the theory of crookshanks

The heat of the tourney grounds pressed against your skin and made the heavy silks of your gown cling to your body in ways that felt entirely too suffocating. You had slipped away from your septa and your handmaidens near the lists, needing just a moment of air, a breath of freedom that didn't smell of sweat, horses, and steel. The Red Keep loomed in the distance, but you had wandered toward the fringe of the encampment, where the canvas tents flapped in the wind and the noise was a dull roar rather than a deafening clash.

You thought you were hidden enough. You were wrong.

The knight found you near a stack of empty wine casks. He was a large man, broad-shouldered and reeking of cheap ale and stale sweat, his doublet unlaced to reveal a stained tunic underneath. He blocked your path, his shadow falling over you, and when you tried to step around him, he moved with you.

"Now, now, little dove," he slurred, his eyes raking over you with a gaze that felt sticky and unwanted. "A pretty thing like you shouldn't be wandering all alone. A man could get the wrong idea."

"I am returning to the Keep," you said, keeping your voice steady, though your heart hammered against your ribs. You lifted your chin, trying to project the authority your father had drilled into you. "Let me pass."

"Come now, don't be haughty," he laughed, a wet, ugly sound. He reached out, his thick fingers brushing against the fabric of your sleeve. "I could show you a good time before you scurry back to your tower. I bet you've never even had a real man between those legs, have you?"

Revulsion curdled in your stomach. You tried to jerk your arm away, but his grip tightened, bruisingly hard. "Unhand me," you hissed, your shyness burning away in a flash of hot anger.

"Feisty," he grinned, showing yellowed teeth. "I like that. Makes it better when you break."

He didn't see the slap coming. You swung your hand with every ounce of strength your fear and fury could muster, connecting hard with his cheek. The sound was a sharp crack that echoed off the nearby tents. His head snapped to the side, and he stumbled back a step, more from surprise than pain.

Before he could recover, you kicked him. You aimed for his knee but caught his shin, driving the hard toe of your slipper into the bone. The knight howled, a sound of pure, undignified agony, and crumbled to the dirt, clutching his leg.

"You little bitch!" he spat, tears of pain actually gathering in his eyes as he glared up at you from the ground. "Do you know who I am? I'll have you whipped for this insolence!"

"You'll do nothing," a new voice cut through the air.

The knight froze. You looked up, your breath catching in your throat. A man stood over the drunken knight, his presence instantly commanding the space.

Baelor. The Prince.

He didn't look at you. His eyes were fixed on the heap of a man on the ground. "I suggest you leave, before I decide that a knight who cannot hold his wine has no business holding a sword either."

The knight scrambled backward, his bravado evaporating instantly in the face of royal authority. He muttered a curse, scrambled to his feet, and limped away as fast as his injured leg would carry him, not daring to look back.

Only then did Baelor turn his gaze to you. The intensity of his focus made your knees feel weak, but not from fear. He studied your face, taking in the tears in your eyes, the rapid rise and fall of your chest.

"Are you harmed?" he asked, stepping closer. Up close, he was even more striking. He was tall, with the build of a warrior who had spent a lifetime with sword and shield, tanned skin, arresting eyes, lines of experience around his eyes that only added to his handsomeness.

"I am perfectly fine," you said, perhaps a bit too quickly, smoothing your skirts with trembling hands. "He was... he was just drunk."

"He was a fool," Baelor corrected gently. He looked around the empty patch of ground. "Where are your ladies? Your guard? Tourneys are no place for young maidens to be alone."

You bit your lip, feeling embarrassment creep up your neck. "I... I slipped them. I just wanted a moment of quiet."

A corner of his mouth twitched upward. It wasn't a mocking smile — it was warm, amused. "I see. You handled yourself remarkably well. That was a formidable kick."

"I can take care of myself," you insisted, lifting your chin again, though your voice lacked its earlier bite.

"Yes," he said softly, his eyes roaming over your face with a new kind of interest. "That is apparent."

"Come. I will walk you back. I cannot in good conscience leave you here, waiting for the next drunkard to find you."

"I can find my own way."

"I have no doubt," he said, offering his arm. "But humor an old man. I would feel better knowing you reached safety."

You hesitated. You were annoyed at being treated like a child, at needing a rescue when you had clearly been winning the fight. But you looked at his arm — strong, steady, clothed in fine velvet — and then up at his face. He was incredibly handsome.

You placed your hand on his arm. "Very well, my prince."

The walk back was a slow one. At first, you were silent, stewing in your annoyance, but Baelor did not press you. He spoke of the heat, of the tourney, of the specific breed of hawks his sons were training. You found yourself looking at him more often than not, watching the way the sunlight caught the grey in his beard, the way his amber eye seemed to hold a secret fire.

By the time you reached the shadow of the castle walls, your annoyance had evaporated, replaced by a strange, fluttering sensation in your stomach. He bowed over your hand before leaving, his lips brushing your knuckles in a gesture that was formal yet lingered a fraction of a second too long.

"Take care of yourself, my lady," he murmured.

You watched him walk away, and for the first time in your life, you felt a pang of regret that a conversation was ending.

The months that followed were a blur of stolen glances, secret meetings, and a court that whispered furiously about the Prince's new infatuation. Baelor agonised over the age difference, he was old enough to be your father, but the heart, as the poets often said, rarely listened to reason.

You fell in love with his quiet strength. He fell in love with your fire, your spirit, the way you looked at him not as a prince but as a man.

The wedding was a grand affair, but the wedding night was yours alone.

You had feared a duty, a fumbling, awkward encounter performed in the dark under the sheets. Instead, Baelor had treated your body like a holy site, worshipping every inch of you with a patience and skill that made you weep. When he joined you in the bed, the insecurities about his age, about his ability to please a woman in the flower of her youth, vanished in the heat of your touch. You were insatiable, and he rose to meet you, again and again, proving that experience and endurance were worth far more than youth.

But the whispers did not stop. If anything, they grew louder. Baelor heard them all. They said ladies your age were insatiable, that you needed a stallion, not an ageing warhorse. They said it had been too many years since Baelor had proven himself in the field, and surely he was failing you in the bedchamber. He saw the way men looked at you when you walked through the gardens, old lords and young squires alike, their eyes lingering on your figure, imagining they could give you what he supposedly could not. It ate at him, a quiet, corrosive jealousy. He loved you with a ferocity that terrified him, the thought of losing you, of you looking elsewhere because he failed you, caused physical pain in his chest.

He didn't need to prove anything to you. You were insatiable, it was true, but he was the only one who could quench that thirst. You didn't look at the young squires or the handsome knights. Your eyes were only for your husband. You wanted him constantly, the feel of his rough hands, the scent of his skin, the deep gravelly sound of his voice when he lost control.

