🫧🍬🍭

You all had arrived back to Storm’s End days ago and he still found himself in the same mindedness as King’s Landing. His eyes stayed would analyze himself in the mirror longer searching for any trait that set him apart from them, he had started avoiding Lyonel, because he felt so guilty about the fact that he wanted Baelor’s praise and attention, and worse of all he started to snap at you, over things that didn’t matter, which only made him feel worse. 

Stannis had always thought he knew who he was. A Baratheon. Lyonel Baratheon’s heir. But now he wasn’t so sure. He heard everyone comparing him to Valarr, of how they looked so similar they could be twins. He heard them even comparing himself to Baelor, of how his jousting already seemed to match the Prince of Dragonstones’. 

He didn’t want to be connected to them in any way, but that was something he truly couldn’t outrun. He was of the same blood of Valarr, they were brothers, and there was no hiding in that, especially with the pair of them in the same vicinity. Baelor Targaryen was his father, and no amount of pits in his stomach or bile that rose at the thought would make him forget.  

He missed knocking on the door, as his face was currently almost pressed into the mirror, as his fingers worked across his face. “Stannis?” you called out, the worry evident in your voice, causing him to freeze.

He slowly pulled from his face turning toward her as if he went at this pace she would forget about what she walked into. He didn’t say anything staring at her, “You’ve been acting odd since the tourney,” she said, it wasn’t a question. She was not asking what was wrong she was stating she knew there was an issue, and he should have guessed that. You were his mother, the woman who raised him and seemed to know him better than himself most days. 

“Why did you do it?” he then asked before he could stop himself. He should have given himself the time to organize his thoughts properly, but the fire burning through his blood did not give him the chance. He knew if he moved an inch even looked away for a second the storm that filled him would come crashing down, so he did not let it. He kept that anger letting it fester, taking shape ready to snap its teeth at you. 

“Do what?” you asked, thoroughly confused as to what he was referring to, because you did not know. You did not know about the conversation in the hallway with Baelor or the inner turmoil that followed. Of course you knew of the way he always seemed to try and be better than a certain prince, but you thought you had done a good enough job over the years assuring him that you did not want him to be anything, but himself. 

“Why did you fucking open your legs for Baelor? You couldn’t have just stuck to Maekar or better yet to your husband! Was it the fact that he gave you attention?” he screamed his voice getting louder, his body shaking with anger as the heat burned through his veins, he swore he could feel the finger in his fingers. 

You said nothing, only staring at him, so he continued, “ Were you so desperate for attention you opened legs for anything? Is that what it is that you are a whore and just weren’t content with your husband so you decided to make a run at the Targaryens!”

You blinked at him, and he watched your face slowly transform, into something scarier. Something commanding, that had always sent a chill through the children’s spines, because you were far harder to drive to this point then Lyonel. You clicked your tongue, once, twice and the sound made his skin crawl for a moment finally knocking the fire from him. 

The rain from outside drenched him as if he had finally stepped out of the King’s Landing heat and back into the cold, dreariness of Storm’s End. The salt ran down his face, as his hand went to his mouth in horror, his body began to shake once more, but not with burning rage, but with the sadness, the insecurity that filled his mind. 

Arms were wrapping around him before he could fight it, and he sunk into your hold. To the familiarity of home, because he knew you were the one person who he never had done anything to, but love him. You were the one who had always been there, not Baelor, and he really wished it did not matter, but he still found himself asking once more, “Why him, mum?”

He felt your chest stop for a moment as you held him to you, your hand petting down his dark hair trying to comfort him as you gathered thoughts. “You were made out of love by two reckless teenagers. And Lyonel knew that, he knew the truth of everything from the very beginning, and your father chose to love you despite everything. He chose you, not because he created you, but because he loves you. There has never been a moment in your life where you were unloved or unwanted, Stannis."

His sobs only filled the room harder as you held him tighter, “You are Stannis Baratheon, and that is all I have ever wanted you to be.” His cries stopped as he listened to your words, clinging to each and everyone of them hoping that they could be engraved into his mind as the truth, because if you thought it then it must be real. “That is all you have had to be, because I do not give two shits about little princes who can not even handle a sword half as well as you.” That caused him to chuckle slightly. 

You finally pulled him away cupping his cheeks in your face, his mismatched eyes red, as his face was blotchy as he sniffled at you, “You are loved. You are cherished. You are you.”

Stannis laid in bed as he listened to the rain, falling down against his window. Something that happened more days than not, but it still brought him a warmth on this night, a reminder that he was home in Storm’s End, and not shit-reeking King’s Landing. 

