baelor breakspear

— baelor always prided himself on being the dutiful son, the perfect heir who never put his own desires above the realm.

— he never expected to be the type of man to steal away a bride, but seeing you dressed for a match meant to secure a political alliance he engineered himself broke something inside him. the duty that always defined him suddenly felt like a cage, and the thought of another man holding you was the one thing his noble heart couldn't endure.

— the planning was meticulous, handled with the same precision he used on the battlefield. he didn't trust anyone else with the logistics, mapping out a quiet, midnight escape from the red keep through old tunnels that even the master of whisperers had overlooked.

— when he met you at the hidden postern gate, he didn't say a word at first; he just wrapped his heavy traveler's cloak around your shoulders to hide your bridal silk and pressed a firm, reassuring kiss to your forehead, his hands trembling just a fraction.

— he chose a ruined, secluded hill overlooking blackwater bay for the ceremony, a place where the wind howled through ancient stones. there were no lords or septons, just the two of you under a dark sky, exactly as he wanted it.

— baelor was incredibly solemn during the valyrian rites, his voice deep and steady as he spoke the ancient high valyrian words. he looked at you not as a prince looking at a subject, but as a man giving up his carefully built reputation for the only woman he ever truly desired.

— as he cut you to bind your blood with his, his touch was incredibly tender, his thumb instantly wiping away a stray tear. he whispered soft, soothing words in your ear, promising that the pain would be the last he ever caused you.

— when he pressed his bleeding mouth to yours, the taste of copper and the warmth of his breath sealed the vow so fiercely it left you breathless.

— wrapping the traditional dragonglass-clasped mantle around your shoulders felt more sacred to him than any crown he would ever inherit; he swore a silent oath to the old gods of valyria that he would shield you from the wrath of the king and your jilted betrothed.

— the morning after the wedding, he didn't look back toward king's landing with regret. instead, he held you tightly against his chest in a small room at an inn, watching the sunrise and softly telling you that he would face a hundred trials at court just to keep you by his side.

— he kept the piece of blood-stained silk from your wedding garment hidden in his breastplate, right over his heart, carrying the physical proof of your secret union into every tourney and council meeting he attended afterward.

— whenever the lord you were supposed to marry was mentioned at court, baelor’s usual polite smile would turn dangerously sharp, a silent warning that he had claimed you completely and would cut down anyone who questioned it.

— he loved the absolute privacy of your life; away from the weight of the iron throne, he became just baelor—a man who would happily brush your hair by candlelight and whisper that choosing love over duty was the best command he ever gave.

maekar targaryen

— maekar spent weeks watching your betrothal feast with a dark, suffocating fury building in his chest. he was always the brother left in the shadows, but he refused to let the woman who actually understood his bitter heart be handed over to some soft, arrogant lord.

— his approach to eloping was abrupt and demanding; he cornered you in the godswood the night before the wedding, gripped your wrists with desperate strength, and told you plainly that if you didn't leave with him right then, he would kill your betrothed in single combat.

— the ride to dragonstone was fast, with you riding pillion behind him on his warhorse, pulling you so close against his armor that you could feel the frantic, terrified thumping of his heart.

— he insisted on a traditional valyrian wedding because he despised the faith of the seven that his brother championed. he wanted something raw, old, and undeniably yours, a bond that no fat septon or political decree could ever dismantle or declare void.

— during the blood exchange, he didn't flinch when his his own flesh was cut. his eyes were locked on yours, fierce and burning with a possessive intensity that made it clear he was laying claim to your soul just as much as your body.

— when it came time to cut your skin, his rough hands became surprisingly gentle, his breathing hitching as he pressed the dragonbone blade against your skin, whispering a harsh, raw apology in high valyrian before making the mark.

— the moment your blood mingled with his, a dark, triumphant smile broke through his usual scowl. he kissed you with a desperate, hungry passion, tasting the iron on your lips and cementing the fact that you were finally his, completely beyond anyone else's reach.

— after the vows were spoken, he wrapped you in a heavy mantle of black and red, holding you so tightly against his chest that you could feel the frantic, heavy thud of his heart finally slowing down into relief.

— maekar knew his brother baelor and his father would be furious, but he faced the eventual confrontation with a grim, defiant pride, standing before the iron throne with his arm clamped around your waist.

— he took a dark pleasure in the scandal, relishing the look of utter defeat on your former betrothed's face when maekar bluntly announced that the blood rite had already been consumed and could never be broken by any mortal law.

— in your shared bedchamber at summerhall, he becomes a different man, pouring all his unspoken devotion into quiet, intense embraces, constantly reminding you that he chose you over his own duty.

— he becomes fiercely protective of you after the elopement, never letting you out of his sight when guests arrive and keeping his hand permanently resting on the pommel of his sword whenever anyone dares to look at you with pity or disrespect because of the elopement

— in the quiet hours of the night, he would hold you so tightly it almost hurts, burying his face in your neck and admitting in low, muffled tones that he had never been truly happy until the moment you chose him over a comfortable life.

valarr targaryen

— valarr was usually the golden, obedient grandson, but the thought of you marrying someone else turned him into a rebel overnight. he couldn't bear the thought of your smile belonging to another man, and his usual desire to please his father completely vanished under the panic of losing the only person who truly understood the pressure of being the future heir’s heir.

— he approached the elopement with a sort of frantic, youthful romanticism, slipping a silver ring and a note into your hand during a crowded court session, telling you exactly where his horse would be waiting at midnight.

— he was incredibly nervous during the escape, constantly looking over his shoulder and checking your cloak to make sure you weren't cold, his boyish charm melting into a fierce, protective focus as he guided you away from the castle.

— the traditional valyrian wedding was something he had researched in secret, bringing an ancient text from the red keep's library to ensure every single word spoken was exactly as their ancestors had done before the doom.

— he chose a secluded cliffside on dragonstone where the waves crashed violently below, wanting the ancient elements of fire and water to witness the truth of his love when the rest of the world was forcing a lie upon you.

— his voice cracked slightly as he recited the high valyrian vows, his eyes shimmering with unshed tears of pure relief because he could scarcely believe you actually chose him over your duty and your family's wishes.

— the blood binding terrified him a little because he hated seeing you in pain, but he knew it was the only way to make the marriage unbreakable under old valyrian law. he kissed your forehead repeatedly to distract you before drawing the blade.

— when he tasted your blood during the final kiss, it felt like an awakening; all his doubts about being a good heir disappeared, replaced by a fierce, driving ambition to become strong enough to protect you from the consequences of your flight.

— he laughed with pure, breathless joy the moment the ceremony was over, lifting you off your feet and spinning you around on the dark beach, the weight of the world lifted from his shoulders now that you were his wife.

— back in the capital, he had to endure his father’s quiet, disappointed looks, but valarr never broke under the pressure; he just looked down at his boots, thinking of you waiting for him in his private chambers, and felt entirely justified.

— he bought you exquisite gifts with his own coin—silks from lys and old valyrian scrolls—shattering his own allowance just to see you comfortable and happy in the hidden life you had to lead for the first few months.

— he loves combing your hair before bed, whispering sweet, idealistic promises about how one day, when he sits on the iron throne, he would crown you his queen in front of the entire realm.

— every time he looks at the faint, silver scar on your forearm from the ceremony, his eyes would soften completely, and he would press his lips to the mark, reminding you that he belongs to you just as much as you belong to him.

daeron targaryen

— daeron was already a man plagued by terrible, prophetic dreams, but the vision of you clad in another house's colors, weeping at an altar, was the one nightmare he refused to let come true. it gave the usually timid prince a sudden, reckless courage.

— he didn't plan a grand escape; instead, he came to your window in the dead of night, his eyes wide and anxious, begging you to leave with him right then because he had seen a dream where you were lost to him forever if you stayed.

— he was drinking heavily to steady his nerves before the ceremony, but the moment he looked at you beneath the moonlit sky, he set the flask down, his eyes clearing with a rare, sharp lucidity that he only ever possessed when he was with you.

— the valyrian wedding was his idea because he believed the old dragon gods were the only ones who could protect you from the terrible things he saw in his dreams. he wanted a bond written in fire and blood, something the mortal lords couldn't touch.

— his hands shook terribly as he held the dragonglass knife, his voice trembling as he spoke the high valyrian words, but there was a deep, underlying devotion in his tone that made the ancient phrases sound like a desperate prayer.

— when his lip was cut, he pressed his mouth to yours so hard you could taste the iron immediately. the kiss was messy, desperate, and filled with a profound relief that made him sob against your lips.

— he cried softly when he had to draw your blood, murmuring endless apologies against your skin as he made the shallow cut, his tears mixing with the red droplets on your arm before he bound the linen around it.

— after the ceremony, he collapsed against you on the grass, wrapping his arms around your waist and burying his face in your lap, muttering that the dark shadows in his mind had finally gone quiet now that you were bound to him.

— he spent his days pretending to be his usual, useless self to throw off suspicion, drinking in appearance while actually spending every spare coin on food and comforts for you.

— he loves listening to you read to him in the dark; your voice is the only thing that could keep his dragon dreams at bay, and he would sleep peacefully only when his head was resting against your chest, listening to your heartbeat.

— he views his scar from the wedding as a badge of honor, often tracing it with his finger as a secret comfort, knowing that whatever terrible future awaited his house, he had managed to save the one piece of light he cared about.

aerion targaryen

— aerion viewed your upcoming marriage to another lord as a personal insult to his royal blood; he believed you were a creature of creature of old valyria, meant only for a true dragon like him, and his arrogance quickly mutated into a wild, obsessive need to take you.

— his method of elopement was chaotic and terrifying; he essentially abducted you from your chambers in the middle of the night, laughing like a madman as he carried you down the castle walls, entirely unbothered by the guards he had to bribe or threaten.

— he took you to the ruins of an ancient targaryen outpost, a place smelling of old stone and sulfur, where he had prepared a lavish altar adorned with dragonglass candles and wild, dark silks.