You didn't care for propriety. You didn't care if the guards heard your cries through the doors of your chambers. In fact, the thought that they knew exactly what their prince was doing to his young wife only made you wetter, made you claw at his back harder.

It started in the garden. It was a secluded corner, or so you had thought, surrounded by high hedges. The sun was high, casting dappled shadows on the grass. Baelor had been reading a report on a bench, but you had other plans. You missed him. He had been in council for three days straight, and you felt like a starving woman denied her favourite meal.

You dropped to your knees in the dirt before him, not caring about the stains on your velvet skirts. You pushed his tunic up, your mouth finding the hard line of his stomach, trailing kisses downward until you reached the laces of his breeches.

He gasped, his hand tangling in your hair, his resistance crumbling instantly as your fingers worked the leather strings. "Someone will see."

"Let them," you whispered, freeing his cock. It was thick and heavy, already hard for you. You took him into your mouth, swirling your tongue around the head, tasting the salt of him.

He groaned, a sound that was half-protest, half-surrender. "You are a wicked girl," he breathed, his hips bucking up slightly.

You pulled back and turned around, dropping to your hands and knees. You looked back at him over your shoulder, your hair cascading down your back. "Fuck me, Baelor. Please."

He fell to his knees behind you, gripping your hips with bruising force. He lined himself up and slammed into you, filling you so completely that you cried out, your fingers digging into the earth.

He took you hard and fast, his hips slapping against your backside, driving you into the dirt. There was no gentleness here. You pushed back against him, meeting his thrusts, begging for more.

"Gods, you are tight," he gritted out, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "I love this cunt."

"It is yours," you moaned, your voice rising. "Only yours. Fuck me harder!"

The snap of a twig broke through the haze of your arousal. You didn't care, but Baelor froze. His head snapped up, his body tensing.

Standing ten feet away, clutching a basket of fallen flowers, was one of your maids. Her eyes were wide as saucers, her mouth open in a silent cry. She stared at the sight of her princess on her hands and knees in the dirt, being taken by the heir to the throne.

Baelor started to pull back, panic flaring in his mismatched eyes. "I told you this was a bad idea," he hissed.

"Don't stop," you commanded, your voice breathless and desperate. You pushed back onto him, taking him deep again, clenching around him to hold him there. "Don't you dare stop. She has already seen."

The maid dropped her basket. Flowers scattered everywhere. She turned and fled, her footsteps pounding away on the gravel path.

Baelor groaned, the exhibitionism clearly infecting him too. He gripped your hips harder and resumed his rhythm, even harder than before.

The stables were next. You had intended to go for a ride in the Kingswood, a leisurely afternoon escape. But as soon as you entered the dim, hay-scented building, the privacy of the high loft overwhelmed you.

Baelor was checking on his black destrier. You walked up behind him, wrapping your arms around his waist, pressing your chest against his back. He smelled of leather and bergamot, a scent that made your head spin.

"I think I would rather ride my dragon than a horse," you whispered against his spine, your hand sliding down to the front of his breeches.

He turned in your arms, capturing your mouth in a searing kiss, lifting you effortlessly and setting you on a bale of hay. He shoved his breeches down just enough, and you hiked your skirts up, opening your legs for him. He stepped between your thighs, lifting your legs to wrap around his waist before impaling you on his cock in one smooth stroke. You gasped, your head falling back against the rough wood of the stall wall.

"Ride me, then," he commanded, his hands gripping your backside.

The friction was exquisite, the stretch intense. You were lost in the rhythm, so focused on the feeling of him filling you, stretching you, that you didn't hear the approach of the stable hand until you heard a sharp intake of breath.

You looked over Baelor's shoulder. The young man stood frozen in the aisle, a curry comb in his hand, his eyes locked on the sight of his prince buried inside his princess. He stood there, his cheeks flushing red, watching.

Baelor realised what was happening, felt the way you clenched around him in response to the voyeur. He chuckled darkly against your neck. "You like being watched, don't you?"

"Yes," you hissed. "I want everyone to see how well you fuck me."

He redoubled his efforts, pounding into you harder. You cried out, your orgasm building fast and hot. When it hit, you shattered, your body convulsing, your cries echoing off the stone walls. Baelor followed you moments later, burying his face in your neck as he emptied himself inside you.

The stable boy was gone when you finally came down, but the knowledge that he had stayed, that he had watched every second, lingered between you like a third presence.

The small council chamber was the ultimate transgression. Baelor sat at the head of the table, surrounded by empty chairs, preparing for the afternoon session. He looked tired, lines of fatigue etched around his eyes.

You slipped into the room, closing the heavy oak door behind you.

"You look exhausted," you said softly, walking up to his high-backed chair.

He looked up, a tired smile transforming his face. "The realm does not rest, my love."

"Rest for a moment," you murmured, climbing onto his lap. You straddled his legs, your skirts pooling around you.

He sighed, wrapping his arms around your waist, burying his face in your cleavage. "You are a distraction," he mumbled, but his hands were already wandering, sliding up your back to pull you closer.

"I want to be your distraction," you whispered, kissing his forehead, his nose, finding his lips.

The kiss was slow and sweet, but it ignited a fire that had been smouldering for days. His tongue swept into your mouth, tasting you, claiming you. His hands gripped your waist, lifting you slightly.

"You are bare," he observed with a groan, his fingers encountering nothing but soft skin and wet heat under your layers of silk. "Do you wish to kill me?"

You hummed in response.

"Turn around," he breathed.

He lifted you and turned you so your back was pressed against his chest, your legs draped over the arms of the chair. He quickly unlaced his breeches, freeing his straining erection.

You reached down, guiding him to your entrance. You were dripping wet, ready for him. He gripped your hips and pulled you down onto him, filling you in one long, smooth glide.

"Gods," you gasped, your head falling back against his shoulder. He felt so big like this, stretching you wide.

He held you still, his hips bucking up slightly, grinding deep inside you. "I could stay like this forever," he whispered in your ear, nipping at the sensitive skin of your neck.

The door handle rattled. You both froze. The heavy oak door pushed open and Maekar strode in, followed by the other council members. They stopped short when they saw the tableau. Baelor sat in his chair, looking completely at ease. You sat on his lap looking demure, your skirts hiding the fact that your husband was buried inside you.

"My lady," Maekar said, confused. "I... did not realise you were attending."

"Just observing."

Baelor's hand rested on your hip, possessive and heavy. "Shall we begin?"

