didn't know Neteyam at all. Everything you thought you knew about him was a lie.

That night, you lay on your side on the cold, damp ground, facing the dirt wall. You traced aimless, trembling patterns in the moss, replaying every single touch, every soft word, every kiss Neteyam had ever given you, now realizing they were all just a performance leading to this moment.

You fell asleep eventually, shivering from the cold and weak from hunger.

When morning came, the male guards were gone, replaced by two huntresses. A small, wooden tray of food sat near the bars, and the arrow on the ground inside your cell had been removed.

“I don't understand why we had to be stationed here to guard that wicked whore,” you heard one of the huntresses mutter outside. “It’s miserable down here.”

You rolled your eyes. Tell me about it, you though as you stared at the tray. You hadn't eaten in over two days, but the moment the smell of the meat hit your nose, your stomach violently churned. Nausea hit you so hard you had to swallow down a rush of bile.

“Well, you know what happened with Vankaz,” the other huntress replied. “We can't even bring weapons near her cell. How are we supposed to hurt her if she acts up?”

You ignored their voices, forcing yourself to drag your weak body to the tray. You had to eat. You were terrified of what was happening inside your body, terrified of confirming what you already knew. You know that if you were to acknowledge the reality of it while being here, unsure of your future, you would go insane. You forced the cold food down your throat, gagging with every bite, and drained the water skin in seconds.

To make matters worst, the warrior’s warning about your confidence in your innocence fading with what they'll do to you in the succeeding days has commenced. For weeks, they interrogated you.

Different warriors came down into your cell. They asked you questions about maps, about schedules, about meetings with the sky people—things you knew absolutely nothing about. But they spoke with such conviction, presented you evidence with such absolute certainty, that there were moments you felt like you were losing your mind, wondering if you had committed atrocities in your sleep.

One afternoon, a high-ranking warrior brought a glowing electronic data pad, something you recognize to be human technology, and shoved it against the wooden bars, illuminating your pale, hollow face.

“A year ago, a group of skilled warriors hit our eastern perimeter,” he spat, pointing at the glowing screen. “Many innocent Omatikaya were butchered. Tuk, the youngest daughter of the Olo’eyktan, was left unable to speak a single word from the horror of what she saw. We intercepted these logs from the Bridgehead network, and ever since then, we have been tracking this path. Your path. We knew exactly when you would arrive in our lands. And you walked right in six moons ago.”

He swiped the screen, showing a detailed map of your exact travel routes over the past season. Every river you had crossed, every village you had rested at, every tree you had slept under. It was all logged. It predicted your arrival at the Omatikaya down to the very day.

“We knew what you were here for,” the warrior sneered. “You were here to finish what your brother failed to do, kill Toruk Makto. Getting Neteyam assigned to guard you was meant to stall you. But he had you fooled, didn't he? Even a murderous whore like yourself still had aspirations for love with a gallant warrior. But that will never happen. Neteyam’s heart died two years ago with my daughter when your brother slaughtered her. Everything Neteyam showed you was nothing but a lie to get you to confess.”

“I didn’t even know that Priya!” you screamed, your voice breaking. Tears streamed down your filthy cheeks. “I have never been to these lands before! How can you think—”

The warrior backhanded you, causing you to fall back to the ground. “You scouted these paths and provided your brother with the intelligence!” he roared back.

“I haven't talked to my brother in years!”

He stared at you. “You are an evil woman and seeing you so happy, thinking you had found love with the man my daughter loved her entire life sickened me. You stole her life and for that, you will pay with your life, too.”

You breathing hitched in your throat, your eyes wide as you stared back at the warrior. It was useless. They didn't want the truth, they wanted a culprit. They wanted someone to burn for their grief, and Neteyam had delivered you to them on a silver platter.

The mental torture was unbearable. One evening, when you refused to eat, a guard reached through the bars and violently slapped you across the face. The impact cracked your lip, spraying blood across your chin. But the physical pain was nothing. It couldn't touch the monstrous, yawning void inside your chest.

Neteyam had never come. Not once.

Your mind, trapped in that dark cell, obsessively pieced together the gruesome reality. When you first arrived six moons ago, you hadn't thought it strange that the heir to the Omatikaya leadership was assigned to guide you, to teach you their ways. After all, you are a sister of an Olo’eyktan. It was only fitting that a warrior of his social stature would be assigned to you.

Neteyam was charismatic right from the start. He made you want to put your guards down, trust him... and be real to him more than you had ever been before. You remembered how irritable he had been sometimes in the beginning. The way his jaw would clench when he looked at you. You had thought he was just annoyed at being assigned to play tour guide to a nomad.

But now, you know that it was because he loathed you. He could barely stand you then, you remembered. He would arrive at and leave the sessions on the dot. He looked at you and saw the monster who helped kill the woman he loved. You lied on the dirt, sobbing in the dark as you recollected every moment you spent with him.

Ever smile he gave you. Every time he held your hand. Every time he took you in his arms, held you against his chest, and made love to you in the little grotto you two found whe you were wandering in the forest.

It was all a lie. A calculated, cruel, sickening ploy to make you drop your guard. He had forced himself to touch you, to kiss you, to lie with you, all while secretly despising the very sight of you. He did it all for her. For Priya.

Your hand trembled violently as it slid down your thin frame, resting on your flat, hollow stomach.

You sobbed, a ragged, broken sound tearing from your throat. “Oh, Great Mother...” you whispered into the dark.

You felt sick with guilt for even thinking it, but in that dark cell, you wished with all your shattered heart that you were not with child. You see no future. It is only a matter of time until they kill you for the crimes they believe you committed. Only you would know of the life inside you and it would kill you twice, knowing that such a fragile life would never see the beauty of this world.

Days bled together until you lost count.

You developed a burning fever. Your body, weak from starvation and fear, began to give out. You lay in the dirt, shivering violently, your consciousness slipping in and out. Through the haze of your fever, you felt a cool, impossibly gentle touch on your forehead.

In your delirium, your brain conjured an image. You opened your heavy eyes and saw your mother hovering over you. She was just as you remembered, as if frozen in time. Her face twisted in deep, unbearable agony as her eyes tracked your body.

“Mother...?” you rasped out, your throat raw.

She let out a sharp, choked breath, reaching down and pulling your weak body up into her arms. You burst into hysterical sobs, clinging to her shoulders with desperate strength, burying your face into the crook of her neck just like you used to when you were a small child. She didn't smell like your mother. She smelled like spicy mind... and smokey grass. But you held on for dear life, drowning in the feeling of safety.

“You need to get away from here...” she whispered, pulling back just enough to frantically smooth your matted, messy braids, her hands trembling against your face.

“Mama... I missed you so much. I’m so scared...” you sobbed, trying to press back into her embrace, but she held you firmly by the shoulders.

Her pale yellow eyes, the exact shade you had inherited, were wide with terrifying realization. “Y/N...” she called, her voice shaking.

You looked around the cell in a daze. “There are guards outside... I can't escape... they'll kill me...” you whispered.

She stared at you, looking so defeated, heartbroken, and scared. “They won’t,” she said, her tone suddenly turning hard and unbreakable. She cupped your bruised face in her hands, tears flooding her eyes. “Y/N, I love you...”

You smiled weakly, nodding as fresh tears blinded you. “I love you, too, Mama... I missed you so much.”

She pulled you into one last, suffocating hug, kissing your temple so hard it felt like her lips would mark your skin. “I love you. I love you. I’m so sorry...” her voice broke completely.

After a moment, she stood up, gently pulling you up onto your feet. Your legs were like water, completely unable to support your weight. Before you could collapse, she hoisted you easily, carrying your limp body out of the cell and into the cool night air.

You looked around frantically, finding that there were no guards. Just a waiting direhorse tethered near the tree roots.

She threw a thick, hooded cloak over your shivering shoulders and easily lifted you onto the beast's back. She tied your waist firmly to the saddle so you wouldn't fall off.

You looked down at her in a feverish blur, convinced this was nothing more than a merciful hallucination before death took you.

“Go north and never stop riding,” she commanded, squeezing your cold hand tightly. “I will find you.”

You nodded numbly. Connecting your kuru to the direhorse, you commanded the beast to run. The animal took off into the dark, speeding away from the Omatikaya lands like an arrow shot from a bow.

As the wind whipped past your face, you turned your head to catch one last glimpse of your mother standing by the roots.

In the moonlight, the fever haze cleared for just a second. The figure standing in the shadows wasn't your mother, it wasn’t small or female. It was tall, broad-shouldered, and imposing, holding a longbow tightly in its hand. Your breathing hitched, snapping your head back around, and burying your face in the direhorse's head.

You rode and rode, only stopping to rest when you know you were well away. You slept in a cave you found, letting your direhorse rest, drink, and eat. It was when you woke up the next day that you realized you were truly, finally free. You remembered the night before... The memory of your mother... And the familiar figure you had seen in the shadows.

You shook your head, dipping yourself in the cold river water and trying to wrench your attention off your unrealiable memory. You refused to acknowledge what you saw. You refused to give anyone the credit. Your mother saved you. It was your mother. It had to be.

You rode for two more agonizing days, surviving on the waterskins and dried fruit tied to the saddle.

And on the third morning, you finally came face to face with the familiar, towering stone terraces of your home clan for the first time in two years. The clan your brother, Antulo, had led since your father's death.

The village erupted in joy when you rode in. Friends and clan members swarmed you, welcoming you home after years of your travels.

Antulo descended from the main pavilion, a wide, easy grin on his face. “What brings the nomad back to the fold?” he called out, his tone light and humored.

You slid off the direhorse, your knees buckling slightly, and eyed him with guarded, cautious eyes.

Looking at your brother, the boy who had teased and protected you as a child, the son who had wept at your parents’ pyres, you tried to reconcile him with the monster the Omatikaya had described. A mass murderer. A traitor who allied with the sky people.

They had spoken with such hatred. Extremely sure of their accusations. But if they had been wrong about you, could they have been wrong about your brother, too? Could Antulo be an innocent man framed by someone else? Or had your brother truly brought death upon innocent Omatikaya, leaving a little girl mute with trauma?

“Truly, Y/N,” Antulo continued, his sharp eyes scanning your exhausted face and the bare, dirty direhorse. “I am happy to see you, but this is sudden even you can say so. You have no gear, no packs. Did something happen out there?”

You forced your expression to remain flat, shaking your head. “I simply grew tired of traveling,” you said quietly, looking past him toward the familiar huts in the high terraces. “I wished to be home for the mean time.”

He stared at you for a moment, sensing the deep, hollow wall you had built around yourself, but he nodded. “Your hut is just as you left it. I had it cleaned regularly. Go on up.”

“Thank you,” you rasped, taking a step up the stairs toward the high terraces.

“I’ll have a feast prepared for tonight to celebrate your return—”

“No,” you cut in quickly, not wanting to be surrounded by noise and laughter. “No feast, Antulo. I am exhausted. I just need to sleep.”

He paused, studying your pale face, before nodding slowly. “Alright. I’ll have your evening meal sent up to your hut. That good to you?”

You didn't answer him. You just turned and began the climb up the stairs to your secluded hut high on the terraces.

When you finally stepped inside the dark, cool space, the quiet had you sinking to your knees on the woven mats, burying your face in your hands, and finally letting the sob tear through your chest.

You were home. You were safe.

But as you curled into a ball, cradling your flat stomach in the dark, you knew the truth that would haunt you for the rest of your days:

The man you fell in love with had never existed. And the child growing inside you was fathered by a fraud.

Back in the Omatikaya, Neteyam walked toward the council longhouse, fully aware that he had betrayed his people. It still felt as if they hadn’t been suspecting him for moons now, watching him fall into what they believed was a trap, shaking their heads as they watched in real time as let himself be fooled by you.

He had denied all of it, eve to himself but he knew in his core, that they were right. He’d like to think that he entered this with his guards built high and out of indestructible stone. But getting to know you, deeper than he had ever intended, had melted those walls into dust. He didn’t know, and hadn’t tracked, where the pretense ended and where his true feelings began.

When the council, his fellow warriors, and the grieving families of those killed by your brother backed him into a corner and called out his closeness to you, his first instinct had been to deny it. He was not a weak-willed man who would be ensnared simply because the enemy threw a woman in his path. He was not a traitor who forgot the spilled blood of his people just because a woman looked up at him with starry, trusting eyes. He had been so fiercely defensive of his honor and resolve that he convinced himself he wouldn't bat an eye if they dragged you out for interrogation.

He had been lying to himself.

He had fallen into your trap. He was a traitor, because ultimately, now that he was forced to choose between his people and you, he will choose you. He had fallen so deeply in love with you that he could not allow you to be punished even for things you probably might have done.

“You have grown comfortable with this woman, Neteyam,” Yantuk, Priya’s father, pointed out in the warrior’s council a week before you were rounded up. “I understand that you are a virile young man, and she is indeed enticeful, but this matter involves the lives of our people. Of my daughter, your good friend. Their lives are not worth the warmth of that woman’s cunt, and I will not have you failing them simply because you have forgotten what she did—”

“I have not forgotten our dead brothers and sisters, Elder Yantuk,” Neteyam interrupted, leveling the man with a dark, steady gaze. “But it seems to me that you have forgotten your honor as a warrior.”

The older man huffed. “I simply wish to know if this is still a mission to you, warrior... Or if you have allowed yourself to be fooled by her?”

Neteyam stared at Yantuk, his expression softening ever so slightly as an image of you smiling flashed in his mind. He couldn't lie through his teeth and say he hadn't fallen, because merely remembering your laugh and your soft smile made his knees go weak. He had fallen, completely and utterly, though he didn't know if that made him a fool.

“It is still a mission,” he lied, sounding like a coward even to himself.

He is a coward. Used to be, he never had to think twice between duty and love. He thought, confidently, that he was his brother’s opposite. Where Lo’ak would have easily chosen love, Neteyam would go for duty. His duty to the people easily comes for him first and foremost. But standing there before the warriors, he didn’t know which duty his heart wanted to answer to.

His duty to the people... or his duty to you? He is a traitor to his people. He knew his heart had long since deserted the Omatikaya. His true loyalty belonged wherever you were.

His only regret was not acting on it sooner. If he was going to betray them for you anyway, why hadn't he broken you out the moment they took you from him? He consider this his primary flaw. He was not like his brother who acted on instinct, followed his heart, and answered to no one. Neteyam had spent his whole life trying to put everyone else’s interests before his own. He thought choosing loyalty to his clan was the honorable thing to do, even if it destroyed him or hurt you in the process.

And what had that cost him? You. He had lost you.

He closed his eyes, shuddering as he remembered how disoriented you were the night he pulled you from the cell. You hadn't even recognized him. Your broken mind had conjured your dead mother to take his place, desperate to feel safe. You had been completely shattered after weeks of relentless questioning. He choked on air, balling his hands into tight fists to stave off the panic attack clawing at his chest. A sickening tremor ran down his spine, making his kuru quiver.

When Neteyam walked into the council longhouse, the elders were already discussing your disappearance. The huntresses guarding you swore you had been there moments prior, speculating that you had used dark magic to escape. Neteyam knew better, he had studied their guarding rotations for days, waiting for the exact moment they left their post.

Before the council could speculate further, Neteyam spoke up, “It was me.” The elders and the seniors warriors all looked at him. Jake merely angled his head toward him, eyeing him with both brows raised. “Further interrogation is pointless. Y/N knows nothing about what we are accusing her of.” he said flatly

Instantly, the room erupted into angered shouts. Yantuk slammed a hand on the wooden table. “I knew it! She got to you!”

Neteyam stood firm. “None of you know her. The only evidence you have against her is that she is Antulo's sister and that she arrived on the day we all expected. But  we knew her travel route! We knew her patterns, so of course we could predict her arrival. Beyond that, we have no proof—”

“And we have no proof she wasn't in on it!” Yantuk countered harshly. “Her brother is the murderer!”

“Should we not listen when she maintains her innocence?” Neteyam demanded, stepping forward. “It has been weeks, and her answer has never changed. If she were guilty, she would have broken under interrogation by now. Are you not afraid, even for a moment, that we are crucifying an innocent woman?”

Yantuk sneered, looking at him as though he couldn't believe everything he was spouting. “And are you only saying this because she opened her thighs for you? Neteyam, she is a whore. That tight warmth getting your head all messed up right can be found in any woman—”

“Enough!“ Jake said from the head of the table, but Neteyam had already launched himself toward the older warrior.

He slammed Yantuk against the wooden support pillar, his hands gripping the elder's shoulders so tightly the wood groaned. His lips peeled back over his fangs, a low, guttural hiss vibrating in his throat.

“Speak of her with that filthy mouth again,” Neteyam snarled through gritted teeth, “and I will beat you senseless in front of this council.”

Yantuk’s eyes widened in sudden, stark shock. He shoved against Neteyam’s chest, but the young warrior remained unyielding, built like a wall of solid stone. He quickly realized it wouldn’t be smart to challenge him. Yantuk spat, “You have lost your mind, boy.”

Neteyam released him with a rough shove.

Around him, three elders rosez deeply offended by his violent outburst and his blatant betrayal to the people. They look down at Neteyam not as an heir, but as a threat.

“This is an outrage!” One of them said with indignation. He pointed a gnarled finger directly at the young warrior.

Beside him, Eytukan's old advisor refused to even look at Neteyam, looking straight at the chief. “He must face the highest discipline of the clan,” the old man demands. “The law is clear. No one stands above the people. Not even the son of the Toruk Makto.”

Neytiri’s face fell at the elder’s judgment, looking at her son with both fear and worry. In contrast, Jake Sully turned to his eldest son calmly, waiting for Neteyam to object, to defend himself, to give any excuse.

Instead, Neteyam simply huffed a breath through his nose as if he couldn’t wait for things to be over. “I will accept any punishment.”

The retribution for a warrior disobeying orders was brutal, and never in his life had Neteyam imagined he would stand on the receiving end of it. Yet, he had never felt more alive. If anyone would ever want to beat him up for what he had allowed to happen to you, he would gladly take every strike. But no one in this clan would punish him for his betrayal of you. So he would welcome every pain and every punishment, knowing it is only a tiny fraction of what he truly deserved.

                                                           ₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

You sat near the entrance of your hut, relishing the dappled sunlight seeping through the canopy and illuminating the soft plant fibers resting in your lap as you wove a baby blanket.

Your bump was not that obvious to others yet, but the soft, distinct swell of your belly was undeniable to people who know you. You have told no one yet, not your brother, not your grandmother, the Tsahik. You tried desperately not to let the trauma of what happened moons ago ruin your life, but there were just days when the grief dragged you back into the shadows of your mind.

You had cried more over the past few moons than in your entire life. Sometimes they were tears of profound longing for the life you thought you were building. You hated yourself for remembering moments with Neteyam that you thought were real in a favorable light. You missed the man you thought he was. The kind, gentle, and gallant warrior you had envisioned spending your life with. You had loved him. And you had truly believed he loved you back.

Then came the bitter, furious tears. You raged at your own naivety, disgusted by how easily you had been played and how little he had cared for you. He had stood by while they broke you. And then you would turn that anger inward, how could you have expected anything else? As the old warrior had taunted, Neteyam’s heart died the day that woman Priya was killed. How dare you assume there was any room left in him for you? For all you knew, he had wished for your death all along.

You sighed, resting a soft hand over your middle and looking up toward the light breaking through the leaves.

“We will be alright...” you whispered to the tiny life within you.

Tears pricked at your eyes as you remembered how, in those terrifying early days, you had desperately wished you weren't pregnant. Now, you couldn't imagine life without this little ember of hope. I will fill you with so much love, you promised silently, stroking your belly. You will never feel like anything is missing.

“Is that why you came home?”

You jolted, spinning around at the deep voice. Takzur, one of your brother’s closest friends, was leaning against the wooden doorframe.

You scowled, instantly defensive. “Is what why?”

Takzur’s eyes traveled down to your lap, resting squarely on your rounded stomach. “You are with child?” he asked flatly.

You rolled your eyes, pulling your shawl over your lap. “You have no right to ask me that.”

“Does Antulo know?”

“Why are you here?” you demanded, cutting him off.

“Your brother sent me to fetch you for a council meeting.”

“I have no interest in council meetings.”

You turned back to your loom, listening to his footsteps retreating. Most of your days were spent isolated like this. If not for your childhood friends forcing their way into your hut, you likely would have withered away in your own sorrow. They had been the first ones you had reveealed your pregnancy to.

Granted, only Enya had the courage and the loose mouth to dare ask you about the swell in your belly.

“It is because I am pregnant,” you admitted casually, stifling a smile as you continued your weaving.

“What?! With whose baby? Are you serious?!” Enya had shrieked.

“And where? W-Who? Y/N!“ Penxi called, almost as if she’s gearing up to scold you.

Enya gasped, “Oh, you need to tell me the details!” she said in a sing-song voice. “How was it? Did it hurt? Was it actually ticklish? Does it really feel like you are going to explode—”

“Enya!” Scandalized, Penxi stopped her and turned to you.

“Why? These are legitimate questions! Y/N broke our childhood oath. I need to know some details at least!” Enya faced you. “Did you get pregnant the first time?”

Your lips parted. You didn’t know whether to say that pregnancy doesn’t always happen the first time... But that would be admitting that Neteyam had you a countless times before it led to this.

Heat rushed up to your face but you have to clear Enya’s misconceptions. “It... It doesn’t always happen... the first time,” you admitted.

Enya gasped. “Oooh,” she squealed. “So it happened more than once?”

“Enya!” Penxi protested again, palming her increasingly darkening face.

Enya brought her palms together. “Y/N, please!” she begged. “Just a few details!”

You sighed, “Yes, it did happen more than once...” you mumbled and a few snapshots flashed in your treasonous mind that you had to close your eyes for a moment.

“This man must have been something for the resident snob to lose her mind!” Enya teased.

Your face fell for a moment. You knew Enya meant well, she didn’t know what happened, but her words hit you like an arrow to the chest. He was something. He fooled you so well and you did lost your mind.

Penxi gently nudged Enya, her expression softening with genuine concern. “But... Where is he, Y/N? Who is he, and why didn't he come back with you? Is this... the reason you returned?”

You looked up at them with a firmer resolve, your chest tightening. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

They exchanged a quick look, instantly understanding what had prompted you to say that.

“Of course,” Penxi said softly, reaching out to squeeze your hand. “We are only worried for you. But if you want to leave it in the past, we support you. You have us.”

Enya nodded vigorously. “I always thought I’d be the first to have a baby among us! I mean, I had plenty of crushes in the past and I had that rebellious streak with Krikhir, but now we are getting a mini Y/N! I’m going to spoil this baby so much!”

You let out a soft laugh then, pressing a hand to your stomach. “I never imagined this for myself either... but now, I can't imagine my life without this little pea.”

“Motherhood suits you,” Penxi smiled. “And remember. This baby will be raised by all of us. You will never be alone, and you will never need that man.”

Tears welled in your eyes, moving to pull them both in a warm embrace. You all stayed at the lake until sundown before walking back to the village. The sight of Antulo standing at the base of the stone terraces, deep in conversation with an elder warrior welcomed you. His eyes locked onto you as you approached.

You watched your brother. You knew what the Omatikaya had accused him of, but in all the moons since your return, he had shown no signs of the cold-blooded murderer they claimed he was. Still, you knew that to get answers from him, you had to offer something in return.

“You two go ahead,” you told Penxi and Enya, who were walking alongside you. “I need to speak with my brother.”

Enya took the fiber basket from your arms, giving you an encouraging smile before walking away with Penxi. As you walked toward Antulo, the elder warrior he was speaking with knew he’d have to excuse himself. Your brother’s eyes tracked you up and down, his gaze lingering on your stomach with a mixture of disbelief, frustration, and sharp concern.

“Was our clan food generally just that good, or is there something you aren't telling me?” he asked, trying to keep his tone light despite his tense jaw.

“I am pregnant,” you said flatly, not in the mood for jokes.

You saw his nostrils flared for a fraction.He closed his eyes for a brief second, taking a slow breath before looking at you directly. “Who is the bastard? Where is he? Why did he let you travel back to our lands alone in that condition? And what clan is he from?”

Under different circumstances, his rapid-fire questions might have made you laugh. Today, it only made your chest ache.

“I do not wish to discuss him,” you said firmly. “My child does not need a father.”

Antulo searched your face, reading the cold finality in your eyes. He nodded slowly. “It did not end well, then.”

“It did not,” you agreed, raising your chin. “So tell me now... Are you going to support me, or cast me out for bearing a child outside the mating bond?”

Antulo scoffed. “You are my sister, Y/N. I would never cast out any woman of our clan for this, let alone you. You never have to ask for my protection. It has been yours since the day you were born.” He took a step forward and pulled you into a firm, one-armed embrace

Buried against your brother’s shoulder, the weight of the past few moons finally broke through your defenses. A sob tore from your throat, and you wept openly into his chest. Hearing his unconditional fierce love made you realize how impossible the Omatikaya's claims are. Your brother could not have done it... he just couldn't.

“Stop crying,” Antulo grumbled gently, though his own voice sounded thick with emotion. “Or I will be forced to hunt that man down and break every bone in his body.”

You let out a breathless laugh against his shoulder. “I might just let you...”

As it turned out, Antulo didn't need to hunt him down.

Because a moon later, that man brought himself directly to your lands.

You were returning from the nearby lake, carrying a woven basket filled with washed baby blankets, when you saw him.

He was standing so comfortably near the edge of the lower village commons, looking so surreal that for a split second, you thought your mind was playing tricks on you again. But then his head turned. His golden eyes locked onto yours, and your heart plummeted straight into your stomach.

You froze, a sharp gasp catching in your throat.

The fear lingering in your veins quickly flared into white-hot anger when you saw the expression on his face: a look of profound, agonizing relief. You hated him for it. You hated that he had the nerve to look relieved, as if he had any right to care whether you were alive or dead. He was a good pretender, after all, of course he could fake relief.

You stood rooted to the spot, your mind reeling. You hated how much power his presence still held over you, hated how your pulse raced and your hands trembled despite all the moons you had spent trying to scrub his memory from your mind.

“Y/N...” Neteyam breathed, taking a hesitant step forward.

Instinctively, you took a step back, your posture stiffening into a defensive stance.

Neteyam halted instantly, his heart breaking at the fear on your face but it was when his eyes swept over you that his very own breath choked him. He caught the unmistakable swell of your stomach. He swallowed, feeling like time had stopped and momentarily paralyzed him.

He tore his eyes away, looking up to your face instead, only to see fear in it, your ears pinning back to the sides of your head and your eyes looking at him with, devoid of all the warmth, joy, and pure innocence that were always there when you looked at him.

He had broken you. He had handed you over to your tormentors. So what does he expect? He had spent countless sleepless nights agonizing over what would happen when he saw you again, consumed by a guilt so suffocating he could barely function. He knew there was no forgiveness for what he had done. He had betrayed your trust when he should have listened to his instincts and fought for you.

For the first time in his life, Neteyam wished he were like Lo’ak. He wished he had his brother’s reckless courage to defy everyone, to abandon duty, and to choose love without second-guessing himself. He wished, with all of him, that he had any courage in him at all... to choose love over duty. His duty shouldn't have been to the council's blind pursuit of vengeance. The moment he fell in love with you, his ultimate duty should have been to protect you.

The weight of his regret was made a thousand times worse by the truth they had recently uncovered. Further intelligence had led him to the actual truth. One that not only proves your innocence, but that of your brother’s as well. The truth was that the Omatikaya had been feeding on the crumbs of a third-party that was framing your brother for whatever reason. You and your brother had been nothing but innocent.

You, most especially. The pain, regret, and guilt that had engulfed him for moons had only intensified so much, sometimes he could barely breathe.

He had wished to see you again. He had wanted to apologize to you but nothing he thought of doing felt right or sufficient. He hurt you so much and he couldn't see you forgiving him at all, and he doesn't think he would like you to forgive him. He doesn't deserve it, but he desperately needed to see you, to ensure you were safe. He wanted to be near you.

And... he didn't know if he was even allowed to have such a favor and luxury.

They had been communicating with your brother since the last moons, informing him about what they know, and how he was being framed for things he didn't commit. They had a good lead that the culrprit was in your clan, and that they are going to help him find out who it was. You would have known all of these, if only you would talk to your brother about the council meetings he’s been having in the last moons.

Now, you have completely no idea about what was going on.

Neteyam’s small delegation of warriors arrived just hours ago, and you weren't home because you were out by the lake, and now you were confronted with the sight of him here.

The last thing you would have expected.

“Y/N!”

A loud, familiar voice shattered the tension hanging between you two. Takzur jogged up from the path behind Neteyam, carrying a bundle of hunting gear.

Relief flooded your chest at the sight of a familiar face. As Takzur reached you, you instinctively stepped closer to him, using his tall frame as a shield to block Neteyam from your sight.

“Where have you been, hm?” Takzur asked smoothly, taking the heavy basket of blankets from your hands.

Takzur glanced over at Neteyam, offering a respectful nod before turning back to you.

“A delegation of Omatikaya warriors arrived for trade and security talks a while ago. This is Neteyam, son of Toruk Makto.”

You kept your eyes fixed on Takzur, refusing to glance at Neteyam. “I feel dizzy,” you lied, placing a hand on Takzur’s forearm.

Takzur chuckled warmly, resting a hand briefly on top of your head in a comforting gesture. “Do you want me to carry you?”

“No. I can walk,” you muttered, already turning away.

Takzur offered Neteyam an apologetic, awkward grin. “Apologies, warrior. She’s not in the best mood today. Pregnant women, you know how it is,” he joked lightly, guiding you up the stone path toward the village.

Neteyam remained rooted to the spot, watching you walk away. His eyes lingered on the way Takzur held your arm, guiding you with an easy, practiced familiarity.

Five moons, Neteyam thought, his mind racing. You two had been separated for only five moons. But looking at the size of your belly, it looked small... As if new, like a bloom that had only recently begun to show. A heavy, crushing realization settled into his chest, shattering whatever remained of his heart.

He had never felt entirely defeated. He had told himself not to hope, told himself he would accept whatever hatred you threw at him, but seeing you walk away with another man was worst than drowning. He was here to help your brother, but deep down, a selfish part of him had hoped he could somehow earn a second chance. But now, he realized that if it were impossible then, it is even more impossible now.

Meanwhile, instead of returning to your hut, you headed straight for the longhouse, your dizziness act forgotten in a surge of defensive anger. You pushed past the woven entrance flaps, interrupting Antulo in the middle of a discussion with two clan elders.

“Antulo,” you demanded, your voice cold and sharp.

Recognizing your tone, the elders quickly excused themselves, leaving the two of you alone.

“What is it?” Antulo asked.

“Why are there outsiders in our lands?” you replied in a biting tone.

Antulo sighed, leaning back against a carved pillar. “If you actually attended council meetings, Y/N, you wouldn't look so surprised. The Omatikaya are here on an important matter. A third party has been using my name to cover their crimes, framing our clan for the murders off our borders. The son of Toruk Makto is here because they believe the actual traitor is hiding among our people.”

You let out a harsh, bitter laugh. An Omatikaya 'hunch', you thought bitterly. “Yeah, they could be trusted,” you said sarcastically. “You opened our borders to them. You don’t even know them..How do you know this isn't a ploy to infiltrate our lands?”

Antulo stared at you, genuinely taken aback by your hostility. “Y/N, I know you’ve been through a difficult time, but I have never seen you this paranoid. You used to be welcoming. I need your trust on this. My honor and our clan’s safety are at stake. If there is a traitor among us, I will not rest until they are brought to justice.”

You stared at your brother, a cold realization washing over you. He really was innocent. The Omatikaya had been wrong all along.

The trauma, the isolation, the agony you had endured in that dark cell, it had all been for nothing. Based on baseless suspicions, Neteyam had allowed them to break you. A fresh wave of rage and betrayal burned through your veins.

“Fine,” you spat, turning toward the exit. “Just keep them away from the upper terraces. I do not want them anywhere near my home.”

“I’ll make sure they stay in the lower quarters,” Antulo agreed easily.

You turned and marched out of the longhouse, only to nearly collide with Neteyam, who was standing just outside the longhouse.