— he demanded the most ancient, extreme version of the valyrian rites, dressing himself in elaborate crimson silks and insisting that the gods themselves were watching his triumph over the lesser lords who dared try to steal his prize.

— his eyes danced with a frightening, erratic light during the vows, his high valyrian spoken with a dramatic, theatrical flare that made the ancient words sound like a dark, beautiful spell meant to bind you to him for eternity.

— when he cut his lip, he didn't just make a small scratch; he sliced it deeply, his smile turning wicked as the blood spilled, before slamming his mouth against yours in a fierce, bruising kiss.

— he took an almost unsettling pleasure in drawing your blood, his eyes widening as he watched the red line form on your skin. yet, his touch was strangely possessive, his fingers trailing the blood down your arm before he licked a drop from his own knife.

— he draped a heavy cloak of black and scarlet over you, declaring you his dragon-wife and laughing maniacally at the thought of the look on your father's face when he realized his daughter had been claimed by a true prince of valyria.

— he didn't care about hiding the marriage for long; he flaunted your presence in his quarters, daring anyone to challenge him, his volatile temper flaring violently whenever a courtier even looked in your direction.

— he treats you like a precious, stolen relic, showering you with stolen jewelry and demanding that you wear nothing but the colors of house targaryen, effectively erasing any trace of your former life and identity.

— he took a cruel delight in taunting your former betrothed, sending the lord a letter written in your shared blood to inform him that his prize had been taken by a true god of the realm.

— in his quietest, rare moments of vulnerability, his madness would soften into a fierce, almost desperate dependency, where he would press his face into your hair and whisper that you were the only one who truly understands his greatness.

— he made you promise that if the world ever turned against him, you would burn with him, showing you his scar from the wedding as proof that your fates were permanently intertwined in blood and fire, never to be parted by man or god.

your sneakers squeak against the tile as you make your way past rows of lockers, the air thick with the smell of sweat and soap and the mix of several deodorants. your heart hammers against your ribs, anticipation pooling warm and heavy in your stomach. you've been thinking about this all game, watching him from the stands, watching his muscles flex beneath his jersey, the way his hair stuck to his forehead when he pulled off his helmet.

you round the corner and there he is.

he's standing under the spray with his back to you, water cascading down the broad expanse of his shoulders, tracing the valleys of his spine, the curve of his ass. he's not wearing anything. of course he's not. steam rises around him like a veil, and for a moment you just watch, drinking in the sight of him unguarded, unhurried, completely unaware.

then you clear your throat.

garrett turns, water dripping from his hair into his eyes, and when he sees you, his mouth curves into that cocky grin that makes your knees weak. he doesn't reach for a towel. doesn't try to cover himself. he just stands there, letting you look, letting the water run down his chest, his abs, lower.

"miss me that much?" he asks, voice rough, echoing off the concrete walls.

you step forward, already kicking off your shoes, pulling your shirt over your head. "shut up," you say, but you're smiling. he's laughing, low and warm, as you shimmy out of your jeans and then your underwear.

the water hits you first, shockingly hot against your skin, and then his hands are on you, big and calloused. they’re everywhere at once. he backs you against the tiled wall, the cool surface a sharp contrast to the heat of him pressed flush against you, all hard muscle and wet skin.

"couldn't wait, could you?" he murmurs against your neck, his mouth finding that spot just below your ear that makes you gasp. his hands slide down your sides, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts, teasing, but never quite where you want them.

"you played good," you breathe, arching into him, feeling him hard against your stomach. "real good."

"yeah?" he pulls back just enough to look at you, water running down his face, his eyes dark and heavy-lidded. "you like watching me out there? watching me work?"

you nod, reaching between you to wrap your hand around his cock, stroking once, twice, watching his jaw tighten, his eyes flutter shut. "love it," you whisper. "love watching you win."

he groans, forehead dropping to yours, hips bucking into your touch. "fuck, baby. you keep talking like that..."

"like what?" you tease, squeezing gently, feeling him twitch in your palm.

he doesn't answer with words. he kisses you instead, deep and desperate, his tongue sliding against yours, his hands finally—finally—cupping your breasts, thumbs rolling over your nipples until you're whimpering into his mouth. the water pounds down around you, loud and insulating, sealing you off from the rest of the world. just you and him.

his mouth leaves yours, trailing down your jaw, your throat, your collarbone. he drops to his knees, water streaming over his shoulders, and looks up at you with those eyes, dark and hungry. "hold onto something," he says, and then his mouth is on your pussy, exactly where you need him.

your head falls back against the tile with a thunk, fingers finding purchase in his wet hair as he licks into you, slow and deliberate, like he has all the time in the world. but you can feel the tension in his shoulders, the way he's gripping your thighs, his boner still pressing against your leg. he's not as patient as he pretends.

"garrett," you gasp, tugging at his hair. "garrett, please. need you inside me."

he groans against you, the vibration making you shudder, and then he's standing, water sluicing off him, and he's lifting you, hands under your thighs, pinning you to the wall with his body. you wrap your legs around his waist, ankles locking at the small of his back, feeling him there, hard and insistent at your entrance.

"you sure?" he asks, even though he knows the answer, his voice rough with restraint. "here? like this?"

"yes," you hiss, nails digging into his shoulders. "right here. right now. fuck me, garret."

he doesn't hesitate after that. he pushes in, slow and thick, filling you until you can't breathe, can't think. until can only feel him. you both groan, foreheads pressed together, water running between your faces, mixing with the sweat already beading on your skin.

"god, you feel good," he grits out, starting to move, shallow thrusts at first, testing, teasing. "always so fucking good for me."

you tighten around him, making him curse. he picks up the pace, driving into you with the same intensity he brings to the ice. the tile digs into your back but you don't care, can't care, too busy chasing the friction, the heat, the build of pressure low in your belly.

his mouth finds yours again, sloppy and desperate, all teeth and tongue, and you can taste the victory on him, the adrenaline, the need. he's usually so controlled, so careful, but not here, not now. here he's raw and rough. exactly what you wanted.

"touch yourself," he commands, breaking the kiss to watch your face. "wanna feel you come around me, baby. wanna feel you squeeze me tight."

you reach between your bodies, fingers finding your clit, circling in time with his thrusts. the sensation is overwhelming, too much, him inside you and his eyes on you and the water and the steam and the way he's hitting that spot deep inside you, over and over and over.

"garrett," you whimper, feeling it build, crest, crash. "i'm close. i'm so close—"

"let go," he growls, snapping his hips harder, faster. "come for me. come on my cock, right here where anyone could walk in and see you. see how fucking pretty you look when you come apart."

the thought sends you over the edge, the orgasm ripping through you, making you cry out, your body clamping down on him, milking him. he groans, long and low, burying his face in your neck, and then he's following you, pulsing inside you, spilling deep, his whole body shuddering with the force of it.

for a moment, neither of you moves. the water runs over you both, cooling now, and you can hear your heartbeats thundering in your ears, feel his chest heaving against yours. he stays inside you, holding you up, his hands trembling slightly where they grip your thighs.

"shit," he breathes, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. "we should... probably get out before someone actually does come in."

you laugh, breathless, legs still wrapped tight around him. "probably."

he pulls out slowly, both of you wincing at the sensitivity, and lowers you gently to your feet. your legs feel like jelly, barely holding you, and he catches you, steadying you with an arm around your waist.

"you okay?" he asks, brushing wet hair from your face, his expression soft now, tender.

you nod, leaning into him, letting him hold you up. "more than okay."

he smiles, that satisfied smile that makes your stomach flip, and reaches for the soap. "come on," he says, lathering his hands. "let me wash you. then we can go home and do that again. properly. in a bed."

you let him run his soapy hands over your shoulders, your back, between your legs with gentle, thorough care. and you think about the bed waiting for you, and the night ahead, and how you'll probably be sore tomorrow in the best possible way.

"race you to the car?" you ask, grinning up at him.

he laughs, loud and free, and splashes you with water. "you're on."

the uber you have called thirty minutes ago, already stands waiting for you across the street. just as you grab the door handle, you pause for a moment, taking a slow breath, before you climb into the back seat.

"you're y/n?", the driver asks you and you give him a quick nod to confirm that you are indeed not a random creep.

the engine sputters to life as the driver grips the wheel. while he eases the car forward toward the airport, you take a final glance at your old home.

every red light feels like a deliberate attempt to make you stay, and every idling car in front of you pushes your patience to the brink. you curse them under your breath, a frantic rhythm to mask the uncertainty settled deep in your gut.

by the time you reach the terminal, the quietness of the car is replaced by the loud crowds walking around the airport. it is a chaotic blur of shifting gates and the endless, shuffling purgatory of the security line. you spend almost an hour standing in a slow-moving queue at the checkpoint, just to need to sprint through the terminal as your boarding group is called.

the flight to dallas is short, but the humidity hits you the moment you step into the jet bridge. it is a thick, wet heat that makes your clothes stick to your skin instantly. you shove your light jacket into your bag and navigate the crowded terminal, feeling the weight of the move in your tired legs.

in seattle, you put the jacket back on, feeling the first damp hint of a northern winter.

by the time you reach anchorage, the sun is a low, pathetic thing hanging on the horizon, lacking any real warmth.

you sit at the gate with a lukewarm coffee, watching the locals in their heavy-duty gear. they look like they’re prepared for a snowstorm you just look like someone who got lost on the way to a barbecue.

the final leg to ennis is on a plane so small you can feel every shudder of the arctic wind against the fuselage. the cabin is cramped, and as you look out the window, you watch the world simply disappear. the green of the pines bleeds into a jagged, monochromatic nightmare of white and grey. the further north you go, the more the landscape simplifies into nothing but ice.

the pilot’s voice crackles over the intercom, announcing the descent as you instinctively check your watch. the hands point to mid-afternoon, a time that should be filled with the amber glow of a waning sun, yet the view through the plexiglass is an impossible, ink-black void.

the realization hits you: the long night has begun. for weeks, the horizon will remain dark. and you are already sick of it.

november 23rd

you had exactly three days to settle into your new home in ennis before your first day at the police station. but those three days were hell. your heater didn't work yet, so it had been freezing in your home, and you had absolutely no motivation to unpack the moving boxes. the only time you truly left your house was to buy your new car.

now, the wind hits you the second you step out of the vehicle, cutting through your jacket like a serrated blade. you clench your jaw, pulling your collar up, but it doesn’t do a damn thing against the alaskan freeze. it's really time to buy a thicker jacket.

your knuckles are white from the cold and the sheer, bubbling anger in your chest. you are pissed. whoever signed off on this transfer back at the department is on your permanent list, but right now, you are stuck at the edge of the world.

the sign on the station building looks bleak, half-buried in drifting snow.

you push through the heavy double doors of the ennis police station, the sudden heat making your skin sting. you stomp the snow off your boots. a few (exactly three) officers look up from their desks, their faces tired, worn down by the dark and whatever local misery they deal with every day. they know who you are. the new transfer from the south.