The meeting was agony. Every shift Baelor made sent jolts of pleasure through you. Every time he coughed or cleared his throat, you felt the vibration in his chest. You sat through discussions of taxes and grain with a dripping cunt and a husband who was slowly, subtly rocking his hips, keeping himself hard inside you.

When the other lords finally filed out an hour later, you were trembling with the effort of staying quiet. Only Maekar remained. He waited for the door to close.

He looked at Baelor sharply. "Is something the matter? You seem... distracted."

Baelor shifted, and you had to bite your lip to keep from moaning. "I am perfectly fine, brother."

Maekar's eyes narrowed. He looked at you, then at Baelor, then down at the way your skirts were arranged, the way Baelor's arm was locked around your waist. The realisation dawned on his face slowly.

He stood up, his chair scraping loudly against the stone floor. He looked at you both with incredulous eyes, then at his brother. "Have you no shame?"

Baelor threw his head back and laughed, a full, rich sound that made his cock twitch inside you. "I assure you, this was not my idea."

Maekar stormed out, shaking his head, muttering about madness and Targaryen blood.

Baelor kissed your neck, his laughter fading into a satisfied hum. "You, my pretty little wife," he whispered, his hand sliding up to cup your breast, "keep getting me into trouble."

"I think you like it," you breathed, finally letting yourself move, grinding down onto him.

"I do," he admitted. "I love you."

He began to move again, intent on finishing what he had started.

The whispers in the court changed. They did not call him an old man anymore. They said the prince and his young wife were mad, insatiable for each other, unable to keep their hands off one another.

But when sweet, ethereal you nodded with the brightest of smiles, he himself was come undone, a breathless, boyish smile breaking across his face then.

“This is— oh, most splendid news—!”

Gwayne couldn’t help himself— he pulled you into his arms and into a searing kiss. It was full of pure, unfiltered giddiness, the kind that had him laughing softly against your lips in boundless joy.

“Oh, Gwayne...” you sighed into him, relief washed over you at how elated he was. You felt so blessed to have such a kind man as a husband.

He cupped your face in his hands, his thumbs gently brushing your cheeks as his eyes bored into yours.

“I love you. I love you. I swear to you and the Seven above, I will do everything in my power to protect both you and our child.”

If he had loved you deeply before, he was enamored to the point of no return now. In the moons that followed, everything blurred into bliss.

To Gwayne, you were akin to a Valyrian goddess, and he was nothing less than your sworn sword— you could do no wrong, and your word was his absolute law.

And mayhaps those old midwives’ tales held truth, or you were just taking immaculate care of yourself. Then again, chances were higher that he was a simple fool blinded by love, but Gwayne could have sworn... ever since then, you were glowing.

Your smile seemed sweeter now, and the way you would place a hand on your growing belly out of instinct was adorable. The fact that you carried his child, and the radiant joy it brought to your eyes never failed to leave him weak in the knees—

—because the Gods know he loves you so damned much too.

“The Princess… she is absolutely radiant, is she not?”

And as it turned out, he wasn’t the only one who had noticed.

The rank-and-file soldiers were in the middle of their daily drills when you passed by the courtyard. A sudden breeze swept through, catching the silk of your gown and sending a few stray locks of your hair dancing across your face. It was a picture of effortless grace— and, to a yard full of sweat-drenched men, an absolute sight for sore eyes.

A pair of low-ranking footmen at the back of the line completely forgot their footwork, utterly spellbound.

“Aye,” the second one murmured, his eyes wide and completely glazed over as he watched you walk. “Like a maiden stepping right out of a tapestry...”

Gwayne’s head snapped toward them, the warm smile he had been wearing just a heartbeat prior when he stared at you vanishing in an instant.

“You there!” he barked, his voice ringing across the cobblestones.

The two footmen jumped and turned to him, faces instantly draining of color. Gwayne strode toward them, his chest puffed out, putting on the airs of a proud and arrogant knight.

“Unless you expect the Princess to wield a blade in your stead, I suggest you keep your eyes on your opponent.”

“Y-Yes, sire—”

Hmph. Now they were cowering before him. How did they forget whose wife they had been ogling just now?

“Ten more laps around the yard,” Gwayne commanded to their dismay, his eyes cold as he lifted his chin up. “And if I catch your eyes wandering from your duties again, I will personally pluck your eyes out and ensure you spend your next rotation cleaning Ormund’s chambers... Now move!”

As the panicked footmen scrambled to begin their laps, Gwayne threw them a dirty look, bridled with utter satisfaction.

He turned back toward where you stood, expecting to find you continuing on your way, blissfully unaware. Instead, he found you standing still, watching the entire exchange with an amused sparkle in your eyes— a delicate hand to your lips to hide your giggle.

Gwayne’s haughty expression crumbled. A flustered flush crept rapidly up his neck, staining his cheeks a dusty pink. Suddenly acutely self-conscious of how loud he had been, he cleared his throat and blinked several times, shifting his weight from one boot to the other.

He offered you a sheepish frown, his eyes pleading for you not to tease him too much when you were finally behind closed doors.

. . .

“What has displeased you, hm, husband?”

That night, Gwayne had just stepped out of the bath, his dark hair still damp, and sleepiness softening his usually sharp features as he took his side of the bed. He wore only a loose, simple linen robe, tied haphazardly at his waist.

“Hm...?” he mumbled, mid-yawn, as he turned to you.

However, his sleep-addled mind was entirely unprepared for the sight of you.

Seven save me, he thought, his throat suddenly dry.

There you were, a gorgeous temptress intent to ruin him in your... what was that? An almost see-through loose night gown?

You didn’t wait for him to answer. Instead, you slithered onto his lap, straddling his thighs. Gwayne’s hands instinctively flew to your waist to steady you, his touch warm as you draped both of your hands over his broad shoulders.

“I only ask,” you murmured teasingly, leaning in close enough that your breath fanned over his lips, “because you looked ready to torment two perfectly well-behaved footmen today. Over a harmless glance.”

Gwayne let out a low, rumbling groan, his eyelids fluttering half-closed as he looked up at you.

“They were staring,” he replied in defense. His gaze drifted down your form, lingering on the widening of your hips where his child now grew. “Rather boldly, I’d say. They should use their ungrateful eyes to look at their targets, not at my wife. Not when you are... like this.”

You tilted your head in a mock cluelessness. “Like what?”

“Ravishing,” he breathed, his bright blue eyes meeting yours as his grip tightening on your hips. “Breathtaking. Mine.”

The possessiveness in his voice sent a thrill through you. Leaning up, he captured you mouth in a slow, deeply sensual kiss. You parted your lips instantly to welcome him— and he tasted of mint and warm water.