Your eyes narrowed into furious slits. “What are you doing here? Eavesdropping? Looking for more false evidence to use against my brothe—”

“Y/N!” Antulo hurried out behind you, horrified by you confronting Neteyam. “Y/N, control yourself! I apologize for my sister, Neteyam te Suli. She is not usually like this.”

You aggressively shoved Antulo’s hand off your elbow, throwing one last glare at Neteyam before turning on your heel and heading up the stone steps toward the upper terraces. You hated that you had to look over your shoulder now, hated that his presence invaded your home. But then you reminded yourself: You belonged here. He was the outsider. He should look out so you two won’t run into each other. He should be careful of his moves.

In the days and weeks that followed, you did everything in your power to avoid him. But living in a terrace village made total avoidance nearly impossible.

One afternoon, while walking back from the weaving looms, Neteyam stepped into your path. He kept his distance, his posture stiff, but the profound sorrow in his golden eyes was impossible to hide and it only annoyed you.

“How are you faring?” he asked quietly when you actually stopped to face him.

You stared at him, a biting sneer curling your lips as you stepped closer to him. “What gives you the right to ask me that? You really have no shame, do you? After what you and your people did to me based on nothing but blind assumptions, you have the audacity to stand here and act concerned?”

A muscle in his jaw twitched, his hands clenching into tight fists at his sides, but he remained silent, taking every word.

“The only thing I am grateful for,” you said, leaning in, your voice dropping into a whisper, “is that my child is not fathered by a man so comfortable with cruelty. My child will never know a people as vile as yours.”

Neteyam’s head reared back a little as though you clawed him, his gaze shifting away as he forced himself to swallow the sharp pain in his throat.

“I will do you a favor and not tell my brother what you and your people did to me,” you continued. “In return, you will stay away from me. You will not speak to me. You will not look at me. If you see me walking down a path, you will turn around and take another. Do your job here quietly, and when you are finished, leave.”

You brushed past him, leaving him standing alone on the stone path.

Once you rounded the corner and out of his sight, your knees buckled slightly. You leaned against the cool wall, gasping for breath as a painful knot tightened in your chest. You hated that saying those cruel words hadn't brought you any satisfaction. You hated that a part of you still cared, still wondered if your harsh words had hurt him, or if he was simply too cold to care.

Despite your strict warning, Neteyam could not bring himself to stay away entirely.

Unable to speak to you, he began helping you from the shadows. You had no idea that he was the one refilling the heavy water barrels outside your hut every morning, or the person behind your infinitely softer bedding and the perfectly split, dry firewood stacked neatly by your door was him. He tracked your daily routines from afar. Whenever you left a heavy basket of woven goods to rest, he would quietly move it closer to your destination when you weren't looking.

He hunted relentlessly, seeking out iron-dense preys and rare river fish known to be nourishing for pregnant women. He befriended a cook to ensure the prime cuts were always included in your daily meals. And though Omatikaya warriors were forbidden from entering the upper terraces, Neteyam spent his nights perched high in the branches of the massive tree overlooking the village, his longbow in hand, watching over your hut while you slept.

To people who are not paying attention, which are most of them, these acts are not very obvious. But for Enya, whose wandering eyes have followed the outsiders for moons now, it warranted bringing up a very important matter.

“I’m telling you, Y/N, that Omatikaya warrior is completely taken with you!” Enya squealed, leaning in close. “I’ve been watching him and I have observed that he is extremely attentive of you. Remember dinner the other night? You found it hard to sit on the hard mat, and then by breakfast the next day… There was a soft cushion left at your usual spot.”

She looked at you expectedly, waiting for you to connect the dots but you merely looked at her. You knew she was talking about Neteyam... But you do not wish to acknowledge it, nor feed her imagination that you knew what she was talking about.

“I saw him put that on your seat when I was preparing at the kitchens!” she said. “And… I learned that he is friends with Krikhir. I used some charms to get Krikhir to tell me stuff and he told me this warrior has been supplying the kitchens with the largest games he's ever seen,” she told you with wide eyes, nodding.

“And so this warrior… is a good hunter?” Penxi trailed.

Enya sighed. “No… Krikhir told me the warrior was specifically asking him to cook the best parts of every meat he brings for Y/N. The best part for pregnant women, anyway…” she shrugs, stifling a huge smile as she looks at you.

Penxi frowned slightly, looking up from her thread. “Wait... isn't that a little creepy? What is his deal? Which warrior are we talking about?”

Enya giggled. “Oh, Great Mother! There he is…” she squealed through her slightly parted lips. “One thing I also noticed, Y/N,” she leaned forward. “Is that he is everywhere you are. Just yesterday, when you walked down the lake, I saw him follow you!”

You turned your head, already knowing who you would see. Neteyam was sitting on a high rock, adjusting the fletching on his arrows but with a practiced, and sneaky move, his head angled toward where you are and your eyes met. He quickly looked away and focused intently on his bow.

“He is reputable and handsome, certainly,” Penxi said slowly, her sharp eyes scanning Neteyam's tense posture from afar. “But don't you find this behavior concerning? He doesn't know you, Y/N, and you are clearly pregnant—”

“So what?” Enya argued playfully. “Some men find pregnant women attractive!”

“That isn't my point,” Penxi countered, her tone growing serious as she looked at you. “What if he has ulterior motives? What if he’s watching you for a reason?”

Her words struck a chord of interest in your chest. Your ears perked up. “You think so?” you asked softly, glancing back toward Neteyam and catching him looking your way again. He quickly looked away though. “Does he have that aura?”

You trust Penxi’s judgment, of course. She was always the most observant of your group. Hearing her express doubt about Neteyam’s intentions reinforced the cold wall you had built around your heart. You had been foolish enough to trust him once. You wouldn't make that mistake again.

“Not really. I mean, based only on his actions. But it could also be that he simply has a soft spot for expectant mothers,” she said. “Maybe he has a pregnant mate back home?”

A sudden, sharp sting of heat rushed to your face and ears. The mental image of Neteyam returning home to a loving, pregnant woman sent an unexpected wave of bitter irritation crashing through you. You hated how much the thought bothered you. You should not care, yet the idea of him offering another woman the love and gentleness he had fake-offered you made your blood boil.

That night, the bitter thoughts kept you tossing and turning

You groaned in frustration, struggling to push yourself up into a sitting position as your heavy belly weighed you down. You are eight moons along, with a remaining four moons to go and you’re feeling it more than ever now that your belly had ballooned twice as large as it used to be in the beginning. Seeking fresh air to clear your head, you stepped out onto the wooden platform outside your hut.

Your eyes instinctively darted toward the high branches of the tree, the spot Enya had mentioned she saw the warrior on.

Your breath hitched.

He was actually there. Neteyam was perched comfortably on a high branch overlooking your hut, a half-eaten piece of fruit in one hand and his bow resting on his lap. The moment he sensed movement in your hut, his head snapped in your direction, his golden eyes wide and instantly alert, scanning you to see if you were in distress.

He made no move to approach, remaining motionless in the canopy, waiting silently to see if you needed anything.

You stared up at him for a long, heavy moment, your heart hammering against your ribs. Then, with a furious huff, you turned around, stomped back into the safety of your hut, and let the heavy woven flap snap shut behind you.

You stood inside your hut, your hand resting over the firm curve of your belly as you stared down at the sliver of moonlight on the floor. Your mind was a storm, wild and relentless. Driven by a surge of frustration you couldn't control, you turned and stepped back out onto the platform.

This time, Neteyam didn't wait.

The moment he saw your shadow, he moved. He dropped down from the high canopy with unmatched grace. He walked forward until he reached the base of your terrace steps, stopping precisely as though an invisible barrier stood between you, one he set and dared not cross.

“Is there anything you need?” he asked quietly, his eyes searching your face in the dim light.

Your jaw clenched tight. “Yes,” you hissed, your voice laced with venom. “I need you to remember what I told you the last time we spoke. I told you to stay away from me. I told you that if you saw me, you were to turn around and take a different path. I told you never to speak to me, and never to look at me.”

His breathing hitched. “I cannot do that, Y/N,” he said. His tone was firm, but laced with plea, as though protesting your words without daring to push against your boundary. “You can ask for anything else, and I will give it to you without question. But do not ask me to blind myself to you. Looking at you... it is the only thing I have left.”

You stared at him. The quiet vulnerability did not soften you at all. It only ignited your fury.

“What makes you think you have the right to have anything from me?” you snapped, taking a sharp step toward the edge of the platform. “If you were not here on my brother's business, I would have had you driven from our lands the moment you arrived! I know what you are, I know how dangerous you are!”

You leaned over the railing, your eyes blazing into his. “So do as I said. Stop following me around like a foolish pet, stop hovering in the trees, and finish whatever work you came here to do!”

Neteyam’s gaze dropped to the ground, his posture settling into that of a disciplined warrior accepting a harsh reprimand. You saw the tight bulge of a muscle in his jaw as he gritted his teeth against the pain of your words.

You tilted your head, sneering. “Or are you even doing your job at all? You have been here for moons, yet you have brought my brother no closer to the traitor. Are you truly this incompetent, or are you simply lying again?”

Neteyam swallowed hard, looking up just enough to meet your eyes. “I am working with your brother every day. The traitor has buried their tracks, but we are closing in. I am moving as quickly as I can.”

You wanted him gone. You wanted him far away from your clan, far away from you... Or so you kept telling yourself. Yet, as his words sank in, a traitorous pang struck your chest. You crushed the feeling instantly, hardening your face into a mask of cold indifference.

“Good,” you said sharply. “The sooner you finish, the sooner you can return to whoever is waiting for you back home.”

Neteyam’s eyes snapped up, catching the familiar tone lacing your voice. A sudden flash of realization hit him, and he spoke quickly, desperate to clear the air.

“There is no one waiting for me back home,” he said, his voice dropping into an earnest, urgent murmur. “I mean... aside from my family. My parents and my siblings.”

You scowled, wrapping your shawl tighter around your shoulders. “I did not ask,” you cut in coldly. “And I do not care. So remember what I told you.”

Without waiting for his reply, you turned on your heel and retreated into your hut.

Outside, Neteyam stood alone in the dark. He let out a long, heavy breath, shifting his weight as he stared at the closed woven flap. The weight of your words settled over him like vines. He couldn't even look at you anymore without driving you further away.

So he obeyed your strict command. He stayed out of your sight, he found a higher branch on the tree directly above your hut, and he watched your activities from afar, putting more stealth in his actions. He knew your daily routine better than anyone. He knew that by mid-morning, your lower back began to ache terribly from the weight of your belly, forcing you to sit frequently while carrying out your weaving. He knew that the stone benches near the upper weaving terrace were cold, hard, and lacked support.

Before the sun even rose, while the village was still draped in dawn mist, Neteyam climbed the upper terraces to take a hand-carved wooden frame he had spent the previous nights crafting in secret. He padded it with thick, layered pelts of hexapede hide, the softest, warmest fur known to retain heat. He bound it securely to the stone bench where you always sat, angling the backrest precisely to support the curve of your spine.

When you arrived at the looms hours later, you stopped in your tracks, your eyes catching sight of the the bench tailored so meticulously for your comfort that even Penxi gasped in quiet approval.

“Well,” Enya murmured, running a hand over the plush, impossibly soft fur. “Whoever made this certainly knows how much your back has been hurting...”

You stared at the seat, your mouth setting into a tight line. You knew immediately who had done it. You wanted to refuse it out of spite, to sit on the cold stone instead, but a sudden kick brought a sharp ache down your spine. You whimpered, caressing your belly and sighing.

Alright, little one, you thought. I’m not going to ignore your father’s handiwork.

You sat down and the relief was instantaneous, supporting your belly and easing the pressure on your lower back so thoroughly that a quiet, involuntary sigh slipped past your lips.

Yards away, hidden deep within the foliage of a high watch-ridge, Neteyam leaned against a tree trunk, watching. A faint, sad semblance of a smile touched his lips when he saw you settle back into the cushions and caress your round belly. His face crumpled a little, his hand balling into fist. He had no one to blame but himself. This is exactly why he doesn’t deserve you. He can’t even heed what you asked him to... In the end, he is still selfish, as selfish as he was when he fell in love with you and took you to bed knowing what his people wanted him to do.

To take his mind away from his thoughts, he spends his late afternoons in the lower village with Krikhir and the village cooks, preparing specialized broths. He brought the meat and spent hours rendering down bone marrows. He steep-brewed rare mountain herbs that the Omatikaya healers used to ease late-stage pregnancy swelling, and hand-filtered the liquid until it was smooth and rich.

“Heat this up and give it to her with her evening meal,” Neteyam told Krikhir flatly, offering the cook a fine obsidian blade as payment for his silence.

Krikhir nodded, smirking as he watched the serious, towering warrior. “I am puzzled, my friend,“ he said. “Do you know Y/N before you came here? I mean, you’re so nice to her. Well, not that you shouldn’t be. She’s really kind. I used to get bullied in the past, but because she was kind to me, the kids saw me differently.”

Neteyam stared at him. “How was she like? When she was younger,” he asked quietly.

Krikhir busied himself with chopping the meat. “She’s a snob,“ he said. “But never in a bad way. She’s a snob mostly to obnoxious boys. I’m one of the exceptions, simply because I’m smaller for my age and was usually the...” he shrugs. “Victim of the bigger boys.”

Neteyam nodded, stifling a smile. You do have that in you... Defending the defenseless.

Krikhir shook his head. “I just don’t know what type of man got to know someone like Y/N and decided... she’s not worth being with. So, I’m glad you’re doing this for her,” he said.

Neteyam gritted his teeth, nodding silently. He wanted to tell Krikhir it was him, that he was facing the very man he was talking about. But he didn’t want to risk Krikhir getting mad at him and refusing to do his biddings.

“Thank you, Krikhir...” he said, putting a hand on the man’s shoulder. “You are a good friend.”

                                                         ₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

As more moons passed, you found yourself more and more drawn to the sight and sound of children laughing and playing in the lower grounds. You sit under the afternoon sun, surrounded by a small circle of young mothers and wide-eyed children. The little ones giggled as you traced figures in the dirt, telling them ancient fables of the forest, but as the children eventually scattered to play, the conversation shifted.

The mothers began sharing quiet stories about late-night feedings, of struggles with a newborn, and of how their mates had carried them through the overwhelming early days of newborn life.

“I do not know what I would have done without Vatru in those first few weeks,” one of the women murmured, gently bouncing her infant. She looked at you with eyes full of genuine, aching sympathy. “It breaks my heart that you must navigate this alone, Y/N. New motherhood is a heavy path to walk without a mate to share the load.”

You offered a practiced, quiet smile and assured them you would manage. After all, you had your brother, your grandmother, and your fiercely loyal friends.

Yet, when you finally returned to the solitude of your hut that evening, the heavy silence pressed into your chest. The armor you wore all day fractured, and tears escaped, rolling down your cheeks.

This wasn't how it was supposed to be.

When you had given yourself to Neteyam, you had truly believed in the future you were building. You had loved him with every fiber of your being. And none of it was real. He was doing it for the woman he loved. He was enduring you for her. Just as the warrior said, it indeed must have taken great patience to not strangle you on sight.

Now, it suffocates you to think that this overwhelming care he is showing you now is simply an attempt to scrub the blood of guilt from his conscience. You stroked the heavy roundness of your belly, sobbing quietly into the dimness. You wished, with a desperate ache, that you had met him under ordinary circumstances. Without clans at war, without blood debts, and without his devastating betrayal. You hated that even given the choice to erase him entirely to spare yourself this agony, your heart still wished for him... just in a world where everything happened differently.

But perhaps even then, it would be a fool's dream. Because he still wouldn't love you enough for things to go the way you want it to.

The weight of all your thoughts woke you up before dawn and you were thankful for that. Over the moons he had been in your village, you had quietly mapped his routine. You knew he would come before sunrise to replenish your firewood today, and you decided it had to end. You did not want his penance. You did not want him working himself to exhaustion just to buy a quiet conscience.

Standing near the woven flap, you waited. Neteyam was a good warrior, he had mastered stealth, his movements were so ghostly you were not even sure if he was already there when you threw the flap open. You saw Neteyam froze, a towering stack of freshly split logs held effortlessly in his arms. The moment his eyes met yours, he instinctively looked away, honoring your command even while caught in the act.

Your jaw clenched, white-hot frustration flaring in your veins. “From now on, you will stop doing this,” you said, your tone dropping into a quiet coldness.

Neteyam’s head snapped back, his eyes pleading. “Y/N, please. I cannot. The wood is damp from the valley fog, and you need these for the—”

“Stop. Doing. It,” you cut in, emphasizing every word. “I do not want your pity. I do not want your hollow guilt. I do not want you easing your restless mind just because you chopped some wood and lifted a few water barrels. I suggest you keep every bit of that guilt, let it burn in you so you make better choices the next time you decide to hurt someone.“

Neteyam stood entirely still, watching you and feeling the beginning of a tremor starting in his gut. He wanted to throw up from fear. It feels like the universe is taking from him everything he could possibly do to make it up to you. He knew he would never be with you again, but it feels like he keeps getting kicked to the ground. So just this once, he wants to speak.

“I am not doing this out of pity, Y/N. I love you. I love you so much and if I could rip my heart out to show you how—”

“I do not believe you,” you cut him off, even though your heart staggered and soared at his words. You knew it is all the more you needed to reject this. “I will never believe you again, Neteyam.”

Before he could say another word, you let the flap fall shut, cutting him off completely.

The next two moons bled into one another in a haze of quiet isolation within your grandmother’s hut. Since you are alone in your hut, your grandmother didn’t think it safe for you to spend the crucial moons of your pregnancy alone. You are thankful to be in her company, though she doesn’t talk much and spends most of the day in the healing pavilion.

The Tsahik knew far too much for a woman of her years, yet she possessed a rare, merciful silence. Unlike the rest of the village, she never pried about the man who had left his mark on your soul and your swell, nor did she press you for the reason you chose to stay. You had never cared for the healing arts before, always preferring stories about travelling and the other clans, but sitting beside her and watching her aged hands work herbs while your mind drifted toward the man you ordered to stay away from you was better than sitting alone in your hut.

Based on your brother’s words in passing, you knew the hunt for the traitor was nearing its end. You rarely see Neteyam these days... And because you live with your grandmother now, firewood and water are things you no longer need. Though you had demanded for him to stop his labors, you found yourself hypocritically yearning for the specialized meals he commissions Krikhir for you.

You missed him. The truth burned like bile in your throat, but you could not scrub him from your mind.

You passed a thread of fiber through a loop, sighing as laying out the tiny loincloth properly on your lap. You were seated on a flat stone by the lake, killing time before you go to the healing pavilion for your back massage, when the silent was shattered by Tarzuk who came tearing through the reeds, his face a twisted mask of panic.

“Y/N! You must come. It is your brother and Neteyam!” Tarzuk gasped, his breath ragged. “They were ambushed near the northern border! They are gravely wounded!”

Panic seized your chest, completely drowning out the heavy, dull ache in your lower back. “The healers, call the elders at the pavilion!”

“I already did! But you need to see him now” Tarzuk grabbed your wrist, pulling you up. “Antulo might not make the night!”

Disoriented and terrified, you stumbled after him, your hands desperately cradling your heavy belly as the sharp terrain tore at your feet. “What happened, Tarzuk? Who attacked them?”

“A rogue Omatikaya squad came and asked to speak with Neteyam,” he said, guiding you deeper into the dense brush. “But they attacked us. They shot Neteyam and they shot your brother when he tried to fight back.”

You gasped, his fear affecting you so much that your mind began to create brutal images that made your knees weak. You felt your belly tightened, feeling a sharp pain start between your legs.

“Their leader wore an orange-dyed chest piece—”

“Yantuk...” the name slipped from your lips in a horrified whisper.

Tarzuk nodded frantically, pulling you into a secluded clearing near the ridge line. You expected to see your bloodied brother and Neteyam, but there were no wounded warriors bleeding on the moss.

The only ones standing in the shadow were the rogue Omatikaya warriors he spoke of. In the middle was Yantuk himself, flanked by six armed Omatikaya men. You froze, the blood running cold in your veins as Yantuk’s eyes landed squarely on the high curve of your stomach, filled of hatred.

“Is that Neteyam’s?” Yantuk growled, his fangs bared in a snarl. “You truly took everything from my daughter, you wretched little whore.”

“I didn’t take anything from your daughter!” you snapped back. “I am not the reason she’s dead—”

You gasped when an arrow struck near your foot. You stepped back, your knuckles turning white against your belly, but Tarzuk’s firm grip on your shoulder blocked your retreat.

“I suggest you take this mini reunion on the road back. We don’t have the luxury of time,” Tarzuk said behind you, his voice devoid of any previous panic. “

I delivered her as promised. Now fulfill your end of the bargain. Get Antulo and Neteyam off my back. Kill them, and leave the leadership of this clan to me.”

Your head swiveled to Tarzuk in absolute horror. “Tarzuk... why are you doing this?” your voice broke at the betrayal.

Tarzuk scoffed. “Because your brother is weak and lacks the vision to make our clan powerful,” he answered. “I would have taken you as my mate once Antulo was gone, but you had to go and get yourself knocked up like a common whore.”

“My brother will kill you for this,” you whispered, trembling.

Tarzuk offered a dark, lopsided grin. “I’ll beat him to—”

A heavy whistling sound sliced through the air, and a massive arrow struck Tarzuk clean through the side of the neck. He choked, blood spurting from his lips as he collapsed like a felled tree. You gasped, stepping back and ducking without thinking. You protected your bump with both your arms, your eyes widening when you saw Yantuk fell on the ground, a large arrow cleanly pierced on his chest.

From the surrounding canopy, your clan’s warriors descended, quickly overwhelming Yantuk’s remaining men. Before you could process the Omatikaya falling one by one, strong, familiar arms wrapped around you: Rushed, frantic, yet impossibly gentle.

“Are you hurt? Did they hurt you?” Neteyam’s voice was a ragged murmur against your hair as his hands hovered over your body, frantically checking for wounds.

You shook your head, staring up at him in dazed shock, your own eyes sweeping his frame to ensure he wasn't bleeding out as Tarzuk had claimed. “I... I am unhurt.”

He let out a shaky, shuddering breath, his touch lingering on your arms for a split second before he yanked his hands back as if burned, stepping away as he remembered your orders. You lifted your eyes up to look at him, but Antulo rushed in, pulling you into a fierce embrace. Over your brother's shoulder, your eyes locked with Neteyam’s who were watching your intently.

The moment your gazes met though, he immediately looked away, his jaw clenching as he retreated into the background. The mission was over. The traitor was dead. He had no reason to stay anymore.

That night, as you sat on your wooden platform, leaning against the fur-padded backrest Neteyam had built, Antulo walked up the steps to your hut.

“The Omatikaya will leave at dawn,” Antulo said quietly, rubbing his tired face. “Tarzuk played us all. He worked with Yantuk to manufacture a war so he could seize power.”

You stared at nothing. You remembered his genuine hatred toward you and how it nearly made you believe you did everything they were telling you you did. He pinned his own daughter's death on you, even when he knows that his own doing caused her death. It takes a different level of evil to achieve that.

You tried to take a deep breath, but a sudden, terrifyingly sharp cramp seized your lower abdomen. You gasped, doubling over as your hand slammed onto your stomach.

Antulo’s eyes widened in panic. “What is it?”

“Contraction again, I think...” you gasped out, sweat instantly breaking on your forehead.

“Again?” Antulo echoed in horror.

You nodded, and without another word, Antulo scooped you into his arms so fast you weren’t even able to stop him. He raced toward the Tsahik’s pavilion in record time.

You might not think it too grave, but the stress of the ambush had shattered your body’s delicate balance. Labor hit you quickly and violently, that for hours, you hung onto the thick fiber ropes suspended from the ceiling, screaming through contractions that felt as though your pelvis was being ground into dust. The elder healers held your knees wide, shouting at you to push, warning that the child was massive and you need to push properly so there wouldn’t be complications.

You didn't care about the pain. You only cared about the fear clawing at your throat. You hadn’t thought about complications at all throughout your pregnancy and you feared that you had been too comfortable.

Memory flashed unbidden through your mind, of a quiet night moons ago, lying naked against Neteyam’s chest, tracing the beautiful bioluminescent patterns on his skin as your other hand caressed the base of his head.

He was a hybrid, he told you so when you pointed out how his kuru was at the base of his head and not on top like the average Na’vi. You had been laying together for many times already before you had the courage to ask about something so personal.

“It is beautiful anyway,” you mumbled, your hand caressing his kuru now as you moved your naked body closer to him. “I am only curious.”

He smiled, kissing your chin. “I got it from my father,” he told you then. “He is... different from a Na’vi. He is an avatar.”

“Avatar?” you echoed and he grinned at your accent, rising to drop a hard kiss on your lips.

“Like norm. You remember him?“ he asked, his hand caressing the curve on your waist.

You nodded. “He has five fingers... Like Kiri,” you mumbled.

“My brother Lo’ak does, too,“ he said. “It is in our genes now, I think.”

You nodded, your other hand tracing the bioluminescent freckles on his chest.

“Does that bother you?” he asked, his lips brushing your jaw and kissing your cheek like he couldn’t get enough.

“What does?” you asked, your heart hammering against your chest as you looked into his eyes.

“That i have such a gene. I am not fully Na’vi... And I will pass it down,” he said, his eyes earnest and worried.

You both know then what he was talking about even without explicitly saying it. He is genuinely worried you were bothered about his alien genetics, that you wouldn’t want it for your own children.

You breathlessly huffed, a small smile cutting through your lips as you shook your head. “No, it doesn’t. It doesn't, Neteyam,” you said, propping yourself on your elbow to hover over him. His hand clamped around your nape and pulled you down for a kiss.

“Push, Y/N! Push now!” your grandmother’s commanding voice snapped you back to the agony of the present.

With a final, chest-heaving scream, you gave everything you had. The pressure yielded, and your baby slipped into the world.

You collapsed back onto the mats, panting heavily as a triumphant smile blooming on your lips, until you realized the pavilion had fallen dead silent.

There was no cry.

Horror spiked through your veins. You sat up, ignoring the pain in your body. Your grandmother was near the washing basin, holding a massive, beautiful newborn, easily the size of a two-moon-old child.

“A boy,” she announced softly.

You tracked his body. He was breathing, his little chest heaving, but he was making no sound. Your eyes frantically mapped his tiny body, and there it was. At the base of his skull sat a low-set kuru and folded tightly against his chest were two tiny hands, each bearing five fingers.

The elder healers gasped when your grandmother lowered him for you. They backed away with expressions of absolute horror.

“Give him to me,” you asked, your voice breaking into a sob.

Your grandmother placed the quiet babe in your arms. Aside from the kuru and the fingers, he looked every bit a Na’vi. You lowered your head and touched your forehead to his, smiling as tears of exhaustion filled your eyes. The baby took a deep breath before letting out a sudden wail. You caressed his soft head, desperate to soothe him. Your grandmother took your kuru as she guided your son’s head to your breast. She brought your kuru to touch the boy’s, seeking to form the mother’s bond to regulate his frantic system..

The moment the tendrils touched though, the baby shuddered. His bioluminescent spots flickered erratically, almost choking as he began to cry again

Your grandmother instantly severed the connection, her eyes filled with fear and uncertainty.

“What is wrong? Why did that happen?” you asked, your voice breaking as you clutched your babe to your bare chest.

“He is not Na’vi!” one of the elder healers hissed, pointing a trembling finger. “His kuru and his fingers—”

“Silence, Zaknar!” your grandmother roared, her eyes flashing with deadly authority. “Out! All of you, leave us now!”

The healers immediately vacated the pavilion. Your grandmother knelt beside you, looking at the sniffling babe with a heavy, mournful expression.

“It is the first time I encountered something like this, truly, Y/N,” she said. “But you see... Your boy is different. He does not recognize your bond, I would wager, and it would be painful for him if we force it.” she explained softly.

You stared at her before your eyes lowered down to your son who is eagerly latching from your breast. His eyes were closed but there were tears on the side of them.

“I thought I was wrong because he was leaving,” she said, tilting her head. “But he is the father, isn’t he?”

You swallowed, nodding without taking your eyes off your boy.

“I thought so,” she mused in a humored tone. “I saw the way he looked at you... And I am not blind.”

You sniffled. “What do I do, grandmother?” you asked, lifting your eyes up to her.

She looked at your son. “Obviously, your son inherits from his father. If he does not recognize your bond, he might recognize his father’s.”

You looked down at your son again, caressing his cheek, and knowing that pride was a luxury you could no longer afford.

You managed to get your son to sleep after feeding him, placing him in a soft cot before wrapping yourself in a heavy shawl. You dragged your heavy and sore body out of the pavilion. Every step felt like walking on broken glass, your hips feeling completely unhinged.

“What do you need?”

The deep, velvety voice made you gasp and jump. Neteyam was already standing behind you, but you tracked the moving branches from the canopy of the tree above. His golden eyes were wide with frantic concern, his hands twitching at his sides, desperately wanting to reach out and support you.

“What are you doing here?” you breathed, your voice devoid of its usual biting tone.

Neteyam swallowed hard, afraid that you might not want him around here at all. “I... I just wanted to... guard the pavilion,” he said. “I’ll get... do whatever you need... if you’ll allow me.”

You looked at him through a blur of tears. “I need... you,” you choked out. “For my son.”

Neteyam froze, his pupils dilating until the gold of his eyes was almost swallowed by black. His breath hitched, a look of unadulterated wonder and agonizing joy breaking across his handsome face. “A son...” he whispered, taking a trembling step forward before catching himself. “What would you have me do? I’ll do everything.” he said breathlessly.

“My son... do not recognize my bond. I cannot feed... him,” you said, swallowing the lump in your throat and trying so hard to not let your eyes fill with tears. “I cannot help him regulate his body. He will weaken.”

Neteyam’s expression instantly hardened into absolute resolve, his own fear completely swallowed by protective instinct. “He will be alright. He will not weaken.”

You stared at him and nodded, taking from his strength. He did not even question why you would come to him for this, even after you told him moons ago that he didn’t father your child.

He followed you into the dim pavilion, his fists clenched tight to stop himself from picking you up and carrying you when he saw the limp in your stride. You shouldn't have been standing. He shivered in fear when he realized that if he hadn't been here, you would have gone to his sleeping quarters in this state. He took a deep breath as soon as you two entered the pavilion, but his breathing still hitched at the sight of the tiny cot in the corner.

He craned his head, trying to get a better look of the baby inside it but he got distracted with you taking a deep breath as you tried to lower yourself on the mat. He moved, his hand reaching for you. “Let me help you...”

“Do not touch me,” you immediately said.

He quickly nodded. “Of course. I’m sorry,” he said, his nails digging into his palm.

You sank onto the mats with a soft gasp of pain, and an uncomfortable weight settled on his chest as he watched you helplessly. If watching you from afar and not being able to do anything for you was hard, this is much harder. He watched you reach for the small cot and lift the baby. Wonder broke at Neteyam’s face at the sight of the boy.

His son.

He wasn't entirely small, but he could imagine how small the boy would feel in his arms. His heart warmed and tears pooled in his eyes. His eyes tracked the boy’s five-fingered hands and the low-set. He knew it already, but there was no denying that this was his son. The baby stirred, and within a moment, he was gasping for air and howling a huge cry that seemed to stem from the very core of his small body.

You moved to bring the boy to your breast, giving your palm to Neteyam. Neteyam immediately brought his kuru forward and you gently guided it toward your baby’s small tendrils toward his. The moment their kuru connected, a soft, contented hum escaped the boy’s tiny lips and his bioluminescent spots flaring into a brilliant color. His five-fingered hand reached out, his small tail curling tightly around your wrist.

You held his tiny hand and gently extended it toward Neteyam, Neteyam let out a choked sob, lifting his large hand and allowing the babe to hold his index finger. It left him breathless, his entire frame trembling as he channeled every ounce of his warmth, protection, and fierce love through the bond into his son.

You watched the sacred sight, your heart breaking and mending all at once. The baby latched as eagerly as he had done earlier, and with his father’s neural bond stabilizing his system, he feeds completely at peace.

Silently, you looked up. Neteyam was staring at you, his golden eyes overflowing with a reverence so intense it made your chest ache.

“He is happy...” Neteyam whispered, a tentative, breathless smile gracing his lips.