"can i help you?" a woman at the front desk asks, looking at your dangerously thin coat with mild amusement.

you don't smile back.

"i'm the new transfer," you say, your voice sharp and totally out of place in the quiet, grim room. "can you tell me where your chief is?."

you cross your arms, ignoring their lingering stares. you know you are going to hate every single second in this frozen hellhole, but if you have to be in ennis, you are going to do your job and figure out how to survive.

the woman hesitates for a second, taken back by your sharp tone. she finally jerks a thumb toward a frosted glass door at the back of the bullpen. "chief danvers' office. good luck."

the station smells like stale coffee and old sweat. it's not that different from your station in texas, you notice. at least it smells the same. you walk over to the office and push the door open, maybe a little harder than necessary.

liz danvers doesn't flinch. she is sitting behind a cluttered desk, clicking a pen and staring intently at a crime scene photo. she doesn't even look up at first. she just lets the silence stretch, a blatant power play. you don't take the bait. you just stand there, letting the dirty slush from your boots melt onto her floor.

"chief denvers?"

finally, danvers drops the pen and leans back in her chair. her dark eyes rake over you, taking in your completely inadequate jacket, your pale, shivering frame, and the deep scowl etched into your features.

"you're the texan," danvers says. her voice is flat, thoroughly unimpressed. "thought the brass was sending me a detective, not a popsicle."

"i'm a detective," you snap. "and where i come from, the sun actually comes up. you want to critique my wardrobe, or do you want to point me to my desk so i can start counting down the days until my mandated rotation is over?"

danvers smirks, a sharp, humorless expression. she stands up, crossing her arms. "we don't get a lot of sunshine here. we don't get a lot of sunny dispositions, either. if you're going to survive the long night in ennis, you need to lose the southern attitude and buy a real parka. otherwise, the cold is going to eat you alive before the locals do."

"i can handle the cold," you lie through your teeth. your toes are completely numb and your jaw aches from shivering. "please just give me my assignments, chief."

she tosses a file across the desk. it slides and hits a half-empty mug of black coffee. "desk three out there is yours. don't touch the thermostat. and if you see trooper navarro, tell her to stop ignoring my calls."

you snatch the file. the manila folder feels like ice against your stiff fingers.

"welcome to the end of the world," danvers adds, already sitting back down and dismissing you.

you turn on your heel and walk back out into the bullpen, heading straight for the empty desk she mentioned. you drop into the squeaky chair, dropping the file onto the scratched metal surface. you stare out the window next to you, but there is nothing to see. just absolute, pitch-black nothingness. the wind howls against the glass, rattling the window frame like it's trying to get inside.

you close your eyes and take a slow, shaky breath. you picture the oppressive, suffocating heat radiating off a texas highway in july. you hold onto that memory, hoarding the phantom warmth in your chest. you are going to need every ounce of it to survive this godforsaken icebox.

november 24th

you are still huddled at your desk a day later, the heater under the metal frame clicking and groaning as it struggles to push out lukewarm air. the file danvers gave you is open, but the words are blurring.

right now, you are thinking about breakfast tacos.

"detective?"

the voice is soft, startling you. you look up, your eyes narrow and defensive.

standing there is a young man, looking entirely too bright for a place this dark. he’s wearing a thick, high-quality parka and holding two steaming paper cups. he has an earnest face—the kind of face that hasn't seen enough of the world's rot yet. he looks like a boy scout who wandered into a noir film.

"i'm peter prior," he says, offering a small, tentative smile. "officer prior. the chief said we’re working the leads together while the rest of the team handles the station."

you stare at him. he looks like he’s about twenty. they’ve paired you with a kid who probably still gets a christmas stocking from his dad.

"you're the partner?" you ask, your voice raspy from the cold. you don't hide the skepticism. "they sent me a kid?"

he pauses, shifting his weight. he doesn't look angry, just faintly amused. "i'm actually a year older than you."

oh, this is embarrassing. you swallow down the sudden spike of humiliation, refusing to break eye contact or apologize.

peter doesn't flinch. he just sets one of the cups on your desk. "it's cocoa with a double shot of espresso. you looked like you were about to go into stage two hypothermia, so i took a guess."

you look at the cup. the steam smells like heaven. you want to hate him for the pity, but your fingers are so stiff you can barely turn a page. you wrap your hands around the cardboard, soaking in the heat.

"i'm from texas, prior," you say, finally meeting his gaze. "i don't want to become depressed because i’m never going to see the sun again."

"it's just the long night," peter says, pulling up a chair and sitting down with a notebook. he’s focused, ignoring your hostility with a practiced ease. he’s probably used to danvers snapping at him. "you get used to the dark. it’s the silence that gets most people. it’s too loud."

"spare me the arctic philosophy," you snap, though you take a long, desperate gulp of the drink. it burns your throat, and for a second, you feel a spark of life return to your limbs. "just tell me why we're looking at these reports. danvers said it was a routine transfer, but this file is thin as hell."

peter’s expression shifts. the boyishness fades, replaced by something steadier, more grim. he opens his own folder.

"a young woman just... vanished. left her clothes in the closet, dinner on the table. two weeks later, she reappeared. dead. she was found in some back alley with bruises covering her whole body." he says quietly.

you look down at the crime scene glossies spread across the desk. the first few photos show her apartment. a yellow cardigan hanging over the back of a chair. a book face-down on the sofa.

then, there are the other photos.

a black-haired woman laying on the snow covered street behind a dumpster. she was propably in her early twenties when she died.

you look at peter. "can you show me the forensics?", you mutter.

peter pulls a heavy blue folder from a drawer and drops it onto the desk. the thud echos in the cramped office. he flips past the initial crime scene shots, moving straight to the medical examiner’s report and the close-ups from the morgue.

"the bruising isn't consistent," he says, pointing a pen at a photo of the girl’s torso. "some are yellow and fading, some are deep purple, almost black. the m.e. says she was beaten systematically over the course of the two weeks she was gone."

you lean in. "no ligature marks on the wrists or ankles. she wasn't tied up."

"no," peter agrees. "and the tox screen came back clean. no sedatives, no booze. she was awake and mobile for the whole thing."

you look back at the photo of her apartment. the yellow cardigan. it looked so domestic, so safe. "so she walks out of her house, leaves dinner on the table, and spends fourteen days getting the life kicked out of her without being restrained. why didn't she scream? why didn't she run?"

"maybe she knew him," peter suggests. "or maybe there was nowhere to run to. it's ennis. you go a mile in the wrong direction and the cold kills you faster than a person would."

the radiator in the corner hisses, a rhythmic, metallic sound that feels like it was keeping time with the ticking clock on the wall.

"her name was maya," he says after a moment. "she moved here from anchorage six months ago. worked at the fisheries office. quiet, kept to herself. neighbors said they didn't hear a thing the night she disappeared."

"they never do," you mutter before taking another sip of the cocoa. it is too sweet, but at least it's still warm. "let's go back to her place. i want to see that closet. if she left her clothes, she didn't plan on being gone long. but if she left her boots... then she didn't leave on her own feet."

"the closet can wait." he intterupts you before you can say another word.

peter doesn't pull the door open. instead, he turns back to you, his eyes scanning the dark circles under yours. "actually, the whole case can wait six hours. you just got off a flight four days ago and drove here in a blizzard. you haven't even unpacked, have you? or have you even seen ennis yet?"

"i'm fine, prior. i've worked on less sleep," you mutter, though the warmth of the office is finally making your limbs feel like lead.

"i’m sure you have. but if we go to that apartment now, you’re going to miss something because your brain is half-frozen," he says, his tone shifting from partner to something more grounding. "go home. get some sleep. start fresh when the clock says it's morning."

you open your mouth to argue, but a shiver racks your frame before you can get the words out.

"you don't even know where your heater intake is, do you?" he asks, a small, knowing smirk playing on his lips. "tell you what. i’ll drive you back. i’ll make sure your pilot light is actually on and help you move the heavy trunks so you aren't living out of a suitcase in a cold room. call it a professional courtesy."

you look at the stack of crime scene photos, then back at him. the thought of your dark, empty rental is daunting, but the thought of doing it alone is worse.

"i don't need a mover, peter," you say, though your voice lacks its usual bite.

"good, because i'm a terrible one. but i'm a decent mechanic and i know how to rig a space heater so it doesn't blow a fuse," he replies, finally opening the door and gesturing for you to lead the way. "come on. let's get you home before you actually turn into a statue."

the walk to his truck is a brutal sixty seconds of biting wind, but once inside, the heater is already blasting. as he pulls out of the lot, the tires crunching over the packed ice, you lean your head against the window.

"third house on the left past the mercantile," you murmur.