“Mmhm... ah...” The kiss deepened, growing heavier and more desperate by the second. Your hands slid from his shoulders to wrap around the back of his neck, fingers tangling in his damp hair.

Unable to help yourself, you shifted your weight, slowly and deliberately grinding your hips against his lap.

Gwayne let out a ragged gasp against your mouth. The friction of your body against his through the thin linen of his robe sent a shiver through his spine, his hands clenching tightly onto your hips to guide the rhythm. His skin was a feverish contrast to the cool night air of the room, as he hardened rapidly against you, consumed by the weight of your warmth pressing so directly into his groin—

“Damn...”

He kissed you fiercely now, his tongue tangling with yours as you continued to press against him, humping him with an intoxicating persistence that had him trembling beneath you.

But just as the heat in the room threatened to boil over, Gwayne suddenly stilled you, gently but firmly halting your movements.

He broke the kiss, resting his forehead against yours as his chest heaved, his breathing shallow and labored. His blue eyes watered, dark with desire, searching your face.

“No, darling, we must stop,” he panted. He swallowed, his thumbs brushing soothingly against the side of your abdomen. “I love you more than my own life— but I will not risk the babe. As much as this tortures me... this is as far as I am willing to indulge us tonight.”

You let out a soft whine, resting your chin on his shoulder. You knew he was only acting out of a protective love for you and the child you carried, but the warmth of him was far too addictive to let go of just yet.

“Very well,” you murmured against his neck, nipping softly at his pulse point. “But I have one request.”

Gwayne let out a breathless chuckle, his hands tracing the curve of your spine. “Anything. You know you have only to ask.”

“Take off your robe,” you petulantly poked his chest. “I want to feel your skin against mine while we sleep.”

“A wanton through and though,” he snorted.

“The babe demands it.”

A hopelessly devoted smile broke across Gwayne’s face. “A punishment and a reward all at once, then.”

Without another word, he obliged. Untying the sash, he shrugged the linen robe off his shoulders. He pulled you back down against him, tucking you securely under the velvet blankets. His toned body was solid, warm, and his skin was surprisingly soft to the touch— a comforting weight you could never tire of.

Pressing a tender kiss to the crown of your head, he wrapped his arms tightly around you, his bare chest warm against your back, his hand resting protectively over your stomach as you both drifted off to sleep.

Days and weeks drifted by, and soon, the weight of your belly could no longer be hidden beneath your dresses.

By all accounts, your life was a blissful one. You had a husband who worshipped the ground you walked on, and you were counting the days until you could finally hold the child you had been waiting for. Even for a princess of the Seven Kingdoms, it was the kind of fairy tale most could only dream of.

Still, even the most beautiful tapestries have frayed edges, do they not?

Though Gwayne’s devotion was sweeter than words could say, his constant hovering these days had begun to feel like... a suffocation.

The tipping point had come on a morning when a sharp, fleeting cramp had made you wince. He had been the one who went pale, immediately ushering you back toward the bed.

“You must lie down,” he had insisted, his voice tight with worry. “I will have the maester brew something. No more walking today.”

“Gwayne, it was a momentary ache, nothing more,” you had sighed. “I cannot spend the next two moons staring at the canopy of this bed.”

But he would frown and your heart would lurch, seeing his pure concern for you.

“For my own peace of mind and for the babe, please?”

His fretfulness felt like a velvet cage, even when you knew it came from a place of pure love.

. . .

In a rare event in which you finally managed to slip away while he was distracted with other things, you retreated to the sanctuary of the gardens, the cool breeze a welcome relief against your skin.

But your quiet peace was short-lived.

As you rounded a stone archway, you caught sight of a figure cowering behind a massive marble pillar, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs.

“Daeron...?” you murmured in surprise, stepping closer.

The youngest of Alicent’s three sons and a ward of Oldtown, the young prince was unlike his misguided brothers, and you had known him to be a gentle and sensitive soul. Now five and ten, he was thrust into the grueling world of knighthood, all under the watchful eye of your husband’s cousin.

The boy gasped, hastily wiping his tear-streaked cheeks with the back of his sleeve as he stood.

“Y-Your Grace,” he stammered, his voice thick as he tried to put on a brave face. “Forgive me. I... I did not hear you approach.”

“What is it, sweet boy? Why are you crying?” you gently took his hands, feeling your heart twinge at the sight of his tears.

A skepticism settled in your chest. You had seen how Ormund Hightower conducted himself— and you highly doubted his patience with a sensitive young boy.

“Has he been too harsh with you during your lessons?” you asked gently.

Daeron vigorously shook his head, his eyes wide with fear of causing trouble. “No! No, my lord is... he is only doing what is right. It is my fault for I have failed to meet his expectations.”

That arrogant, demanding windbag, you thought bitterly. To place such crushing weight on a child’s shoulders was reprehensible, and you fully intended to have a very pointed, very unpleasant word with Ormund Hightower later.

But for now, your only concern was the boy before you. Taking Daeron’s hand in yours, you offered him a warm, reassuring smile.

“Very well, if you said so... Now, come with me. Let me show you your uncle’s new collection of swords. He truly can never have too many, or so he claims.”

Your attempt to cheer him up was working. Daeron’s frown was replaced with pure joy as you showed him around Gwayne’s hidden stash of blades, and by the end of the day, he was laughing along with you.

“When will the babe come, Auntie?” he asked, looking up at you with a genuine smile. It slipped out so naturally he didn’t even notice he had reverted to that fond title he used to call you years ago.

“Soon. Mayhaps in six weeks or so.” You patted your swollen belly, and the young prince’s eyes followed your hand, before cautiously placing his palm over the curve.

In that very moment, the child gave him a firm kick, and he gasped, his blue eyes widened in wonder.

“In awe, are you?” you laughed softly, gently ruffling his hair. “Truthfully, sometimes I still wonder how there is a whole living human inside me, too.”

But he didn’t laugh, nor did he pull his hand away. Instead, he looked up at you, his features settling into an earnestness.

“If it is a girl... I promise I will protect her,” he declared solemnly. “I will grow strong enough so that no one can ever hurt her. I will be her champion.”

Your heart swelled at his words, a lump forming in your throat at the purity of his devotion. In certain lights, he did look like Gwayne.

“I have no doubt you will be the finest champion a girl could ever ask for, Daeron.”

. . .

“Where were you?”

You had only just returned to your bedchambers after quietly escorting Daeron back to his quarters, and the very first thing that greeted you was your husband’s scathing tone.

Gwayne stood near the hearth, his jaw tight and his shoulders rigid. His usually warm eyes were clouded with a coldness you rarely saw in him.