You looked down, stroking your baby's soft head. “Thank you...”

“Do not thank me, Y/N,” Neteyam said quickly, his voice thick with emotion. “I know I cannot erase what I allowed to happen to you. I know I broke your trust, and I was a fool who acted out of blind duty when I should have chosen you. I will spend every breathing moment of my life making it up to you—”

“You believed I was guilty,” you cut him off softly, untangling his kuru from your son’s as the baby drifted into a deep sleep. “You allowed me to get hurt because you believed I helped murder the woman you loved.”

Neteyam’s brow furrowed in utter confusion. “What? Y/N, no, I did not do it for a woman, I did it for my people and Tuk, I wouldn’t have—”

“You did it to avenge her, they told me so,” you muttered, the old bitterness bleeding through your fatigue. “I respect that, but truly, I feel bad for you that she died, you wouldn’t have turned into such a cruel man—”

“There was no woman, Y/N,” he emphasized, stepping closer on his knees, his hands hovering near your face in desperate earnestness. “I never loved anyone before you. Priya was a friend, a huntress of our clan. Sure, I was saddened and angered by her cruel death, but even when I believed you did what I thought you did, I fell in love with you. I love you, Y/N,  I love you so intensely it terrified me and you will never know how much I regretted not betraying my people for you right from the start.”

He reached out, his thumb gently catching a stray tear on your cheek before you could pull away.

“I was trapped between my duty and my devotion to you,” he choked out, his chest heaving. “And I made the worst mistake of my life by not running away with you the moment they started questioning me. But I swear on the Great Mother, my heart has belonged only to you from the moment I fell in love with you.”

You stared at him and he saw the exhaustion and the pain of labor reflected on your face. His breathing hitched, worried he might have strained you emotionally when you literally just gave birth.

“We will talk some again about, but now you need to rest...” he said.

You huffed, moving to put your son on his cot. “Oh, yes. That would be convenient for you,” you said. “But I wish to put an end to this now. I’ll have to let everyone know you fathered my child and I want the people to not think I have an ill grudge toward you.”

He didn’t say anything, watching you lower your body down on the mat, feeling a different kind of low. But as he stared at your lying form on the mat, the tiny cot beside you holding your child’s tiny frame, he knew it would take more than that to fully grind him to the ground.

The next day, you were woken up by a loud commotion you know is coming from the lower terraces. You were still at the healing pavilion, and when you woke up disoriented, your grandmother was the first person you saw, sitting across the room.

She tilted her head. “Antulo knows,” she said simply.

“Knows what?” you asked, still confused and blinking away sleep.

“Neteyam and your boy,” she answered.

Your eyes widened. You sat up, slowing down immediately as your sore body protested. “You told him?”

“He told him, I suppose,” she answered calmly.

You pushed yourself up, rushing outside the pavilion, and gasped when you saw Antulo physically roughing up Neteyam. “Antulo!” you called out, struggling to move and step down the wooden stairs.

“Don’t come down here!” his booming voice warned, his hands on Neteyam’s shoulders shoves Neteyam hard back to the ground.

The villagers were watching as if it were a spectator sport. “Don’t hurt him, Antulo!” you snapped, carefully descending the steps.

Enya and Penxi immediately rushed to your side, guiding you down.

“Don’t hurt him? He told me everything he did to you! Everything his people did to you! Tell me now why I shouldn't drive my knife to this man’s throat!”

Your face crumpled at the sight of Neteyam’s bloodied face and Antulo's pristine state. Neteyam wasn't even fighting back. “He is the father of my son, and my son needs him, Antulo—”

Enya and Penxi gasped in sync. Antulo shook his head in disbelief. “I already know that. He told me! But that is not enough reason! I can very well stand as a father figure for your child. He doesn’t need a man like him!”

“Stop this, Antulo,” you begged. “Don’t hurt him. My son needs him. My son doesn’t recognize my bond, only Neteyam’s.”

Antulo snarled and finally released his grip on Neteyam. Neteyam immediately sat up, as though he hadn’t just been beaten up. He stood up without a wince, though he did touch his shoulder and made it crack. You looked at him, pain seizing your heart before glaring at Antulo. You knew that you had once told your brother you’d allow him to break the bones of the man who hurt you, but you hadn't realized how agonizing it would be to actually watch it happen.

You didn't like seeing him get hurt at all. It pinched at your chest, and for a moment, you struggled to fight the urge to wrap your arms around him. Instead, you turned and walked silently back up to the healing pavilion.

“We’ll go visit you later, Y/N,” Enya said softly, and Penxi seconded with a serious nod.

Neteyam followed you up, and when you were finally inside, you turned to him. “Why did you tell him everything?” you asked, your voice trembling. “Now he hurt you!”

“I deserved that, Y/N. I deserved that and more,” he said quietly. “I would have allowed him to sink his knife into my chest, but our son needs me,” he added self-deprecatingly.

“Don’t do that again,” you said, swallowing hard and trying to ignore the painful spasm in your chest. “Don’t let yourself get hurt.”

His jaw clenched, your forehead creasing as he kept his eyes on the ground. “How can you say that when I allowed you to get hurt at the hands of my people?”

You balled your hands into fists. “Because it doesn’t work that way, Neteyam. I am mad at you for what you did, but I wouldn’t do the same thing to you even if I had the chance.”

You heard him choke on his own breath, nodding slowly. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I’m so sorry...”

You took a sharp breath, about to say something more, when your grandmother craned her neck around the entryway. “The boy is waking up. You’ll need to feed him soon.”

You moved, and Neteyam moved too, both of you willing slaves to your tiny baby.

The first few weeks revolved around that strict routine, every moment choked with unsaid words. The two of you were like disciplined workers whose sole purpose in life was to satisfy your child, while maintaining a painful distance from each other. You allowed him to carry Mako at certain points, your heart breaking at the sight of him cradling the boy against his large frame, acting like his safest sanctuary.

And when he handed Mako back to you, his large fingers would carefully try to avoid brushing yours, but they would still touch sometimes, and both of you would feel an electric jolt from that brief contact.

One evening, as you sat rocking Mako in your arms, Neteyam stood by the doorway, his broad frame blocking the moonlight. His eyes lingered on your exhausted face.

“You should sleep,” he said softly, his voice a low rumble. “I will stay on the platform outside. If he wakes and needs the bond, call for me.”

“You do not need to sit in the dirt like a banished pet, Neteyam,” you replied, looking at the newly-woven mat near you. “This mat is yours.”

He nodded quickly. Of course, he wouldn't argue with that. He’d take any chance to watch you with Mako. To just be near you and observe you be a mother. Truthfully, you wanted to be closer to him, too. You could hardly believe that sometimes, when you watched him carry your son outside your hut to bathe him in the morning sunlight, you actually felt like you were missing out on an experience your son was privileged to enjoy.

Weeks earlier, when Mako was only days old, Penxi and Enya had visited to officially meet the babe, and Enya hadn’t missed the chance to put suggestive thoughts in your head.

“Seriously, Y/N, you might just be the best secret keeper in the village, because if I were you, I wouldn’t have been able to keep this a secret!” Enya had said, gently touching your son’s forehead. “I would have told everyone by day two!”

“In retrospect, we should have known,” Penxi pointed out. “Enya did observe that Neteyam seemed oddly devoted to you, almost like a slave.”

Enya giggled. “And not to mention that he looks at Y/N like he wants to devour her!”

“Enya!” Penxi gasped, her face flushing.

“What? I mean, he is baby Mako’s father, and Y/N did say it didn’t happen only once with him!” she giggled.

Penxi’s eyes widened. “Even so!”

Enya pouted and rolled her eyes before looking at you with a broad grin. “Even more so now, Y/N! You don’t see how he looks at you, but I do! I’ll report to you from time to time,” she smirked. “Do you feel the same, though? Do you feel... ticklish when you look at him? Do you feel like you want to devour him?”

“Enya, that is such an inappropriate question! Where are you even getting these ideas?!”

“From myself! It's what I feel when I look at Krikhir,” she grinned, playing with her braids.

You scoffed, chuckling at her, even though you were now bothered by a heat that was all too familiar. It didn't help that you did see what Enya was talking about. It wasn't like you were blind; you could see the way Neteyam looked at you. It was literally the primary reason you couldn't handle being touched by him.

Aside from Neteyam, Penxi and Enya were your primary caregivers. They were almost always by your side when Neteyam was out for training or hunting. Antulo was still annoyed with you for not telling him the actual story from the beginning. He had come up one time to meet your baby, having no issue with Mako—only with you.

“I didn’t even know Tarzuk wasn’t the only enemy I allowed into my lands! Is that why you were so mad when Neteyam arrived?” he had asked, scoffing sarcastically at himself. “I should have listened to you, huh? I shouldn't have let him in here!”

Penxi and Enya had both remained tight-lipped as your brother scolded you.

“Now that I remember, I was so stupid. I even told you to be friendly. You were friendly to him, and he did this to you,” he had said.

“It wasn’t that deep,” you lied, just so he wouldn't remain so furious.

“Not that deep?” he asked, pointing at your son. “Oh, maybe that's why he so happily got you pregnant.”

You groaned. “Will you just drop it? You can't undo things any more than I can, and I wouldn't undo it either if I could. I want my son here, and I need you to focus on the present. Neteyam is a part of your life now, he's the father of your nephew.”

It took several more lectures until he was finally on speaking terms with you again. With Neteyam, though, he remained distant, and you could see how hard Neteyam was trying to make amends with him as well.

“Is that good?” Neteyam asked as you leaned against the cushion of the nursing seat he had built for you.

It was made entirely of padded lining and felt like sitting on a cloud, molded specifically to support your body. You nodded with a soft sigh. “It feels like sitting on a cloud,” you adjusted Mako in your arms. “Thank you.”

He looked at you with the same intense expression he kept giving you every time you said thank you. “Don’t thank me, Y/N, please...” he mumbled. “Making things a little better for you is part of my job as Mako’s father. You wouldn’t even be in this discomfort if it weren’t for me anyway...“

You saw his lips twist with humor at what he said, and you stifled a smile, narrowing your eyes at him. “Right. This is completely your fault,” you mumbled, guiding your son’s head to latch at your breast.

Neteyam connected his kuru to the boy, watching both of you with deep satisfaction. Mako was an eager, messy eater. After a long feeding session where both of you obsessively watched how much he could consume, Mako fell into a milky stupor against your chest.

Neteyam reached out gently. “Let me pat his back. Your shoulders look tense.”

You nodded, shifting the heavy baby into his large, careful hands. You adjusted your top as you watched Neteyam hold Mako against his broad chest, his long fingers spanning the baby’s entire back. He began a gentle, rhythmic patting.

Suddenly, a sound completely unsuited for a tiny baby echoed through the quiet room: a loud, explosive, rumbling burp that sounded like an old warrior after a massive feast.

Immediately afterward, Mako let out a satisfied, tiny squeak.

You froze. Neteyam’s golden eyes went wide in absolute shock as he stared down at his tiny son.

A sudden, snorting laugh escaped your lips before you could stop it. Neteyam’s head snapped toward you, a boyish, breathless chuckle bursting from his chest. Within seconds, both of you were laughing softly, the heavy, suffocating tension that had hung between you for weeks finally snapping into pieces.

“Great Mother,” Neteyam wheezed, nuzzling the babbling baby’s cheek. “He burps like an old man already.”

For the first time in a year, you looked at Neteyam and saw the man you had originally fallen in love with, his eyes shining with pure, unshielded warmth.

“And drinks like one, too,” you added with a giggle, catching the end of your son’s tail and tickling it.

The baby shivered in Neteyam’s arms, his tail curling tightly around his father’s wrist, making Neteyam chuckle softly. That was only the beginning, but it opened a whole new realm of possibility for a genuine connection between the two of you.

Since then, the air around you both grew much lighter, and talking to each other became effortless. You would have genuinely enjoyed the idea of a simple friendship with him if you weren't lying to yourself, and if you weren't dreaming of your supposed “friend” in completely inappropriate ways. It wasn't entirely your fault; your traitorous mind fed on the sight of him every day, turning your resolve against you.

One night, your mind dragged you back to vivid memories of moments shared with him in your hidden grotto in the forest.

Your hands cupped his jaw as you kissed, his hips pushing against yours at a pace that made you moan against his lips. His hand pillowed your head as you fell back onto the soft moss. Your hands slid down to his chest, which was pressed flat against your bare breasts, while his other hand pinned your thigh to the ground, quickening his rhythm.

You kissed passionately until he pulled back slightly to look down at the way your body was encompassing his length. “Fuck, baby...” he groaned, his pupils dilated with raw lust and desire.

He licked your lips, and you caught his tongue with yours, sucking on it before pulling him back into a deep kiss. His large hand behind your head angled your mouth so he could kiss you better.

It didn't just happen in dreams. Whenever Enya teased you relentlessly about missing intimacy with your former lover, your brain would instantly supply vivid snapshots of things you had done with Neteyam... Like him fucking you against a tree deep in the forest; him going down on you and eating you out by the riverbank; him taking you from behind; or something intensely thrilling, like when you gave him a blowjob up in the high branches at the risk of being spotted by people below.

It certainly didn't help that the unspoken tension between you and Neteyam was growing far more... intense and serious by the day. Thankfully, Mako was always there to break the spell.

At five moons old, you woke in the middle of the night to find Mako burning hot, his small frame trembling as he let out weak, miserable whimpers.

Panic seized your chest, and you immediately pulled him against your body. Neteyam woke from his mat beside Mako’s cot in an instant, rushing to your side and feeling Mako’s feverish skin, his own face contorting with concern.

“He’s too hot, Neteyam. Look at him. Be’s barely breathing properly. What if his body is failing him? What if my milk made him sick?” you panicked, your eyes watering.

“Hey, hey... shh, look at me, Y/N.” Neteyam’s voice was steady and grounding, though his own heart was pounding.

He no longer hesitated to sit close beside you, wrapping a massive, warm arm around your shoulders to pull you against his chest while his other hand gently connected his kuru to Mako’s. Even with Antulo’s initial protests, you had allowed Neteyam to sleep inside your hut for the convenience of having him present whenever Mako needed to bond. You hadn't listened to Antulo, whose main objection had been:

“Because that man is fast and sneaky! Who knows what he might do? You might surprise me with a niece by next moon!”

Neteyam gently pulled Mako’s lower lip down, revealing a tiny white bump on your son’s gum, making you gasp softly.

“He has a mild fever from a new tooth coming through. It was the same with my sister Tuk when she was a baby,” Neteyam murmured into your hair, his voice a soothing rhythm. He took a damp cloth, gently wiping Mako’s warm forehead. “Mako is going to be fine, hm? Meanwhile, you should probably prepare yourself... he’s got a tooth now,” he chuckled, and you huffed through your lingering anxiety, caressing your son’s chubby cheek.

“Oh, right... he bites even without teeth, so thank you for the warning,” you said.

Sinking into Neteyam’s solid warmth, your panic slowly ebbed away. You leaned back against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart while he cradled both you and the baby until Mako finished feeding and fell into a peaceful sleep. You carefully placed the babe back in his cot, trying not to shiver as Neteyam’s hand caressed your shoulder and back, soothing you.

You lay back down on your mat, and he settled onto his. He usually had early morning patrols, and he always made sure to slip out quietly without waking either of you. He had fully integrated himself into your clan’s warrior and hunter ranks, so much so that sometimes you wondered if he even intended to return home, given that the rest of the Omatikaya delegation had departed moons ago.

His days were largely filled with training the young warriors and hunters, as well as leading his own patrol squad. Your brother might not have liked him personally, but he undeniably recognized Neteyam’s immense value to his warriors.

Later that day, you had just put Mako down after a long, exhausting bout of teething, leaving a heavy quiet over the hut. You sat near the wooden wash basin, wringing out a wet cloth to wipe stray milk from your neck and collarbone. You were exhausted, and the sky had not even fully darkened yet.

A faint shadow fell across the entryway, and you saw Neteyam quietly placing his weapons onto the wall rack he had built for them. He looked as though he had just washed up at the river after returning from patrol, his bare chest damp and glistening faintly in the twilight. Instead of retreating directly to his mat, he knelt quietly behind you, taking the cool, damp cloth gently from your hands.

“Let me,” he murmured, his deep voice carrying a low, gravelly rasp that sent a sharp shiver straight down your spine.

You froze, your heart slamming against your ribs. His large, warm fingers brushed against the back of your neck as he swept your braided hair to one side. The contrast between the cool cloth and the searing heat radiating from his hands made your skin prickle. Slowly, delicately, Neteyam dragged the cloth down the curve of your neck, lingering over the pulse beating wildly at your throat.

His breath hit the bare skin of your shoulder, heavy and uneven. His golden eyes dropped to your mouth, dark with a raw, intoxicating hunger he had spent months suppressing. The air in the room became suffocatingly thick. His hand rested on your shoulder, his thumb stroking your skin just once, a slow, reverent caress that made your toes curl into the mat, before he forced himself to pull back, leaving you breathless and aching in the quiet night.

That brief touch dragged his mind back to the grotto as well. It had been the night after he first took you flying on his ikran, obsessed with the feeling of your back pressed flat against his chest that he knew he had to do something about it. In the grotto, you had been sitting on his lap, your back pressed against his front and your head resting on his shoulder, leaving your neck fully exposed for his mouth.

Your legs had been draped over his so he could control how wide he wanted you spread. You were already impaled on his cock, his fingers working your clit to stimulate you as he drove his hips up, fucking you relentlessly. His other hand was on your breast, squeezing and kneading your soft flesh.

“Neteyam.... oh!” you had moaned, arching your back into his chest.

His hand had dropped to your lower abdomen, pulling you back tightly against him when he remembered your tendency to dislodge yourself from him when you're overstimulated. Your hand grabbed at his large forearm, whining and trembling violently in his lap. He sucked on your skin, licking a sensitive spot on the side of your neck.

“Good?” he had asked, his hand caressing your belly as he pounded into you.

You had nodded frantically, “I’m going to...” you moaned, lifting your hips again.

He had allowed you to slip away, letting you go until you fell forward onto your hands and knees. He followed instantly, placing a heavy hand over your lower back and pushing back into you hard from behind.

“Neteyam...”

Your real voice snapped him out of his vivid dream, jolting him awake the following morning.

His wide eyes zeroed in on your flushed face, and his heart jumped, not out of panic that you might have heard him moaning your name in his sleep, but because you looked so breathtakingly beautiful. He was overwhelmed with gratitude to be greeted by such a sight in the morning, amplified by the fact that you were holding his son in your arms.

“Good morning?” you greeted softly, sounding as though it were a gentle question.

Neteyam swallowed hard, the corners of his lips turning up slightly. “Yeah... good morning,” he mumbled, his voice thick with sleep. The only thing he wished for in that moment was the freedom to lean over and kiss you.

His eyes dropped down to Mako. By seven moons old, he was an extraordinarily chubby baby, but he suffered from one glaring tragedy: his head was remarkably large, far too heavy for his little neck muscles to easily support.

Neteyam sat up on his mat. “Is tummy time over? I slept in,” he groaned, rubbing his face.

You chuckled softly. “No, I was just getting him ready, but then...” You shrugged, stubbornly refusing to admit that you had been completely distracted hearing him grunt and murmur your name in his breath.

He nodded, seemingly unashamed of whatever was causing your flushed cheeks. He grabbed the plush pelt, laying it flat in the middle of the floor, and you placed Mako on his belly for his daily exercises.

Mako grunted loudly, his four-toed feet kicking the air wildly as he tried to push his upper body up with his tiny, five-fingered hands. He managed to lift his large head an inch off the fur, his eyes wide with intense focus, before his head wobbled dangerously and slammed right back down onto the pelt with a soft thud.

Mako immediately let out a dramatic, outraged screech of frustration.

Neteyam burst into laughter, quickly reaching over to rub the baby's back. “Shh, my boy... You are fine...” Neteyam crooned, gently poking Mako's chubby cheek. “You just have a big brain, like your uncle.”

“Do not insult my son’s head,” you giggled, resting your chin in your hands as you watched them. “He gets his stubbornness from you.”

Mako looked back and forth between the two of you, his furious cries melting into an annoyed babble as Neteyam rolled him onto his back and blew raspberries on his tummy, making the baby squeal in delighted, breathless laughter.

By eight moons old, Mako was easily the most talkative child in the entire village, holding full, dramatic conversations in nonsensical gibberish while gesturing wildly with his little hands.

Neteyam had been quietly teaching him the word Mama during the rare times you went out without the babe. The Tsahik had advised that it would be wise to allow Mako time alone with Neteyam, so as not to let the boy grow entirely dependent on you.

One afternoon, Neteyam sat on the platform outside your hut, holding a carved wooden ikran toy just out of Mako’s reach.

“Say Ma-ma,” Neteyam coaxed patiently, pointing toward you as you sat near the healing pavilion a terrace away. “Come on, buddy. Ma-ma. She gives you the best hugs and kisses, and the great feasts. Say Ma-ma...”

Mako bounced on his knees, his eyes locked on the toy. He opened his little mouth, his tongue clicking against his gums. “Ma... Ma-ma! Mama!” he cheered loudly.

You swiveled your head toward your hut, your heart swelling with overwhelming affection. Tears pricked your eyes as you dropped the herbs you were counting and rushed over to smother your son’s face in kisses.

Neteyam smiled triumphantly, looking absurdly proud of himself as he watched you so happy. You looked at him and smiled warmly. The very next afternoon, while Neteyam was out on warrior duties, you spent almost the entire day whispering into your son’s ear.

So when Neteyam returned later that day, weary and covered in trail dust, he set his weapons aside and knelt by the cot. The moment Mako saw his father’s shadow, his pale yellow eyes lit up. He reached out his chubby hands, bouncing wildly.

“Pa-pa!” Mako shouted clearly, clapping his hands together. “Papa!”

Neteyam froze. His breath hitched, his golden eyes widening in sheer disbelief. He looked up at you, completely speechless, his lips parting in shock.

You offered him a playful, smug grin, leaning casually against the doorway. “What? You didn't think I would let you have all the glory, did you?”

A breathless, deeply emotional laugh broke from Neteyam’s throat. He reached into the cot and scooped Mako into his arms, burying his face in the baby’s neck, hugging him tight as the side of his eyes shone with unshed tears.

At ten moons old, while sitting together on the terrace edge watching Mako attempt to chase a beetle, you finally asked the question that had been lingering in your mind for moons.

“An Omatikaya scout arrived to give a message to my brother yesterday,” you said softly, watching the sky shift colors. He didn’t answer immediately, and you tilted your head with a gentle smile. “You thought I wouldn't know?” you asked softly. “They said your father misses his chief warrior. Your clan is peaceful now... You could return home.”

Neteyam didn't even glance toward the path leading out of the valley. He kept his eyes firmly on Mako, his large hand resting gently on the wooden deck, dangerously close to yours.

“My duty to the Omatikaya ended the day I realized my heart was here,” Neteyam said, his deep voice carrying an unshakeable finality. “My home is wherever you are, Y/N. If you tell me to leave, I will sleep at the edge of your borders, but I will never go back to a life without you.”

You looked at his side profile, feeling the profound, unwavering weight of his devotion dissolve the last bitter thorn in your chest completely.

As he grew, Mako turned into an absolute force of nature, especially now that he was no longer just crawling. He shuffled frantically on two chubby legs, his balance precarious, his little toes curling into the dirt. You and Neteyam often took him down to the lake to walk on the soft grass, delighting in his giggles every time the blades tickled his bare feet, causing him to lift his legs high like a syaksyuk.

“Careful, buddy,” Neteyam warned gently, walking a single pace behind him, his massive hands hovering mere inches from Mako's waist, ready to catch him if he tumbled.

Mako took three wide, wobbly steps, his arms and tail flailing in the air for balance. He gasped loudly, turning his head to make sure you were watching.

“Go on, my boy!” you cheered, kneeling at the end of the grassy path with open arms.

Mako let out a triumphant squeal, taking four fast, uncontrolled steps before losing his balance entirely and flopping into the soft grass. Before he could even think of crying, Neteyam dropped beside him, rolling him onto his back and tickling his stomach until Mako was breathless with laughter.

You sat down in the grass beside them, watching Neteyam lift Mako high into the air against the backdrop of the golden sunset. Mako babbled endlessly to the sky, his five little fingers grabbing at his father’s braids, and Neteyam looked up at him with a face overflowing with pure, unadulterated love.

When Neteyam lowered the baby, his golden eyes shifted to you. The lingering guilt, the painful groveling, and the strict boundaries of the past year had quietly matured into a deep, unshakable bond of mutual respect, unspoken understanding, and a love far stronger than the one you had lost.

Later that evening, after the trek back from the lake, the cool night air settled over the village. Mako had burned through the last of his endless energy, his small body going limp in your arms the moment you stepped into the hut. You tucked him into his cot, listening to the tiny, rhythmic sighs of his breathing, before walking over to the low wooden counter to prepare your evening tea.

Neteyam moved quietly across the room, carrying a heavy water jar. He turned just as you spun around to grab a dried herb bundle.

Neither of you gave way in time, and you bumped right into his broad chest.

The collision sent you off balance. Neteyam’s instincts flared instantly; he dropped the jar onto a rack and caught you around the waist with both arms. The sudden movement pulled you completely flush against him, your chest pressed flat against his bare, warm torso, your hands catching his broad shoulders for support.

You gasped, your face ending up mere inches from his jaw. Neteyam’s breath hitched, his large hands tightening around your waist as he held you securely. His golden eyes locked onto yours, blazing with a sudden, searing intensity that made the room feel stripped of oxygen.

“Are you alright?” he rasped, his voice dropping an octave, rich and thick with restraint.

“Yes,” you breathed, your pulse thumping against your ribs. “I... I just didn't see you.”

But you didn't pull away... and neither did he.

His eyes dropped to your lips, lingering there with a desperate, agonizing hunger that had been kept under lock and key for almost two years. His thumb stroked the curve of your hip, a subconscious, needy movement that made a quiet sigh escape your mouth.

That faint sound shattered the last of his defenses.

Neteyam leaned down, closing the tiny gap between you, and captured your lips in a deep, hard kiss.

You let out a soft groan, sliding your arms up to entwine your fingers in his thick braids, pulling him down to kiss him harder. Neteyam let out a low, shuddering growl in the back of his throat, his large hands sliding up your back to press you so close there wasn't a breath of air left between your bodies.

The kiss deepened, heavy and intoxicating. His mouth opened against yours, tasting you with a slow, ravenous passion that set your entire nervous system ablaze. He shifted his hips, pinning you lightly against the wooden edge of the counter, his tongue tracing yours in a rhythm that made your knees go weak. You tightened your grip on his shoulders, arching into his heat, completely lost in the sensation of being held by him again.

Both of you knew that nothing was stopping you. Mako was fast asleep, the hut was dark, and the door flap was secured against the night wind. The lingering longing of long, painful years throbbed between you, practically begging you both to abandon the slow pace you had carefully set.

Neteyam’s lips trailed down your jawline, pressing hot, lingering kisses along the side of your neck, making you gasp softly and tilt your head back to give him complete access. His hands cupped your thighs, lifting you slightly onto the edge of the counter, pressing his raging hard-on against your crotch.

He was trembling. The sheer force of his desire was palpable, vibrating through every muscle in his arms as he pressed his forehead into the crook of your neck, his breath hot and ragged against your bare skin.

“Y/N...” he choked out, his hands gripping your legs with a reverent, desperate strength. “Fuck, I want you so much...”

You cupped his cheek, feeling the intense heat of his skin, your own chest heaving just as fast as his. You looked into his golden eyes, dark with passion yet filled with absolute devotion. You kissed him softly, “Take me,” you mumbled against his lips.

He pulled away a little, resting his forehead against yours and closing his eyes for a moment in an intense attempt to calm himself down. As intoxicating as it was to feel you this way again, he knew the quiet, beautiful truth anchoring you both: he didn't need to rush anymore. He was no longer on a mission to prove anything to anyone; his time with you had no timer on it, and you weren't going anywhere.

You two had all the time in the world.

“I want us to mate first...” he mumbled against your skin.

A breathless chuckle escaped your swollen lips. You reached up, gently threading your fingers through his hair and bringing his face back to yours, pressing a soft, slow kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“Wise,” you whispered against his cheek, your thumb stroking his cheekbone.

“I will court you,” he mumbled softly. “I will formally ask your grandmother and brother for your hand.”

Your lips twisted playfully. “No need for that...” you mumbled.

He shook his head firmly. “Don’t say that. Antulo might actually kill me this time if I make moves under their noses.”

You laughed breathlessly, hugging him around the shoulders. “Okay...” you mumbled against his neck. “Okay.”

The tension in his shoulders softened, replaced by a profound, blissful peace. He rested his forehead against yours, a soft, breathless laugh breaking from his lips. “And... my family will be coming for Mako’s first birthday,” he mumbled.

You pulled back slightly, “Birthday?” you asked, your forehead creasing in confusion.

His hands caressed your waist gently. “It’s a Terran tradition my father brought with him. We celebrate the person every season, during the exact day they were born,” he explained.

You smiled up at him, “That’s amazing. I want to celebrate Mako,” you mumbled.

He nodded, “And you, too... You did so well on that day. You survived it, and that’s amazing considering the size of his head.”

“Hey!” you said softly, a giggle escaping your lips as you playfully smacked his chest. “Not my son’s head! He got that entirely from you.”

He grinned, lowering his head to press a lingering kiss to your lips. You kissed him back for a long moment before pulling back slightly.

“And... are your parents okay with me?” you asked, suddenly feeling worried and uncertain.

He chuckled softly. “Of course. My parents have always been impartial in their judgment,” he said. “And they knew that I was with you before.”

Your eyes widened a little. “How?” you mumbled.

He bit his lip, looking away as if thoroughly embarrassed. “Well...” he started, rubbing the back of his neck. “Remember that time I...” His eyes widened to indicate a specific memory. “You... behind the stock hut?”

Your eyes narrowed as the memory returned. Your face heated up instantly, and you closed your eyes in intense embarrassment.

“Right... that was my reaction, too,” he said in a humored tone, pressing a soft kiss to your temple.

It had been even worse for him, to be honest. His parents had been standing near the stock hut, speaking about the matter of your presence in the clan, when they were treated to the quiet, unmistakable moans coming from behind the structure. They were certainly old enough to know what was happening, but they were mostly curious about which young people were desecrating the stock hut.

“You taste so good...” they had heard a familiar raspy voice murmur.

“Let’s go,” Jake, scandalized by the sounds, had pulled Neytiri away.

Neytiri allowed herself to be pulled, but she looked back over her shoulder. “That sounds like Neteyam,” she thought out loud.

Jake looked back too, shaking his head. “That boy...”

They stayed within sight of the stock hut, ready to lecture Neteyam once he revealed himself. After what seemed like an eternity, however, a smaller figure emerged from the shadow. A woman. You had tried so hard to fix your single-braided hair, but it was so messy that you chose to simply unbind your hair before adjusting your top and loincloth, both of which were askew as though you had been ravaged.

Both Jake and Neytiri’s jaws had slackened to see you, but especially when, minutes later, their firstborn son emerged. Not casually walking at all; he was palming his crotch and squeezing as though he were desperately trying to calm his body down. He was about to walk up the winding ramp after you when Neytiri called out to him from where they stood.

His shoulders had squared immediately, standing straighter as he walked toward his parents with all the air of a respectable, dignified warrior. But that façade was shattered right away when his mother calmly pointed out the remnants of wet essence glistening around his mouth.

Now that Neteyam recalled the memory, he couldn't help but laugh softly as he held you close. That felt like a hundred years ago, and the two of you had come so incredibly far. Most people would say they wouldn't change anything about the journey that brought them to where they currently were, but he definitely wished he could change a few things... or just one specific thing.

The part where you got hurt. He wished he had taken your side completely and defended you to his people openly from the start. But he could not erase what he had done, so he was determined to make everything right going forward. He would love you so intensely that you would never be haunted by what had happened. He would give you his absolute faith, belief, and devotion.