"i know the one," he says softly. "the blue house with the porch that sags. don't worry, detective. we'll make it a true home for you."

the blue house is as cold as the street outside when you step through the door. the air inside feels thin and stagnant. peter doesn't wait for an invitation; he head straight for the utility closet in the hallway, his flashlight cutting through the dark until he finds the furnace.

"man, how have you even survived the past few days in here?'"

you just shrug.

"unloading is easier if you can feel your fingers," he calls out. you hear the metallic click of a lighter, then the low, steady huff of the pilot light catching.

you stand in the center of the living room, staring at the towers of moving boxes that have sat untouched for three days. with a heavy sigh, you kneel beside the nearest one and rip back the packing tape. it’s a disorganized mess of the things you've brought from texas.

you reach for a particularly bulky crate near the hallway, your fingers straining against the cardboard, but before you can even get a grip, peter is there. he maneuvers around you in the cramped space, his presence cutting through the stagnant chill of the room. with a low grunt, he heaves the crate up and carries it closer to the center of the rug, setting it down with a heavy thud.

"where do you want these? bedroom?" he asks.

"just leave them there. i'll get to them," you say, but your voice is flat with exhaustion.

he ignores you, picking up a smaller box and carrying it toward the back of the house. he finds the bedroom and sets it on the mattress. he doesn't pry into the contents; he just starts a steady back-and-forth rhythm, moving the rest of your gear from the truck to the house while you stand in the kitchen, paralyzed by the sheer volume of work left to do.

when the last bag is inside, he doesn't leave. he walks over to the kitchen sink and turns on the tap, waiting for the pipes to rattle and spit out lukewarm water.

"pipes aren't frozen yet. that’s a win," he says. he looks at you, leaning against the counter. his hair is messy from the hood of his parka, and there’s a streak of grease on his thumb from the furnace. "you have sheets in one of these boxes?"

"somewhere," you mutter.

he helps you find them, pulling the plastic off a set of gray linens. together, you stand on opposite sides of the bed, snapping the fitted sheet over the corners. it’s a domestic, quiet task that feels strange given the gruesome photos still sitting on the desk back at the station. his movements are efficient.

'so," he starts, glancing at you. "texas. you ever have a case that didn't make you want to quit? something... not grim?"

you lean your body against a drawer, closing your eyes. a small, genuine smirk tugs at the corner of your mouth.

"one time," you begin. "i got a call for a suspected meth lab in a trailer park outside lubbock. neighbors were reporting 'toxic fumes' and 'strange glowing lights' at three in the morning. they were convinced the whole block was gonna blow."

peter turns in his seat, fully invested. "you go in with tactical?"

"oh, we went in full riot gear," you say, shaking your head. "gas masks, shields, the works. we kicked the door in, and i swear to god, prior, i thought i’d walked into the sun. the heat hit me so hard i thought my skin was peeling off. and the smell... it was like being pepper-sprayed by a ghost."

you pause for dramatic effect, and peter leans in. "and?"

"it wasn't a lab. it was a guy named bobby ray. he was trying to win the state fair chili cook-off, and he’d rigged up an industrial dehydrator to process ten pounds of ghost peppers in his bathtub. he was standing there in nothing but a gas mask and a pair of neon green speedos, stirring a vat of liquid fire with a boat oar."

peter stays silent for a heartbeat, processing the image, and then he loses it. he lets out a real, chest-deep laugh that echoes in the room. it’s a sound that you haven't heard during your days in ennis yet.

"a boat oar?" he gasps, wiping his eyes.

"a boat oar," you confirm, laughing with him. the tension in your shoulders finally gives way, the anger at everthing receding just an inch. "we had to evacuate the three nearest trailers because the air was literally incendiary. bobby ray cried when we confiscated his peppers. said we were the reason he'd lose."

peter shakes his head, his smile lingering. "god. at least your weird cases involve people trying to be happy. here, the weird stuff just... it just stays in the dark."

he looks at you then, and for a second, the humor fades into something softer. he reaches out, his hand brushing against your sleeve but you pull away before he can actually touch the material of your cotton jumper.

once the bed is made, he stands back and surveys the room. "the heat will take an hour to really kick in. keep your socks on."

you look at him, standing in the middle of your half-empty bedroom. "thanks, peter. for the lift. and the heavy lifting."

"don't mention it," he says, heading for the front door. he stops at the threshold, his hand on the light switch. "get some sleep. i’ll be here at eight to pick you up. don't bother making coffee; i'll bring the good stuff from the bakery."

he closes the door softly behind him. you listen to the sound of his truck engine turning over and the crunch of tires on snow as he pulls away. for the first time since you crossed the state line, the house doesn't feel quite so empty.

november 26th

the floorboards of maya’s apartment groan under your boots. it is cold—the landlord had already cut the heat—and your breath mists in front of your face like smoke. peter stands in the kitchen, his flashlight beam cutting through the gloom. he isn't poking around like a rookie; he is just standing there, looking at the two plates on the table.

"she wasn't eating alone," he says. his voice is low in the hollow space of the room.

you walk over, standing close enough to feel the radiation of heat off his heavy parka. "you think it was a date?"

"maybe. steak, green beans. two glasses of water. no wine, no beer. keeping it simple." he moves the light to the closet door in the hallway. "you wanted to see her clothes."

you pull on a pair of latex gloves, the snap of the plastic loud in the silence. you open the closet. inside hangs a heavy, fur-lined jacket and a pair of professional-grade arctic boots tucked neatly in the corner. you reach in and felt the lining of the coat. it is dry. bone dry.

"she didn't leave on her own," you muttered. "nobody walks out into the night in this weather without a coat and boots unless they’re being carried or they’re out of their mind. even i have learned that in the few days i’ve been in ennis"

"or unless they think they're just stepping into the hallway for a second," peter added.

you turn to look at him. he is watching you, not the closet. his eyes are tired, rimmed with the red fatigue of a man who hadn't slept since the body was found, but there is a steadiness there. he doesn't look away when you catch him staring.

"you have something on your face," he says quietly.

you reach up, confused, brushing your cheek with your gloved hand. "what?"

"no, the other side. hold on." he steps closer. he doen't use his hand; he reaches out with his thumb and gently wipes a smudge of charcoal—likely from the crime scene photos—off your cheekbone. his skin is rough and warm. the contact lasts a second longer than it needs to, a brief tether of heat in a room that feels like a tomb.

you clear your throat, stepping back toward the kitchen. "right. thanks."

he clears his throat too, clicking his flashlight off and on again. "we should check the back exit. see if the snow depth from two weeks ago matches the height of the scuff marks on the frame."

you head for the door, but stop at the threshold. "peter?"

he paused, his hand on the light switch. "yeah?"

"the cocoa wasn't bad. just... less sugar next time."

he lets out a breath that was almost a laugh, a small cloud of gold in the dim light. "i'll make a note of it, detective. less sugar. more misery. i’m learning."

december 12th

the truck engine idles, sending a steady vibration through the seats. the interior smells like the double cheeseburgers sitting in a white paper bag on the console. the windows are fogged over, turning the world outside into a blur of grey and black. inside, the dashboard lights cast a dull green glow over everything.

you reach into the bag, grab a handful of fries, and lean back. the seat squeaks under your weight. peter is already eating, his movements quiet. he has his parka unzipped, draped over the back of his seat.

he reaches into the bag and pulls out a fry, offering it to you. when you take it, your fingers touch. he doesn't pull his hand away. he leaves it resting on the center console, inches from yours.

"you still haven't unpacked your kitchen boxes," he says, shifting the conversation away from the pump house. "i saw them sitting on the floor this morning when i picked you up."

you shrug, focusing on your food. "there isn't much to put away. a few plates. a coffee maker i haven't figured out how to plug in yet."

"i'll do it," he says. "after the shift. it takes five minutes to set up the kitchen."

you look at him. he’s looking at you, his arm resting on the back of the bench seat. he looks steady, relaxed in a way that makes the small space feel less cramped.

"you don't have to spend your off-hours fixing my house, prior," you say.

"i'm not doing it for the house," he says, "you spend all day looking at crime scene photos. you should at least be able to make a cup of coffee when you go home."

you lean back into the seat, letting your shoulder rest against the door. "is this how it works here? the locals just move into your life until you stop noticing they're there?"

peter laughs, a quiet sound that fills the truck. "mostly just me. the others usually keep to themselves."

he picks up his soda and takes a drink, then sets it back in the holder. the silence between you isn't heavy. it’s just quiet. he reaches over and adjusts the heater vent, making sure the air is hitting your hands where they rest on your lap.

"you haven't looked at your phone once since we parked," he says. he isn't looking at you anymore; he's focused on his burger, but there’s a small dent in his brow like he’s thinking too hard.

"nothing on it i need to see," you say. "you?"

he shakes his head. "just my dad checking in. and a missed call from the station. i'm ignoring both for twenty minutes."

you watch him for a second. he looks different when he isn't standing under the fluorescent lights of the bullpen or waiting for danvers to bark an order. he looks steady. you reach for the salt packet on the dash.

"what do you do when you're not at the station?" you ask. "besides bringing espresso to people who look like they're dying."

he huffs a short laugh, his shoulder moving against yours. "i help my dad with the house — which is a nightmare. i read. i drive. there isn't exactly a nightlife in ennis unless you count the bar, and i try to stay out of there if i'm not on the clock. it's mostly just quiet."

he turns his head then, his face close to yours. the distance is small enough that you can see the light reflecting in his eyes. he doesn't look away. he sets his food down on the center console and shifts his weight so he's facing you more directly.

"it's different having someone else in the truck," he says. his voice is a notch lower. "usually it's just me and the radio. i like this better."

you look down at his hand, resting near the gear shift. his fingers are long, his knuckles scarred from working on the furnace or the truck. you put your hand down next to his. you don't touch him yet, but you can feel the heat coming off his skin.

peter moves his hand, sliding his fingers over yours. his palm is dry and warm, his grip firm. he doesn't make a big deal out of it. he just holds your hand while the heater hums and the wind rattles the door frame. it's the first time since you got to alaska that your heart rate isn't up because you're angry or stressed.