“I have been searching everywhere for you,” he stated, his voice thick with suppressed irritation. “You vanished without even telling any of your maids—”

“I was just in the gardens—” you said, your voice already tight with exhaustion, but he cared not of what you had to say in defense.

“Do you have any idea what went through my head? You are weeks away from labor, you’ve been having cramps, and—”

This had been going on for a while, and honestly, a headache was forming in the back of your head. The accusation, piled on top of days of feeling watched and managed, finally broke the last dam of your patience—

“Can you just... not?!”

You followed the impulse in your chest to yell, the volume of your voice echoing sharply.

“I am sick and tired of being treated as if I am an invalid!” you cried, your chest heaving as tears of frustration pricked the corners of your eyes. “I cannot take a single step, look out a window, or even have a quiet moment to myself— without you hovering over me like a warden!”

It felt satisfying to let this go, but then you looked at him, and—

Immediately you regretted raising your voice. Gwayne looked as though you had struck him across the face.

The worry in his eyes shattered into utter heartbreak, his shoulder slumping. His lips wobbled, his gaze dropping to the floor for a moment before he forced himself to look back up at you.

“I...” his voice cracked. “I am… sorry. I did not— I never wished to make you feel like a prisoner. Or to make you feel sick.”

You parted your lips, immense guilt overwhelming you at the sight of him. “Gwayne, I—”

“You are right, I have been way overbearing as of late.

His expression was somber, his eyes repeatedly straying from your face as if looking at you pained him, while he struggled to voice the words.

“I selfishly thought that since it’s our first child, I have to do everything to ensure your comfort. But in my own misguided sense of... righteousness— I failed to consider how you might feel.”

How did you forget that at the core of his very being, he was just a kind man who would sooner offer himself as sacrifice than allow even the slightest harm to reach you?

He offered you a small, bittersweet smile then—one that didn’t quite reach his eyes, which were shining with unshed tears.

“Tonight, I will leave you to your peace and not disturb you, I promise.”

Your heart clenched when he backtracked towards the door. Just before he reached for the latch, he paused, his eyes softening at you with that same, hopeless devotion.

“But if you should ever need anything— a glass of water, a blanket, or... or if the pain returns... please, tell me. Let me do that much for you.”

Gwayne had stood by his word. Ever since then, there was a subtle distance between the two of you.

True to his promise, he no longer invaded your privacy, but his frequent absences made you incredibly antsy. The irony of the situation wasn’t lost on you— for weeks, you had begged for space, but now that you had it, you found yourself restlessly searching the corridors for a glimpse of him.

You craved his warmth. You wanted his solid, comforting embrace, because an unsettling gut feeling had taken root in your chest—a dark intuition that something was amiss, though you couldn’t put your finger on it.

Seeking a distraction to soothe yourself, you decided to spend the afternoon in the gardens, but the summer heat only made you uncomfortable. Deciding you had pushed yourself far too much, you turned to your handmaiden.

“Accompany me back to my chambers,” you instructed softly, feeling the beginning of a cramp building in your abdomen. “I think I need to lie down.”

As you made your way back, your path took you past the oak doors of Ormund Hightower’s private study.

You would have walked right past it, had a certain voice not drifted through the slightly ajar door, freezing the blood in your veins.

“So the King is truly poor in health?” Ormund’s voice echoed from within, entirely devoid of any grief. “I would wager he will soon perish from whatever ailment he is suffering. We must ensure our pieces are perfectly placed on the board the moment he does.”

Your breath hitched. You stood entirely paralyzed, the maid stopping beside you with wide, frightened eyes.

The King. Your father.

You knew Viserys had not been in best health since the last you saw him, but to hear Ormund speak of his imminent death with such casual certainty sent a jolt of panic straight to your heart.

If he died, this fragile peace would shatter. The greens and the blacks would tear the realm apart—

—and both you and Gwayne would be caught right in the center of the storm.

Panic clawing at your throat, you didn’t wait to hear another word. You gathered your skirts and hurried down the hall as fast as your body would allow. Your heart hammered violently against your ribs as the sheer weight of what this meant crashing down on you—

But just as you were about to reach your bedchamber, a sudden spasm of pain ripped through your lower abdomen, so intense it stole the air straight from your lungs—

“Your Grace!” your handmaiden cried.

It wasn’t the fleeting, mild cramps from before— this was a white-hot, tearing contraction that buckled your knees. A cry of agony escaped your lips as you leaned sideways, your hands clutching the curve of your belly as you sank onto the cold floor.

You gasped for breath, but another wave of agonizing pressure rolled over you. The hallway began to tilt precariously, and trembling, you reached blindly down inside your dress when you felt warmth trickling down your thighs— and the sight made your heart stop.

Your fingers were stained a slick crimson. Blood.

A cold dread seized you as your head spun. No, you thought desperately, not the babe. Please, not the babe.

Your vision swam violently, but just as you were losing the last threads of your consciousness, you heard shouts of your name and a strong pair of arms hauled you into his embrace.

Gwayne Hightower. The man who had your heart since you were but a young girl. The man who was besotted enough to court you despite your rejections of him.

He always, always managed to be your knight in shining armor.

He was on his knees beside you, his face completely drained of color, his blue eyes wide with a frantic terror you had never seen in him before.

You could no longer hear the words tearing from his throat, but as the world faded entirely to black, a profound comfort washed over you—

If he is here, then I am safe.

“How did this happen...?”

Your consciousness faded in and out, but you heard bits and pieces.

Gwayne was questioning the maester with his voice cracking more times than not. You knew he was near you as you could feel the constant warmth of his hands gripping yours, trying to pull you back to the surface.

“Oh, my darling,” he whispered against your ear at one point, almost in tears. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry... I should have been there. I should have never left your side.”

When you finally managed to flutter your eyelids open hours later, the morning sun was filtering through the curtains of your bedchamber. The blinding pain in your abdomen had ebbed into a dull ache.

You tried to shift, a faint groan escaping your dry throat, and immediately felt a weight resting against the edge of the mattress.

Turning your head slowly, you found Gwayne.

He was collapsed in a miserable position on a small wooden stool right beside your bed. His legs were awkwardly bent, one of his arms slung over the mattress to keep his fingers intertwined with yours, while his forehead rested against the edge of the sheets. He was still wearing the same doublet from yesterday, now wrinkled, and his hair was a mess.

Even in sleep, his brow furrowed as though he was having a bad dream— the very sight of a man who had spent the night burning himself alive with worry.

Your heart squeezed with a aching tenderness at the sight of him. Ignoring the dull throb in your body, you weakly squeezed his hand, your thumb gently brushing over his knuckles to wake him.