His official courtship began the morning after he spoke to your brother. The air between them cleared in a raw, quiet conversation down by the lower terraces, where Neteyam looked Antulo dead in the eye and swore on his very soul that he would never hurt you or allow danger to touch you or your son again. Your grandmother had watched from the shade of the pavilion. Though she hadn't held Neteyam to the same white-hot wrath as Antulo, the Tsahik’s heart had ached deeply for what you had endured; seeing Neteyam’s humble, unwavering devotion over the past moons was the only reason she blessed his intention to woo you properly.

Antulo’s first official decree as the brother being appeased was immediate, however: “Move out of her hut, warrior. You may have fathered my nephew, but you’re still a suitor, not a mate. You want her? You earn her from the ground up.”

Neteyam didn't complain for a single second. That very afternoon, he built a small shelter, close enough to hear Mako if he cried, but far enough to respect your honor and the clan's traditions.

The formal courtship transformed Neteyam from a quiet co-parent into an utterly shameless pursuer. Every morning, before you even opened your eyes, a new gift would be left on your wooden porch.

One afternoon, you sat with Enya and Penxi near the weaving looms, sorting through the vibrant blue stones and rare, hand-carved bone hair beads Neteyam had brought you that morning.

Enya picked up a beautifully carved wooden comb, turning it in the sunlight with a dramatic sigh. “He has been courting you since forever, Y/N, and he still has endless ideas for gifts!”

Penxi smiled at you before turning to Enya. “All of that before was just Neteyam repenting. But this right now? This is the actual courtship, and he must show he is worthy.”

“Either way,” Enya giggled, nudging your shoulder, “the chief warrior of the Omatikaya is sleeping in a woven tent for you. I say put him out of his misery!”

Penxi laughed. “Or make him sweat a little longer?”

You smiled softly, tracing the smooth wood of the comb, your chest swelling with a warmth that knew exactly what to do, despite the playful chatter around you.

While the village thoroughly approved of the courtship, one tiny person was severely offended by Neteyam’s sudden shift in behavior: Mako.

Now a fully mobile, incredibly vocal toddler, Mako was used to having both of his parents in a neat, protective triangle centered entirely around him. Neteyam’s sudden habit of giving you undivided, romantic attention—which he foolishly thought the boy wouldn't notice—did not sit well with the young child.

One evening, Neteyam brought over a basket of sweet, roasted roots. You sat together on the terrace steps while Mako played with a set of wooden animal blocks near your feet.

Neteyam leaned in, offering you a piece of the roasted fruit. As you took a bite, he lingered close, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your cheek, his hand gently resting over yours.

“NO!”

A high-pitched, furious screech shattered the romantic atmosphere.

Mako dropped his wooden blocks, his little brow furrowing into an outrageously dramatic scowl. He shuffled over on his chubby legs as fast as he could, wedging his tiny body directly between you and Neteyam. He pushed his hands against Neteyam’s chest with all the strength his little arms could muster.

“Mine!” Mako shouted fiercely, slapping Neteyam’s knee before wrapping his arms tightly around your neck and glaring at his father. “Mama mine! No kiss!”

Neteyam gasped, clutching his chest in mock agony. “What? Buddy, I brought the sweet tubers! I carved the blocks! You betray me for a cheek kiss?!”

Mako puffed out his cheeks, burying his face in your shoulder and letting out a protective, tiny growl.

You burst into breathless laughter, kissing the top of Mako's head while Neteyam shook his head in fond disbelief.

“I can't believe I have fought rogue warriors and border beasts, Y/N, but my fiercest rival for your heart is my own son.”

Days before Mako’s first birthday, Neytiri, Jake, Kiri, and Tuk arrived for Mako’s nameday celebration. Neteyam welcomed them alongside you, Mako snuggled securely in his arms. Both Jake and Neytiri were breathless at the sight of the little boy. He looked remarkably like Neteyam when he was that age, but Neytiri noticed his brows and low-set kuru right away.

She looked at Jake, who also looked back at her with a soft, understanding smile. Mako was restless in Neteyam’s arms, hugging his father shyly as Neteyam introduced him to his family.

“Dad, Mother... you remember Y/N,” Neteyam said, turning his body toward you, his arm snaking around your waist and pulling you closer to his side.

Kiri smiled warmly from behind her parents, while little Tuk remained silent, her eyes fixed on Mako, curious and full of quiet wonder.

“I remember her,” Neytiri said with a soft, gracious smile, stepping forward toward you. “I am sorry for what my people brought upon you...” she mumbled, lifting her hand to gently touch your cheek. “And for the treason we allowed to foster among our people, whose poison bled onto the innocent.”

You offered a genuine smile, nodding and gently holding her hand. “I hope knowing who the real culprit was brought peace to the grieving families.”

She smiled, her eyes misting as she recognized the deep grace you held in your heart. It had allowed you to forgive her son. For this, she was profoundly grateful. Grateful to know that her son’s heart had chosen a spirit as pure as yours.

Your brother welcomed Toruk Makto and his family with a grand feast, housing them in a comfortable, spacious hut and assigning local guides for Kiri and Tuk. Tuk visited your hut frequently, initially not speaking much and simply playing with Mako’s toys. Mako was far more talkative, which endeared him greatly to Neytiri.

It was not until Mako’s actual birthday that something truly momentous occurred. You were preparing Mako, bathing him and dressing him in a fresh loincloth, while Tuk quietly hovered nearby.

“It’s his birthday?” she asked quietly, gently touching Mako’s head.

You looked at her with wide eyes; Neteyam did too. You subtly shook your head when Neteyam looked as though he wanted to loudly celebrate the fact that she was speaking. You turned to Tuk and smiled softly, “Yes. His first birthday.”

Tuk smiled gently. “He was born a year ago?” she asked. Neteyam watched her, his face contorting in pure joy as tears filled his eyes. He quietly stepped out of the hut to silently call his parents and Kiri.

Mako looked at Tuk and giggled. “Birthday!”

Tuk giggled too. “It’s the most special day,” she said softly.

You smiled, breathlessly laughing, “Yes. Very special,” you nodded, playfully tapping her nose. “When is your birthday?”

Jake and Neytiri quietly rushed to the doorway, watching Tuk hold a comfortable, easy conversation with you, a huge smile spread across her face as she even laughed when Mako grabbed at her braids. Safe to say, Mako’s birthday was a resounding success, and he grew comfortable enough with Neytiri and Jake to allow them to feed him and carry him around the village.

“He is so chunky,” Tuk giggled, kissing Mako’s chubby arm.

Your son remained unbothered by all the fussing, far too busy gnawing on the cooked meat Jake had given him, holding it tightly with both of his little hands. Neytiri caressed his head while Jake kept teasing his tail, but Mako was completely unbothered by any of it.

“He has long patience,” Kiri remarked, smiling at you and Neteyam.

“Much like Neteyam,” Neytiri piped in warmly. “Nothing could make Neteyam lose his temper when he was small. Jake loved teasing his tail, too,” she shared with you.

You chuckled, watching your son. He had an absolute blast on his birthday, and you were so glad. He ate, played, and then ate again. He fed with you and connected kurus with Neteyam, but he stubbornly refused to take a nap, far too restless as he watched the other children playing and running around. Thus, it was no surprise that by nightfall, he was completely limp and asleep in Neteyam’s arms.

“Can he sleep in our hut?” Tuk asked softly, gently touching Mako’s hand.

“Oh, maybe not, Tuk-Tuk. Mako needs to sleep with his mama in case he gets hungry,” Neytiri said softly, caressing Tuk’s head.

Tuk’s lips pouted forward, and seeing how sad she looked, you couldn't allow the young girl to be disappointed on the very day she had opened up and spoken again. You held her hand gently. “Maybe he can. You are just our neighbors, so I think Mako can sleep beside you in your hut, and you can bring him to me if he gets hungry or fussy?”

Tuk smiled brightly, nodding eagerly. “I will! I will take care of him!”

You smiled warmly. Neytiri smiled at you and softly muttered her thanks. Neteyam handed the heavily sleeping Mako over to Neytiri, and the two of you watched them retreat to their hut next door.

You turned to Neteyam, smiling up at him and tiptoeing to kiss his lips. He wrapped his arms around you, kissing you back deeply. Your hand slid down to hold his, gently pulling him inside your hut.

The woven door flap fell shut behind you, and he immediately covered your face with kisses like a starving man, his large hands framing your face as he kissed you passionately. You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer and kissing him harder. He whisked your top away, his hands moving quickly to free you of your loincloth. His lips found their fiery path down your neck, his hand cupping your breast and squeezing reverently.

You lowered yourself onto the floor before he could stop you, untying his loincloth and freeing his length. You felt as though you were possessed. You had missed him so much; you had missed this closeness for so long. He groaned, his knees buckling as your hand wrapped around his thick girth, your mouth following by pressing an open-mouthed kiss to his velvety skin, sucking gently.

He took in a sharp breath, his fingers tangling in your hair. You looked up at him as you happily licked the full length of his cock, giving him deep kisses and tasting him while humming softly. He lowered himself onto his knees, allowing you to shift into a position that suited you, letting your hips rise as he took in the view of you.

He hissed softly, reaching for your wetness and slipping two fingers into your tight heat while you continued to pleasure him with your mouth. Your lips tightened around him as he worked his fingers inside you. His other hand gently angled your head so he could move against your mouth, the tip meeting the back of your throat. Your mouth had been accustomed to his impressive size before, and the familiar fullness brought a surge of pleasure to you both.

You licked and stroked, drawing intense groans from him until he came hotly in your mouth. Even as he tried to pull away, you swallowed and cleaned him thoroughly. When you were finished, he drew his fingers out from your core, licking them before lifting you easily by the waist.

He kissed you deeply, his tongue tracing your lips and tasting himself before placing you gently onto the soft mats. He licked his lip, admiring the raw beauty of your bare body beneath him.

There were subtle, beautiful changes to your frame after childbirth, and he adored this version of your body most of all. He lowered his head to kiss your lips, then moved down to trail kisses across your breasts, kneading the soft skin carefully before his hands slid behind your knees, opening you wide for him. He hungrily lowered his head, meeting your slick core with his mouth opened, licking away your sweetness and groaning happily.

“Fuck, I missed you so much...” he mumbled against your skin, and you laughed breathlessly.

“My pussy?” you teased softly. “Wow.”

He nipped gently at your folds. “Everything. I missed all of you so much... I missed this, and I missed my sweet one,” he pressed his thumb into your core before sucking your clit gently.

You let your head fall back onto the mat with a soft laugh, moaning when he continuously lapped at your pussy. You were trembling from intense stimulation by the time he pulled up, your thighs loose and unresisting in his firm hold. He hovered over you, reaching for his kuru and showing yoy the trendils undet the hair.

“I should have asked before we started...” he mumbled softly, taking your hand and kissing your palm. “But I’m not doing this without this anymore...”

You bit your lip to stifle a radiant smile, reaching for your own kuru to offer it to him. He lowered his head to kiss you deeply before connecting your tendrils. You arched your back as you gasped, your hand gripping his bicep as you stared straight into his golden eyes, both of your pupils dilated from the overwhelming wave of sensation the bond provided. He flooded you with an infinite ocean of love, but you also caught a brief glimpse into his emotions from the past years, the lingering fear, the regret, and the deep grief, all of which were completely conquered by his all-consuming love for you.

Your emotions flooded him in return: the love, the fear, the painful sense of betrayal, and then love that sent warmth to his chest. He choked on a sob, looking down at you in absolute disbelief, overwhelmed by the depth of your heart and how completely you had managed to forgive and love him again.

He kissed you tenderly, and you parted your legs wider for him. He looked down, giving his cock a few firm strokes before guiding himself inside you in a single thrust that made you moan loud. Even though you had given birth, your body welcomed him intimately, wrapping tightly around his length. He began a slow, deliberate rhythm, pulling back and thrusting deep, marking you with every familiar contour of his body.

He moved within you with a steady, passionate pace, his thumb massaging your clit as he buried his face into the crook of your neck to muffle his groans. When your climax hit, he didn't stop, continuing his deep, rhythmic thrusts that drew loud, breathless moans from your throat. He kissed you deeply to capture the sounds, moving with relentless devotion until he spilled hot and thick inside you, burying himself to the hilt as a powerful shudder wracked his entire frame.

You wrapped your arms tightly around his broad shoulders, pressing sweet kisses to his jawline.

Over the next few hours, neither of you thought of stopping. You ignited a fiery hunger in him when you rolled on top of him and took control, riding him with confident grace, until he eventually flipped you onto your hands and knees to take you deeply from behind. When you finally collapsed onto your stomach in sheer exhaustion, he gently lifted your leg to slide back inside you, his hand reaching around to stimulate your clit until you both shattered once again.

He was so insatiable that you were physically trembling by the time he finally pulled a soft woven blanket over both of your bodies. He wrapped his long arm around your waist and pulled you flush against his chest, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead.

“Was I too much?” he mumbled softly into your hair.

You shook your head, a contented smile gracing your lips as you snuggled deeper into his warmth. “Never...” you answered softly. “I didn’t forget your stamina.”

He laughed raspily, holding you tight. “I'm sorry,” he said with a soft grin.

“Please, I have high respect for that animal,” you smirked, kissing the soft skin of his shoulder.

He cupped your chin in his large fingers, tilting your head up to kiss you with profound sweetness. “I love you so much, Y/N...”

You kissed him back, your eyes stinging with happy tears. “I love you, Neteyam... so much.” you breathed against his lips.

His hand stroked your cheek gently. “I hope you believe me when I say I will never allow you to be hurt like that again. I will lay down my life for you and Mako, always...”

Your lips curved into a soft smile, tears spilling over as you nodded against his skin. “I believe you, Neteyam. I believe in every word that you say,” you whispered, placing your palm over his steady heart.

He pressed his forehead firmly against yours, his voice thick with emotion. “All my love, belief, and devotion are yours, Y/N. Always.”

You grinned through your tears, pulling him down into another deep, everlasting kiss.

The morning after you two reunited in every sense of the word, the quiet peace of the hut was broken not by the sounds of tears, but by a brand-new, highly questionable skill your son had picked up.

Kiri’s voice calling outside made you and Neteyam sit up in panic.

“Wait!” you said, grabbing your loincloth and tying it on your tail. Neteyam grabbed your top when he finished tying his own, helping you put on it.

You quickly went to the woven flap, pulling it aside and being welcomed by the sight of your son theatrically mimicking the look of a wild animal roaring. You figured that he was also the one you heard roaring earlier. Tuk was standing beside Kiri, grinning at you and Neteyam.

“Mako can roar like a palulukan now!” she proudly announced.

Your son immediately demonstrated again. You were quick to jump into action, acting scared as he reached for you. “Nooo! Papa, save me!” you stepped back.

Mako giggled. “No, Mama!” he said like he was assuring you. “Just baby!”

You and Kiri melted in a puddle of aww. You reached for your son, hugging him to you and kissing his cheek. “Good morning, my boy,” you whispered.

Neteyam held his hand with his fingers, bringing it to his mouth to pretend bite it. Mako squealed and laughed. “Papa!”

Neteyam roared softly, coaxing a roar from Mako that the boy immediately gave. Neteyam took this new development as a serious parental responsibility. Every morning before sunrise, as you were trying to piece together enough sanity to prepare breakfast, Neteyam would crawl on his hands and knees across the floor mats, trailing behind Mako with an utterly deadpan, stoic expression.

“Watch closely, Mako,” Neteyam whispered solemnly, crouching low over a woven basket. “This is how a true warrior hunts. First, the stalk...”

Mako wobbled beside him, copying his father’s serious posture, his chubby little cheeks puffed out.

Neteyam suddenly threw his hands up in the air, baring his fangs and letting out the most dramatic, over-the-top, rumbling roar. Mako squealed in utter delight, throwing his little five-fingered hands up and screeching a high-pitched “Rrrr-rawr!” before losing his balance and rolling backward onto the soft mats.

Neteyam immediately collapsed next to him, dramatically clutching his chest as if mortally wounded. “Argh! You have struck me down, Chief Mako! The warriors lost!”

You stood by the cooking fire, leaning against the wooden post, holding a wooden spoon and shaking your head as you wheezed with laughter. “Neteyam, he is one year old. Stop letting him defeat you before sunrise.”

Neteyam looked up from the floor, one golden eye open while Mako sat on his stomach, slapping his chest. “I cannot help it, Y/N. He is far too powerful.”

Mako babbled triumphantly, bouncing up and down on Neteyam’s broad torso like a little chief who had just conquered a mountain. “Rawr! Papa down!”

Neteyam let out a exaggerated groan, letting his head fall back onto the mat as if drawing his final breath, which only prompted Mako to collapse forward, burying his little face into Neteyam’s chest with giggles that sounded like chiming bells.

You set the food down wooden tray and walked over, shaking your head affectionately as you knelt beside the two dramatic males in your life. You reached down, tickling the back of Mako’s thigh until the toddler squealed and rolled into your lap instead.

“Traitor,” Neteyam muttered, instantly sitting up with a boyish grin, his golden eyes warm as they swept over your face.

You looked up at him, your gaze lingering on his lips. The quiet residue of the night before still hung sweet and thick between you, the memory of his touch, the warmth of your connected kurus, and the unspoken promises he had breathed against your skin. You felt a soft flush rise on your cheeks, and Neteyam’s smile widened, knowing precisely what you were thinking.

“What?“ you asked, trying to sound stern, though the smile pulling at your lips betrayed you completely.

“Nothing,” Neteyam murmured smoothly, reaching out to tuck a stray braid behind your ear, his thumb brushing your cheekbone with reverent tenderness. “Just thinking about how blessed I am.”

Mako, sensing that he was no longer the sole center of attention, promptly wedged his chubby body between the two of you once more, letting out another high-pitched squeak right into Neteyam’s chest.

“No.” You say looking at both men, despite for when you can all be together again. You and Gwayne arriving back in kingslanding only the night before. “I want to lick them.”

“Darling.” Rhaenyra whisper hisses with a laugh, her also having the same thoughts but more self control. “Oh gods you’re actually drooling.” She laughs wiping your lip with her thumb, you kissing it before anyone can notice. “Later.”

“Why do we have to wait?” You whine, feeling like you’re being tortured. Not having touched her or Harwin since your last visit over a year before.

“Because it’s the middle of the day.” She says raising an eyebrow at you. Her and Harwin having planed the night ahead, both having been looking forward to it.

“You’re no fun.” You pout going back to watching your men train. Licking your lips when Gwayne throws some water over himself to cool down.

-

“How come gwayne doesn’t have to wait?” You whine, Gwayne having pounced on Harwin as soon as the doors locked. Rhaenyra not letting you do the same to her, making you go slow.

“Because he knows how to wait.” She smiles giving you a quick kiss, pulling away before you can even attempt to deepen it.

“So do I.” You pout, everyone knowing you’re lying. Whimpering at the sight of Gwanye pushing Harwin down onto the sofa and straddling the man while Rhaenyra moves behind you, kissing your neck while she loosens the ties of your dress. “Please nyra.”

“Wait.” She says giggling, loving how desperate you are. All your lovers having been deliberately teasing you all day. Gwayne starting the day by waking you up with kisses then running off before you could go any further. Rhaenyra having been sneaking kisses all day while Harwin has just been giving you looks and calling you princess.

“Have some patience Ser Gwayne.” Harwin mumbles against his lips, Gwayne having already removed both the men’s shirts and starting to undo the guards breaches. “We have all night.”

“So it’s not just you who had an issue with patience.” Rhaenyra teases, all going to plan as she pushes your dress of you, leaving you naked in the middle of the room. “You naughty girl.” She says, lightly slapping your arse at the fact you're not wearing anything under your dress. Both men looking over at the sound.

“Really my love?” Gwayne asks with a laugh, knowing you’d do something like this. The knight moaning when Harwin grinds up against him. The dark haired man looking you up and down while Rhaenyra runs her hands over you. Stopping at your breasts to squeeze your nipples, loving the gasp that leaves your lips.

“Do you want to join me in bed and leave the boys to it?” She asks, hands still playing with your nipples.

“Yes please.” You sigh out, leaning into her slightly.

“Good girl, you’ve found your manners.” She coos, taking your hand to lead you to her bed. “Lay down for me.”

“Please kiss me nyra.” You beg, loving kisses.

“I always forget how desperate you are.” She teases looking at you while you lie on the bed waiting for her. The silver haired woman undoing her robe and leaving her as naked as you. Her smirking when you bite your lip and look at her up and down.

“Please my queen.” You beg, desperate for her. Despite for any of your lovers.

“That’s treason my love.” She says lightly, climbing on the bed to join you. Moans coming from the other side of the room but you to focused on Rhaenyra to care.

“No it’s not.” You deny pulling her down into a kiss. Her hair down and covering the two of your faces.

“Isn’t it?” She asks biting your lip, and moving you so her thigh to between your legs.

“No, you’re my queen.” You say whimpering when she stars moving her thigh your already wet cunt making a mess on her. “Please nyra.”

“Please who?” She asks kissing down your throat, nipping at your sweet spot.

“Please, my queen.”

“Good girl.” She mumbles, you whimpering as she kisses down you. Stopping at your breasts, her having been wanting to suck on them all day. Taking your perky nipple in her mouth she runs her tongue over it before giving it a suck. Making you moan when she plays with the other, her mouth still on you. “Fuck I’ve missed these.”

“Fuck Gwayne.” You hear Harwin moan out, the man groaning. You able to tune out their noises until you hear your husbands name. Gwayne on his knees sucking on the man’s cock, looking so beautiful as he does so.

“Eyes on me.” Rhaenyra says taking your face in her hand and bringing it back to looking at her.

“But-.” You’re cut off by her sticking her thumb in your mouth, you immediately sucking on it.

“Princess.” She says firmly, wanting you to herself for a while. “Good.” She smiles tapping your cheek before going back to work, this time skipping your breasts and moving down between your thighs. “Oh you poor girl you're dripping.” She coos, hands on your thighs while she looks at your dripping cunt. Teasing you further by kissing around where you need her.

“Please.” You beg needing her.

“As you wish.” She says pressing a soft kiss to your pearl before sucking it making you moan. Slipping two fingers in without warning making you gasp at the sensation of it all. “You taste so good.”

“Fuck.” You moan hand going to her sliver hair, tugging it lightly.

“Good girl.” She murmurs into you, the vibrations of her voice making you whimper. While she sucks at your pearl fingers exploring to find your spot. Smirking against you when she finds it, you just moaning in response.

“Nyra.” You whimper, clenching around her. Feeling your orgasm build, her being mean by removing her mouth from your pearl to blow on it making you squirm, not only the loss of her but also the cool sensation. Her then licking at you again. “Fuck please.”

“Can I have a taste?” Harwin asks, making you and Rhaenyra jump. You whining at the loss of her. Nether of you noticing your men appear by the bed. Gwanye dramatically flopping on the bed next to you. Making you laugh at the look on his face, him just kissing you in response. Mumbling about how much he loves you, the taste of Harwin still on his lips.

“Fine.” Rhaenyra fake huffs, moving away from your thighs to pull Harwin into a kiss letting his taste you on her lips. “You can have her now.”

“Thank you, my love.” He says softly, giving her another kiss before taking her place in between your thighs.

“Gwanye make yourself useful.” Rhaenyra says tapping the man so he stops kissing you, Harwin immediately pulling you further down the bed as soon as your lips part. Making you gasp when you legs get moved to his shoulders the man not wasting any time before he starts licking at you. Groaning at the taste.

“Sit on my face princess.” Gwanye says not wanting to move and also loving having his face ridden. “I shall be your throne.”

“Shut up.” She says rolling her eyes while doing exactly as he asked. Stradling his face, the man immediately pressing his tongue against her. “Fuck.”

“Fuck Harwin.” You moan, him finding the perfect rhythm of tongue and fingers, the man making you see stars. “I’m going to cum.”

“Cum for us.” Rhaenyra commands through gasps and moans Gwanye being annoying good at oral. Your husband moaning against her when she pulls his hair.

“Oh shit, fuck.” You pant your orgasm crashing over you. Harwin slowing to help you through the after shocks. “Fuck.”

“Gwayne if you stop I’m going to kill you.” Rhaenyra threatens when she feels his tounge slow. Him mumbling some unintelligible against her but continuing.

“Are you alright princess?”

“More than alright.” You say smile on your face. “I’ve missed you both.”

“I’ve missed you both too.” He says moving off the floor and onto the bed to give you a soft kiss. “You’re husband is getting hard again.” He whispers into your ear sharing a smile with you when you move over to your husband. His half hard cock red and dripping.

“Oh fuck.” Rhaenyra moans when Harwin kisses her, his hands on her breast as he moves behind her to help her keep rhythm. “I’m close.”

Gwanye just making noises from under her when you kiss his tip, him bucking his hips in response. A groan running through him as you lick along a vain pulling away from him when Rhaenyra cums. Making his whimper at the loss.

“You alright nyra?” You ask, her hair a mess as Harwin helps her lay down on the bed.

“I’m fine, just give me a moment.”

“Good.” You smile before pulling Harwin into another kiss and straddling him, his hard cock nudging at your entrance. His hand guiding it into you. Making you gasps as you forget how thick he is. Gwanye being longer but not as thick.

“Wait what?” Gwanye asks whining at the sight of you on Harwin instead of him. “Why?”

“If you’d of fucked me this morning like I asked i’d be riding you, but you didn’t so.” You tease, moaning when you start riding. Knowing that gwayne isn’t actually upset or annoyed, him loving to watch Harwin fuck you just as you like the same.

“I love you, you evil woman.” He sighs massive smile on his face kneeling to give you a kiss.

“I love you too.” You mumble against his lips, moaning against him when Harwins cock hits your sensitive spot.

“Less talking more fucking.” Rhaenyra says pulling Gwayne towards her. Her refusing to admit she’s missed him.

“And I thought you didn’t like me Rhaenyra.” Gwayne teases before kissing the woman, her biting his lip in punishment. “So bossy.”

“Fuck.” Rhaenyra moans when he pushing into her, letting her adjust for a moment before fucking her.

“Shit.” You whine, orgasm building as he plays with your pearl still sensitive from your first orgasm.

“You feel so good.” Gwayne groans into Rhaenyra’s shoulder.

“Can I?” Harwin asks when he notices you struggling to keep your pace, you wanting hard and fast.

“Please.” You whine, gasping when he moves so quickly next thing tou know you’re on your back and he’s fucking into you. “Oh fuck.”

“Gwayne, fuck.” Rhaenyra moans, his thumb on her clit bringing her closer to her second orgasm. Harwin bringing you closer and closer to orgasm. Your clenching bringing him with you.

“Fuck I’m going to cum.” He groans, not letting up on his pace. “Where do you what it?”

“In her.” Gwanye answers for you. You both having spoken about it before hand.

“You sure?” Harwin checks, not wanting to cross any lines despite how much he wants to fuck you full.

“Fuck her full of you.” Gwanye pants out, fighting his own orgasm. “Fuck nyra let me cum in you.”

“Please.” You and Rhaenyra beg as your orgasms hits you, Harwin fucking you thought it when he cums. Gwayne doing the same before both men pull out. You and Gwayne whimpering at the loss, Rhaenyra and Harwin sharing a look as you do so.

“Oh fuck.” Gwanye groans flopping back on to the bed between you and Rhaenyra. Harwin getting up to collect some cloths to clean you all up when you cuddle into your husbands side. Cum leaking out of you.

“That was…” Rhaenyra starts to say but unable to think of a word able to describe that.

“Incredible?” Harwin offers, passing Gwanye a cloth to clean you up while he does the same to Rhaenyra.

“We’d all make brilliant whores.” Gwanye muses kissing the side of your head while moving closer to you so Harwin could fit.

“Gwanye!”

-

Taglist

@constantlyscreaming123

@or-was-it-just-a-dream

@sam2007sstuff

@distinguishedvoidlady

Your fingers snatch up the letter, hastily ripping open the seal. "It's from my sister!" Your exclaim, face lighting up at the realization. Your eyes flash across the page and you look up at Gwayne "The babe came!"

He nods at you to continue.

You pace the bedchambers as you read aloud, unbothered by your bareness. It was only your husband in the room with you. And you'd just had sex - given yourselves fully to each other - there was no need for embarrassment now. “The babe came quickly and without too much pain for my sister. He is a boy, black of hair, and he already has a strong set of lungs. Both he and my sister are healthy and happy. And she named him after our grandfather."

Gwayne pulls a chair next to the copper tub beside the fireplace. Servants had prepared a hot bath for you, at his request, and the steaming aroma permeates the air with the addition of floral perfumes. He sits with a quiet groan (that last tourney wore on his knees especially) and leans over to test the water with his hand. “Come get in. The water is cooling. On the morrow you can write back your congratulations.”

You stare at the letter, beaming, and scan it again. “I wish to go the Eyrie to see them. To meet my little nephew and see my sister."

He shakes his head at your suggestion “The Vale is a great distance from here, dove. I don’t want you away for so long.”

You say nothing, but everything at the same time. You don't neet to utter words to convey how you feel. Gwayne notices the slightest shift in your body language; your shoulders slump, shifting away from him, and you reach for your robe on your vanity to cover yourself.

Panic grips him like a vice. He cannot go back to having you at a distance, not now. Not when he's just only been able to have you fully. Before he's even realizing what he's saying, he blurts, “I am sure we will find a way to you to visit them.”

The look on your face - pure unbridled joy - makes the icy panic melt from Gwayne's veins. Abandoning the robe, you skip across the room, where he sits beside the copper tub. He hasn't driven you away. You drift to him, curling yourself around him like a cat, practically purring with satisfaction that he bends to your whims. He may be spineless, he thinks, but his cooperation has enormous benefits. Your favor, your affections - they are worth more than his spine anyways. His hands find yours to hold you steady as you step over the side, and into the water. You go to lower yourself into the bath, but Gwayne holds you firmly by the hips to stay standing.

"Wait" he breathes, eyes locked on the junction of your thighs. Gwayne leans forward to press a gentle kiss at the split of your cunt.

"Husband" you voice is laced with a half-hearted warning. "What are you doing?"

His hands tighten, securing into the fat of your hips, lips landing again and again onto your folds. "It's alright" he mumbles. He kisses your low belly- stubble that has emerged late in the day scraping the soft skin of your stomach. "Please, let me taste you. Just a little." You fingers that clutch his shoulder for support dig into the velvet material of his shirt. But Gwayne is undeterred as he dips his head lower. As his mouth finds your puffy clit. When his tongue splits the folds of your cunt, you squeak, hands flying to his long, auburn strands.

Even though your center is sensitive, and admittedly a little sore, your husband soothes the area with a gentle touch. His fingers, callused from the sword, carefully part your folds and nudge the flat of his tongue, then the tip of his nose into your clit. You inhale sharply as he slightly sucks the puffy bud.

"You taste so good, dove I can't help it" He mumbles apologetically. His scratchy chin grazing your thighs is a new sensation that is turning your knees to jelly with each passing second.

When he looks up at you with wide blue eyes, you notice the lower half of his face shines with slick. "You're insatiable, husband. Greed is a sin cast down by the Seven." you tease, running a thumb across his pink lower lip.

"The Seven would understand if they tasted this." he responds, before dipping his head again into the junction of your thighs. His long fingers plunge into your soaked folds, parting your thighs so he can kiss your clit again. Gwayne latches to your center, drinking up the juices from your dripping cunt. The beginnings of your peak ignite low in your belly as his lips suck your hypersensitive clit.

"Gwayne, please" you whisper, your thighs beginning to tremble around his head.

All your husband can do is moan as he devours pleasure from you, and when you come, he practically whimpers, pressing his face even deeper into your cunt. "So perfect" he mutters when he comes up for air, and you are regaining your breath.

He leans forward to greedily indulge in your cunt once more, but your grip tightens in his hair to hold him stationary. "No. Come in the water with me." You state. Not a question - a command to your husband.

You lower into the bath and watch him fumble with his shirt, and step clumsily out of his pants, nearly tripping in the process.

"I didn't hurt you before, did I?" he asks as he lowers himself into the water, sloshing it over the side. You find yourself reaching for him before you even realize it. Settling into his lap, your knees straddling him on either side. A smile tugs at your mouth at his concern for you. His hands run over your back, and settling a firm hold on your arse.

"No, you didn't hurt me. It just felt a little different." You admit.

He asks "Different how?"

"Oh." Your face heats at what you are about to confess "Different than with Sara."