"we should probably check the logs at the power station," you say, though you don't move to start the truck.

december 18th

peter is in the kitchen. he doesn't ask where the mugs are anymore. you hear the familiar clink of ceramic against the counter and the sound of the tap running. he knows exactly which cabinet holds the good tea and which floorboard near the sink creaks if he steps on it too hard.

he walks back into the living room, dodging the stack of case files you’ve left by the sofa. he sets a mug down in front of you and sinks onto the cushion, his shoulder pressing firmly against yours.

he came over an hour ago with a box of pizza that was mostly cold by the time he navigated the ice on your driveway. over the last few weeks, his presence has shifted from a professional necessity to a domestic constant.

you’re mid-sentence, complaining about a piece of paperwork on the still unsolved case, but the words trail off when you notice him watching you. he isn't looking at your notes. he’s looking at you with a steady, unblinking intensity that makes the air in the room feel suddenly very thin.

"what?" you ask, your voice losing its edge.

"nothing," he says softly. he doesn't move away. instead, he closes the gap between you, sliding across the worn fabric of the sofa until his knee is pressed against yours. "i just like hearing you talk."

you should make a joke. you should roll your eyes and tell him to get his head in the game. but the way he’s looking at you—like you’re the only thing worth seeing in the whole town—stops the sarcasm in your throat. his hand moves, fingers brushing against your wrist before sliding up to cup your jaw. his skin is firm and steady.

you find yourself leaning into his palm, your breath hitching. the frustration you've been carrying since you left texas seems to quiet down, replaced by a different kind of tension.

he leans in slowly, giving you every chance to move. you don't. when his lips finally meet yours, the world outside the house completely disappears.

peter exhales a shaky breath against your mouth, his hands coming up to frame your face. his palms are calloused but gentle, holding you like you’re something precious, something he’s been trying to protect from the frost since the moment you walked through the door of the police station almost a month ago.

your hand finds the front of his sweater, pulling him closer as you sink into the cushions. he sighs against your mouth, his other hand coming up to tangle in your hair, holding you there like he’s finally found exactly where he’s supposed to be.

the heat of him is everywhere. it’s in the way his fingers slide into your hair, the way he pulls you flush against him until the cold air of the room can’t find a way in. for a few seconds, the the case, the missing girl, and the three thousand miles back to texas don’t exist. there is no long night. there is only the pressure of his lips and the way he’s breathing your name.

when you finally break away, you don't go far. you lean your forehead against his, your eyes closed, both of you trying to catch your breath in the thin, recycled air.

"holy shit," you whisper, your voice a low, jagged mess.

peter lets out a soft, breathless laugh, his thumbs tracing the line of your cheekbones. he looks at you with an expression so open and honest it almost hurts to see. "better than any cowboy you've ever kissed, huh?"

you huff a laugh, your fingers lingering on his chest.

"keep your eyes on my heels, egg," dunk grunts, adjusting the strap of the heavy bundle on his back. "we don't want to lose each other before we even see the red keep."

"i'm right here, ser," egg sighs, though he is busy eyeing a vendor selling honeyed locusts. "and you shouldn't be so nervous. it’s just a castle. i told you, my family won't bite. much. besides, my aunt will be there. she's much nicer than the rest of them."

dunk does not feel reassured. he is a hedge knight with a horse, a shield, and a dream, but walking into the seat of power feels more daunting than facing a dozen lances.

"don't look at them, egg," dunk mutters, his eyes fixed straight ahead. "if we stop for one, we stop for a hundred, and i haven't the coin to feed a city."

the trek from the markets to the red keep is a slow crawl through a city that seems determined to swallow them whole. the air grows heavier as they ascend aegon’s high hill, the stench of the fishmonger’s square giving way to the dry, metallic scent of dust and baking stone. every few paces, dunk has to steady his pack, his height making him a natural landmark for every beggar and street urchin looking for a copper.

egg trops along behind him, his boots scuffing against the cobblestones. he seems entirely unfazed by the press of the crowd, navigating the gaps between people with the practiced ease of someone who spent his life in these halls, even if dunk currently sees him only as a dusty boy. egg points toward the looming towers of the keep, their shadows stretching long and jagged over the city.

"the serpentine steps are just ahead, ser," egg says, his voice losing some of its playfulness. "it's a long climb. it's meant to tire out anyone who tries to take the castle by storm."

dunk grunts in response. his legs are strong, but the weight of his armor and the bundle on his back begins to tell as they hit the incline. the red stone steps are slick in places, worn smooth by centuries of boots and wheels. as they climb, the noise of the city begins to muffle, replaced by the rhythmic clatter of cloaked guards walking the battlements above.

the higher they go, the more dunk feels the crushing weight of the history surrounding them. he is a man of the road, of muddy fields and campfires. here, the walls feel like they are watching him. every guard they pass seems to be measuring the width of his shoulders, their hands resting casually on the pommels of their swords. dunk keeps his head down, his jaw tight, feeling every bit the imposter.

"nearly there," egg whispers, noticing the way dunk’s hand hitches at his sword belt. "once we're through the gatehouse, it's different. it's quieter. just don't trip over your own feet, ser. the king's guards have no sense of humor."

by the time they reach the outer ward, dunk is sweating through his tunic, his neck stiff from trying not to stare at every gold-cloaked guard they pass.

they are directed toward a side courtyard, away from the main bustle of the court. dunk expects to see knights sparring or stables being mucked. he does not expect to see you.

you stand near a fountain, the sunlight catching the silver embroidery of your gown. you laugh at something a handmaid says, a bright, clear sound that seems to cut through the oppressive heat. to dunk, you look less like a person and more like a vision from a song; the kind knights die for in the stories old nan tells.

dunk stops dead. he doesn't just stop; he freezes. his leaden feet feel rooted into the dirt of the courtyard.

"ser?" egg asks, walking into the back of dunk’s legs. "why are you—oh." egg looks at you, then back up at dunk’s face, which is rapidly turning the color of a ripe pomegranate. "ser, your mouth is open. you look like a fish."

dunk does not hear him. he watches the way you move, the effortless grace of your hands as you adjust a stray lock of hair. he feels a sudden, crushing awareness of how big he is, how dirty his boots are, and how much he smells of horse and road dust.

sensing eyes on you, you turn. your gaze lands on the giant of a man standing paralyzed ten paces away. you do not look annoyed or frightened; instead, you offer a small, curious smile.

"are you lost, ser?" you call out, your voice melodic and kind.

dunk tries to speak. his throat feels like it is stuffed with dry wool. he manages a sound that is somewhere between a cough and a wheeze.

"i... uh... my lady... i am... dunk," he finally stammers out. he realizes a second too late that he should probably bow. he lurches forward, his movements so jerky and uncoordinated that he nearly tips over his own center of gravity. "ser duncan the tall. at your service. or, not at your service, i mean... i'm just here. with the boy."

he gestures vaguely toward egg, who looks at the sky as if praying for the ground to open up and swallow them both.

your eyes then shift to the small, bald boy hiding behind his legs. a look of pure, joyful recognition lights up your face.

"egg?" you call out.

the boy does not hesitate. he sprints away from dunk, shouting, "auntie!" as he throws himself at you. you catch him in a swirl of silk, laughing as you ruffle what little stubble is on his head.

"look at you," you murmur, pulling back to look at the boy. "covered in dust and smelling like a stable. your father will have a fit."

"i'm a squire now," egg says proudly, puffing out his chest. he points back at the towering figure still standing by the entrance. "and that’s my knight. ser duncan the tall."

you look up, your gaze finally settling back on dunk. you offer a small, curious smile. dunk tries to speak again but fails.

you step closer, the hem of your skirts brushing the dust. the closer you get, the more dunk feels his brain melting into a puddle. the realization that you are not just a lady, but a princess, baelor's wife and egg's aunt, makes his heart do a panicked somersault.

"ser duncan. a pleasure," you say. "my nephew has written of you. though he failed to mention you are quite so... tall."

"i get that a lot, my lady," dunk manages, his voice cracking slightly.

"are you here to see the king?"

"the prince, my lady," egg speaks up, giving a much more polished bow than his master. "prince baelor."

your expression shifts slightly—a flicker of something warm and perhaps a bit mischievous. "baelor? i see. well, i'm sure he is very interested to meet the man who's been standing in the sun staring at the fountain for five minutes."

"i was not staring at the fountain," dunk blurts out before he can stop himself.

"no?" you tilt your head.

dunk’s face is now a shade of purple that is genuinely alarming. "no. i... the flowers. they're very... yellow."

you bite your lip to keep from smiling too widely. "yellow. yes, they are. i shall leave you to your flowers then, ser duncan. i suspect we shall see each other again. but perhaps you'll find the ceilings here a bit low."

"i'll watch my head, my lady," dunk blurts out.

"see that you do," you tease. "i leave you to get settled. egg, don't let him get lost in the corridors. he might get stuck."

as you walk away, your silk skirts whispering against the stone, dunk does not move. he just watches you go, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.

"ser," egg says, tugging on his sleeve. "ser, we have to go. uncle baelor is waiting. and stop looking like that, it's embarrassing. she's my aunt."

"she's a princess, egg," dunk whispers, his voice full of awe and a sudden, sinking dread. "why didn't you tell me she is a princess?"

"i told you she is my aunt!" egg sighs, dragging dunk by the hand toward the inner keep. "what did you think she is? a stable hand in a nice dress?"

"but did you see her, egg? she looked at me. she actually talked to me."