At your touch, he was roused awake. Gwayne sat up instantly, his head snapping up as a ragged breath caught in his throat. His eyes—bloodshot—scanned the bed frantically until they locked onto your open eyes.

“Darling...?” he asked in a hoarse voice, and when you offered him a tired smile, the wall of defense crumbled completely.

He slid off the stool and onto his knees by the bedside as he pressed a kiss on your hand. His broad shoulders shook as a choked, breathless sob escaped him.

“You’re awake,” he breathed against your skin, peppering your hand with trembling kisses. “Gods, you’re awake. I thought... when I saw the blood, I thought I had lost you— I thought I lost both of you.”

“Is—” you croaked, “our babe—”

“You are both fine. For now,” he supplied, pressing one last kiss on the back of your hand before he straightened himself. He let go of you to sit on the edge of the mattress, slipping his strong arm behind your back to gently lift you so you could drink.

Once you swallowed the cool water and sat comfortably, he set the cup down and placed his large hand gently over your belly. A bitter smile broke through his exhaustion when he felt his child kick him.

“Can you just... let me stay near?” he asked then, his blue eyes shone with tears. “I can’t survive a repeat of what I have gone through yesterday. If something were to happen to you and I wasn’t there, it would tear the soul right out of me.”

Despite everything, he had all rights to be furious at you. And yet, here he was— humbly asking for your permission to stay by your side.

Your eyes welled with tears, and you reached out for him blindly. You buried your face into his chest, your hands desperately clutching at the fabric of his wrinkled doublet. He pulled you in instantly, wrapping his strong arms around you and rocking you gently, murmuring soothing sounds against your hair.

“I’m... I’m sorry,” you choked out, your entire frame trembling with the force of your sobs. “I... I was careless—”

“Shh, don’t be,” he shushed, tightening his embrace on you, and you cried harder.

You wept until you had no tears to spare, and when you finally pulled away, you looked up at him through swollen, heavy eyelids.

You love him so, so much. You adored this kind man and his blue eyes and his red hair— and you really wished, with all your heart, that your child would take after him.

“Why are you... not angry with me?” you questioned softly, weighed down by your own guilt.

But Gwayne, as always, only smiled at you, his features softening into that warmth he reserved only for you even at your lowest moments. He gently cupped your face, his thumbs wiping away the damp tracks on your cheeks.

“Have I not spoken these very words to you time and again? How come you always forget them?”

His smile grew incredibly tender as he leaned down to press a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead.

And with his familiar next words, once again, you were reminded once again of what kind of man you had married, and you know exactly how good a father he would be.

“Because to the end of my days... all that I am is yours.”

Your time had come barely five weeks later.

It was a grueling, agonizing ordeal that seemed to stretch on for eternity. Your cries of pain echoed and bled out of your birthing chambers— and anyone who passed by would have their heart broken at the sheer anguish in your voice.

Outside in the corridor, Gwayne was, needless to say, beside himself.

Thoroughly banned from the birthing chambers by the stern midwifes and the head maester, he was a man possessed by helpless terror. His hair a disheveled mess from where his frantic fingers had clawed through it, and his knuckles white and raw from being clenched so tightly in either prayers or an attempt to calm himself.

He had been pacing the length of the hallway since the crack of dawn two days ago, and every time one of your strangled screams echoed, Gwayne flinched, his own eyes burning with unshed tears.

He had faced deaths, had stared down charging knights without a tremor in his hand, but this—listening to the woman he loved scream in agony while he could do absolutely nothing—was a torture that was slowly tearing him apart.

Hours bled into one another. The silence that occasionally fell was almost worse than the screams, leaving him breathless with a suffocating dread.

“She has been in labor for almost two days,” Gwayne rasped, turning to Daeron as if he could soothe his worries. His nephew, though visibly unsettled by your screams, had stayed by his side to offer moral support.

“Two days, and I cannot even hold her hand.”

Ormund paid a brief visit later that afternoon. His cousin had one look at him and patronizingly suggested he go pray in the Starry Sept to calm his nerves. Gwayne’s temper had flared and was about to throw a punch at Ormund’s face if it weren’t for Daeron scrambling to beg him to stand down.

And then, just as he felt he might genuinely lose his mind, a new sound cut through the heavy quiet.

It was a sharp, high-pitched wail. Not yours, but the cry of a newborn babe.

. . .

You thought you would die from the pain alone.

Ever since the terrifying rush of your water breaking, it felt as though your body were being ripped apart from the inside out as you strained and fought to bring forth your child into the world.

And after that one final push that almost had you passed out, the agonizing pressure vanished, replaced by a sudden, hollow lightness and the sweetest of wails.

“It is a girl!” the midwife announced. “Congratulations, Your Grace— you have delivered a healthy, beautiful girl!”

When the midwives placed the tiny, weeping newborn onto your chest, your hands instinctively wrapped around her, shielding her from the cold air of the room. You were entirely spent, your skin slick with sweat and your muscles aching and trembling from the afterbirth, yet you couldn’t take your eyes off her.

This miracle has just come out of you.

As you gently wiped away a stray smudge from her crown, your heart swelled to the point of bursting.

Her little nose and mouth were endearing and closely resembled yours, however there was no trace of silver hair to be seen.

Instead, catching the warm candlelight… were soft tufts of red.

You closed your eyes for a brief moment, thanking the Mother, deeply grateful that she would not look like a Targaryen.

She is, in every way, Gwayne’s daughter— a perfect piece of him and yours to keep.

“Bloody hell— just let me in already!”

You heard his voice then, and the smile on your face grew wider. He would be beyond pleased to see this child.

True to your prediction, Gwayne stormed into the room without ceremony a moment later, his eyes instantly locking onto yours. You were in no state to be seen—sweat-drenched, pale, and thoroughly disheveled—and you instinctively wanted to shrink back from his gaze.

Yet, in his eyes, you had never looked more breathtakingly beautiful.

Cradled securely in your trembling arms was a tiny, squirming bundle wrapped in soft linen. And the sight was enough to almost make him drop to his knees right then and there.

He climbed onto the edge of the bed to pull you gently but firmly into his arms. Hovering over the child he had been eagerly waiting for, Gwayne leaned down and captured your lips in a deep, trembling kiss that tasted of relief and absolute devotion.

“You did it,” he whispered against your lips, his forehead resting against yours as his breath hitched. “Gods...”

Slowly, his gaze drifted downward to the bundle in your arms. The breath left him and he was completely awestruck, the air he usually put on before the court evaporating into nothingness at the sight of this impossibly tiny babe he helped to create.

With a hand that usually swung a steel, Gwayne reached out with unimaginable gentleness. He extended his pinky finger, touching her tiny, flailing hand—

And almost instantly, as if recognizing her protector, the babe’s palm wrapped around his finger, gripping it with everything she had.