"And you and Sara..." he trails off watching bashfulness cover your face. "I see." He chuckles, pulling your chin up so you meet his gaze. "Dove, you have no reason to hide that from me. Thank you for being so forthright."

"You're not angry with me?" You squirm, eyes brightening at the realization that Gwayne is pleased with your honesty.

His cock twitches underneath you. Not only from your movement, but from the taste of you every time he runs his tongue across his teeth. You’re opening up, not running away. He’s finally undoing the distance that started between you at the start of your marriage.

"No, of course not." He shakes his head at the ridiculous thought. "It would be hypocritical of me take lovers and expect you to not have any."

"Wait." Your eyes flash with something Gwayne cannot name. "Lovers" you repeat, emphasizing the plural. "You did? Who were they?" Your mouth curls in giddy amusement, eyes widening at the new information.

Now it your husband's turn to flush under scrutiny. He sputters, pink creeping into his face, "Surely you cannot expect a man of my standing to be - to be chaste."

"Who. Were. They?" You repeat, the glint in your eyes is mischievous, not malicious. "Tell me the last person at least" You deliver a small, playful punch to his chest.

"Arrion Baratheon." He hangs his head at the admission.

You gasp. It's over exaggerated and completely dramatic. You're having too much fun tormenting your husband. Some strange cocktail of jealousy and arousal stirs in your belly. Fingers tightening, curling into the roots of his hair, you interrogate "Was he more handsome than me? More comely?” Manipulating the auburn strands tighter in your fist, you remind yourself to never let him cut his hair short - it’s the most satisfying way to bend him to your will.

"N-no" Gwayne chokes out "Gods no."

You laugh at his trembling hands holding you, his watery eyes. “Oh husband. I hope you don’t favor these past lovers more than me.” Under the water, you feel his cock stiffening against your thigh.

The years that follow as his wife are a slow burial of the girl who once believed in songs. You learn to make yourself small, to accept whatever his temper and his body demand of you, and to survive until morning.

You are not alone in your captivity. Daeron is little more than a boy when you first meet him, and he too suffers beneath your husband. Ormund's cruelty toward him is subtler, but no less damaging for its lack of bruises. It comes in a familiar barbed tongue and carefully chosen words that burrow deep, slowly twisting a kind heart into one that forever questions its own worth.

You cannot save Daeron from Ormund, any more than you can save yourself. But you offer him what comfort you can, growing skilled at redirecting your husband's ire when it turns toward the boy, just like Daeron learns the ways to shield you in return.

Then comes the war, and for the first time in years you find yourself alone. Yet there is no peace in your husband’s absence. You have spent so long preparing yourself for his anger that you no longer know how to exist without waiting for it. The silence feels like a trap.

Worse still, he takes Daeron with him.

It is a strange thing, to find yourself both hoping for and dreading their return. Their fates are too intertwined now so you find yourself kneeling before the statues of the Seven, whispering pleas to both the Warrior and the Smith. Months pass with little world beyond what gossip your maids gather for you.

Then, on a warm summer morning, news comes that your lord husband has fallen in battle.

Nothing is said of Daeron. You wait nearly a week in agonizing fear before a letter arrives sealed with the king's sigil. You break the heavy wax and unfold the parchment, breath catching in your throat at the familiar hand that sweeps across the page.

Daeron.

Your fingers linger over his name as though you fear it might vanish beneath your touch. A sob catches in your throat.

He is alive.

More than that, he is king. 

Ink blurs beneath your tears as you read his message, a request to come to King's Landing. He promises that you will be welcomed, that you will be safe. It has been years since anyone has promised you safety.

–

The journey to King’s Landing takes nearly three months. Hightower men dressed in the dark greens and blacks of your house greet you within the inner keep. They bow when you emerge from the carriage, voices subdued as they offer condolences. You nod at the proper moments, offering the expected words of gratitude with practiced ease, your expression composed in quiet dignity and mourning.

Inside, you feel nothing.

Their praise of Ormund's honor and the heroic deeds that helped secure the king's ascension twists something inside you. They speak of a man you scarcely recognize, a man far removed from the one you knew.

Thankfully, you are spared further words when another figure approaches.

"My lady," he says with a quick bow, "I am the King’s steward. His Grace requests your presence once the Small Council has concluded its business."

"Of course," you reply, lifting a hand to your brow as you glance toward Margaery, your maid. "If I may have but a moment."

His eyes flick briefly over your travel-worn appearance before returning to your face, his tone remaining perfectly respectful.

“His Grace will not mind a brief delay," he agrees, motioning for you to follow.

The steward leads you through a series of quiet corridors, your maid following close behind with a small traveling trunk balanced carefully in her arms. The chamber awaiting you is modest but comfortable. A basin of fresh water rests upon its stand with clean linens folded neatly beside it. A large mirror hangs upon the far wall.

You pause before it.

The woman staring back at you looks exhausted. Dust clings to the hem of your skirts, and your mourning veil has slipped askew. Ormund would be furious if he found out you had been seen in such a state. 

The thought comes so suddenly that you freeze.

He is dead, you remind yourself. Yet the unease settles beneath your skin all the same, irrational but impossible to silence. You can almost hear his clipped voice. A Hightower lady, his wife, no less, reflected not only upon herself, but upon him. To appear before the court looking so travel-worn was careless. Unbecoming.

"My lady," Margery says quietly, resting a gentle hand on your shoulder.

You flinch and she adverts her eyes.

“Yes,” you agree to her unspoken words, mouth gone dry. 

Together, you work to make yourself presentable. You wash your face and hands and allow Margery to help you into a fresh gown. It is black, like all the others, stiff and uncomfortable. She runs a critical eye over you before smoothing the creases from your shoulder and tugging at a fold of bunched fabric at your waist, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth.

It strikes you then that you are not the woman trapped in old habits, still fearful of her master's displeasure.

You say her name softly, and she looks up, her expression uncertain.

"All is well," you assure her. 

She nods once and helps you pin a fresh mourning veil into your hair. Only then do you allow the steward to lead you to the king.

The deeper into the keep you go, the darker it becomes, lit only by flickering candlelight that leaves the air hazy with smoke. The Red Keep is nothing like the Hightower, surrounded by sea winds and endless beauty. This place feels close and shadowed. The very air seems heavy, steeped in a cold kind of power that unsettles you.

Golden dragons on fields of green hang from every wall, an uneasy union of Targaryen and Hightower heraldry. Ormund would have despised the sight.

You walk a few moments longer until the steward stops before the towering oak doors of the Small Council chamber. Two white-cloaked Kingsguard stand sentinel on either side. You come to a halt behind him and wait.

“The Lady Hightower,” the guard calls out, opening the heavy doors.

A short flight of stone steps rises before you, and you ascend them slowly. At first, you do not see Daeron at the far end of the table. Your attention is drawn instead to the tall figure who rises the moment you enter.

Warm green eyes meet yours, and suddenly you are fifteen again, back in your father’s great hall, watching Gwayne practice with your father’s men. For a moment, you simply stare, caught between memory and the present. A strange flurry of emotions stirs in your chest. You should have expected Gwayne to be at Daeron's side, yet the sight of him still takes you by surprise. 

Unbidden, you stare, searching his face for the changes left by the years since you last saw him. Weariness marks him now, the war having taken its toll, but his proud features remain as striking as ever. Reddish-gold hair curls at the nape of his neck, and he is dressed in a fine green doublet woven through with gold thread. At his side hangs Vigilance, Ormund’s longsword and the symbol of the title and the legacy he now carries.

The new Lord Hightower. 

Gwayne opens his mouth to speak, but Daeron rises first, his chair dragging heavily against the stone floor. The rest of the men at the table quickly follow, scrambling to their feet, but Daeron pays them little attention, rounding the table toward you.

He seems to catch himself halfway, stopping abruptly to slow his gait. His attention jumps to Gwayne, then to the gathered council, as though suddenly aware of the eyes upon him.

“Lady Hightower,” he greets, stilted and formal.

On his head rests a golden crown. A seven-pointed star sits at its center, emerald facets catching the candlelight, framed by a pair of dragons whose delicate etching is so faint you nearly miss them. 

He has grown taller since you saw him last, much of the lingering softness in his face gone, but he still looks so young. A scar bisects his left brow, and dismay settles in your chest. Your fingers itch to soothe away the hurt that must have caused it, but the skin has long since healed, pale and silvery against the rest of his face. 

Someone at the table coughs, the sound drawing you back to the moment at hand. Only then do you realize you’re simply standing there, staring. You are not greeting Daeron you realize, but your King. 

You drop into a deep curtsy, head bowed. 

“You Grace.” 

You hold your posture until Daeron gently takes your elbows and encourages you to rise. A faint blush colors his cheeks, and despite everything, you cannot help but smile.

"I am pleased you are here," he says warmly. "We have much to discuss."

"And to celebrate," a dark-haired man behind him adds, lifting his cup. "It will not be long before His Grace finds you a worthy husband.”

Daeron goes still.

His brows lift in surprise, and your own mirror his. You know him well enough to recognize the flicker of emotions that crosses his face, something between fear and guilt.

A quiet anxiety blooms in your chest, making your jaw tighten and your stomach twist.

"My..." Your voice falters as you look between the men gathered in the room. Most avoid your gaze, but the man who spoke watches you carefully, a faint smile at the corner of his mouth.

The silence that follows is broken by Gwayne.

"Lord Peake." The words come sharply, and the man's smile falters. "You forget yourself."

Gwayne’s handsome features harden, the warmth gone from his face, replaced by a cold displeasure carefully held in check.

Daeron touches your arm, drawing your attention to him for only a moment before your gaze returns to Gwayne. He has moved from his position behind the table, placing himself between you and Lord Peake. One hand hangs relaxed at his side, but the other rests upon the pommel of his greatsword.

“Lady Hightower’s future is a private matter between the Hightower House and the crown”.

Lord Peake raises a single hand, as if to forestall further reprimand. "You mistake my meaning. I merely wished to offer Lady Hightower happy news."

Your breath leaves you in a slow, unsteady exhale. They speak of your future as though you are not in the room. As though you do not matter. It is all too familiar.

Gwayne does not answer. Instead, he folds his hands behind his back and looks to Daeron.

"I would speak with Lady Hightower and my Hand in private,” Daeron announces. “We shall reconvene tomorrow."

Chairs scrape against the stone as the men rise and file from the chamber. Lord Peake is the last to leave. He slows beside Gwayne, meeting his eyes with the faintest lift of one brow. Then he turns to you and smiles. It is a courteous smile, perfectly measured. Perfectly empty. Your stomach tightens. You know that smile. 

As the heavy doors swing shut behind Lord Peake, a different silence settles over the chamber.

You lower your eyes to your clasped hands. Your thumb finds the slender silver ring on your finger, tracing the emerald set within it. The ring worn by every Lady Hightower that’s become before you. The one Ormund placed on your hand all those years ago. It will belong to Gwayne soon you realize.

Daeron says your name so softly it almost breaks you. But you keep your head bowed, pressing your thumb harder against the emerald's sharp edge until it bites into your skin. The sting steadies you, driving back the tears threatening to spill.

You mustn't cry. Ormund despises tears. He calls them weakness. He—

Daeron reaches for your hands, his own larger than you remember. Gently, patiently, he eases your fingers apart until the pressure against the ring disappears.

“He is not here,” he whispers quietly. “You do not have to stifle yourself.”

You blink rapidly, clearing your vision before forcing your shoulders back. “I am sorry, your Grace,” you reply.

The use of his title seems to wound him. A shadow crosses Daeron's gentle features.

 “You do not need to call me that when it is just us,” he says. “Things have not changed.”

Against your better judgment, your look to Gwayne. He watches without speaking. Daeron follows your gaze.

"We can trust my uncle," he says gently. “He is a good man.”

They said the same about Ormund. 

You force a smile for Daeron and he relaxes.

His hand remains wrapped around yours as he gently guides you away from the council table toward a smaller seating area tucked beside the hearth. The chairs there are lower, cushioned. He waits until you are seated before taking the place beside you.

Gwayne settles into the chair opposite, leaving the low table between you. 

"This is not how I wished this conversation to happen,” Daeron begins. 

"How long?" The words leave your lips before you can stop them. The two men exchange a glance. "How long until I must marry again?"

Daeron's face falls. His fingers tighten around yours before he lowers his eyes. For a long moment, he says nothing. Then, almost helplessly, he looks to Gwayne.

“Soon,” his uncle replies.

The words settle over the room like a stone.

"Lord Peake spoke out of turn," Gwayne continues, "but he did not speak without reason." He leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees. "Since Ormund's death, many ravens have arrived carrying proposals."

You stared at him. "For me?"

"For your lands," he corrects gently. "For your inheritance. Your father's health worsens and the  maesters believe he has little time remaining."

You swallow around the lump in your throat. Ormund had never permitted you to leave Oldtown without him as your escort, and your father's failing health had long since robbed him of the strength to travel. Letters from him had grown fewer with each passing moon. Long before that, you had stopped asking Ormund if you might return home. It was not worth provoking him.

"As he has no sons, his lands and titles will pass through you... and then to the sons you will one day bear. Until your heir comes of age, your husband will govern in his stead. But, if your father dies before your future is settled, every ambitious lord Westeros will believe the succession is open to influence." 

His expression shifts, disgust surfacing briefly. 

“There are those like Lord Peake who would not hesitate to spill blood over it."

Your gaze drops to the fire. The flames dance and twist, blurring as your vision stings. Before you even realize you're doing it, your thumb finds the emerald ring again, turning it over and over against your finger until the stone bites into your skin. 

Daeron’s reign is still new, still fragile. They cannot risk another open war, not while he struggles to secure the realm. You know that. You know exactly why they have made this choice.  It does not make it hurt any less. 

After a long moment Gwayne says your name.  Not Lady Hightower. Not some carefully chosen honorific. Just your name.  

The sound catches you off guard. Against your better judgment, your eyes lift to meet his.  

"I understand," you manage. The words are steady enough, but they sound distant, like someone else has spoken them. 

 “You are a member of House Hightower. We will protect you,” he says.  The promise is earnest enough to make you ache. 

You want to believe him. You want to be angry with him. Instead, fear settles heavily beneath your ribs, cold and unyielding.  

At last, Daeron speaks.

"I wanted..." His voice catches. "I wanted you to have more time."

For the briefest moment, you see not the King of the Seven Kingdoms, but the little boy Ormund first brought home to Oldtown. All gentle smiles and earnest questions, forever eager to please. He is still there. Pained by what duty asks of him and of you.

"You will be safe here, no matter the outcome," he promises, a small crease forming between his brows. 

"Have you settled on someone?" you ask quietly.

You hold his gaze. It is not a challenge. It is a quiet demand for honesty, if nothing else. After everything the two of you have endured together, you are owed at least that. 

"Nothing would be decided without your approval,” he promises

You search his face, watching as his expression shifts ever so slightly, a change you might have missed had you not known him since he was a boy. The look when he was weighing the cost of the truth before giving voice to it.

He already has someone in mind you realize.

“Who?” You ask with a boldness that surprises you.  

His eyes drift toward Gwayne. The older man stills. His shoulders stiffen almost imperceptibly before he shakes his head once.

It’s a warning that Daeron ignores it.

"My uncle," he says. "You would keep your title. And because Gwayne serves as my Hand, your home would remain here, in King's Landing."

His voice is careful, but you hear what he does not say. That you would be close to him. That you would not have to return to Oldtown and walk those halls where every stone still bears the memory of Ormund’s abuse. It is a boyish hope, but it is a kind one.

Your look to Gwayne. Daeron's suggestion seems to have unsettled him. In his position Ormund would have feigned reluctance. He would have offered some practiced protest about duty before graciously accepting what he desired all along. 

Gwayne does no such thing.The muscles in his jaw tighten, hollowing his cheeks. His expression is not one of embarrassment or false modesty, but something closer to shame.

"This is not a burden Lady Hightower should bear today," he says quietly. 

"Of course," Daeron agrees at once.

His hands twist together in his lap before he catches himself and stills them. His gaze darts from Gwayne to you and back again.

"We should let you rest," he declares after a moment, rising so abruptly that his crown slips forward over his brow. He hastily straightens it, a faint flush creeping into his cheeks. "You must be tired from the long journey."

You stand and smooth your skirts, searching for words but all you can manage is, "Thank you, Your Grace."

The title leaves your lips before you can stop it. Daeron's smile falters.

"Daeron," you say softly.

His expression warms at once and you smile to see him so unguarded.

For a heartbeat, he remains where he is and then he takes one uncertain step, then another, before closing the distance and wrapping his arms around you. The embrace is almost desperate. He buries his face against your shoulder, clinging to you. Your hand finds the familiar curve of his back. Slowly, gently, you stroke between his shoulders. After a long moment, the tension leaves him in a soft, shuddering breath.

Over Daeron's shoulder, your eyes meet Gwayne's. His features tighten almost imperceptibly. He looks almost stricken, but a heartbeat later, his composure returns.

Without a word, he looks away.

You close your eyes and rest your cheek lightly against Daeron's hair, allowing yourself to simply exist. In this quiet moment, he is not the King of the Seven Kingdoms, and you are not Lady Hightower. You are simply two people who survived the same man, holding one another steady as the world shifts beneath your feet. 

You are free of Ormund. That alone feels almost impossible. Yet beneath that relief, a shadow lingers. You want to believe Daeron is right. That Gwayne is a good man. A true knight, the kind the songs once taught you to believe in.

But hope is a fragile thing.

You are no longer certain you remember how to hold it.

Summerhall appears like a fortress carved from ivory amongst velvet green hills. Large windows glisten and reflect the midday sun, and the gardens tended around are thick and lush. Even the air is cooler out here, fresher than what traps stagnant in the alleys of your home slum. You can’t quite believe what you’re looking at as you clamber from the carriage with a timber-like stiffness in your bones. You clutch your satchel of medicinal supplies, a small trunk of your belongings at your feet.

Ahead of you, Aerion dismounts his horse with a flourish of his black cape. It billows around him like wings, and as he settles, his palfrey guided away by a servant, he spares a look in your direction. The corner of his lips quirk, something near a smile, as he appraises your expression of wonder, your eyes glittering as you stare up at the grand royal residence. Your fingers clutch nervously at your satchel, and there’s a subtle dip in your brow that tells Aerion all he needs to know.

But you’ll be fine here. You have him, after all.

He takes a few steps in your direction before he stops. He freezes, boots crushing gravel. There’s an obvious flex in his jaw as he watches a member of the kingsguard—oh, it’s Roland fucking Crakehall, Aerion immediately thinks—approach you with kind eyes and a disarming smile. Roland says something that snaps you out of your little trance, and you bow your head, saying something in return that makes the smile on Roland’s face split even wider.

Aerion watches you look up at Roland, and the nervous fidgeting of your fingers against the smooth leather of your satchel suddenly stops.

There’s a tick in his chest. A small, dull tug at the bottom of his heart and it sets off in a structured rhythm as he watches you and Roland interact. It has the nerves along his spine standing up, prickling with a heat he’s never felt before, venomous in its leeching through his diaphragm and up into his brain. He can taste it now—jealousy—and it’s sour on his pointed tongue, dripping from his teeth as his lip curls itself into a grimace.

He kicks himself from the gravel and approaches with meaningful strides. He feels the eyes of servants on him, hears the way they skitter out of his way like vermin. They drop their heads and lower their voices, and the tension that hangs treacle-thick in the air makes him feel great. It makes him feel alive.

He calls your name, and your eyes find his immediately. A rumble passes briefly through his aching chest, a proud purr as you respond so obediently to him. He snaps his fingers at a nearby servant then, gesturing to the wooden trunk at your feet. The servant nods, and immediately moves to pluck it from the ground and hurry towards the castle.

You frown. “Aerion, I am perfectly capable of—”

Roland speaks at the same time. “I was already offering—”

Aerion waves a hand, cutting both you and Roland off as though he had shouted at you. The silence is painful in the cool air, and you find yourself clutching your satchel firmly to your chest as the prince draws nearer.

“I will take my witch to her chambers,” Aerion says, and seizes you firmly by the elbow.

You do not dwell on the tightness of his fingers at your sleeve, nor do you dwell on his use of my witch. Instead, you offer Roland an apologetic smile as the prince all but drags you across the threshold, busy servants making quick work of throwing themselves out of his way.

You look around, possibly for someone to help. Not that you had belief anyone could save you from this situation, but maybe someone could at least offer you sympathy. But Prince Maekar was nowhere to be seen; neither were any of the other Targaryen siblings. Although, you think you catch a fleeting glimpse of dirty blond hair disappearing towards the kitchens, but that’s all it was: fleeting.

Aerion hauls you up a wide flight of steps, your footfall muffled by thick carpet. You shoot a glance downward as you ascend, in the general direction of the hall which would lead you, you’re sure of it, to the servants’ quarters. You were technically a servant.

“Your grace,” you begin as he hails you down a long corridor, grip still unrelenting on your arm. “Should I not take residence with the other servants? Surely—”

“You are not sleeping alongside the help.”

You scowl at his tone. “Well, I am the help, your grace.”

Aerion scoffs, pulling you around a corner. There’s another long hall that stretches, lit up by sunshine and hues of green where light passes through stained glass. It’s also empty, and you yelp when Aerion spins around and slams you roughly against the wall. You drop your satchel on instinct, the bag falling to your feet with a clattering of glass bottles—thankfully, not glass breaking—as your hands shoot up. Your palms rest flat to his chest as he presses close to you, one of his hands still on your arm, the other caging you in, propped up against the wall by your head.

“You are not the help,” Aerion begins, voice low. His eyes flit across your face, violet irises bright. “You are my help. You help me. And because you help me—you’re here for me—you will take residence where I tell you, yes?”

Your hands tighten against the red velvet of his gambeson. “I don’t think—”

“Yes?” Aerion repeats, the fingers on your arm clamping down. There’s a bite of blunt nails through the material of your sleeve too, and you draw in a calming breath as you try not to melt beneath the heat of his violet stare.

“Yes, your grace,” you whisper, dropping your head.

Aerion huffs, the hand on the wall shooting across to seize your jaw. You blow out an exasperated sigh through your nose as he forces you to look at him. The pads of his fingers are soft against the bone of your jaw, but his grip is tight. Unyielding.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you,” he says, cocking his head. He raises his eyebrows, imploring, waiting for you to speak again. “Speak up.”

“Yes, your grace,” you echo, louder this time. Your voice carries in a murmur down the hall, and you grimace hearing yourself bounce from the ornate walls.

But it pleases the prince, for he breaks out into a vulpine smile and pats your cheek firmly before stepping back. You release a tense breath, collecting your satchel from the ground as Aerion resumes his hold on your arm and leads you down the hall.

After a moment, he gestures to a door with a torch mounted to the wall nearby.

“These are my chambers,” he tells you, then leads you further down the hall. You pass by several more doors before the hall’s end greets you, where a door sits beneath a large Targaryen banner. He opens the door with a heavy hand. “And these are yours.”

The room is… not small. It’s grand and spacious, with the largest bed you’ve ever seen taking up a considerable amount of space to the right. Tall, latticed windows allow bright light to stream in, resembling ghostly fingers reaching for the Myrish carpet that covers the floor. There’s an empty hearth, plush chairs, and a writing desk nearby too. The desk is bare, and you approach it tentatively, placing your satchel down. As you take off your travelling cloak, draping it across the desk, you notice that your trunk of belongings already sits at the foot of the bed.

“This is excessive…” you find yourself muttering, turning and leaning back against the solid wooden desk.

Aerion looks at you from the doorway. “This is what you get.”

You grip the edge of the desk, looking around. “It’s not that I’m unappreciative, but—”

“Then thank me,” Aerion interrupts, stepping forward. He closes the door. “Say thank you.”

You look at him as he slowly crosses the room. You utter softly, “Thank you.”

“Thank you what?” Aerion stands before you now, trapping you against the desk. 

You can feel the heat radiating from his body; the blemishless shine of his pale skin. He leans in close and you can feel his breath ghost across you, tainted with mulberries and hazel. 

“Thank you, your grace,” you reply, challenging his gaze.

He grunts, a rough sound from the back of his throat, as he grabs your wrist. You let him steal your hand away from the desk, and you let him press your palm flat to the front of his trousers as he leans in closer. You smell ash and lavender wax soap across his skin. You bite your lip, ignoring the sudden wash of heat through your core, as he gently ruts his hips against your palm. There’s a shift beneath the fabric, and your lips part.

“Say it properly,” Aerion hisses, still looking at you. He runs your open palm against the front of his trousers, and you feel his cock give another jerk beneath the material. 

His hand is warm around your wrist, and you wonder if he can feel the thundering of your pulse beneath his thumb.

“Thank you, Aerion,” you whisper, and the lilt in your voice has his hips rolling deeper into your touch. “For the room.”

“Thank me for bringing you here,” he says quickly. He gently moves your hand up and down, and you can feel a tent pitching beneath your palm. “Tell me how lucky you are to be here with me.”

You frown, turning your head, his eye contact too intense. It’s cloying, overwhelming, molten heat that sticks to you the longer you look. You shake your head slightly, muttering, “Aerion—”

The prince’s other hand snaps up and grabs you harshly by the nape of your neck. He forces you to look at him, his other hand continuing to drag your palm across the bulge in his trousers. He looks at you, waiting.

“Say it.” It’s firm and venomous in its delivery.

The heat inside you doesn’t vanish. It swirls deeper, fills you broadly, and your free hand grips the edge of the desk in an effort to stop yourself from trembling.

“Thank you for bringing me here,” you say quietly, and you notice something flash in the violet of his eyes. You continue, “I am… I’m very lucky to be here.”

“With me,” Aerion utters, hand squeezing the back of your neck.

“With you,” you add, a little breathless.

Silence stretches. The distant rustling of leaves seeps in through the windows behind you, and the rush of blood in your ears is loud enough to bring you some sort of comfort. Aerion stares at you, blinking slowly, pupils tracing the lines of your face as he continues to gently move your hand against his covered cock. He’s so close that you can see the tiniest little scar just above his lip—a well-healed blemish you’ve never noticed before.

His eyes find your mouth.

You press your palm harder against the length of him, and he lets out a strained groan, before tipping forward. With his hand still on your nape, he cranes your head slightly so he can bury his face into the crook of your neck. He inhales deeply, the sensation causing a shiver to rocket down your spine. His pelvis presses closer then, trapping your hand between his hips and yours. He groans into your shoulder, mouth against bare skin where the neckline of your dress exposes you.

You feel his teeth sink into your skin: not enough to break, but enough to have you squirming beneath him. You feel him chuckle, then pull away. A string of saliva stretches from the little indents at your shoulder, to his lips, but it snaps when he levels his face with yours. His tongue darts out and swipes across his bottom lip.

There’s a wordless message passed between you. 

Your fingers find the clasp of his trousers and you surprise yourself by undoing it one-handed. Aerion seems impressed too: he smiles and shoves his hips forward, rutting against you. You find the ties at his waist next, pulling at the knots as he lets a low groan slip from his mouth. Heat is sticky and stagnant in your stomach, sitting heavy in your core as you undo the ties of his trousers, exposing the linen of his breeches.

He helps you, shoving his trousers down his thighs as you untie his breeches. You need another hand for this, fingers moving deftly, eyes directly down. But you can feel him looking at you still, waiting for you. As you yank the ties of his breeches open, he leans in and presses his lips to the curve of your jaw—a brief moment of intimacy before his mouth opens and he licks like a dog across your pulse.

“Aerion,” you breathe out, tipping your head in an attempt to flee his tongue.

He just chuckles, pulling away and peering down at where you finally push his breeches down. His cock, blushing warm and hard, hangs free. You shift to take it with reaching fingers, but he slaps your hand away. You jerk back, then forward when the gap between you increases, and suddenly he’s guiding you onto your knees by the hand on the back of your neck.

He fists himself as he settles you in front of him, your head parallel to the desk behind you. You peer up at him, hands resting against his thighs, and he peers down at you. There’s a mirror in your expressions: a silent need as you squeeze your thighs together and he grips, white-knuckled, around the base of his cock.

“Say thank you,” the prince whispers, dragging his cock along your cheek. He’s drooling out against your skin, leaving glistening lines in its wake as he smears himself across your lips. He’s warm and solid, skin soft and blushing and pliable as he rolls the shaft across your other cheek too. He grins, bringing the tip to your lips. “Say thank you, sweet girl. Thank me for this cock.”

“Thank you,” you manage to say, gripping the bunched material of his trousers.

Aerion grins, lilting, “Oh, you’re welcome, little witch.”

He bullies his cock between your lips then, and you part them with a grunt. Still grinning, fox-like and stretched across his pride, Aerion pushes his cock deeper into your mouth, feeling over the bumps of your tongue as you lower your jaw to take him deeper. An airy moan leaves him as he grips your neck and feeds his cock down your throat, pressing your face into his pelvis. You close your eyes, screwing them shut as you withhold a gag. 

He pulls out, then shoves back in. You manage to open your eyes, tears wet in your lashline as you look up at him. He’s already looking down at you, the smile still there but a lot smaller as he fucks his cock into the heat of your mouth.

“You’re here, in this room,” Aerion begins suddenly, vowels extended through a poorly hidden whine. “For me. You will come to my chambers when you are called upon, no matter the time. You will serve no one else but me.”

You want to argue. You’re a healer of the people. If someone else needed your assistance, it would go against all you believed in to disregard them.

But, of course, you can’t argue. Not just because you’re dealing with Aerion Targaryen, whose wrath sets ablaze like a dragon’s fire, but because you’re choking around the width of his cock, words beat back down your throat.

Instead, you moan around him. The vibrations tremble thick and fast through his cock, and he lets out a hoarse moan.

“For me,” he whispers, looking up and speaking it directly into the ceiling.

There’s a loud knock on the door and your heart drops into your stomach. Your hands squeeze his thighs tightly as he pulls you firmly against his hips, holding you there as he struggles to even his breathing. Aerion waits, and you swallow around his cock, saliva building uncomfortably in your mouth. His fingers tighten around the nape of your neck, a warning, as another loud knock rocks through the chambers.

“What?” Aerion calls, curt and obviously angry.

“Apologies, your grace.” Roland Crakehall. Aerion could murder him. Through the door, the kingsguard continues politely, “I’m looking for the lady.”

“Why?”

“Ser Donnel requests her presence in the main hall,” Roland replies, his voice slightly muffled through the thick wood. “Immediately.”

Aerion looks down at you, and you give him a pointed look. He shakes his head, and you take a gamble: gently scraping your teeth along the sensitive skin of his length. The prince sucks in a quick breath, and you manage to pull yourself from his cock, coughing lightly. Aerion is seething as you fend off his hold and get to your feet, hurrying towards the door whilst wiping your sleeve across your mouth.

You pull open the door and smile at Roland. “Hello.”

“Oh.” Roland bows his head politely. He addresses you by name. “I apologise if I’m interrupting something.”

You shake your head, smoothing your hands down your skirts. “Not at all. Shall… I come with you now?”

Roland nods. “Please. And bring your supplies.”

You nod, quickly rushing across the room to snatch your satchel from the desk. Aerion, hard cock stuffed back in his trousers, reaches a hand out, the tips of his fingers just brushing your arm before you breeze past him. 

He grunts, messily tying a knot in the laces of his breeches, shifting towards you with ire flashing in his violet eyes. “Now, wait—”

“Lead the way,” you say to Roland when you reach the doorway once more, ignoring the Targaryen prince looming. 

You quickly step out into the corridor and slam the door shut behind you. Roland can’t help himself: he lets out a small laugh as he begins leading you down the hall.

“I’m not sure if he wants to murder me or you,” the knight says plainly, thick with humour. His eyes sparkle as he looks at you, matching the gleam of his polished white armour. “You’re as brave as they say.”

You ignore his first comment with a playful roll of your eyes. Instead, you cock your head. “They?”

“Those who work for the household,” Roland tells you. “Word travels fast, and the woods witch Aerion Targaryen has taken a liking to makes for good conversation.”

“Great,” you mumble sarcastically.

Roland reassures you with a polite smile. “Don’t fret. You are well liked amongst the ranks, and Ser Donnel speaks very highly of you.”

That puts you slightly at ease as you traipse the sun-soaked corridors of Summerhall.