"she thinks you're a madman who likes yellow weeds," egg sighs, dragging dunk by the hand toward the inner keep. "come on, 'ser duncan.' try to remember how to walk before we meet the crown prince, or he'll have you thrown in the black cells for being a public hazard."

a fortnight passes, and the heat only grows more stubborn. you sit in the gardens, tucked away in the sliver of shade provided by a crumbling stone arch. the air usually moves with a faint, floral grace, but today even the roses seem to be drooping their heads, thirsty and heavy with dust. the usual drone of the city feels miles away, replaced by the persistent hum of locusts in the dry grass. you watch a single petal fall, drifting through the stagnant air like a tired wing.

you adjust your skirts, the silk clinging to your skin in a way that feels stifling. beside you, egg’s breathing is rhythmic, punctuated by the shrr-shrr of a coarse rag against the dented steel of the shield. he looks small and determined, a little dragon playing at being a stable boy, his knuckles dusted with grime.

"he's staring again," egg mutters, his voice barely a whisper beneath the sound of his work.

you blink, shaking off the lethargy of the afternoon. "who is?"

"ser duncan," egg says. he does not look up, but he points a grubby finger toward the periphery of the courtyard.

there stands dunk. he is impossible to miss. a literal tower of a man who seems to be carved out of the very earth. he leans against a fluted pillar, supposedly observing the sparring sessions of the younger knights, but his gaze is nowhere near the clatter of practice swords. his eyes are fixed on the shaded corner where you sit.

when your eyes meet his, the effect is instantaneous. a slow, deep crimson creeps up from his collar, flooding his face until he matches the scarlet dragon on the banners fluttering overhead. he jumps as if he is pricked with a lance, trips over a loose paving stone, and in a desperate attempt to look busy, begins nodding frantically at a passing kitchen maid who looks at him with utter confusion. finally, he turns his back entirely, staring at a blank stone wall with the intensity of a scholar reading a rare scroll.

you cannot help it; a laugh escapes you. "he’s just polite, egg. stop being a brat."

"he’s not polite," egg sighs, finally tossing the rag onto the shield with a heavy thud. "he’s 'smitten.' that's what the squire in the stables says. he says the big man turns into a puddle of grease every time you walk by. says he has seen better-coordinated calves in a butcher’s shop."

"a puddle of grease," a deep, calm voice echoes from the shadows behind you.

the sound of it sends a different kind of heat through you—one that has nothing to do with the sun. you do not need to turn to recognize the steady, commanding presence of baelor breakspear. he steps into the shade, looking infuriatingly composed. while every other man in king's landing looks like they are melting into their boots, the crown prince looks as though the humidity does not dare touch him.

he moves behind your chair, his presence a cooling shadow. he drops a hand onto your shoulder, his fingers tracing the line of your collarbone. it is a slow, possessive gesture, his thumb brushing against the sensitive skin of your neck.

"uncle baelor," egg says, scrambling to his feet and offering a quick, messy bow.

"egg," baelor nods, his two-colored eyes shift toward the courtyard. he watches dunk, who is still effectively trying to merge his body with the stonework of the wall. "and what is this about puddles of grease?"

"ser duncan has a crush on her," egg says plainly. the boy has no sense of self-preservation, or perhaps he simply enjoys the chaos. "he's been standing there for twenty minutes. i think he has forgotten how his legs work."

baelor’s grip on your shoulder tightens, just a fraction. he does not stop smiling, but the expression shifts. it transforms from the soft, private look he reserves for you into a mask he usually wears in council meetings—perfectly pleasant, terrifyingly blank, and radiating a subtle authority.

"is that so?" baelor asks softly.

"dont listen to the boy," you say, reaching up to lay your hand over baelor’s. "dunk is just... earnest. he’s a good man, baelor. loyal to a fault."

"he is a very good man," baelor agrees, though his eyes remain fixed on the knight’s broad back. "an excellent knight. a pillar of the realm, one might say. though perhaps he needs more practice if he finds himself with so much free time to stand in gardens admiring the masonry."

baelor does not wait for a rebuttal. with a firm but graceful motion, he steers you up from your seat. his arm slides around your waist, pulling you flush against his side as he begins walking you directly toward the courtyard, and directly into dunk’s path.

as you approach, dunk finally turns around, sensing the shift in the air. he looks like a man facing a firing squad. he sweats profusely now, his large hands twitching at his sides.

"ser duncan," baelor says. his voice is smooth as aged wine, but it carries that sharp, razor-thin edge that usually makes the lords of the small council start checking their ledgers.

"my lord prince," dunk stammers. he goes for a bow so deep and frantic that his forehead nearly strikes his own knees. "my lady. i... i didn't see you there."

"my wife was just telling me how much she appreciates your... dedication," baelor says. he pulls you an inch closer, his thumb tracing your hip, anchoring you to him. "it’s a rare and noble trait to find a knight so attentive to his surroundings."

dunk’s eyes dart to you, then down to baelor’s hand resting firmly on your hip, then back to the dust at his feet. "i... i just... the flowers are nice, my lord. the, uh, the roses. very red."

"the flowers," baelor repeats, his gaze drifting to a particularly sad, wilted shrub nearby. "quite. however, i find that when a man stares too long at something that is not his, he tends to lose focus on his actual duties. wouldn't you agree, ser duncan?"

behind you, egg makes a small, choked noise that is unmistakably a suppressed giggle.

dunk’s ears are now a vibrant shade of purple. "yes, my lord. deeply sorry, my lord. i was just... thinking. about... shields."

"no need for apologies," baelor says, his tone turning terrifyingly cheerful. "in fact, i have just the thing to help you clear your head. the city watch reports some logistical difficulties in the lower markets. a shipment of ironwood and several crates of stone. it requires a man of your... significant stature. i’m sure you'd find it much more fulfilling than staring at a garden."

dunk blinks, his massive shoulders slumping slightly. "the markets, my lord? now?"

"right now," baelor says, his smile never reaching his eyes. "efficiency is the soul of a good knight, after all."

dunk does not even attempt a goodbye. he nods frantically, mumbles a "by your leave," and marches off toward the gates with the speed of a man fleeing a wildfire.

you turn in baelor's arms, raising an eyebrow at him. "heavy lifting? really, baelor? you send the most decorated hedge knight in the city to move crates like a dockworker?"

baelor watches dunk disappear around the corner of the keep. only then does his expression relax into a smug, dark satisfaction. "he is breathing my air," he mutters under his breath.

"you're jealous," you tease, poking his chest. "you are the crown prince, the hero of the blackfyre rebellion, and you are jealous of a man who can barely form a sentence in my presence."

"i am not jealous," baelor insists, though his arm remains locked around your waist. "i am simply managing my resources. and my most precious resource happens to be a wife who is far too beautiful for giant men to be gawping at like moon-struck calves."

egg walks past both of you, dragging the heavy shield across the gravel with a loud, grating screech. "he’s definitely jealous. he stayed up half the night asking me if i think his new charcoal doublet makes his shoulders look broader than a 'certain knight's'."

baelor stiffens, his neck turning a faint shade of pink. "egg. the library. go. now. i believe maester pycelle has a treatise on the history of drainpipes that you would find fascinating."

as the boy scurries off, baelor finally looks down at you. the mask drops, leaving only the man behind. his eyes soften, but his jaw is still set with a lingering possessiveness. he leans down, his breath warm against your ear, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous growl.

"the markets are on the other side of the city," he whispers. "with the midday traffic, it takes him hours to return."

"is that so?" you ask, leaning into him.

"plenty of time," baelor says, "to remind you—and everyone else in this castle—exactly whose wife you are."

baelor doesn't move his hand from your waist; instead, he pulls you flush against his side, the heat of his body a sharp contrast to the cooling shade of the stone pillars. he watches dunk’s retreating back for a long moment, a small, triumphant smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"he's still running," baelor notes, his voice low and vibrating against your shoulder. "i suspect he won't stop until he reaches the blackwater."

you lean your head back against his chest, looking up at the sharp, handsome line of his jaw. "you were terrible to him, baelor. the poor man was practically vibrating with fear. he probably thinks you’re going to have him sent to the wall for looking at a rose."

"he should be fearful," baelor murmurs. he turns you in his arms, his hands sliding from your waist to cup your face. his thumbs trace your cheekbones with a proprietary softness that makes your breath hitch. "it is a dangerous thing, wanting what belongs to a dragon. even a 'good man' must learn where the boundaries lie."

he leans down, his forehead resting against yours. his hard expression is gone now, replaced by the husband who has spent the last hour stewing in a quiet, royal fury while watching a giant admire his wife.

"you really did ask egg about the doublet?" you whisper, your eyes dancing with mischief.

baelor stiffens, his eyes narrowing slightly as a faint flush returns to his neck. "the boy has a vivid imagination. i simply wanted to ensure i was dressed appropriately for the heat."

"and the shoulder width?"

"a minor detail," he grumbles, though he doesn't pull away. he sighs, his grip tightening just a fraction, his voice losing its edge and turning into something more vulnerable. "i am the crown prince. i lead armies. i sit on the council. and yet, i see a hedge knight look at you with that... that simple, honest devotion, and i find i want to banish every man in the seven kingdoms to the wall."

you reach up, winding your fingers through the dark hair at the nape of his neck. "they can look all they want, baelor. but none of them are you."

"a wise assessment," he says, his voice dropping an octave as he closes the distance between your lips. "and since i've gone to the trouble of clearing the courtyard of giants and squires alike, i suggest we don't waste the privacy."

the gardens are silent now, save for the distant cry of a hawk and the faint sound of the fountain. baelor kisses you with a sudden intensity, a silent declaration that while dunk may be the tall, baelor is the one who stands beside you.

baelor ‘breakspear’ targaryen

telling him

— when you tell him, he is mid-sentence, discussing grain harvests. he stops, a rare, boyish look of shock crossing his face before he breaks into a radiant smile.

— he catches your hands in his, pressing a lingering kiss to each knuckle as if thanking you for a gift he never thought he deserved.