“She, oh—” Gwayne froze, shuddering. He stared at her tiny fingers, and then up at the soft crown of her head, his eyes widening as he registered the tufts of copper-red hair just like his.

Seeing how deeply touched he was, your own eyes welled with happy tears. You nudged him softly, whispering the name you had kept locked in your heart:

“Alyrie,” you told him. “Lady Alyrie of House Hightower.”

His mother’s name. The tears Gwayne had tried so hard to hold back during those agonizing hours waiting for you finally spilled over as he turned to you. He let out a wet, shaky laugh, burying his face in the crook of your neck as he held both you and Alyrie close to his chest.

“Thank you,” he choked out, kissing your temple before pressing his lips to his daughter’s tiny forehead. “Our sweet Alyrie... She is perfect. You are both so perfect.”

As you looked at the other halves of your soul, the fragile peace of your bedchamber felt like a beautiful dream. Outside these stone walls, the realm was already fracturing as shadow of the dance of the dragons loomed close— a tempest of fire, blood, and greed that threatened to consume everyone you held dear.

“He’s three moons old,” you reminded him one evening with a frown as Aerion watched Maegor sleeping peacefully against your chest, after telling you how his son had to start learning to let go of you. “He needs his mother and I would have him.”

“Three moons old,” Aerion muttered darkly, “and already a usurper.”

Maegor chose that exact moment to sigh contentedly in his sleep and burrow deeper against you, as if mocking him altogether.

The Bright Prince had begun keeping count of your neglection of him. You would visit the nursery first thing in the morning, and should the babe merely blink his large violet eyes and make a particularly pitiful sound, he would refuse the wet nurses and only cease his whimpering when you held him.

And thus, if he cried, you were there.

If he fussed, you were also there.

Spoiled little thing, his son was. What was the purpose of wet nurses if the boy spent half his waking hours attached to you? He really ought to fire them one of these days.

“They said sons take after their fathers, do they not?”

Daeron let out a snicker after draining another goblet of wine, seemingly enjoying his brother’s predicament. “Your son simply makes it obvious to the rest of us how ravenous you are with your lady wife, brother.”

Aerion shot him glare, internally questioning himself why he had agreed to sit down for drinks with his wastrel of a brother.

“I have spent the past three moons exercising a degree of restraint bordering on sainthood, you mongrel.”

That was actually not an exaggeration. Since Maegor’s arrival, the intimacy he once enjoyed with you had become frustratingly few and far between, and he had to think at least thrice these days to take you to bed!

To his credit, he had adhered to the advice of maesters so far— that was to give you more time following the difficult birth.

Daeron stared at him, then barked out a laugh loud enough to startle the maids.

“Gods above, you are serious!”

Aerion threw him a dark glare, as his brother leaned back in his chair, grinning like a fox.

“Well, since you have nothing better to do, then come with me tonight.”

“For what?”

“For a good time, obviously. There is a feast in the city. Music, drink, performers, gambling, a lot of pretty wenches too—”

“Bwah!”

It astounded even you that your babe could be this adorable.

At times, it felt as though you were cradling a happier, guileless miniature of your husband in your arms. There really was no doubt that this child was his.

“He looks so much like his sire, does he not?” You poked Maegor’s plump cheek, and he immediately rewarded you with a toothless grin.

Your lady’s maid sighed with a smile, nearly melted on the spot. “The image of him, my lady. Those eyes and hair especially.”

You laughed softly and pressed a kiss to Maegor’s forehead, placing him back in his cradle.

Motherhood suited you far more than you had imagined. The long nights, the exhaustion... none of it seemed to matter whenever your little boy wrapped his tiny fingers around you or smiled at the sound of your voice. You loved every moment of it.

Yet if you were being truthful with yourself, you missed Aerion too. Before Maegor’s birth, your prince had scarcely gone a day without finding an excuse to pull you into his arms, but now your days and nights revolved around your son, and the moments you spent alone together had become increasingly rare.

And lately, something felt... different. Aerion had begun returning later than usual, and he smelled of wine. The first time, you dismissed it, but by the fourth, a knot had begun forming in your stomach. Since when had he taken to drinking?

Then one afternoon, while walking through the castle with Maegor in your arms, you happened upon two servants speaking in hushed voices—

“The princes have gone again!”

“Again?”

“Aye. To the town.”

“The new establishment?”

“The very same. They say the owner imported women from across the Narrow Sea and Essos. They cost a fortune...”

It didn’t take you long to figure out that they were talking about a pleasure house. Your stomach twisted. The princes?

They must mean Daeron, surely? But who was the other prince? Because, there was no way that Aerion was seeking comfort from common whores now—

Then again, the word of his brashness towards the princess consort, Valarr’s wife, was apparently quite well-known in King’s Landing. A princess from Pentos, she was an exotic beauty, meanwhile you...

People rarely described you as beautiful. Sweet and pleasant to look upon, they would say, but definitely not the kind that would ensnare princes at the first sight like she did. Moreover, after bearing a child, your body was no longer quite the same as it once had been.

The thought lodged itself in your mind, and despite every effort to dismiss it, a terrible possibility began gnawing at you. What if he has indeed sought comfort elsewhere?

You hated yourself for even thinking it. But when one night, several days later, you spotted him near the servants’ quarters with a woman adorned with golden ornaments unlike anything worn in Westeros—

Your breath caught when Aerion had both of her wrists pinned together in one hand and cornered her.

A great many things seemed determined to test Aerion’s patience these days.

The councils. His father’s demands. Daeron’s antics. By the time evening fell, a dull ache had settled behind the back of his head, and all he wanted was peace, a cup of wine, and his wife.

Especially his wife. The thought to have you wrap him in your arms was enough to ease some of the tension from his shoulders as he strode through the corridors toward your chambers.

However, when he entered it, the warmth he expected was entirely absent. The chamber was darker than usual, half of the candles unlit. You sat perfectly still before the vanity desk, didn’t even turn or rise to greet him.

“Wife?” he asked, stepping forward with a frown. Usually, you favored dark room when you were unwell. “Are you ill—”

“Who is she?”

Your voice was eerily quiet, yet cut through the air so sharply. It was so abrupt that for a moment he simply stared at you, and only after a solid minute did you turn to him, your expression cold enough to frost glass.

“If you tell me now, I may still find it in myself to be merciful and merely send her away. Is it Pentos? Myr? Or perhaps Lys?” The corner of your mouth curved into a sneer. “Lys is famous for its prostitutes, after all.”

Aerion’s jaw tightened. “What do you imply me doing, wife?”