—✿—

As the sun sets, Aerion realises he hasn’t seen you since Roland whisked you away. You had vanished; seemingly slipped into the shadows, or danced off with the wind. He scoured the brightly lit halls, shoving open doors and tearing curtains from their hooks with dramatic flourishes as he peered out windows. You weren’t anywhere, it seemed, and there was a pit forming in the base of his stomach: a heavy stone, almost unbearable in its weight.

Having done three laps of the royal residence, Aerion huffs to a stop near the entrance to the servants quarters: the only place he hasn’t checked. He curses himself for being so ignorant as he stares down the dark, narrow hall that winds itself deep into the castle’s interior.

“Your grace.”

Aerion turns, finding Ser Donnel approaching. The kingsguard rests a hand casually on the pommel of his sword, which sits snug at his hip. He looks at Aerion with slightly narrowed eyes, a flat smile, and the look of a disappointed father.

“She’s in there, isn’t she?” Aerion questions, although it’s less a query because he knows. The shadows of the narrow passageway are thick, and he’d be a fool not to have noticed the way you looked at them when you had first arrived.

Donnel shrugs. “And what if she was? Do you intend to fetch her?”

“Yes,” Aerion replies quickly.

Ser Donnel lets out a mirthless laugh. It’s quick and sharp, and Aerion’s jaw twitches in response. The knight shakes his head too.

“Leave her be, just for the evening,” Donnel says firmly.

Aerion narrows his eyes at the kingsguard, the white of the armour appearing grey beneath the evening shadows and the flickering of mounted torches nearby.

“You sent her there,” Aerion mutters, recalling his little witch’s sudden—and unwelcome—departure from him earlier that day. “What did you say to her?”

Aerion grips the handle of his dagger, which rests comfortably at his side, sheathed in black leather. Donnel notices the movement and shakes his head, breathing out a chuckle. He nods towards the passageway, the air around him shifting.

“A few of the cooks suffered burns preparing supper,” Donnel tells the prince.

“We have maesters for a reason,” Aerion growls out.

Donnel gives him a pointed look. “Yes… we do.”

Aerion huffs, lip curling as he grips the black leather of his dagger. “Do not patronise me, Ser Donnel. She is mine. She is not here to serve anyone else.”

Donnel takes a step towards the prince, armour clanking. He drops his voice, speaking low, “You have already taken her from her shop, and her livelihood, and her people: the least you can do is let her help others while she is here.”

Aerion seethes. “How dare you speak—?”

“You do not need her help at this moment, your grace,” Donnel interrupts. “Please let her be.”

Aerion passes a challenging look to the kingsguard. Never in his life has anyone dared speak to him in such a manner, except possibly his mother or father. Ser Donnel matches Aerion’s glare with a calm look of his own, and Aerion realises that this knight really does care for you. He’s protecting you.

You don’t need protection from Aerion. You’re his.

Aerion spins on his heel and proceeds down the passageway. The firm, metallic footsteps of Ser Donnel behind him only spur him on, and he ducks down the narrow hall like a serpent shifting through stones. He breaks through a doorway and finds you sitting amongst a group of servants, your satchel open and resting in your lap. Beside you, a young woman admires a glistening cream-coloured salve—obviously your work—spread across her forearm, obscuring an angry burn. You hold a small bottle between your fingers.

“This is a natural disinfectant. It’s good for cleaning wounds, on both humans and animals…” You trail off, eyes lifting to find Aerion in the doorway. You swallow thickly, slowly placing the bottle back into your satchel as the servants notice his presence.

They scarper like rats, Aerion thinks, as he watches the group disperse in a flurry of limbs. Many scramble past him, disappearing down the hall, whilst others vanish through another narrow entrance across the room. They leave you alone, perched on the edge of a rickety wooden bed, the straw mattress threadbare and thinning beneath you.

“You grace,” you begin, getting to your feet and hefting your satchel over your shoulder.

“You’ve been hiding from me,” Aerion says.

You shake your head. “No, I’ve been helping—”

“You’re not here to help them,” Aerion spits, crossing the room now. “You’re here to help me, yes? You’re here for me.”

You look past Aerion as he draws within a few feet of you, and the prince turns to see Ser Donnel in the doorway. Your hands shoot out, finding the plush warmth of Aerion’s doublet, but your eyes are still on the kingsguard across the room.

Donnel frowns. “M’lady?”

“I’m alright, Ser Donnel,” you tell him gently, fingers balled in the prince’s shirt. It’s half to keep you grounded as you breathe, smelling cedar and smoke in Aerion’s clothes, and half to keep him in check, for you have a feeling he may lunge at someone. You nod at the knight. “I’m fine.”

Donnel looks between you and Aerion. “Are—?”

“She said she’s fine, did she not?” Aerion spits over his shoulder. “Now, be a good knight and fuck off.”

Ser Donnel, despite the worry flashing across his gently aging features, turns and slips down the hall and out of sight. Aerion was still his prince after all, and he knows better than anyone that the prince is… temperamental.

Aerion turns to you now, his hands finding the satchel on your shoulder. He carefully removes it, wordlessly, eyes near black in the darkness of the room. A small candle, dripping wax mounting at its base, illuminates part of the room, but the shadows here are consuming. They cling to your body as Aerion’s hands find your hips, rubbing up and down your sides, fingers ghosting across the top of your skirts.

You breathe out carefully, fingers loosening in his doublet. You rub circles across his chest, soothing. You pet him like a cat, fingers bending and circling. And he responds like a cat, eyes closing as a purr-like rumble stirs from deep in his chest. You feel the vibrations as he slowly moves you until the back of your calves hit the low bed.

“Aerion,” you whisper, and you mean for it to sound stern, but it’s breathless. 

Wood and ash, a smouldering hearth, is what you swims in the air around you as he leans over you, head dipping and finding the bend of your neck and shoulder. But there’s a sweetness in the white flicks of his hair as it brushes against the side of your face, his mouth drawing over your skin. Cedar and blackberry wine, sugared with the smell of sweat.

He says your name in response, muffled as his teeth skim over your skin. He bites again, a firm imprint of teeth, before he sucks hard. It lodges a whimper in your throat, head leaning to the side as your hands grip at his doublet once more. His own hands dip low as he hunches against you, guiding you down, down, down until you’re sitting on the narrow bed. You squeak out, aware that this isn’t your bed and this isn’t your chambers and Ser Donnel is only just down the passage—

“Too sweet for your own good, aren’t you?” Aerion mumbles against your neck as his hands bundle up the material of your skirts. He brings them up to your hips, exposing the clean linen of your smallclothes. He ignores the muffled whimper you let out, your lips pressed in a tight line. He tuts, “Such a good little helper. They just love you, don’t they?”

“Aerion,” you breathe out again, your hands finding his shoulders now. 

You feel the working of the muscle and joints as his arms shift to take hold of your smallclothes. His arm is thick and warm between the press of your thighs, but you don’t try to close them—in fact, you part them, shuddering as he pulls the linen away and exposes your slick cunt to the shadows of the quarters. His other hand finds the back of your neck as he picks himself out of your shoulder, lips shining with spit. He angles your head so he can trace the lines of your face with his swollen pupils.

“You enjoy spending time down here?” Aerion whispers as two fingers run down your slit, spreading you apart. He groans at the wet heat and the little moan you try to catch between your teeth. “With the servants and the maids?”

His fingers languidly shift, drawing your folds apart until they press to your hole. He wastes no time either: running a couple of circles around you, he dips his fingers inside you, slowly pulling you apart knuckle by knuckle.

“Yes,” you say around an exhale.

“More than with me?” His fingers crook inwards and your head tips back involuntarily, a hushed moan slipping from tongue to shadow. Aerion cradles the back of your neck, watching you carefully as you slowly settle your head to meet his gaze. You give a subtle shake of your head, and Aerion smiles. “No?”

“No,” you whisper, then bite down on your bottom lip, eyes closing. His fingers press against that perfect spot, your cunt clenching around the digits as something rolls in your tummy, a rope of tension stringing across the front of your womb.

Aerion rucks his fingers in and out of you. The silence of the room is filled with the slick plap-plap-plap of his fingers inside you as his movements pick up. You writhe, whimpering softly, and your fingers grip his shoulder tightly, pulling him to you. He obliges you, chest nearly against yours as he rests his mouth against your forehead. His lips press to the soft skin, not quite a kiss, as he pants against you, eyes fluttering as he feels the hot clutch of your cunt around his fingers. So wet and warm and wanting.

“Does being down here make you happy?” He asks, words breathed out against your warm skin.

You whimper.

“Answer me,” Aerion whispers, but it’s not harsh. It’s pushed out on an exhale and it’s surprisingly gentle. Smothered by shadow, carried away on a light summer breeze.

“Yes,” you manage to squeak out. “Yes, my prince.”

He crooks his fingers as he ruts them in and out. There’s slick dribbling slowly across his bottom knuckles, and there’s small sounds working out of your throat like the mewls from a kitten. His mind swims, cock half-hard and twitching in his breeches, sweat tacky on his forehead as his arm and fingers work.

“Okay,” he begins, pulling his fingers from you. He angles back, and you groan at the empty feeling that braces against you like a chill. Your orgasm recedes and you let out a breathy whine, fingers tugging at his doublet. He shushes you, the hand on your nape pulling you back and laying you on the mattress. “Okay, sweet girl, you can help them.”

You open your eyes properly. “Really?”

“But you will always help me first,” he says, and you’re already nodding. He doesn’t want to share, but he’s doing this for you. He takes his fingers, wet with you, and presses the pads to your lips. “You will help them when I say you can. Not—” he shoves his fingers into your mouth. “—when Ser Donnel says, yes?”

You hum around his fingers, tongue wrapping. He smiles, pleased, pulling them out. He pats your cheek before he shrinks back, parting your thighs. Hefting your hips, the prince bends and settles his face directly against your core. The abruptness of it has you keening, and the moan that leaves you is frighteningly loud. Aerion chuckles to himself as his mouth parts against your pussy, tongue splitting up between your folds, laving over your clit. You mewl, hand shooting down out of instinct to fist his hair. He groans in response as his fingers find your hole again, pushing in with an audible shlick.

“Oh, fuck, Aerion, wait—” You cut your whispered plea off with a moan as his fingers curl. Perfect, precise. It makes your hips grind down, twitching against his face as he licks across you simultaneously. The sounds that leave you, draped in shadow and hushed between the desperate clenching of your teeth, spur him on. You whine, that rope of tension in your lower belly pulling taut. “Aerion, my prince, please.”

Aerion’s other hand is tight on your thigh, dimpling flesh as he keeps it hooked around his shoulder. His head moves, eyes unwavering in their stare over the mound of your belly, the bunched fabric of your dress, the valley of your breasts, and onto your face. You’re the prettiest thing he’s ever seen: eyes fighting to stay open, teeth sunken into your lip. You writhe beneath him, and you’re just so warm. Your cunt, wet and hot; your thighs soft and warm against his ears.

His tongue follows your sounds. The high-pitched mewls you try to hide when he licks over the puffy bud of your clit, or the low keen he feels rumble through you when he spreads your folds apart. Deft fingers push and pull, in and out, until he can see the way your body begins to tighten and tremble. He knows you by now.

The rope inside you frays and you arch off the thinning mattress. You press yourself deeper into his touch as your release snaps through you, fingers tightening in his hair as you cry out his name. It’s loud, and the little candle nearby flickers as the sound bounces off the stone walls. The shadows do nothing to muffle it as you shake, thighs tightening around his head as your pussy clenches around his fingers. The prince groans into you as you whisper his name, his cock painfully hard in his breeches.

Slowly, and with a pained grunt, he pulls himself from between your legs, wiping his mouth against the inside of your thigh. You make a noise of complaint, but he shushes you as he rights himself.

“Should’ve known this pretty pussy’d taste of the heavens,” Aerion whispers, more to himself than you.

You hum in response, reaching down and grabbing your smallclothes where they gather messily near your knees. Aerion shifts back and watches, palm resting over his pelvis, as you pull your undergarments back into place. You sit up, then stand on shaky legs, allowing your skirts to fall back into place. The prince sits on the edge of the low bed, not saying anything. He simply watches you.

“Come now,” you whisper, holding your hand out.

Something lurches in his chest. He takes your hand and gets to his feet. And then he follows you from the quarters, his hand fitting so perfectly into yours, and he doesn’t even bat an eye when they pass by Ser Donnel waiting at the entrance, ever the good knight.

—✿—

Three days later, you open your satchel in search of a small scrap of gauze. Rhae, having toppled from her pony, sits on the stone bench beside you with a small cut on the palm of her hand. Tears wet in her eyes, she watches you as you carefully rifle through your supplies. Butterflies breeze overhead, birdsong filling the garden as the sun shines warmly against your back. In your satchel, you find your roll of bandage, but what you don’t find is your pouch of moon tea. Where it usually sits, amongst your vials and bottles, is empty. You frown to yourself, pulling the bandages out anyway and setting to work.

“Thank you,” she mutters, watching you with glossy violet eyes as you wrap a small scrap of the linen around her hand.

Not long after, you send her on her way. You peer into your satchel then and confirm that yep, you’re moon tea is gone. You look up and around, annoyed. Aerion lounges across the garden, head tipped back with serene bliss stretched across his face, skin glistening like tallow. As if sensing your eyes on him, the prince, without even looking in your direction, simply crooks a beckoning finger.

You huff, but oblige, padding across the soft grass until you reach where he lays.

“Have you seen my moon tea?” You ask him. There’s a nagging in the back of your head. You know exactly where your moon tea has gone.

“Your what?” Aerion opens one eye.

“You know exactly what, your grace.”

Aerion scoffs. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Fine,” you say. “I’ll fetch some more.”

“Fine,” Aerion replies casually, closing his eyes again.

—✿—

That night, he has your face pressed into the pillows of his bed. They smell of him, of a settled dragon, as you suck in short gasps as he splits you apart on his cock. He kneels behind you, mattress dipping beneath his weight as he locks his fingers around the plush of your hips, pulling you back to meet his thrusts. His movements are deep and heavy, the thick reach of his cock nudging towards the base of your cervix as you arch your back for him. You grip the silken sheets either side of you, panting, legs trembling.

You come with his name muffled against feathers, a sob breaking free of your throat as you turn your head to moan through it. Your pussy sucks him in tightly, fluttering with the rapid beating of your heart as you release for the third time since he’d dragged you to his chambers.

The prince groans in response, hips slapping against your arse as he ruts into you, chasing his own high. “Fuck, yeah, ah shit.”

He angles deeper, pushing you further into the mattress, your knees threatening to buckle. A deep-seated moan, thick as stone, fills the room as he pitches forward. Pleasure sits hot in his lower belly, itching at the base of his spine.

“Here it comes, sweet girl,” he grunts behind you, one hand leaving your hip to smooth up the dip of your back. “Take it all—take your dragon’s seed like a good little—”

Aerion knocks forward as he comes, all but flattening himself into you as he falls apart. His jaw hinges around a moan of your name as he spills, cock pumping thick and hot inside you, right up against the plug of your womb. You don’t have the energy to respond with anything else but a loud exhale that snags the end of a whine as it passes through your lips. Aerion’s hips roll himself through it as he empties completely, and even when the movements of his hips still and he’s sticking to you completely unmoving, he doesn’t pull out. The thick of his cock plugs you full as he hovers behind you, hands roaming, kneading, squeezing as he settles back within himself.

And you fall asleep like this: with him stuffed inside you, your back pressed to his sweat-slick chest. Slumber finds you easily, although you wake hours later with a dull ache between your thighs and the soft length of him resting against the cleft of your arse. 

Gingerly, you pick yourself out of bed, careful not to stir the sleeping royal, wrap yourself in your cloak, and vanish out the door. You’ve gotten quite good at leaving unannounced.

In your chambers, you find your satchel.

You pause. The fresh moon tea you had picked up that afternoon was gone. You can’t help but roll your eyes, exhaling an exasperated sigh through your nose as you opt for one of your homemade remedies instead, plucking the small vial from its place in your bag.

You know exactly what Aerion is trying to do, and for the most part, it makes you fume. As you uncork your own vial, you stew in your anger: he’s trying to get you pregnant; he’s trying to tie you to him, a tether of flesh and blood. You down the bitter liquid in a few deep gulps and your face scrunches in disgust. It tastes, for lack of better words, fucking disgusting. Sour with fermented tansy, bitter with concentrated mugwort. The moon tea at least tastes a bit better than this.

However, there is a part inside you that grows hot. You place the empty vial back into your satchel, licking the aniseed from your bottom gums. Aerion wants you. His need grows teeth: long, sharp fangs that sink deeper and deeper into your flesh. He doesn’t want to let you go—he can’t let you go. And the thought, as you close your satchel and bundle your cloak tight around your naked body, sits heavy in the front of your mind.

A sticky heat prickles beneath your skin, the feeling of being in the sun for too long. You hurry out of your chambers and back into Aerion’s, taking your cloak off and slipping back into his bed.

So, he’s hiding your moon tea from you. He wants you with child.

You smile at his sleeping form, noticing the way his white eyelashes rest against his cheekbones. You can let him play this game for as long as he wants. He won’t win.

—✿—

Two days on, Aerion leaves his father’s solar and makes for your chambers. A carnal need claws against the hooked bone of his ribs. He needs you.

He pushes open the door of your chambers without so much as a knock, expecting to find you at the desk, or perhaps lounging by one of the grand windows with a book in hand. However, the hearth is cold and the room is empty. 

He frowns to himself and heads down the long hall.

He checks the servants’ quarters, startling those who huddle within. They spook, staring at him as more phantom than man as his eyes settle on women who are not you.

“Where is she?” He hisses, and one of the younger women—the woman you had treated for burns, he remembers—raises a shaky hand and points behind her, gesturing in the direction of the gardens. 

Aerion nods curtly and departs.

The sun greats him warmly, as does the sound of your laughter, and he physically feels his heart leap in his chest. His need for you has reached his teeth now, and his jaw works as he grinds his molars, gnawing on the desire to sink the points into your flesh. Your thighs, preferably, or the fat of your arse. Although your shoulder works just as well when he’s stuffed to the hilt inside you.

The thought has his cock jerking in his breeches.

Across the garden, you stand amongst blooming carnations, pink petals soft as silk. You rub the tips of your fingers against one—one that Ser Roland fucking Crakehall had plucked and handed to you. The knight hovers by your side, a pleased smile on your face as you speak to him, rolling the delicate flower between your hands. Aerion can’t make out what you’re saying as you gesture to the blooms around you, but Roland is paying close attention: his eyes never stray, his smile never falters, and he nods along as you ramble.

The need inside Aerion sheathes like cat’s claws.

Anger remains. Why can he never seem to keep you for himself? You’re his.

“I know that look,” Ser Donnel says around a tired chuckle, appearing at the prince’s side. He looks down at Aerion, then over at you and Roland. “You must let her have some freedom, your grace.”

“I do,” he spits a bit too quickly. “I’ve let her treat the servants.”

“You have,” Donnel replies, clearing his throat after. “Which was very gracious of you, your grace, but she is a young woman who deserves more freedom than you give her.”

Aerion scoffs, eying the knight suspiciously. “Since when have you ever spoken to me so openly, Ser Donnel? I could have your tongue for that.”

Donnel gives the prince a pointed look.

Aerion shakes his head. “She has freedom. I give her freedom.”

Donnel grunts, unconvinced.

Aerion looks back over to you. You’re bending, plucking another carnation from a nearby shrub, and the curve of your arse beneath your skirts is on full display. Roland ducks his head, preserving some kind of decency between the two of you. When you right yourself, you turn and accidentally bump into the knight, who reaches his hands out to steady you, fingers on your upper arms.

Aerion’s jaw twitches.

“Your grace…” Donnel warns, low and father-like, and it reminds Aerion, for a split second, of the day he first met you: the day when Ser Donnel had been taking too long in a healer’s shop. A healer the knight insisted was the best in all of King’s Landing.

Aerion ignores the knight though. Lightning quick, he reaches down and plucks Donnel’s knife from his side, ripping it from its sheath in one smooth movement. Before the kingsguard can even react, the prince slices the blade across his own forearm, ivory giving way to crimson. Blood ribbons over his skin as he hands the knife to a gaping Ser Donnel.

Aerion calls your name, approaching with one hand pressed to the finger-length wound on his inner forearm. You lift your eyes, smiling as the prince approaches, but it quickly vanishes when he presents you his arm.

“Oh!” You jump away from Roland and immediately take Aerion’s arm in your hands, the carnation you had been holding fluttering to the ground. Your touch is warm, soft. Caring. “Aerion,” you breathe, shaking your head. “What’ve you done to yourself?”

“I need your help,” he tells you, ignoring your question. He lifts his gaze and gives Roland a firm look. Roland shifts uncomfortably, before ultimately looking away.

You’re nodding before he even finishes his short sentence. “Okay, okay, come on.”

You take gentle hold of his wrist and guide him away. He spares a look at Ser Roland, and then another at Ser Donnel. Both read much the same: Aerion Targaryen gets what he wants.

Back in the sanctuary of your chambers, he sits on the edge of your bed. Clean, white sunlight fills the room and a pleasant coolness sweeps in from where one of the large windows sits open a crack.

You bandage his wound silently. And he watches you the entire time. You sit beside him, fingers wrapping, and he watches you with violet eyes glossy and nearly unblinking. There’s a heat in his gaze like the brush of a candle flame. You can feel it against the skin of your face, and you wonder then if the silence in the room is amplifying the hammering of your heart against your sternum.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you tell him finally. The silence is too heavy.

“I’ll look at you however I want,” he replies simply. 

He cocks his head, dipping slightly to speak. He’s imploring, begging you to look at him, but you resist as you fasten the scrap of bandage into place. A beat passes, and he speaks again. He speaks your name, and it’s soft. Too soft for Aerion Targaryen. Too soft for a dragon’s tongue and teeth.

You relent, looking at him as you place your spool of bandage aside. Your hands fold together in your lap. It’s there again, the silence. His eyes dart across your face, feature to feature, and you see his pupils expanding the longer he looks at you.

“You’re such a pretty girl,” the prince whispers, and the hand of his non-injured arm finds your cheek. The backs of his knuckles trace across your skin, up over your cheekbone; a sweep of a raven’s wing, no scales or spines. You can smell the ash, the fire and the cedar and the blackberry wine, but you don’t see a dragon. He breathes out slowly, hand flipping so he can run the pads of his fingers down the side of your neck. “My pretty girl…”

“Aerion, don’t…” You whisper, watching the point of his tongue find the corner of his mouth. 

He doesn’t register your words as his hand finds and cups the base of your neck. “Gods, you always take such good care of me, don’t you? My sweet girl, so smart…”

You wait for a mock, a jibe, a force of his hand against your thundering pulse. But it doesn’t come, and the anxious weight in your chest quickly trades places with the needy weight in your stomach.

“What would I do without you?” He asks, hand travelling from your neck and over your jaw. His thumb presses to your lips. Words evade you. You let him press the tip of his thumb against the corner of your mouth. He continues, voice low, “What would you do without me?”

His hand shifts then, cupping your jaw and bringing your face forward. He carefully presses his lips to yours, the motion tender. And his lips are soft against yours. Years of care within castle walls; years of healthy food and drink at banquets; years of being coddled by the powers of coin and gemstones. A prince of the realm.

But his movements begin hard. He holds your jaw tightly now, coaxing your mouth apart as his lips move, and he groans against you when you obey. Your eyes flutter closed and your hands, once on your lap, shift to his chest and shoulders. Aerion makes another deep sound before he angles further inwards and his tongue graces between the split of your lips. You oblige him once more: parting with an airy whine and allowing the point of his tongue to slip over your teeth. Your tongues meet as you try and push back, need growing white-hot. You fist his doublet, pulling him tighter against you as his free hand sets on your hip.

You move like you’ve both been practising. Aerion pulls you up, the both of you standing. He breaks the kiss with a pained whine and spins you around so quickly you almost lose your footing.

“My prince,” you whisper as his mouth finds the side of your neck as his fingers—quick and experienced—begin unlacing the threads of your gown. You arch your neck into his touch, feeling the pinch of teeth. “Aerion.”

In seconds, you feel your bodice loosen around your chest and torso, and you help him by slipping out of the sleeves and kicking off your shoes. The dress pools at your ankles, and you kick it away as the prince spins you again and slams his mouth back to yours. This one is harsher, faster. He’s licking over your teeth like he’s committing your taste to memory, and you can’t help but whine as he kisses you again and again and again.

You tug at his doublet, and he gets the message. Parting from you, silence stretches thick as he throws the garment over his head. His tunic follows as your hands find the laces of his breeches. You easily pull the knots apart, and he discards himself of his boots. You lift your head and slam your mouth back to his, and he groans in surprise, one hand cupping your cheek, the other helping you in pulling the ties of his breeches apart.

Your movements are hurried, and when you get his breeches open, you break the kiss and try to drop to your knees—but he stops you. With his hand on your face, he urges you back to him and kisses you. You whine, pulling out of the kiss, and now you’re both panting.

“Aerion,” you breathe, but he’s not listening.

He grabs the material of your chemise. “Arms up.”

You listen, and he pulls the garment off your body. It flutters away and the prince lets out a long-winded moan that sets your core alight. You can’t help but squeeze your thighs together as he looks you up and down, eyes glazing over.

“My pretty girl,” he utters, dipping to kiss you again. Your tongues meet, passing ash and berries and sugar, as he guides you onto your bed.

You move as though you’d done it all before. You shuffle back and he chases you, mouths barely leaving, barely pausing in their movements. When he gets you flat on your back, Aerion pulls away and his hands immediately find your tits. Kneading, rolling your hardening nipples beneath his thumbs. Then, they travel, skimming over your sternum, your ribs, and down your tummy.

“Here she is,” the prince coos as he parts your thighs. One of his hands massages the pliable flesh there, the other grips the base of his cock. He’s hard, tip a bruising red and leaking from the slit, pearling and rolling down the vein on the underside. Your throat works around a moan as you watch him, his eyes on the slit of your pussy. “My prettiest girls.”

You moan. “Aerion.”

“Don’t start,” Aerion mutters as he pushes the head of his cock against you. You moan again, embarrassment crawling up your neck as you feel how wet you are—you feel the cool slick webbing between your folds as he parts you, the movement too slow, too gentle. Aerion chuckles as you squirm. “Oh, she’s wet. M’gonna slip right in, aren’t I?”

This is the Aerion you’ve come to know.

He chastises you as he drags the head of his cock up and down your slit, coating himself because, as much as you burn from the inside–out, he’s right. You’re soaked, cunt clenching around nothing as you lay back completely bare for him. For him.

“Gods above, she’d be worth more than a few gold dragons, wouldn’t she?” The prince whispers, almost in disbelief, as he slowly pushes the leaking tip of his cock inwards. You suck in a breath—no stretch of his fingers, no circle of your clit—as your cunt parts around him. He groans, “But—oh, fuck—b-but I’m the only dragon you need.”

If he wasn’t spearing you on the thick of his cock, pushing in and splitting you apart with a lithe string of moans falling from his soft lips, then you would’ve rolled your eyes. You would say something to quell his ego, but you can’t. You simply moan, a desperate and loud sound that rattles through your skull, and arch. He leans over you as he rolls his hips, bottoming out with a moan of your name.

Then, he bends. His mouth is on yours like he can’t get enough. And, in all honesty, neither can you. Your hands find the back of his head, threading through white strands and tugging as your teeth clash and your tongues meet. Aerion grunts, hoisting your thigh up around his hips as he pitches forward, then shrinks back. You gasp out of the kiss when he notches the head of his cock just inside you.

And doesn’t move.

Sunlight spills across your joined bodies. Your nails scrape along his scalp causing goosebumps to appear along his arms. He pants like a worked hound, eyes on your face as he feels your pussy fluttering around his tip. Begging for it.

“You’re perfect,” Aerion whispers suddenly. It tastes like I love you on his tongue, but he knows that’s impossible. You’re perfect because you’re here. With him. Doing as he says. Aerion Targaryen doesn’t love. He continues, “You’re perfect and you’re mine.”

He doesn’t have the patience in waiting for your response. He thrusts back in with a curl of his spine. It’s rough and hard and it knocks the wind from your lungs. The sound that leaves you is distressed: a broken mewl as a bruising ache festers low in your stomach. But as the prince moves in and out, setting a rhythm that rocks you into the mattress, the pain subsides and is instead replaced by that simmering heat you’ve become all too familiar with.

“Oh, g-gods,” falls from your mouth as you take both hands and seize him by the shoulders. “Aerion, my prince, oh—”

You press little indents into his shoulders as you rock beneath him; the angle he’s made of you, with a hand on your thigh, driving him deep towards the plug of your cervix. He pries you apart so effortlessly with both his words and the length of his cock.

“That’s it, just like that,” Aerion grunts as he fucks you. Sweat glistens high on his forehead and there’s a light blush over his cheekbones as he drives you into the mattress. The fingers on your thigh squeeze, dimpling the flesh as he groans. “Taking your prince’s cock like an absolute dream, little witch.”

Heat moves through your body like steaming water. It coils tight in the pit of your stomach, sitting heavy behind your navel as he hits that perfect spot inside you over and over. You grip him with tightening fingers, pussy clenching around the thick of him. Your thigh on his hip presses inward, driving him closer to you as his pelvis meets yours.

The mattress groans slightly beneath you as you both rock. Dappled sunlight blurs through your lashes as you look up at him, whining when he dips his head again to kiss you. You take it with kiss-bitten lips, opening for him while he grunts. The wet grip of your cunt around him is silken soft, and it draws his thoughts away as his mouth moves messily against yours. You snake a hand to the nape of his neck and hold him to you as his hips roll deeper.

“Aerion,” you mutter against his mouth. You’re not kissing anymore. It’s an open press of lips as you both grunt and mewl and take what you need.

“Say it like you mean it,” he mutters back, the tip of his tongue flicking serpent-like over your parted lips. He pulls back slightly so he can shift his spine and push his hips further against you. “Say my name when you come, sweet girl, c’mon.”

Blood replaced by a golden-hot ichor, you tip your head back as you tremble. Your release builds hot in your veins and you’re right there, bathed in sunlight, as you’re taken apart from the inside–out by a prince of the realm. Your fingers scrape down his front as you arch off the bed, moaning—airy and wanton and loud—as you come.

“Aerion—!” The syllables are rich and honey-sweet in the warm summer air of your chambers. Your entire body trembles, limbs tightening as it takes hold: a gold-fingered grasp around your diaphragm as your moans turn to whines.

Aerion groans, smiling to himself as your cunt clenches tight around the width of him. Muscles pull taut, fluttering with your beating heart, and it gushes too—he can feel it, hot and slick as he rolls his hips, a thin white ring around the base of his cock. The clutch of your pussy around him, and the little whines you taper off with, some battling around whispers of his name, have the tension in his belly and spine contracting. 

He screws his eyes shut, muttering to himself, “Oh, sweet girl, my sweetest girl…”

He thinks of spilling inside you. He thinks of filling you with his seed and watching you grow round with his child. His poor little woods witch, pregnant with a bastard child but oh, how he’d look after you. You’d never leave his side. You’d be spoiled beyond reason.

“F-Fuck, oh fuck,” he curses at the thought, cock jerking inside you. You whine, fizzling down from your release, fingers tracing lazy circles across his chest. He opens his eyes at the sound, gazing down at you. He coos, “Oh, don’t cry yet, little witch, your prince is here. Your dragon’s right—fucking—here—”

You choke on a moan. You hadn’t noticed a tear slip from the corner of your eye.

He speaks around heavy, rolling thrusts, cock knocking up deep until you feel his body shudder beneath your touch. He groans, thick and leonine from the back of his throat, as his head dips down one last time.

The prince kisses you as he spills right up against your cervix. A low utter of your name passes from his mouth to yours as he licks over your tongue, his cock jumping inside you as he comes. Thick, hot ropes pulling deep from his being, and the weight of his orgasm has him collapsing half on top of you as he continues to spill. The pressure on your belly and the angle at which your legs part around his body makes you gasp, then whimper, but the prince licks the sound before it touches sunlight.

Aerion picks himself out of the kiss, sitting back on his haunches. You pant, hands gripping the sheets now as he slowly pulls his cock from you. He watches himself drool out of you. The feeling makes you squirm.