— there is a profound sense of relief in his eyes, as if the weight of the crown feels lighter now that he has a family to protect.

— he spends the rest of the night tucked away with you, ignoring his councilors, just to talk about what this means for your future.

— whispers that he wants the child to have your heart and your laugh, more than his own martial skill.

during the pregnancy

— the prince remains the picture of composed joy, though his hand lingers on your stomach a second longer than necessary during public functions.

— throughout the months, he becomes your most vigilant protector, quietly ensuring the best maesters and cushions are always at your disposal.

— he spends his evenings reading histories and philosophies to your bump, claiming the child should be familiar with the language of their ancestors.

— baelor manages the kingdom’s affairs with newfound efficiency, driven by the desire to leave a peaceful realm for his growing family.

— he is the one to help you walk through the gardens when your ankles swell, never once complaining about the glacial pace.

— if you have a craving at midnight, he is the one waking the kitchens personally, refusing to let a servant do what he considers his duty as a husband.

— he often rests his head against your stomach, closing his eyes and simply listening to the life moving within, finding a peace there he cannot find in court.

— he defends your need for rest fiercely, turning away lords and ladies who seek your audience when he sees you are tired.

— he treats you with a renewed sense of reverence, often kissing your brow and thanking you for the life you created together.

the birth and first hold

— during the labor, he stays behind the door, his hand resting on the wood, and praying to the mother for your safety with a fervency he’s never shown before.

— when he is finally allowed in, he ignores the babe at first, rushing to your side to kiss your sweaty brow and ensure you are well.

— as he takes the infant, his hands—usually so steady with a sword—tremble with a sudden, overwhelming vulnerability. a single tear escapes his eyes, which he quickly brushes away with a self-conscious laugh.

— he marvels at how tiny the infant’s fingers are compared to his own calloused palms.

— he whispers a promise to the child that they will never have to bear the weight of the crown alone.

— he tells the babe, "you are the light of the seven kingdoms," before tucking them back into your arms.

— he spends the first night awake by your bedside, watching both of you sleep, feeling like the richest man in the known world.

— he insists on being the one to introduce the newborn to the rest of the royal family, beaming with uncharacteristic pride.

— baelor finds excuses to leave small council meetings early just to see if the baby has opened their eyes yet.

— he begins planning the child’s education immediately, though he softens when the babe grabs his finger and refuses to let go.

— the sight of the future king cradling a tiny, fragile soul becomes the most enduring image of his private life.

maekar targaryen

telling him

— he stares at you with a hard, unreadable expression for so long you think he’s angry, until you see his jaw tighten with suppressed emotion.

— after a while, he clears his throat roughly and tells you that the summerhall guards will be tripled effective immediately.

— maekar doesn't do grand gestures, but he pulls you against his chest in a crushing hug.

— he tells you, in a low, stern voice, that you are to want for nothing, and he will personally break anyone who causes you stress.

— you catch him looking at you from across the room later that night with a soft, protective look he thinks you don't see.

— he goes to the sept alone to light a candle, a rare act of public piety for the man known as the anvil.

during the pregnancy

— he becomes obsessed with the temperature of the room, constantly checking for drafts that might make you catch a chill.

— the prince is surprisingly gentle when you are tired, often lifting you into bed without a single word of complaint.

— is concerned with your health, often hovering and asking if you have eaten enough every day.

— he rarely speaks of his excitement, but you find him in the armory looking at miniature practice swords with a soft expression.

— he buys you the sturdiest, most comfortable furs from the north, wanting you to feel "armored" against the world.

— he doesn't like to talk to the belly, but he keeps his hand firmly planted there while he sleeps, as if claiming the child as his own.

— he scolds his older sons if they are too loud around you, demanding they show the proper respect to your condition.

— when the maesters cannot give him exact answers about your comfort or the baby’s progress, he‘ll treat to dismiss them from their duties in summerhall.

— he grows frustrated when he can’t fix your back pain, often pacing the room like a caged lion because he can't fight a phantom ache for you.

— he brings you rare treats—sweetmeats and spiced wine (diluted, of course)—acting as if it’s no big deal even though he sent a ship to volantis for them.

— he watches you with an intensity that borders on worship, realizing that you are doing something he, for all his strength, never could.

the birth and first hold

— during the birth, he paces the halls with such force that the servants stay clear of his path, his face a mask of iron to hide his sheer terror but he snaps at anyone who dares to suggest he get some rest.

— when he sees you are safe, the tension leaves his body so quickly he has to lean against the wall for support.

— he takes the babe and holds them like a delicate piece of glass, his large fingers looking massive against the infant's skin.

— maekar touches the baby’s cheek with the utmost care, his rough features softening in a way the world never gets to see.

— he searches the child's face for your features, letting out a satisfied grunt when he sees a familiar curve of the lip and the white hair they both share.

— he looks between you and the child, his eyes misty as he realizes he has another chance to be the father he wants to be.

— he whispers a vow to the child that no harm will ever come to them as long as he draws breath and that this child will always know they are loved, regardless of their place in the succession.

— he sits in a chair by the fire with the babe on his chest, finally looking at peace for the first time in years.

— he refuses to let the wet nurses take the child right away, insisting on holding them until they fall into a deep sleep.

— he often sits by your bedside while you recover, holding your hand and looking at the cradle with a fierce, quiet loyalty.

— maekar finds himself smiling more in a week than he has in the past year, all because of the tiny heartbeat in the room.

duncan the tall

telling him

— his jaw drops and he nearly trips over his own feet, looking at you with wide, disbelieving eyes and a massive grin.

— "a babe?" he asks, his voice cracking like a squire's, before a huge, goofy grin breaks across his face.

— he asks you five times if you are sure, his voice cracking with a mixture of terror and pure, unadulterated happiness.

— he picks you up and spins you until you’re both dizzy, laughing loudly before realizing he needs to be "gentle" and putting you down with a blush.

— he spends the next hour talking about how he’ll need to find extra work to buy the best swaddling clothes.

— he tells you that you’re the most beautiful woman in the world, his eyes shining with a pure, simple love.

— he keeps touching your stomach as if he expects to see a bump appear right then and there.

during the pregnancy

— the knight carries you over puddles and up stairs, insisting that a lady in your "condition" shouldn't exert herself.

— he spends his coin on the finest furs and softest wools he can find, wanting to make sure you are never cold.

— he is constantly "testing" your food to make sure it’s good enough, bringing you the best cuts of meat from the tavern.

— definitely asks egg for advice on babies, leading to many sarcastic comments from the boy that dunc ignores.

— duncan becomes terrified of accidentally bumping into you, moving around the room with exaggerated, careful grace.

— he talks to the baby about his travels, promising to show them the reach and the wall when they are old enough to ride.

— he makes a point of walking on the outside of the path to shield you from the wind or passing horses.

— he gets teary-eyed every time you mention a name, thinking about a little version of him or you running around.

— he is incredibly sensitive to your mood swings, taking every tear to heart and trying to cheer you up with clumsy jokes and hugs.

— he builds a cradle with his own hands, sanding the wood until it’s as smooth as silk so the babe won't get a splinter.

the birth and first hold

— he is a nervous wreck, sitting on the floor outside the room with his head in his hands, jumping at every sound.

— when he hears the first cry, he lets out a sob of relief that he tries to play off as a cough.

— he enters the room and looks at you like you’ve just performed a miracle, whispering that you're the bravest person he knows.

— he starts to cry almost immediately, big silent tears rolling down his cheeks as he looks at the perfection of the babe.

— holding the baby for the first time makes him look even more like a giant, the infant appearing like a doll in his hands. he can’t believe how small a human can be, his hand covering the baby’s entire torso.

— he kisses the top of the baby’s head, his heart feeling as though it might burst out of his chest.

— he clumsily tries to wrap the babe in a swaddle, his large hands moving with a desperate, loving caution.

— dunc spends the first night awake, just staring at the cradle to make sure the baby keeps breathing.

— he is amazed that something so small and beautiful could belong to a simple hedge knight like him.

— he tells the child, "i'm just a hedge knight, but i'll give you the world," and you know he means every word.

— assures that they will be the bravest soul in the seven kingdoms, no matter what path they choose.

— duncan feels a new sense of purpose, his sword now dedicated entirely to ensuring this child grows up safe and fed.

valarr targaryen

telling him

— he breaks into a youthful, bright laugh and spins you around before remembering to set you down very gently.

— he calls for a feast immediately, wanting everyone to know the joy he feels, though he keeps the specific reason quiet for your privacy.

— he spends the evening brushing your hair, whispering about how lucky he is to have found a partner like you.

— he makes you promise to tell him every little detail of how you feel, wanting to be a part of every second.

— there is a certain sweetness to him, a hope that this child will represent a new, happy chapter for his family.

during the pregnancy

— he brings you flowers every single morning, ranging from garden roses to wild daisies he found on a ride.

— he is attentive to your every mood swing, meeting your tears or anger with a patient, loving smile and a warm hug.

— he is the first to notice when you’re tired, whisking you away from social obligations with a charming excuse.

— he helps you pick out names, leaning toward traditional targaryen ones but always deferring to your favorites.

— he is the one to organize a group of singers to play soft music outside your window so you can nap peacefully.

— he loves to feel the baby kick, pressing his ear to your stomach and whispering jokes to get a reaction from the womb.

— the young prince is optimistic and bright, constantly talking about the games he will play with his son or daughter.

— he buys you flowing, colorful gowns from the free cities that accommodate your growing shape while making you feel elegant.

— he is very affectionate, constantly stolen kisses and hand-holding, making sure you never feel "unwieldy" or unattractive.

— he writes poems for the baby, reading them aloud to you while you lounge on the balcony in the sun.

the birth and first hold

— during the birth, he stays as close as the mid-wives allow, his face pale with worry but his voice steady for you. he’s pacing and humming a soft tune to calm his own racing heart.