A surge of anger rushed through his veins, severely taking offense. How could you think that lowly of him?

But whatever retort had been forming on his tongue died immediately, because to his astonishment, there were tears in your eyes.

“I gave you a son. I nearly died bringing him into this world.” Your voice trembled slightly as you rose from your seat. “I know we are not always of the same mind, but how could you humiliate me by bringing a common whore here? Do you intend to flaunt her to me?”

You looked devastated, and more than anything, he hated that look in your face. Who had planted this absurdity in your head?

“You are talking nonsense—”

“Nonsense?” Your voice rose sharply. “I saw you with her!”

This had to end. Suddenly Aerion crossed the distance between you in three strides, and you flinched as his hand caught your shoulder, attempting to pull away, but he would not allow it and forced you to face him.

“Look.”

He lifted his other hand before you. At first you did not understand, then your gaze fell upon the gold band encircling his finger. His wedding band.

Aerion stared at you hard, his violet eyes blazing.

“I have worn this since you put it on me on the day of our wedding, and never removed it since.”

On the day of your wedding, the two of you had scarcely been able to tolerate one another. You blinked as another tear fell, trying to hold yourself together.

“You think I would dishonor you? Shame the mother of my son?” he growled through clenched teeth. “I still could see the blood you shed in childbed even in my nightmares. Does that mean nothing to you?”

Three days after Maegor’s birth, your fever worsened and you fell unconscious. You remembered feeling cold, and the bleeding had the sheets beneath you soaked with red. When you awoke, the maesters were surrounding your bed, and your maids were crying.

But standing tall amidst them was Aerion, who never left your side for the remainder of the night. Later, you were told he had threatened every maester in the Red Keep with death should they fail to save you.

The fury in his violet eyes burned brighter. “Now do tell and enlighten me. What part of that ordeal would make me look at another wench and decide she is worth more than you?”

You were still not fully convinced. “But you... the servants saw you going to the whorehouse—”

Aerion let out a harsh exhale.

“I was retrieving Daeron,” he grounded out, each word bitter. “Father’s orders. The wench you saw me with is his whore. A fortune-seeking dullard, I just banished her from Summerhall.”

“You have been drinking lately too—”

“So now I’m forbidden from having a drink?” A muscle twitched beneath his right eye. “I face constant shit and my foolish brother every day. I can’t even bed my wife when she’s next to me and our son hogs her time all day and everyday, meanwhile she is thinking I’m hiding some whore in another chamber— and now I cannot drink? Tell me, do you actually want me to keep my sanity, or do you want to see me lose it and hang the first man I see?”

Somehow, the way he phrased it made you feel sorry for him. You pursed your lips, looking away. “Sure, have your drink, then...”

“Oh, I fucking will, woman, but first thing first—”

Before you could even gasp, he dived in, crushing his lips against yours.

The anger that had choked the room only moments ago dissolved into an instant, consuming heat. It was a punishing kiss at first, choking the breath out of you, but it quickly melted sensually as his hands roamed the curve of your body.

It sure had been a while since he had his hands on you. A moan escaped your lips when he fondled your breasts and pressed you against his torso, creating a delicious friction.

When he finally pulled away, it was with a heavy, ragged breath. His gaze burning down into your eyes as his thumb gently traced your lower lip, which was now swollen from his kisses.

“If it were up to me,” Aerion murmured, his voice a gravelly whisper, “I would fuck you senseless—”

His expression softened, a rare, vulnerable shadow crossing his features along with the rise and fall of his chest. “It’s taking everything in me not to. The fever after your last labor nearly took you from me, and I won’t gamble with your life.”

“I can take moon tea—”

“That blasted tea will make you sick. You are not taking that until it’s absolutely necessary.”

You blinked up at him, your expression softening into a sweet gaze that completely disarmed him. The sheer innocence in your eyes was his undoing.

With a low groan, Aerion leaned down and pulled you in for another deep, lingering kiss, sealing his lust against your lips, before trailing his mouth downward, burying his face in the crook of your shoulder to suck your skin hungrily.

“Who could have known…” His voice was a low, teasing rasp, the words vibrating directly against the skin of your neck, “that my wife is such a fiercely jealous woman that she actually made herself cry?”

He was relishing in this, you realized. When he broke away this time, a victorious smirk touched his lips. “Are you content now, my jealous wife?”

You shot him a look, feeling a heat rush to your face. You tried to muster a glare, but the blush staining your cheeks betrayed you entirely.

“Incorrigible man...” you muttered, turning your face away to hide your embarrassment.

Aerion only laughed, the sound rich and genuinely amused—a rare sound for him these days. “Perhaps,” he conceded, his thumb gently tugging your chin back so you were forced to look at him. “Now what else should I prove to you so you will be satisfied?”

“I want Maegor now.”

Your husband arched an eyebrow, exasperated.

“This is absolute treachery,” he muttered, though there was no real heat in his words. “I finally get you to myself, and you immediately call for that little tyrant?”

. . .

A few moments later, the maids entered the chamber, gently putting baby Maegor into your waiting arms. The moment the infant settled against your chest, he let out a happy, bubbling giggle, his tiny hands reaching up towards your face.

Aerion stood unhappily over the two of you, his arms crossed over his chest as he watched the display.

“He is fat.”

You scowled at him, tightening your hold over your son protectively. “I love him fat.”

That little boy could be the fattest babe in the Seven Kingdoms and he would still be the apple of your eye. Yet, as your husband looked down at his son, a sudden realization washed over him—

He had always thought the boy took entirely after him, but looking closely at Maegor’s beaming smile, Aerion saw you. The babe had his violet eyes and his silver hair, but the contour of his face, the gentle curve of his lips, the crinkle of his eyes—it was all yours.

Now he sort of understood why he also found him adorable.

“Let me hold him,” he said, already pulling the babe from your grasp.

He brought Maegor against his own broad chest. It was a surreal sight, seeing your brooding prince cradling a fragile, soft infant with the utmost care.

Your heart warmed at the sight though, a profound sense of peace settling over you as you looked at the two absolute loves of your life.

Epilogue

The tender silence lasted for only a minute. Maegor, apparently deciding he had tolerated his father’s hold, suddenly squirmed. With a whimper of protest, the babe pushed his small hands against his father’s chest, fighting the embrace.

Before Aerion could adjust his grip, Maegor’s chubby little hand shot upward, unceremoniously slapping right at his father’s face, as well as scratching his jawline.

Aerion blinked, his head tilting back in sheer disbelief at the audacity of his own flesh and blood. He looked completely stunned, before a look of deep betrayal crossed his features as he glared at his son and you utterly failed to contain yourself and burst into a fit of giggles.