Knocking rang against the door, but the person did not wait for an answer indicating it was Lyonel rather than you. He never waited for a reply, and now the boy wondered if he would do the same to Ellyn when she was younger. 

He smiled at him, something gentle and fond, the one that was only reserved for you and the children. “Can we have a talk?” he asked, rocking slightly. He seemed nervous which was so uncharacteristically unlike him it would have been the boy mirroring the same emotion if he didn’t already know what to expect. 

“Yeah,” Stannis nodded slightly.

Lyonel made his way further into the room, as the son sat up in bed slightly, the larger man sat by his knees, staring at his fingers for a moment pressing his lips together. “Firstly I want you to apologize to your mother for calling her a whore,” he started with turning to finally look at him.

“Not anything half assed either. A good apology where you grovel, bring her some lemon cake, and perhaps some flowers if you can rustle some together.”

The young boy nodded, “Of course,” he agreed, though he had already apologized to you once, he would be sure to do it again. 

“Your mother thought she was going to marry Prince Baelor, and I do not blame her, because what idiot would pass up their daughter marrying not only a prince, but the Heir to the realm for her to marry a Lord.”

“Grandsire,” Stannis supplied, which caused the man to laugh. 

“Yes, your mother’s father had decided he would rather not make an enemy out of the Baratheon and figured the Targaryen’s would understand, and shipped her off to me all the same. She did not like me at first. I actually think she may have beheaded me at one point, but I liked her. She had this fire in her that you do not always see with Ladies,” the man had a fond smile on his face as he recalled his early memories of his now wife. 

“Right before the wedding she came to me, and I could see the terror on her face. She told him she was pregnant and told him it was Prince’s Baelor, and she told me she would take the consequences, but wanted me to find out from her rather than anyone else.”

“But there were no consequences?” Stannis questioned. 

The man shook his head, “No, because I told her not to tell anyone. That I would claim you as my own even if you came out with silver hair, violet eyes and breathing fire.”

“Why?” Stannis asked intrigued. 

“Because I was fond of her. She was good company, and wasn’t dull. I did not want her to be married off to some old bastard as punishment. He smiled again, looking down in thought as he turned, holding the boy's mismatched gaze once more, “And then you came. All red and screaming. Suddenly you weren’t a little dragon or prince. You were all fury. You were my son.”

He then moved, clasping the boy's cheek, "I may not have created you, but you are my son, no matter what you are my boy, my first boy. I love you, Ormund and Orys just as much as I love Ellyn, you are my children, and nothing will fucking change that.”

“I love you too, papa,” he said, shooting forward wrapping his arms around his fathers neck as the man turned to hold him, a slight grin tugging on his lips. For once the boy did not hear the inner turmoil of his mind, the ongoing storm inside settling into something calmer in his father’s embrace as he realized he had two parents who loved him very much, and he was very lucky.

I tagged everyone who is apart of the dragon princes' wife taglist, if you do not want to be apart of the stags' wife taglist just leave a comment or shoot me a meesgae :)

stags' wife taglist: @carnationworld @saltycomicsparentingfish @thorins-queen-of-erebor @starkleila @ky-3102 @glaciuswduo @dramioneforevertilltheend @loveslide @qardasngan @asfaraslifegets @fushigurosbabygirl @thebl00dwyrm @bia-n-t-d @arkadiaphilosopher @lazyotakujen @alaeratrrn @meowingtotheoldies @saturnknows @cryptip0wer-blog @milescrypt @yazmunson @puzzledhearts16 @sczlxdy @boosstories @aerangi @glitchinmatrixx @theariespov @golden-lily3 @waning-m00n @thezatannaprint @white-olive @xisabellaxo @sacha1slytherin @spinningfables @erylilly @ilocuras24 @br0ke-b1tch @vaelyrians @xisabellaxo @in-a-far-away-land @princesstiti14 @umadirectioner @dream03 @littlewolfbird

You slip out of the ball, your head spinning from Lyonel's confrontation. He knew who you were, he knew who your father was. It was only a matter of time before someone else here figured it out, even that fucking Fossoway had seemed to recognise something of your family in you. 

The taxi takes you back to the hotel, your head filled with nothing but thoughts of leaving. This job role had seemed like a good idea at the time, but it was dangerous, with far too much exposure to you. Your hands shake as you put the key in the door to your room, tears pool in your eyes that you wipe away harshly-

“Tears again?”