— when he sees the babe, he looks like he’s seen a vision of the heavens, his face glowing with a pure, radiant joy.

— he examines every feature, pointing out how the babe has your nose and his brown-ish hair.

— the moment he holds the baby, he looks like the happiest man in westeros, his eyes shining with light.

— valarr is a natural father, effortlessly rocking the babe to sleep while he hums a tune under his breath.

— valarr sings soft valyrian lullabies to the newborn, his voice steady and soothing in the quiet chamber.

— he shows the baby the view from the window, telling them that one day, all this beauty will be theirs to cherish.

— he is eager to show the baby off to his father, wanting to share his joy with the man he admires most.

— he makes plans for the baby’s first pony and their first visit to dragonstone, his mind racing with the future.

— the prince stays by your side during your recovery, making sure you feel like the most important person in the world.

— he kisses you deeply, thanking you over and over for the gift of this new life.

— he looks at you with so much love it hurts, feeling as though his life has truly begun with this new arrival.

lyonel baratheon

telling him

— he lets out a shout of "ha!" that probably alerts every guard in storm's end, his eyes wide with boisterous pride.

— he grabs you by the waist and lifts you up, his laugh echoing off the stone walls as he calls you his "brave little doe."

— he insists on drinking a toast to the "young stag," even if the baby is just a tiny seed, his enthusiasm uncontainable.

— he immediately starts planning a hunt or a tourney in the babe's honor, his mind racing with ways to celebrate.

— he gets uncharacteristically soft for a moment, pressing his forehead to yours and whispering how proud he is.

— he tells you that the stormlands will celebrate for a month when the news becomes public.

during the pregnancy

— he insists on throwing a feast in your honor, making sure you have the finest delicacies from the stormlands.

— he talks to your belly about the battles he has won, wanting the child to be born with the spirit of a stag.

— he encourages you to stay active, but the moment you look tired, he is there with a chair and a goblet of water.

— he becomes your personal herald, announcing your entrance into rooms with even more gusto than usual.

— the knight becomes very protective, often standing behind you with his hands on your shoulders like a human shield.

— lyonel is boastful and proud, telling anyone who will listen that his seed is strong and his heir is coming.

— also loves to brag to his men about how "the little lord/lady is already fighting in there" when you feel a kick.

— he brings you the heaviest, warmest cloaks, worried that the stormlands' wind is too harsh for you now.

— he personally supervises the reinforcement of the nursery, making sure the stone is thick and the hearth is large.

— he brings you "trophies" from his hunts—the best furs or the rarest feathers—to decorate your rooms.

— he sits with you during storms, wrapping his arms around you to keep you steady while the thunder rolls.

— he is very hands-on, always wanting to touch the bump and marveling at how your body is changing.

the birth and first hold

— during the labor, he can be heard shouting encouragement through the walls, his energy restless and wild.

— he paces like a trapped beast, his heavy boots thudding against the floor, looking ready to fight the stranger himself to keep you safe.

— he spends his time carving small wooden stags for the nursery, his large hands surprisingly dexterous.

— when he hears the baby's first cry, he lets out a triumphant "yes!" and practically bursts through the door.

— he is exceptionally tender with you, realizing the toll the birth took and treating you like a queen.

— he tests the baby’s grip with his pinky finger, laughing with pride when the infant squeezes back tightly.

— lyonel declares that the child will be the greatest knight the stormlands has ever seen, boy or girl.

— he makes fun of how "tiny but loud" they are, grinning at the strength of their lungs.

— when he holds the babe, he is surprisingly quiet, his boisterous nature replaced by a stunned, heavy silence.

— he looks down at the tiny human and feels a sudden, overwhelming weight of responsibility he has never known.

— he carries the baby to the window to show them the crashing sea below, promising they will be as strong as the waves.

— he looks at his family and feels more powerful than any king, ready to storm the heavens for your sake.

— he wears a lock of the baby’s hair in a small locket, claiming it is his most powerful charm for luck.

daeron targaryen

telling him

— he looks at his wine cup, then at you, and slowly sets the drink down with a trembling hand.

— there’s a moment of pure, raw terror in his eyes—the fear that his dreams might touch this child—but it’s replaced by a soft, aching hope.

— he pulls you into his lap and just holds you, hiding his face in your shoulder as he whispers "thank you" into your skin.

— he tells you he’ll try to be better, to be the man this child deserves, his voice cracking with the weight of the promise.

— he is strangely quiet for the rest of the night, just watching you as if you’re a ghost that might disappear.

— he gives you a small, silver ring with a single pearl, saying it’s a "good luck charm" for the months ahead.

during the pregnancy

— daeron is plagued by anxiety, worried that his own "prophetic" dreams might mean something dark for the child.

— he often apologizes to you for being a "poor husband," though he tries to make up for it by being incredibly kind.

— he spends his days sitting in the shade with you, telling you stories about the stars and the old legends of the west.

— he brings you strange, thoughtful gifts—rare books or ancient coins—hoping to provide something of value.

— he drinks less during your pregnancy, trying his best to be present even when the shadows in his mind grow tall. he chooses to stay clear-headed so he can remember every moment of your pregnancy.

— he is incredibly attuned to your physical discomfort, having spent so much time dealing with his own, and knows exactly where to rub your back.

— he spends a lot of time sitting by your feet, resting his head on your lap and listening to the baby’s movements.

— he often speaks to the babe in a low, soothing voice, telling them that the world isn't as scary as it seems because you're there.

— he brings you wild berries and cool water, preferring the quiet intimacy of your private chambers to the noise of the court.

— he gets anxious if you’re out of his sight for too long, always needing to check that you’re still breathing and well.

— he is very gentle, almost fragile in how he touches you, as if you’re a precious treasure he’s afraid to break.

the birth and first hold

— he is a ghost in the hallway, pale and shaking, praying to any god that will listen that the child is born without the "curse" of his sight.

— when he sees the babe is healthy and whole, he looks like a man who has been pardoned from the gallows.

— he takes the child and his hands stop shaking for the first time in years, a strange, calm strength washing over him.

— daeron finds that holding the babe calms his racing mind more than any amount of wine ever could.

— he is moved to tears by the child’s innocence, feeling a desperate need to shield them from his own demons.

— he kisses the baby’s forehead with a shaky breath, feeling a flicker of true purpose for the first time in years.

— he whispers to the newborn that he will try to be better, his voice small and filled with a fragile hope.

— he kisses your hand with a reverence that brings tears to your eyes, acknowledging the pain you went through.

— he falls asleep in the chair next to you, holding the babe’s tiny hand with his own, finally finding a dreamless, peaceful rest.

— he is surprisingly good at soothing a crying baby, his gentle, melancholic humming working like a charm.

— he becomes very attached to the nursery, preferring the quiet peace of the cradle to the noise of the court.

— daeron looks to you for guidance on how to be a father, trusting your strength more than his own.

— he has a dream of the child growing up happy and sun-kissed, and for once, he isn't afraid of the vision.

aerion brightflame

telling him

— his eyes light up with a manic, triumphant glow, a sharp grin cutting across his handsome face.

— he declares that the blood of the dragon is flourishing, treating the news like a divine omen of his own power.

— he catches your chin in his hand, looking at you with a possessive, intense heat, telling you that you’ve done well.

— he immediately begins talking about the "greatness" this child will achieve, already projecting his own ambitions onto the unborn life.

— there is an edge to his joy, a feeling that he is building an army of one through your body.

during the pregnancy

— he demands that you are treated with the highest honors, often getting into arguments with those he deems "insufficiently respectful."

— he wants the child to be treated like a god in the womb.

— he talks to the baby about fire and power, convinced that his offspring will be a literal dragon in human form.

— he gives you a necklace of rubies that look like drops of fire, wanting you to look every bit the mother of a prince.

— he grows impatient with the physical limitations of your pregnancy, though he is fiercely defensive of you against others.

— it’s not you who has mood swings but he is prone to having them, one moment showering you with jewels and the next complaining about your lack of energy.

— he becomes obsessed with the child’s "purity," often lecturing the maesters on how to ensure the baby is "strong."

— he likes to show you off at feasts, his hand resting heavily on your stomach as if to mark his territory to the entire court.

— he can be overbearing, insisting you follow a strict regimen he’s designed, but it comes from a place of warped devotion.

— he loves to talk about how the child will "burn" their enemies, his voice dropping to a whisper that is both frightening and intimate.

— he spends a lot of money on the nursery, filling it with gold leaf and red tapestries until it looks like the inside of a dragon's hoard.

— he watches you with a predator’s focus, fascinated by the way his "legacy" is taking shape inside you.

the birth and first hold

— he paces with a restless, nervous energy, snapping at anyone who speaks to him, his temper on a razor’s edge.

— he is agitated, demanding that the gods deliver him a son who is worthy of his name.

— when he enters the room, he looks at the blood and the mess with a strange, clinical fascination before turning to the babe.

— he sits on the edge of the bed, looking at the babe with a terrifyingly focused love, already planning the world he will conquer for them.

— he takes the infant and holds them high, as if presenting them to the gods, a look of sheer, arrogant pride on his face.

— he searches for the purple eyes and silver hair of the targaryens, letting out a sharp, satisfied laugh when he sees them.

— he whispers grand, terrifying ambitions into the baby’s ear, treating the infant more like a legacy than a person.

— however, in private moments, you see a flash of real humanity when the baby grabs his hair and he doesn't pull away.

— he insists on naming the child something ancient and powerful, regardless of anyone else’s opinion. (maegor)

— he is surprisingly possessive of the child, often dismissing the nurses because he wants the babe to recognize him alone.

— his love is a sharp, jagged thing, but it is undeniable that he views this child as his greatest achievement.

— he becomes even more volatile in court, viewing any perceived slight against his family as a reason for war.

— he tells you that you have "served the dragon well," a backhanded compliment that is the highest praise he can give.