“Uh-uh, don’t be like that,” Aerion whispers, one hand coming to rest on your lower belly. He presses down firmly, and the throaty whimper that leaves you is completely involuntary. His other hand collects his seed from the curve of your arse, using two fingers to stuff it back into your cunt. You whine, and Aerion shushes you again. “Fussy girl. Can’t let it go to waste, can we?”

You bite your lip and stare up at the ceiling as Aerion curls his fingers into you. Your legs still bracket his hips and you can feel the ash-licked warmth radiating from his pale skin.

His fingers stretch you, curling and splitting against the silken walls of your cunt. They reach deep too, and after a moment of holding back your whimpers, you feel a prickling heat reappear beneath the press of his hand. Your legs shake before you can say anything, and the heat builds and builds as you attempt to lift yourself onto your elbows.

“A–Aerion, wait, wait—” You stutter out, then fall back onto the mattress as another orgasm rockets through you. It’s sharper, hits you in the base of your lungs and forces sounds from you you barely recognise as your own.

He watches you come undone again with a satisfied smile on his face, his softening cock giving a feeble twitch against his thigh. Your pussy squeezes around the thick push of his fingers, and he strokes you through it, pushing his cum right up towards your womb. The hand on your tummy gives you a gentle pat when you quit your shaking, and he carefully pulls his fingers from you, watching the way your slick and his seed webs between the digits.

You watch, vision blurred by your back-to-back orgasms and the early afternoon sunlight, as his tongue unfurls from between his kiss-bruised lips. He licks his fingers clean in a few curling movements, and you feel something jump in your belly, a flip beneath the press of his hand.

“My prettiest girls,” the prince whispers, wiping his wet fingers on your inner thigh before giving your pussy a quick pat—the sudden pressure making you jolt against the mattress—and manoeuvring himself beneath the sheets. 

He helps you with him, and after a moment of silence, you’re both tucked beneath the silks of your bed. You don’t say anything as he pulls you to him, tucking your body against his. But you do look at him as he rests against the pillows with his eyes closed. You admire the way little orbs of sunlight dance across the bare skin of his chest, shoulders and neck. You can’t help yourself: you reach up and trace the dappled light with your fingers, trekking up the side of his neck until you reach the curve of his jaw. His pulse jumps out to meet you.

He opens his eyes and peers at you sideways. “Something you want?”

You hum a no, then say, “You’re so pretty.”

Aerion rolls his eyes, but you don’t miss the tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth.

Silence beats through the room like a racing heart.

Then, “Aerion?”

“Hm?”

“You cut yourself on purpose, didn’t you?”

The prince opens his eyes again and shifts his head to look at you. His eyes dart across your face as if searching for any disappointment or anger. But he finds none.

“Maybe,” he replies after a moment.

You sigh. “You’re impossible.”

“Ser Roland was too close to you.”

“We were talking about flowers.”

Aerion huffed. “You can talk about flowers with me.”

You give him a sceptical look, fingers tracing the sunlight on his shoulder now. “Do you even know anything about flowers?”

“Of course I do.”

“Then what kind of—?”

“They’re carnations,” he interrupts. He looks away from you. You pause, hand over his heart. He continues quietly, clearing his throat. “My… my mother had them planted.”

You pout. “Oh, Aerion…”

“So, yes, I know flowers, or whatever the fuck you’re interested in,” Aerion hisses, reaching an arm around and taking your jaw between firm, still slightly sticky, fingers. He leans down and presses a kiss to your lips before pulling back before you could plead for more. “And so the next time you want to talk about flowers with someone…” He looks away, almost embarrassed. His cheeks are pink. “You can talk to me.”

These words taste like I love you as well, and it makes him grit his teeth.

It’s not said possessively. He holds your jaw tenderly, and his words match his hold. He actually means it: it’s sincere and honest, and he’s bearing his heart to you and hoping you don’t tear it apart.

“I’d love that,” you respond, your hand finding his and guiding it away from your jaw. You kiss his knuckles as he closes his eyes again.

I love you is written all over that too.

———

they kissed and everybody cheered

tags 🌿

your head shakes in defiance, a petty silence shifting between the two of you and gwayne almost smiles at your stubbornness. almost. but he doesn't, he knows it'll rattle you further and thats the last thing he'd rather do right now. he'd rather die, if that's an option.

his trailing touch is too welcome of a distraction and you stare hard at the little map of your skin he's following and knows all too well. you refuse to bend, you need time to sit in this heat to brace yourself, to find the right words to say and the best way to say them.

but gwayne would take all your words no matter bark or bite, with sense or without, just anything is better than this weighted silence between you. so he struggles a little, one hand stays firmly wrapped around your leg as the other tries to engage in a small game of tug and war as he wiggles the book from your grasp. he ignores your grumbles and successfully lays it flat at the far edge of the table, furthest from your reach. his slender finger reaches out and tilts your chin up to him, brows raised with that patient fondness and he just waits.

all he has to do now is wait, and it doesn't take long at all because one look to gwayne and all your thoughts tangle on your tongue and slip so messily.

"if you cannot tell me what has happened then tell me who," he murmurs, sterness laced into his features, "give me a name, darling that is all i need."

"ormund," you finally break and its bitter on your tongue. you feel your husband tense instantly, the beat of his heart slowing to a halt and he lets out a long exhale.

"of course it is him, what has he done now?" he rolls his eyes but there's a fierceness still harbouring. ormund has been a constant topic of conversation during your years of marriage and raising daeron, the same circle you find yourself trapped in where ormund pushes too hard. he mistakes the gentleness and kindness the two of you have brought daeron up to value as weakness and it irks you to the bone.

"i don't like the way he speaks to him gwayne, he's frightening the poor child," you exasperate and gwayne's listening but he's watching more with concern on the way your hands are flying around with great agitation. "filling him with notions of being king and getting angry with small inconsistencies in history and i'm sorry," you bite out, "having been beaten by a child in a game? and you're in a fit?" the shock and disgust is laced in your tone and you're far into your rant that you look over at your lover and seethe, "seven hells, gwayne would you at least look at me when i'm speaking?"

"i am looking!" his palms shoot up in defence, "and i am listening," he levels his tone, "it is not acceptable you are correct."

"of course i am correct, ormund is deranged,"

"yes, well i think his nightmarish tendencies have been festering since he first laid in his mother's womb," gwayne tries to joke, earn a giggle from you, an easy breath, a temporary truce but all he can see is a sliver of teeth breaking through from your frown. womb. he has no idea which of his words have settled on your skin, making home with the nerves and annoyance.

"is something funny gwayne?"

"my love," he starts and then stops, you've swung your legs off his lap and he misses the heat instantly. he tries to think, what could best diffuse this situation right now and bring you back to him. "i agree and i'll talk to him," he places a comforting hand on your shoulder but you're staring at him and he starts to shift under your scrutiny.

"has daeron said anything?" he feels a wave of protectiveness surge through his body. he knows ormund is harmless, but daeron is gwayne's more than anyone. he and you have raised that babe from young and when you look at daeron, sweet kind daeron, all gwayne can see is you. all the love you've ever poured into him. you and gwayne hadn't been so lucky in your marriage to be blessed with children but daeron has made up for it. he is your son and you'd be damned if anything were to ever happen to him.

"no but," and immediately gwayne sends you a look, "he doesn't need to! the maids speak and they speak of ormund's cruelty," you stress and he nods in understanding.

"you didn't need a maid i could've told you that," he shrugs his shoulders, "i will talk to him," he repeats, trying to catch your eyes, laser in on your focus and bring it to calmness.

"why do i sense a but?" you question.

"but i do think you're too soft on the boy," gwayne speaks. "he's ten and six, my love. he's incredible at his sword play and a novice in his text, i have no doubt ormund's ways are peculiar and i will raise that but he is growing, ormund may be cruel but the world will be harsher."

"he is a boy," you don't even have to shout for gwayne to feel the outrage in your tone.

"he is heir to the throne," gwayne's hand steadies on the table, his body looming over yours. he tries to reach out to you but you stand, guarded and tense. one wrong move from him and you'll shatter the brave stance he's holding up. his hands find the sides of your empty chair now instead, gripping it tensely till his knuckles break through an icy white.

"he is our boy," you voice finally breaks at the edge, you don't even let gwayne finish his sentence before youre shooting daggers and cutting at his hearts edge. "and i will not have the weight of the house's responsibilities and his brother's failures crush him whole," you try and create distance between you, heading to the windows and focusing on the way your small breaths lace the condensation on the glass. you reach out and feel the coolness against your fingertips and close your eyes, "you were not there when it's happened gwayne," you speak slowly, "he tries so hard with everyone, to be what they expect of him, he shouldn't have to with us."

there's an emptiness in the metres that hold you apart. from the silence and from the exhaustion that you know this familiar fight always brings. ormund inflicts his pain, daeron suffers, you and gwayne squabble, gwayne turns to ormund. ormund will never apologise you know this, he becomes a little softer the next weeks before he's back to his usual tirade and the damage will always be done. it'll always linger and haunt you and fail you when you catch the small slip of daeron's smile. the subtle flinch he tries to mask when the tiniest of mistakes have been made.

you think of the weight resting in your body, the heightened need for safety and it almost brings a tear to your eyes. your family is growing and you need to protect them. when you think of daeron, you think of the babe. you think of a life that could be more than just a political piece and your heart lurches, this can't go on. it takes everything in you to not reach out for the little fetus now, you find yourself often just mindlessly checking its still there. as though this could be a dream, as if something so precious could disappear so quickly.

"i know, sweetheart. i will speak to him," gwayne promises with determination, "i will make this right."

you open and eye to sneak a peek at him and see the way he looks back at you, with a longing desperation and you heave out a sigh.

"i would rather he die," you moan and gwayne snorts. its not a resolution to your disagreement but it lightens the mood for a minute. you feel his presence coming behind you and he stops short. he knows you want the space and he grants it to you.

"should i challenge him at the sword, lady hightower?" he mumbles with a tease, breath warm on your neck. and it'd be so easy for you to just give in, turn to your husband and melt back into the safety net of his love. but you're not only sick of this cycle, your heart breaking for your son and unborn child. you're also scared. so you press your forehead against the glass shaking it softly.

"i think poison should be fine," the condensation rises with a small fatigue and the lack of humour in your tone. "quicker, even. though i'm not sure he should be granted the mercy of a swift death."

you can feel the weight of his gaze shift from you to the gardens outside. the way your eyes track the different flowers in bloom and he stands quietly.

"i'd like some time alone, i think," you break the silence and gwayne pauses. you wait for him to say something, to fight you on this, fight for you on this but he clears his throat and nods tightly.

"as you wish, my heart. but rest assured, i will sort this for us. " he slowly presses a kiss to your hair and stares at you a minute more. he wants to tell you it'll all be okay, he will sort this for you and daeron, he will take charge of his household and make things right but you demand action, there's only so far that words can take him right now.

the stress pounds on the forefront of your mind. youre scared for daeron, but youre also scared for yourself. for what youre holding and what will soon be brought to life. its a heavy secret and you want nothing more than to just tell gwayne. but you've already bitten off more than you can chew for today and it settles in your bones.

you don't turn back to watch him leave, his footsteps are sound enough to know you're alone. and when there's absolute stillness do you let your back slide down the window and sink to your knees. your palms rub your eyes gently and then catch your face as you weaken for a moment. your fingers drum along your abdomen, three little knocks to say hello and you sigh, shifting the focus on your breathing. four inhales and six exhales. four inhales and six exhales. four times more before making a move to stand and continue with your day.

you know it's unfair to pin your annoyance on gwayne, your husband is your rock and ormund is the target. you just can't help but feel the tug of his words around your heart. daeron is your son, more of your son that alicent and ormund's combined and with what the future may bring, you've got to protect yours.

...

you make it your mission to be scarce today, to clear your head and simmer down the anger till it floats to a pensive sadness. you weren't hungry enough for lunch, though your defensiveness had stolen a large portion of your energy so you settled for a tea outside in the gardens. alone, save for the same book from earlier perched in your lap. except now when you hold it you can feel your husband's fingertips burn with each page.

you sigh and stretch your neck, the muscles sore from craning and sit patiently, trying to feel the breeze against your skin and listen for the small chirping from the trees above. what does catch your ear however is the small stalling of breaths and you don't need to see the flash of auburn to know who's hiding behind the pillars.

"come out, daeron," you call softly, "you need not hide from me," and the young boy emerges slowly and you make space on your bench for him to join. he attempts to greet you properly until he's met with the gentle sterness of your stare and smiles sheepishly instead.

"i haven't seen you today," he speaks to the flowers and your gaze follows. you shoot him an easy smile and let his comforting aura relax the tension in your shoulders. he leans his head on your shoulder as an invitation and you rest your head on top of his.

"forgive me sweetheart, it's been a heavy morning," he toys with your fingers and you let him stretch each one out, playing with them mindlessly. you watch him for a few minutes, fluctuating between a small frown and a cautious smile and like a sixth sense, your free hand closes on top of your joined ones. "what's the matter?" you ask so tenderly, it warms the cracks of his demeanour and allows him to melt in your ambience entirely.

"nothing," he mumbles and you click your tongue, shaking your head knowingly.

"tell me," its a soft command and it has his eyes lifting to yours with encouragement.

"did..." he starts and hesitates, your brows furrow at the stutter before he lets out a sigh and continues unwillingly, "are you upset with uncle gwayne because of me? did i make things troublesome?" you catch the stretch of glassiness swirling in his orbs and tuck him into your side firmly.

"no, my love," you rebute instantly, "and i am not upset with your uncle gwayne." you rub his shoulder comfortingly. he leans into your touch like a cat seeking refuge and looks back down to his lap.

"i heard him shout at uncle ormund," he lets it slip and your lips purse in thought, "and he hardly raises his voice."

"you shouldn't be eavesdropping my little dragon, some conversations are not meant for us," and you pour him a cup of tea, it's not as hot as it had been when you first sat down but the temperature is perfect for daeron to drink and not burn. he accepts it gingerly, the warmth of the cup welcome on his grip and he takes a sip.

"they mentioned your name," he mumbles in a slurp and you have half a mind to scold him on his table etiquette but seeing him so unguarded and carefree reaches down to the cusp of your soul and tightens.

"did they?" a small amount of interest grows at the claim and you wait for him to continue. daeron stares back at you, a mischievious grin plastered on his face as he shrugs so casually.

"i cannot say more, i shouldn't have been eavesdropping," and you nudge his shoulder playfully.

"oh come now, little prince. you cannot tease and then stop, that is just cruel," and he leans in closer, voice dropping to a murmur.

"uncle gwayne said that if he ever sees even just a wrinkle in your brow because of uncle ormund he was," and his eyes dart around carefully before whispering behind the palm of his hand, "he was going to send him to the seven hells himself." and he giggles so loud at your violent blush. you can't fight the smile that grows on your face and you shove him ever so lightly.

"you jest far too much, daeron."

"no! i swear it!" he defends and you know it to be true. "i'm sorry, aunt. i know this is because of me. uncle ormund isn't that bad, you just have to catch him at the right time and he makes me a better man. i have been difficult" and the shame that leaks off of him is so heart-rending you're overwhelmed with the urge to wrap him into your arms and hold him in safe refuge for eternity. far away from ormund, from the weight of his future and from the name that he carries.

"you shouldn't have to catch him at a right time, he should be a good role model all the time," you feel yourself getting riled again all over, "and what good is he doing making you a better man when you are the better person in all of this. everything is for you, daeron because we love you. you are not difficult in the slightest, in fact it's rather easy to love you daeron. though we do not share direct blood, you are ours, and nothing could change that " you soften. and when you catch him looking at you, its not daeron the prince in your eyes, its your daeron. the small babe alicent left you for what feels forever ago, the same child who tugged at your skirts, who ran with lemon cakes tucked at his sides away from his maestars, who cried when gwayne had first left you for battle and slept with you till the nightmares ran out of fuel.

he's your daeron more than anyone's and your heart stretches to think that the little babe sitting below your diaphragm will come to know, love and call him brother.

"i love you too," he mumbles into your side and you catch his stray tears.

"and when you love someone, you stick with them through everything."

"like you and uncle gwayne?"

"yeah," you pause, "though i don't think i could get rid of uncle gwayne even if i tried."

"he's a persistent man," daeron agrees, "but that's what is important right? he shows up, he always shows up," and the beam of admiration that lights in daeron's eyes sways you off balance. you must've been quiet for a while, listening to your heart beat pulse in your ears and your hands cradle the bottom of your stomach, the most softest of touches. soon it'll expand and you'll probably find more to moan about but at this time you marvel at how precious the life growing in you is. it's selfish you know, but you imagine a girl. with his deep sea eyes and auburn hair, or maybe they'll have your nose, the crinkles of your smile and your blended laughter.

you imagine gwayne to be just as he was with daeron. soft, patient, kind, stern when forced to be but never unjust. maybe a daughter will relax him to a new level, or stress his undoubtedly so. whatever may come, you know gwayne and you know how he loves, completely and all consuming.

he's gwayne. your gwayne. and your pregnant with his baby after what seems to be a miracle from the heavens.

"have i said something wrong?" daeron breaks the silence tentatively and you look up so suddenly, caught and unsure. you clear your throat and let go of your stomach and rest a hand on his. but daeron's quick and he's clever and he's noticed it from the first glance downwards. a small knowing grin works its way onto his face and he bites back the giggles.

"am i?" he drawls out in a tease, "to have a sibling?" and you freeze. no one other than you and the maestar knows. you had hoped gwayne would be the first to be told but after this morning, with your thoughts and emotions clouding your every move, daeron has been too quick.

"do not tell your uncle," your throat grows dry.

"uncle gwayne doesn't know?"

"no," you confirm, staring ahead.

"are you going to tell him?" and you feel his curious stare burning holes into his face.

"of course i will, silly," you blow into the air in frustration, "i was a little bit agitated at your uncle earlier," you admit and and daeron waits patiently. "he wasn't necessarily at fault but he also was not right and you know, this," you gesture down at the small bump hidden under your gown, "has occupied my mind greatly, i have not been fair."

daeron rests his head back onto your shoulder and doesn't say much more. "what?" you question, "what is it?"

"nothing."

"daeron targaryen," the sterness in your voice causes him to press his lips together in a fine line.

"you shouldn't have matters adding to your stress, its not good for the baby," and you roll your eyes.

"you are my baby-"

"i am a grown man," he hisses in embarrassment. he watches you look around in mischief before clearing your throat and raising it to the highest level known to man. he's sure that even the neighbouring galaxies have heard your boo.

"you are my baby!" and just like he did when he was five, he hides in your hold.

"stop this," he mumbles, "i beg of you, please stop." you laugh and feel the sunshine warms your backs as you stroke his hair affectionately. "but?" comes his tiny voice, "you won't forget about me right?" and you melt.

"my love, i could never," and you press a kiss to his hair. he closes his eyes at the touch and then sighs out in relief. for the first time today you've finally had the chance to relax and it feels so blissful you never want to leave the garden. daeron makes a notion for you to pass your book over to him and let him read aloud which you do.

you correct his pronounciation, pause to assess his analytical skills and ask him questions about the text, except when you do it it doesnt feel like a test or challenge as ormund does. it feels like an interest to his thoughts, a learning curve and he is grateful for it immensely.

he makes it through a chapter before turning to you with seriousness you purse your lips in thought, "so who has to apologise then? you or uncle gwayne?"

"daeron," you roll your eyes with a huff but the child doesn't deter, "gwayne obviously," you scoff. "i am pregnant the least he could do is grant me some mercy."

"but he doesn't know you're pregnant yet," daeron counters, "i think you should just apologise and be done with it, don't let your ego ruin your happiness."

and he is true, making so much sense that it irks you. "when did you get so wise?" it lands without a bite, a fondness carrying the question.

"well if you must know then i had some really good parents," its a tease but you recognise the truth behind it, guarding that sentence as if it was gold. daeron shuffles off the bench almost bouncing away with his boyish laughter ringing in the spring breeze, unaware of how that one sentence has brought you to a flood of overwhelming tears.

if you truly did right by daeron and his upbringing, then just maybe you'll be okay with this next one. the thought definitely eases a little pressure from your mind, you can't wait for this little one to meet the rest of your family and come home.

...

gwayne finds you in your chambers, ready with a tray in his hands as he kickes open and close the door. he has a spread of your favourite foods made after finding your absence at the dinner hall. the thud of the door doesn't even so much as shift your glance from your book and he waltzes over in your direction.

"what?" you mumble and he kisses his teeth in disapproval.

"my, is that any way to treat your husband?" he grins.

"what, lord husband?" comes your immediate reply and you feel a chuckle of breath hot and heavy at your ear. you half expect his lips at your cheek but you're met with the smell of grassiness and a tickle of pollen.

"your favourite flower, for my favourite flower," he beams at the daisy gently tucked behind your ear and tangled in the tendrils of your messy hair. the humour doesn't disappear completely from his face, just settles into a quiet simmer as he crouches down for a second. the food tray abandoned to his left on the bed as he places a warm weighted hand over your knee. "i know we argued earlier but please wife, i am sorry and let us not go to bed angry with each other." he speaks with such sincerity and honesty that more than anything you're thankful he's waved the white flag of peace and you send him a small smile of appreciation.

you lean close and press your forehead to his, you nose gently knocking into his and you nod. "i am not angry," you relax into his embrace.

"no?"

"no," you repeat softly, "though i hear you've talked with ormund?"

"and who did you hear that from?" he shoots a knowing grin. he pulls apart from your hold reluctantly to play around with your tray, rearranging your food and attacking the meat with such precise motions from your cutlery. the smell of it is off putting and you shake your head childishly. you should be more cautious of the things you're eating but lord, is the nausea intense.

"darling," he raises his brow, the fork hangs in the air between you and you press your lips shut in a thin closed line. he doesn't even look disappointed, he just makes a different move with his slender fingers plucking a strawberry from a dish and holds it up instead. and when it takes you a moment longer than necessary to react, he reaches out with his free hand and uses his thumb to drag open your bottom lip, "open," he whispers, "now chew," and the bite is so sweet, you feel a buzz of delight rush through you. its the first proper thing you're able to actually stomach and hopefully keep down. "good girl," he murmurs and feeds you another. he mindlessly licks away the drip of the strawberry juice from this thumb before stealing a kiss from your lips. he tastes the sweetness, the stickiness but more dear to him, he can taste you.

a satisfied groan slips between your lips and he grins, working his way through the tray and trying to differentiate between what he thinks you would like and what you wouldn't be able to stomach right now with this wave of nausea.

"you still didn't say how you knew?"

"our son, obviously." as if there could be no possible other who would deliver the news so fresh and quick.

"god, you're so much alike, it's terrifying," he rolls his eyes playfully, "and yes, though this time it is different my love. i get the feeling it's more final, ormund will be seeing things in a different light now."

"what do you mean? how did ormund take it?" you're half expecting gwayne to list boring details, an adult discussion, talks of ruling the realm and false promises of brotherhood but the tease in his tone is alarming and now when you look at him so up close, barely inches away you see why he's awfully smug.

"gwayne!" you exclaim, taking a stand and hovering over at him. your hands find the side of his jaw, painted with the tiniest of green splotch and a few nails ran at the surface.

"who did this?" you demand and he relishes at how you fuss over at him now, the stark contrast of your earlier conversation. it's only been a few hours but in your absence it feels like years have been missed and he drinks you after a long tiresome drought. you're tender around the bruises but there's haste in how you squash his face in his hands and inspect him all over, tossing him left and right with rapid assessment. he can still feel the stickiness of the strawberries against his skin but pays it no mind.

"i told you," and he leans back onto the bed on his forearms, his biceps pulsing in his shirt. his posture is both lazy and inviting as he shrugs once more "ormund will be seeing things differently now, or rather at least he won't be sniffing those ridiculous salts for a week or so,"

"gwayne!" you gasp louder.

"give or take," and the creases at the corner of his eyes fold with pure pride.

the length of his arms reach out and tug you closer as you fall into his lap. you try and brace yourself, cautious of the weight inside you but gwayne's welcomed you with such ease and pulls you firm in his hold, "i told you," he tucks the free flowing of strands back behind your ear and into the makeshift flower hair clip. "things will be different, ormund knows his ways are unlikeable and unacceptable. that change is greatly encouraged and what matters most is daeron. his tutors will stay the same but ormund will no longer be required to test his recitations or squabble over losses at a wooden game" you hum in agreement, kissing his cheek softly. "ormund may be a fool but he's wise to not lay a hand on our boy. that is final. should they need repeating to him then he shall hear them from his casket."

"thank you-"

"it needed to be done," his voice is firm. his hands wrap around the back of your thighs and he pulls you against him till he's laying flat on the bed, your form sprawled on top of him. it's not exactly rough but it's swift and a little unexpectant that you try and brace yourself with your hands to his chest. your body still collides with his, at solid contact, a tight tangle of your limbs and then it just slips from your lips carelessly,

"gwayne- shit the baby-" and you freeze, eyes blown wide at the admission. it's too late for you to take them back, you clear your throat, try and think of what else to say, maybe a distraction?

but there's nothing distracting about the way he's looking at you now. his hold on you tightens, mouth dropping open as he takes in your words. like you, it's like someone's put his brain through slow motion, the world around him seems to fade. blurs into a streak of messiness but you stand at the core of it, so clear and so beautifully his.

"a baby?" his voice breaks, "our baby?" the heat of his gaze melts your heart and brain to mush, you feel the weakness in your limbs as he sits up. your body in tandem as he holds you in his lap. his movements are snail-like now, soft, careful. every second he pours into you fills him whole in return.

"sweetheart?" he calls out to you, the tenderness is so all-consuming on his tongue and you look at him. really look at him. inches away you can see the freckles that dance his cheeks, the lines of the age from all the years youve known and loved him, the dimple that breaks through the surface whenever he pronounces a word so distinctly even when he's not smiling. the earnest in his eyes is what brings you back home, to him and you try to establish an easy breathing pattern.

"our baby," you whisper, the tears already starting to pool at the corners of your eyes. his breath halts, your confirmation shattering any efforts he has of forming a thought and then he reaches out tentatively, eyes searching for your permission first. his hands brace each side of your body, splashed wide against your stomach and he closes his eyes.

it's an odd angle where he cranes his neck lower but he presses a careful kiss there and buries his head into your abdomen. a baby. your baby. and he feels himself lightweight and soaring, ascending to the heavens already.

in the years of your marriage, you and gwayne have tried many times for a child before. it just had never been the right time and though it was hard the two of you had slowly come to accept it. there were tears, silent struggles you carried though no blame was ever directed, and slowly but surely daeron began to fill the gaps in your and gwayne's heart and loving him was far more than you could've ever wished for.

"the maestars say it's early and i didn't want to get our hopes up, i didn't want to let you down," you admit shamefully and his heart tugs. he raises his head to lean his forehead against yours. he turns his head to side and you can feel the slope of his nose against your cheek as he murmurs so tenderly, softly for your ears alone.

"you," his breath his hot and heavy with determination. its the most outrageous thing he's ever heard and he stamps out any doubt in your mind, his words tickling the shell of your ear, "could never let me down, my love," and he returns to your lips. its slow, its gentle and poured with every ounce of intention and love he is capable of delivering. his heart has already stretched and made room for the next addition to the family and he presses that thought into your lips.

"gwayne," you manage to mumble before he's captured you again, swallowing you and your sure right now, your souls are morphing into one.

"a babe," he laughs against your lips, the delight dancing between your tongues and he scrunches his nose, dimples beaming loud. "we truly have been blessed haven't we?"

the excitement doesn't fade, it settles into something easier and lighter. into a faint sense of longing to meet the little one that is moons away from existing.

"i'm sorry," you apologise to him, "i'm sorry, i wanted to tell you earlier but i just, it's been hard carrying this secret, i've had a lot on my mind with daeron and ormund and researching on successful pregnancies and-"

he listens to you ramble and it all makes sense to him. you spending most of your days in the library, the iron grip on the books hes caught you with. your concerns about ormund, your protective affection with daeron and the understanding washes over him. he picks up your hand and places it on his heart, letting you feel the pulses beneath it and its so warm.

"my darling wife," he starts, "whatever burdens you carry are mine to deal with," his fingers trace your cheekbones, the most intimate of caresses and you lean into his touch, "whatever we do, we do it together."

"i'm scared gwayne, i'm afraid that if this babe is to be born, i don't want them to be subjected to what we have, the sacrifices we have made. i know they won't be in line for the throne like daeron, but with everything to come? i can't let anything happen to them- we can't," you stress.

"hey," he tries to shush your quiet sobbing, "i will not let anything happen to daeron, to this babe and more importantly to you, my heart. nothing will get in the way between our family, not war, not household politics, nothing," the intensity of his promise heals the wounds before they've fully bled and you believe him. gwayne hightower is not just one of the noblest but fiercest of knights, he's a man in love and loves to death. and he most certainly would die in the attempt at protecting who he loves.

"i'm serious," he presses a slow kiss to your lips, lingering in the milimetres of air as he takes his time to pull away. he keeps you in his orbit, swirling as he rotates around your being. "nothing matters more to me than your safety, our family's safety," and when he smiles its as if its the very first time you met him across the courtyard and your stomach flutters an army of butterflies.

"yes well," you muse, speaking down at your stomach, "daddy's doing a fine job of beating people up isn't he?" and he laughs, throwing his head into the nook of your neck. your body vibrates under his shaking chuckles and your laughter joins in a sweet melody, the tune of your love.

"and daddy," he throws you a mischievous look before turning his attention down to your abdomen and drums along your skin, "will fight a million more to keep you, your brother and your mother safe."

"a child," he sighs dreamily, he pulls you down to the bed so you're laying side by side. your gazes shift from the ceiling to each other and the fondness in his eyes is world altering. you're sure galaxies have been moved by the focus of his stare.

"what are you thinking of, dearest?" you ask as gwayne's interlocks your hands in a tight promise of forever and brings them to his lips, and then leaving them to rest over his chest. your voice soothes the flowing waters of his thoughts and he breathes slowly, thinking of the future and whats yet to come for your family.

"what i must have done in my past life to accumulate all these blessings, to have been blessed with you," your breath halts. you don't think you'll ever grow accustomed to gwayne's declarations and love, your ears are blessed with sweet nothings every single day, but each time it feels like the very first time all over. gwayne's easy to love, it's natural, you're so sure you were made solely to exist for each other, you can't imagine to be by anyone elses side.

"you really know how to make a girl swoon, ser hightower" you tease.

"my girl," and he makes a move closer to you, hovering over you slightly, careful. "my wife," his head dips, "my love" and just before he closes his lips over yours, you feel yourself fall entirely into the safety net of his arms and his love for the rest of his life, "mine, all mine."

///

i have rewritten this fic a million times and i am never satisfied with how it ends or how it flows but im glad to get it out of the drafts it has been consuming my mind all week. (just in time for tonights episode too!) i think when you think too long and hard about it, you're bound to never be happy with something but yeah, hope you enjoy! let me know what you think! (positive comments only i strictly take NO criticisms sorry x)

"Princess?"

The voice seemed to reach you from very far away.

You blinked slowly, your gaze remaining fixed upon the deep red wine swirling lazily inside your goblet as though the answer to every question you had ever asked might somehow be waiting beneath its surface. The music filling the Great Hall blurred into little more than distant noise, the laughter of lords and ladies melting together until the celebration sounded less like a wedding feast and more like waves breaking endlessly against the shore.

How much had you slept this past week?

You tried to remember. An hour the first night. Perhaps two the next.

You had drifted into exhausted naps whenever your ladies managed to force you into bed, only to wake moments later with your heart racing and smoke still clinging to your lungs from dreams that felt altogether too real.

Ten hours across the entire week, perhaps.

It hardly mattered as you were tired enough that the world no longer felt entirely solid. Ever since your betrothal, the dreams had ceased showing you the man himself. No longer did you wake with the image of emerald cloaks or a familiar smile lingering in your thoughts.

Instead, every night unfolded into the same dreadful vision of a kingdom devouring itself. The dragons screamed as they tore one another from the sky and fire swallowed castles whole. The banners of great houses burned until only ash remained and somewhere within the smoke stood your family. One by one, they disappeared, no matter how desperately you ran toward them, your feet never seemed to move.

And always you woke before discovering who had survived.

"Princess."

You startled violently at the gentle nudge against your arm, blinking several times before the Great Hall finally returned to focus.

"...The princess," Gwayne was saying smoothly to the elderly lord and lady standing before the two of you, "...has had very little rest these past several days. Wedding preparations have rather exhausted her. She was terribly eager for today."

You nearly laughed, the only wedding preparation you had been a part of was making sure there was enough wine. You bit the inside of your cheek as the old couple smiled knowingly.

"Entirely understandable," the lady replied warmly. "Every bride grows overwhelmed eventually."

You stared politely for a heartbeat, trying desperately to remember who they were. They were from the Riverlands, you were almost certain. Or perhaps the Reach. You could not remember their names.

"...We merely wished to offer our congratulations," the lord continued. "It is good to see House Targaryen and House Hightower joined in friendship once again."

"How fortunate," you murmured before you could stop yourself, "To become a bridge built for everyone else's benefit."

Silence.

The couple exchanged an uncomfortable glance and beside you, Gwayne cleared his throat with practiced ease, "What my wife means," he said gently, "is that we both hope our families enjoy many years of peace together."

The couple accepted the explanation with relieved smiles before offering another round of blessings and finally drifting back into the sea of nobles filling the hall.

Before your thoughts had the chance to drift away again, Gwayne was already steering you elsewhere with a light hand against the small of your back, politely intercepting another lord who looked eager to offer his congratulations.

You hardly noticed where he was leading you. Your mind had wandered back to dragons. To fire. To ash carried across a blackened sky.

Every night the dreams revealed another piece of a future you could not understand, each one ending before you reached the answer you sought, and every morning you awoke feeling as though you had lived through another lifetime. Somewhere within those visions, something terrible was waiting for your family.

You simply did not know when.

"I cannot decide," Gwayne said after watching you in silence for several moments, his voice carrying the faintest trace of amusement, "whether I ought to be impressed or thoroughly insulted that this is the first conversation we have managed to have since you attempted to climb over the walls of the Red Keep."

That was entirely true. After your failed attempt of fleeing, you had become almost impossible to find on the single week of your betrothal. If he visited the training yard, you wandered the libraries. If someone whispered that Ser Gwayne had been seen crossing the eastern galleries, you slipped into forgotten stairwells known only to servants and children who had spent their lives turning the Red Keep into a playground. You lingered in the dragonpit until dusk, disappeared into abandoned towers, climbed onto rooftops where no lady ought ever to be, and more than once your ladies had distracted curious knights long enough for you to escape through hidden passages behind the old tapestries.

You had convinced yourself it was easier that way. If you never truly knew him, perhaps the dreams would hurt less when they came to pass.

You studied him for a moment before answering with complete seriousness, "You should probably feel insulted."

His mouth twitched, "I suspected as much."

"And your sister certainly is."

You inclined your head toward the royal table where Alicent sat beside your father, regal as ever, though her gaze found the two of you often enough that it was impossible not to notice. Even from across the hall, there remained something watchful in the way she looked at you, as though she expected you to vanish before the evening was through.

Gwayne followed your gaze before smiling with quiet resignation, "She worries."

A dry laugh escaped you before you could stop it. You doubted worry had ever been the proper word.

You knew perfectly well why Alicent had approved of the match. Marriage carried you to Oldtown, away from King's Landing, away from the court, away from the endless disappearances that had become almost expected of Viserys's younger daughter. It solved a problem politely enough that no one could accuse anyone of cruelty.

You kept that thought to yourself and instead chose to stand quietly next to him which in itself, was an odd sort of torment.

There were moments when you forgot you had only met him once before, because your dreams had stolen that unfamiliarity from you years ago. You knew the sound of his voice before he ever spoke, the easy smile that softened his features, the slight crease between his brows whenever he found himself thinking too hard. Every part of him felt strangely familiar.

Yet he looked at you with the curiosity reserved for complete strangers.

What you were not aware of is how desperately he wanted to change that. While you ran from him, he had questioned dragonkeepers, stable boys, guardsmen, maids, cooks, even elderly servants who had watched you grow from infancy, and every one of them had answered him with the same amused smile.

"The princess does that. She'll turn up eventually."

He had begun to wonder whether you intended to appear at your own wedding.

"You are tired." The observation was spoken so softly that it almost disappeared beneath the music.

"It has been a long day."

"It has been a long week."

You offered no reply and Gwayne watched you another moment before quietly rising to his feet.

Without explanation, he crossed the hall toward the royal table.

You followed him with tired eyes, watching as he bent to speak privately with your father. Viserys listened with surprising attentiveness before a warm smile spread slowly across his face, one accompanied by a gentle nod of approval. Beside him, Alicent looked between the two men with obvious skepticism, one elegant brow arching before she sighed in quiet resignation and inclined her head as well.

Only then did Gwayne return.

He extended his hand toward you, "Let us retire."

You looked at him in confusion, "The feast is not over, there are still hours before midnight," then quietly you added, "...and the bedding ceremony."

"There will not be one."

For the first time that evening, genuine surprise crossed your face.

The hall continued behind you in laughter and celebration, entirely unaware as your husband led you quietly toward the great doors, leaving the music behind without so much as a backward glance.

-

The silence that greeted your chambers felt almost startling after the endless noise of the feast. Servants slipped inside only long enough to light fresh candles before disappearing as quietly as shadows, leaving the room bathed in warm golden light and blessed stillness.

Almost mechanically, you reached for the jeweled pins woven into your hair, removing them one after another until the intricate braids loosened and silver-white strands spilled heavily over your shoulders. Rings followed. Bracelets. A necklace that had begun to feel unbearably heavy hours ago.

You became aware, little by little, that Gwayne was no longer speaking and the realization surprised you.

Ever since the gardens, he had seemed determined to draw you into conversation whenever circumstance allowed, asking gentle questions you never truly answered, smiling whenever your stubbornness surfaced. Now, he simply let the quiet exist.

He busied himself with small, unnecessary tasks instead, stirring the fire back to life before pouring a modest measure of wine into a silver goblet. When he approached, he offered it without ceremony.

"So you may sleep."

You looked at the goblet, then at him. For the first time since your father had announced the betrothal, uncertainty settled over a different question entirely.

Had you been wrong about him?

Not about the dreams, but about the man standing before you. He had canceled the bedding ceremony without asking anything in return. He had noticed your exhaustion when no one else had cared to. He had remembered the wine not because of gossip, but because he had seen you struggle.

It was a kindness you have not felt from anybody in a long time.

"But, we're meant to...consummate the marriage." The words felt strangely hollow as they left your mouth.

He looked almost bewildered, "You are in no condition for anything except sleep."

"But everyone—"

"I am unconcerned with everyone," his voice softened, "I am only concerned with you."

Something inside your chest tightened unexpectedly. He gestured toward the bed, "You should rest, I'll remain by the fire."

You searched his face for some trace of obligation, some hidden expectation that would reveal this gentleness to be little more than courtesy and found none.

Truthfully, you had no desire to sleep. Not because you lacked the exhaustion, but because you knew what awaited you the moment you surrendered to unconsciousness. Yet the words refused to leave your lips. You found yourself unable to confess such a childish fear aloud, especially to a man you had known for scarcely a fortnight and married only hours before. So, swallowing both your pride and your apprehension, you drank the wine without another word.

When the last drop was gone, you set the silver cup aside and crossed slowly toward the bed, every step carrying the strange feeling that you were walking willingly toward the very thing you feared most. Before climbing beneath the covers, you glanced back over your shoulder.

Gwayne was already watching you.

When your eyes met, he offered the faintest of smiles before inclining his head toward the bed as though gently reminding you that it was all right to rest. Then, true to his word, he turned back toward the fire, giving you the privacy.

-

You did not know how long sleep had held you. It could have been minutes or hours. Time rarely existed within your dreams.

One moment you had been wrapped beneath warm blankets while Gwayne sat closely to the fire, and the next you stood beneath a sky stained black with smoke while dragons screamed somewhere beyond walls you could not see. Syndor's cries cut through the chaos with heartbreaking familiarity, each desperate roar carrying the unmistakable panic of a creature searching for the only person who had ever been able to calm him.

You tried to reach him, but something unseen held you in place while his cries grew louder and louder until they became almost unbearable.

Then, you woke with a violent gasp that burned your lungs.

Your eyes had not yet opened, but your hands were already searching frantically through the darkness, clutching at sheets and blankets as though expecting rough chains instead of soft linen beneath your fingertips.

"Syndor..."

The name escaped you before you had fully returned to yourself.

"My dragon..."

The room remained swallowed in darkness, interrupted only by the faint orange glow of dying embers in the hearth. For one terrifying heartbeat, the dream still felt real. Then came the quiet scrape of a chair against stone.

"Princess."

Gwayne's voice was low enough that it scarcely disturbed the silence, yet it carried through the room with a steadiness that slowly began pulling you back to the present.

He was already crossing the room, then stopped almost immediately when he took a look at you.

You had retreated as far back against the carved headboard as the bed would allow, the blankets gathered tightly against your chest while your breathing came in short, uneven bursts. Your wide violet eyes remained fixed somewhere beyond him, still trapped halfway between nightmare and waking.

Very carefully, he lowered himself onto the edge of the mattress, "It was only a dream," he said quietly.

Before he had even finished speaking, you shook your head, "No."

"Syndor needs me. He's..." You swallowed hard, struggling against the lingering panic. "...he was calling for me."

"He is safe," The reassurance came without hesitation, "You are in your chambers."

You squeezed your eyes shut, pressing the heels of your hands against them as though that alone might banish the images still clinging stubbornly to your mind.

"He is asleep in the Dragonpit," Gwayne continued gently. "Nothing has happened to him."

Neither of you spoke after that and the silence settled over the room like a blanket of its own, broken only by the crackling fire and the gradual slowing of your breath until each inhale no longer felt as though it fought against your ribs.

Only when he was certain the worst of the terror had passed did he speak again, "Are you alright?"

You answered with the smallest nod.

"Would you like to try sleeping again?"

"No." The word came too quickly and sharply.

He rested his forearms loosely against his knees, studying the fire for a long moment before asking, almost conversationally, "What do you usually do when you wake from them?"

You followed his gaze toward the embers, "Anything," your shoulders lifted in a tired shrug and your fingers tightened around the blankets, "I walk, or read."

"And when I was younger..." a wistful smile touched your lips before fading just as quickly, "...I used to sneak into my sister's chambers."

He looked back at you, "Rhaenyra?"

You nodded, "We never spoke about the dreams, we would simply talk until the sun came up."

The confession lingered quietly between you and Gwayne found himself smiling. He could picture it with surprising ease, a much younger princess padding barefoot through dark corridors with tangled silver hair, crawling beneath her elder sister's blankets simply because sleep had become too frightening to face alone.

The image was unexpectedly endearing.

Then he noticed something else. Every time he shifted, however slightly, you shifted too. It was subtle, the smallest instinctive retreat. Enough that the space between you never truly disappeared and his smile faded. He searched his memory for something, anything, that might explain it.

Had he spoken too harshly in the gardens? Had he frightened you that evening without realizing it? Or was it simply the marriage itself?

The thought settled heavily inside him.

After a long silence, he drew a quiet breath, "May I ask you something?"

You looked up cautiously before giving the faintest nod. He hesitated, not because he doubted the question, but because he feared the answer. "When I found you in the gardens..." his voice remained gentle, "...you looked at me as though you already knew who I was."

"And just now when I came to you..." he paused, choosing his words carefully, "You looked almost frightened of me."

He searched your face, hoping to find an explanation there before he asked the question aloud, "Have I done something to deserve that?"

For a long moment you simply stared at him as your fingers twisted together beneath the blankets.

"I suppose you have not."

Not yet, the little voice in your head told you.

You stopped, struggling to shape feelings that had lived inside you since childhood into words another person might understand. The admission came little more than a whisper, "It is just that...the first time I dreamt of you, I was only a child."

His brows lifted in quiet surprise.

"I didn't know your name, I don't even think I knew what Oldtown was. I only know it was you because you were a knight wearing green."

The corner of his mouth lifted before he could stop it.

"So it is strange," you continued before he could tease you, "Meeting you, I mean."

You looked at him then, "It feels as though I have known you for years. As though, the night in the gardens was not our first meeting."

Gwayne felt something tighten unexpectedly in his chest. The thought was strangely beautiful. Somewhere, years before either of you had known the other's name, a lonely little princess had dreamed of a knight in green armor. And somehow, she had remembered him.

"I confess," he said after a moment, his voice carrying that same quiet warmth that had followed you throughout the evening, "I feel I have been placed at a considerable disadvantage."

You looked at him, your brows drawing together in sleepy confusion.

"You have known my face since you were a child," he continued, a faint smile lingering at the corner of his mouth. "You have spent years deciding what sort of man I am."

"And you?" you asked softly.

"I have scarcely had a week."

Despite everything, despite the lingering ache in your chest and the remnants of terror still clinging stubbornly to your mind, a quiet laugh escaped you before you could stop it, "I suppose that is rather unfair."

"I should think so," he replied. "I have had hardly enough time to convince my own wife that I am tolerable company."

"You have done..." You hesitated, lowering your eyes to your hands. "...better than I expected."

The admission surprised the both of you.

You had not meant to say it aloud. And for the first time, you allowed yourself to truly look at him, not at the knight who appeared in fragments of prophecy, nor at the stranger fate had insisted you marry, but simply at the man seated beside your bed in the middle of the night with sleep still clinging to his own eyes because he had risen the moment he heard you cry out.

He had asked nothing of you. Not obedience, affection, not even an explanation. Only whether you were well. The realization settled quietly somewhere deep inside your chest.

It made everything infinitely more difficult, because the man before you looked nothing like the one your dreams warned you about.

The silence between you was no longer uncomfortable. Outside the windows the castle had surrendered entirely to the night, the laughter from the feast long since faded until all that remained was the gentle crackling of the fire and the distant rush of wind against the towers.

Eventually Gwayne inclined his head toward the bed, "You should try to sleep again."

The answer came almost before he had finished speaking, "I cannot. The dreams will only return."

He considered your words for a long moment before speaking again, "Then they shall wake me as well. I'll remain here."

"You needn't. You have already done more than enough."

"I don't believe I have." His answer was gentle, but there was an unmistakable certainty beneath it. "If you wake frightened, then I shall wake with you."

He said it so simply that, for a moment, you wondered if he understood what he was promising. "You do not know what you are agreeing to."

"No," he admitted honestly, "But I know you should not have to face them alone."

Your throat tightened. You had spent so many years convincing yourself that the dreams belonged to you alone, that they were yours to endure and yours to hide, that hearing someone speak so matter-of-factly about sharing even the smallest part of that burden felt almost foreign. Slowly, almost reluctantly, you shifted beneath the blankets.

It was not an invitation so much as the smallest surrender and Gwayne seemed to understand the difference.

Silently he extinguished the last candle until only the embers in the hearth painted the room in shades of amber, then crossed quietly to the opposite side of the bed. He lay down carefully atop the covers, leaving enough space between the two of you that propriety remained untouched, his hands folded loosely across his chest as though he feared even the slightest movement might disturb you.

"Good night, Princess."

"Good night, Gwayne"

The distance made you smile despite yourself, then you closed your eyes once more. This time, sleep did not feel quite so terrifying even when you knew, with the same dreadful certainty that had followed you since childhood, that the dreams were waiting just beyond consciousness.

You had not told him everything. You had not told him about the dreams where you reached for him and he never reached back. The ones where you awoke every time with the unbearable certainty that, somehow, someday, he would become the source of a grief too great to imagine.

The thought lingered for only a moment before your gaze drifted toward the man lying quietly beside you. His breathing had already begun to deepen, though you suspected he was not truly asleep, listening instead for the slightest sign that another nightmare had found you.

The ache in your chest remained and yet, you chose not to dwell upon the future your dreams insisted awaited you.

That could wait until morning, tonight, you allowed yourself to remember the kinder dreams instead, the ones where a lonely little girl had found comfort in the company of a nameless knight dressed in green, long before she knew the sorrow the future promised.

And with those memories held close, you surrendered once more to sleep, choosing to believe in the dreams that had taught you how to love him before the ones that warned you how you might lose him.

You blinked. “Holding up?”

He hesitated, then smiled faintly. “Marriage can be an adjustment.”

You almost laughed.

Valarr, overhearing, added softly, “You deserve peace when you can find it.”

The sympathy in his voice was impossible to miss. You wondered what they imagined your life with Aerion to be. Torture, perhaps. Unrelenting chaos. Fear.

They never saw the private moments. You didn’t correct them. It was easier not to. You walked the gardens with Aegon holding your hand. You listened to Daeron’s songs. And, if you were honest, you enjoyed the peace.

But when word came that Aerion had returned…your heart lifted anyway. You tried not to show it.

They arrived in a rush of noise: hooves, shouted commands, the clatter of armor. The courtyard filled with movement.

You stepped forward instinctively, skirts gathered, eyes searching.

Aerion dismounted first. Windblown. Alive with restless energy.

His gaze found you instantly. And despite yourself, you smiled.

Behind you, Baelor and Valarr exchanged baffled looks. Daeron blinked like he’d misread something.

Aegon whispered loudly, “Why is she happy?”

You ignored them.

Aerion strode toward you and caught your hands as if claiming you back from the world.

“My pretty rose,” he said, pleased. “You didn’t forget me.”

You shook your head, laughing softly. “I heard you were returning today.”

He smirked. “Of course you did.”

Behind him, Maekar sighed the deep sigh of a man exhausted. The others watched the exchange like it made no sense at all.

You could practically hear the question in their silence: How is she happy to see him?

That evening, after the welcome feast, Aerion pulled you away the moment propriety allowed.

His chambers felt smaller after weeks apart. He paced as he talked, animated, triumphant.

“You should have seen it,” he said, gesturing wildly. “The puny lord tried to claim he could outdrink me. Fool.”

You sat on the edge of the bed, smiling faintly. He boasted about skirmishes, about horses, about arguments he had won and men he had humiliated. Eventually, he stopped pacing and turned toward you, grinning.

“You missed me terribly,” he concluded.

You tilted your head, feigning thoughtfulness. “I suppose the castle was quieter.”

He narrowed his eyes suspiciously. You laughed softly and reached for him.

“I did miss you.”

His expression brightened instantly. “I knew it.”

He dropped several bundles onto the bed beside you: silks, jewelry, small carved trinkets.

“I brought gifts,” he announced proudly. “Everyone else was bringing things back for their wives. I would not be seen returning empty-handed.”

You touched the fabric, surprised by the care in the choices. “These are beautiful.”

He shrugged, pretending indifference, though the satisfaction in his eyes betrayed him. “I have good taste.”

Later, when the candles burned low, the distance between you vanished completely. He clung to you with an urgency, having become expert by now at unlacing your dresses, never one for patience. He didn't tease for long, only rubbed and flicked your pearl, holding your waist with one hand to keep you still as you squirmed and jolted in response. Once he deemed you wet enough for his satisfaction, he pulled off his breeches and sheathed himself inside you.

He didn't last long, seemingly pent up. He finished twice inside you before deciding to be gracious enough to pay more attention to you and helped you reach your peak, curling his fingers as you liked, pushing his spend back inside you with his movements.

Aerion had never, not once, told you to be quiet when he was fucking you, enjoying your desperate moans and whimpers, even crooning mockingly to you as you whined at the overstimulation once you came down from the height of pleasure.

When he finally settled, bare-chested and heavy with sleepiness, he draped himself over you. He reminded you of a large, possessive cat more than a dragon in that moment.

His voice dropped to a soft murmur against your shoulder.

“I told them about you,” he said drowsily. “Said my wife is prettier than all of theirs.”

You smiled into his hair.

“Did you?”

“They were jealous,” he mumbled with satisfaction.

He pressed a lazy kiss against your skin.

“My pretty rosebud,” he murmured. “You belong with me. Everyone knows it.”

The words were half nonsense, half sincerity. He rambled on, unhinged little declarations that made no logical sense but sounded deeply romantic to him alone.

“You’d hate traveling,” he said sleepily. “Too dusty. Better here. Waiting for me.”

You hummed in agreement. His arms tightened.

“I missed you,” he admitted quietly, the honesty slipping out only when exhaustion softened him.

There it was. The real thing. You stroked his hair gently.

“I know.”

He sighed, content.

Night in the Red Keep was never truly quiet.

There was always something, distant footsteps in corridors, the low murmur of guards changing shifts, wind sighing against stone, but the sounds were far away enough to blur into background noise.

You should have been asleep. Instead, you drifted in and out of uneasy dreams.

Fragments chased you: Highgarden paths twisting into endless hallways, dragon shadows passing overhead, voices that spoke your name but never quite sounded right. Each time you slipped deeper, something sharp would pull you back, a sense of falling, of losing something you couldn’t name.

You turned again, tangling the sheets around your legs.

Beside you, Aerion made a faint sound of annoyance.

You froze, hoping he would settle again.

He didn’t. His arm moved abruptly, sliding around your waist, pulling you back against his chest. The heat of him surrounded you instantly.

“Stop wriggling,” he muttered into your hair, voice thick with sleep. “You’re shaking the bed.”

“Pardon,” you whispered automatically.

He only grunted, tightening his hold.

You tried to relax. Tried to let the steady weight of him anchor you. But your heart still beat too fast, your breathing uneven, the edge of the dream clinging stubbornly to your skin.

You shifted again without meaning to.

Aerion sighed dramatically.

“What is wrong with you tonight?” he murmured.

“Nothing,” you said softly.

He didn’t believe you. You could feel it in the way he went still, listening.

You didn’t tell him. You wouldn’t have known how. Aerion was many things but comfort was not a language he spoke easily. You had learned long ago not to expect softness from him when you were fragile.

So you kept quiet.

Yet, he noticed anyway. His hand slid along your arm, slow, absent strokes over your skin, as if testing whether you would settle. The gesture was clumsy, not quite gentle, driven more by instinct than intention.

He liked touching you. That much was obvious. But he wasn't much for affection that didn't lead to anything more heated. His palm drifted lower, resting on your hip, thumb drawing slow circles.

When you still didn’t quiet, he huffed softly and gave your backside a firm, rhythmic pat, almost absentmindedly.

You blinked, startled.

He did it again. It reminded you absurdly of the way someone might soothe a nervous horse.

“You’re fussy,” he muttered. “Lie still.”

You bit back a laugh.

He kept stroking your skin, long lazy passes that were probably more for his own enjoyment than your comfort, but the warmth helped anyway. The tension in your shoulders eased slightly.

“There,” he murmured, half asleep. “Better.”

You hesitated.

“Aerion…”

“Hm?”

“I keep having bad dreams.”

The admission slipped out before you could stop it.

He was quiet for a moment. You braced for impatience. For dismissal. Instead, his arm tightened around you.

“Well,” he said finally, voice low and rough with sleep, “stop it.”

You almost snorted.

“I don’t think that’s how it works.”

He made a small, displeased sound.

“You are my wife,” he said firmly, as if this explained everything. “Nothing touches you without going through me first. So stop being afraid.”

The words were awkward. Blunt. Not comforting in the way another man might have tried to be.

Yet somehow they were. Because he sounded so certain. As if it were simply fact.

His fingers resumed their slow path along your arm. Another absent pat to your hip.

You could feel him fighting sleep, stubbornly staying awake because you weren’t resting yet.

“You worry too much,” he murmured. “No harm will come to you.”

You exhaled slowly, letting your eyes close again. For a moment, it worked.

Then another restless shiver ran through you.

Aerion groaned softly.

“That’s enough,” he muttered.

Before you could ask what he meant, he rolled you over beneath him, pinning you gently against the mattress. His hair fell forward, silver strands brushing your cheek.

You blinked up at him, startled.

“Aerion...”

“You’re not sleeping,” he said simply. “So I will fix it.”

His mouth brushed your temple, not quite a kiss, more a press of reassurance.

He hitched your legs over his waist. His hips moved with familiar confidence, not hurried. The rhythm was steady, repetitive, drawing the tension from your body piece by piece until your thoughts blurred and softened.

Your breathing slowed. Your limbs grew heavy. The nightmare haze melted into warmth and exhaustion.

By the time he settled back beside you, you were already drifting, eyelids heavy, body loose against his.

He pulled you close again automatically, his chin resting near the top of your head.

“There,” he murmured, satisfied. “Quiet now.”

His hand found your waist again, holding you in place as sleep finally claimed you.

Full series: Growing Strong, Married Life, Growing Familiar , Deep in the Meadow and Dragon Dreams, Perzys ānogār. Can be read as a oneshots.

a/n: Donate on Ko-fi: https://ko-fi.com/catbayunthestoryteller <3

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Neither of you have any knowledge of how long you’ve been there, nor how many times you’ve peaked. The evidence of your orgasm now making a sticky mess between your legs and spraying his thighs, creating a wet sound that’s nearly lewd each time you lower yourself all the way down onto his cock and bottom out, sitting all pretty on his lap.

A goddess hovering above him, mighty and glorious. And there he remains, but a servant at her mercy.

Gwayne is lost in the haze of your body and your cunt and the way you're making him feel—so lightheaded that he can hardly even comprehend your words. Though he does, for he was made to listen to you, to answer to you, to obey you, to receive whatever you choose to bestow upon him. 

“N-no,” he babbles his reply, his lovely lips—all wet with sweat and his own spit—tracing a trail of sloppy kisses down your throat. His lean arms lock your body tight against him in an unavoidable cage, his hands molding to the outline of your hips and guiding you up and down on top of him, to ride him like a savage. “Never let me go, my love. I could not bear to be away from you any longer—hmm!—”

The dirt clinging to him, the fine dust of the trail ground into his skin, the smudges of earth dried against his jawline, temple and cheekbones from days of relentless travel, doesn’t diminish him. It fucking heightens him. Every sweat-streaked trace of soil on his flushed face and along the tense line of his neck only serves as a raw, tangible marker of how far he had pushed himself in the last days, how tirelessly he journeyed... just to reach you.

Seeing him like this; weary, filthy, and thoroughly pathetic, ignites something fierce and primal deep within you. It makes your blood run hotter, turning every harsh, heavy bounce of your hips into a claim over every inch of him.

“And what did you do all this time we’ve been apart?” you question him in a remarkably steady voice, considering just how utterly overwhelmed he's making you feel, tugging sharply at his reddish hair to force him off your neck so you can look him straight in the eye. “How many whores were you with while I was gone, husband?”

The sight of him—your sweet, perfect knight—now reduced to a ruined mess begging for your mercy, makes your insides clench even tighter. Your cunt pulses around the length of his hard cock, impossibly tight, sucking him deep inside, so deep that his swollen tip bumps up against that one special little spot inside you that lights up stars everywhere you look.

It’s a remarkable circumstance, that you two have withstood all these months away from each other. The only thing that could ever separate you would be death or war, and war has fallen in between you, unfortunately locking you into opposing sides. Your birth name and your dragon are what, months ago, dragged you away from the peace of Oldtown and back to Dragonstone, where you were summoned to take on an important role alongside your mother Rhaenyra, the true heir to the Iron Throne.

And Gwayne, by his family name, had to follow his sister's orders and swear allegiance to the Usurper.

Your husband shakes his head in despair, whimpers slipping from his half–open lips, and big tears welling up in the corners of his beautiful eyes, blue and sparkly like a sky full of stars. “N–none, my Princess. I could never be with anyone else.”

You know it’s true, and that someone like Gwayne—your Gwayne—could never even consider being with anyone other than you; he could never possibly betray you. His own values as the most righteous and honorable man in the Seven Kingdoms forbid it, and most importantly, he is simply much too in love with you to view anyone else with the kind of gaze that is only reserved for you.

His body belongs to you; his soul, heart, and mind are yours.

“No?” nevertheless, you question through a low whisper, taking full advantage of the fact that you’re performing a slow circular motion down his lap so you can lean toward him and kiss his lips. He moans into your mouth, making you breathe him in, his thrill, his pleasure, his appreciation.

The very moment your dear husband spotted the ominous silhouette of your dragon swooping down from the cloudy sky and onto him and Criston’s futile little army, he knew it was all over. He had endured so much over the past few moons, forced to follow that foolish man around. It was absurd—what other choice did they have? Nothing but to beg for the dragon’s mercy.

Fortunately for him, it was you who descended from the clouds, for if it had been anyone else, he would be as dead as Cole.

He keeps whimpering as your hips rise again, your velvety walls wrapping all around his cock, making him twitch inside you, as your tongue runs passionately along his cheekbone, wiping away the tears that have dampened his freckled, flushed skin.

“No one takes me the way you do, my beloved,” he claims, kissing your lips to seal it like a promise. He kisses you again and again before continuing to whisper sweet things to you. “No one feels like you—so tight and perfect. I—fuck—I am yours.”

He pulls you down hard against him, his hips snapping upward to meet your descent with an ungodly, wet slap that knocks the breath clean from your lungs. The tip of his cock buries itself ruthlessly against that exquisite, agonizing spot inside you, making the world behind your eyelids fracture into brilliant bursts of gold and white, of him, his soul.

“Yours,” he repeats, a broken, desperate prayer against the seam of your lips. His slender fingers dig brutally into the soft flesh of your hips, leaving bruises that will surely bloom tomorrow. “Always yours. Slice open my chest, my love... look inside, feel it... there is no room for a King or a crown or a throne. Only you. Only my wife, my sweet wife.”

Gwayne locks his arms around your waist and shifts his weight, rolling you both over in one fluid, breathless movement. In an instant, the tent spins, and he settles above you, his heavy, warm body pressing you back into the wrinkled bed and thrusting his hips into you.

He looks down at you through a veil of disheveled, reddish hair, his sky–blue eyes dark with emotion and body utterly undone by yours.

“G–gwayne...” you moan out his name, your hands moving up to the broad curve of his shoulder blades, your fingers digging into his freckled skin as he frames your face with trembling hands. “My dearest”

“Yours,” he pledges, the words rolling off his tongue and onto your lips like a prayer and he kisses you again, and again. “Let me give you everything. Take it all—all of me.”

He sets a relentless, desperate pace, driving both of you straight past the edge. Your back arches into him, your legs wrapping tightly around his waist as the tension builds to an agonizing, exquisite peak.

When the wave finally breaks, it crashes over both of you at once—a blinding, overwhelming release that leaves you clinging to one another, gasping for air and crying each other’s names as your heartbeats clash against each other’s chests in tandem.

Gushes of his seed warm your insides, coating your walls in his color and laying claim to your womb.

The feeling is so familiar, the way he fills you right to the brim, so much that trickles overflow out the edges of your throbbing, abused cunt.

“Gods above...” Your lover sighs weakly against your collarbone, leaving a wet trail of saliva on your skin. “Thank you, thank you, thank you...”

You stroke the soft, auburn hair at the nape of his neck, breathing in the scent of rain, leather, and him.

Your fingers trace appreciatively the familiar curve of his back as your chest heaves in time with his, the wet warmth between your thighs a quiet, lingering mark of the love he just poured into you.

“Gwayne,” you call out to him softly into the dark, your voice cutting through the heavy silence of the tent.

He shifts slightly, pressing a tender kiss onto the sensitive skin beneath your jaw. “I'm here, my love. I'm right here.”

You cup his beautiful face in your hands, forcing him to lift his head so you can look straight into those clear, desperate blue eyes. The tears have dried on his cheeks, but the vulnerability in his gaze is raw and absolute.

“Then come with me,” you say, the command laced with a quiet, pleading ache that makes his breath catch in his throat. “Leave all of this behind tonight. Fly with me to King’s Landing and bend the knee to my mother; she will grant you mercy and forgiveness.”

Gwayne freezes, his chest resting heavily against yours as the weight of your words sinks in.

“My love...” he begins, his voice thick with an ache so profound, for love and for you. He presses his forehead against yours, his warm, uneven breath fanning over your lips. “Would that truly make you happy? Is this what you need from me?”

“It is what I desire above all else in this world,” you answer without hesitation, your voice trembling with the full weight of your devotion. You kiss him tenderly, tasting the salt on his skin. “I want you by my side, Gwayne. I want you, alive, safe, and mine. I need you with me.”

A shaky, shuddering breath escapes his chest, and a brilliant, tearful smile bleeds across his flushed face.