You jump about a foot in the air, shrieking loudly, pressing a hand to your chest where you swear your heart was trying to pound its way out of your chest,

“Maekar!” You take a deep breath, glaring, “What the fuck are you doing in my room?!” 

The fact that he'd specifically told you that he would be meeting you here had all but slipped your mind, and finding men in your room was more than an unpleasant experience for you. Your breath slows as you look at a frowning Maekar, and your hand drops to rest at your side.

Today has been too much, the confrontation had been the final cherry on top of a stressful cake… but now you were alone with your lover, and he looked impossibly better than he had at the ball. His jacket was gone, his tie removed, the top buttons undone so that his throat and neck were exposed. Suddenly you didn't care about anything else. You just want him.

Maekar stands, his hands on his hips, “I told you I would be coming,”

“Yes,” you murmur quietly, holding his eyes as he walks towards you, “I didn't think you would break in,”.

He ignored that, instead taking your face in his hands, “I can go if you like, you still look exhausted,” You ignore that, instead tugging at the open collar of his shirt, touching his warm skin, your hands pushing under his shirt to touch his shoulders. The buttons on his shirt are almost ripped off as you push the shirt off his body and press your lips to his chest, “What in seven hells has gotten into you?” 

Maekar doesn't sound angry, his hands now on the back of your head as you press yourself to him, kissing every inch of his neck like you could drink him down into you permanently,

“I told you, I missed you,”

That's not just it. The reality of your need was a knowledge you didn't want to look at too closely just yet. Tears rise up again, you ignore them and drag Maekar’s face to yours so you can kiss him, but he pulls away, 

“What the fuck is wrong?”

“Nothing, just kiss me,”

He pushes you away, his hands firm on your shoulders as he makes you look at him, “What’s upset you?”

I can't stay with you. I've been lying to you. You'll hate me when you find out, so I'll leave before you do.

“Nothing,” you smile, “You're just really sexy right now,”

A blank look of confusion crosses Maekar’s face, “Sexy… did you just call me sexy?”

“Mmmhmm,” you bite down on your bottom lip, fingers trailing down over his chest to the waistband of his trousers, “You're very sexy, your grace,”

He raises an eyebrow at your deliberate tease, but you can see all too clearly that his desire is out pacing his curiosity over your mood. The noise that emanates from his throat when you reach down to close your hand over him through the fabric of his trousers sends a warmth through you that almost takes your breath away.

You want this man so badly it makes your head spin, your mouth water, your cunt ache in the most pleasant way. It's your eternal damnation that you'll never be more than this, and that you'll live with the knowledge that it's your own fault.

Maekar kisses you, his lips desperate at yours, hungry and demanding. You open up for him, you want this, need it. You're rubbing at his cock, all but dry humping like a teenager overcome by hormones,

“Bed, Maekar, please…”

“You get on the fucking bed, I want to taste you this time,”

Maekar is never rough, not really, but when he got into the mood he now was, the control you usually wanted in bed was given up. You gasp as Maekar backs you onto your mattress, as you fall back and he lands over you. He's big enough to block out the whole world, make you feel safe and secure as he takes his time undressing you,

“I like this set,” Maekar runs his finger over the lace of your bra, “I promise to replace it,”

“Replace- Maekar!” He tore open your bra on a grunt, burying his face in your chest as you whine, “I really liked that set as well, you know,”

“Shut up, woman, let me do as I want,” He starts kissing his way down your body, taking a moment to stop at the scar low down on your stomach, pressing his lips to it tenderly. Your heart twists. Maekar thought you'd had a surgery for a cyst that had been botched and left you sterile. That had been the first lie you'd ever told him.

You almost tell him to stop, his gentleness is too much after what Lyonel confronted you with, but you're selfish. You want this for as long as you can keep it. Maekar peels your underwear down your legs, and spreads them wide over his shoulders, “Look at me,”

Maekar enjoys using his mouth on you, enjoys making you meet his eyes as he fucks you slowly with his tongue, as he plays you carefully with his fingers. He likes seeing every emotion on your face, knowing what truly was making you feel good, what made you feel great, and how best to use it against you to drag it all out to torturous lengths. Like now. You were brought to the edge three times before you threaten to kill him with your ruined bra if he didn’t stop teasing and let you come, 

“To die by your hands, and between your legs? I think I would be happy with that,”

“Maekar…”

“Beg me again, Jorrāeliarzy, I like how it sounds coming from those beautiful lips,”

You grab a pillow, ready to beat the man senseless with it, when he leapt up, straddling your legs and covering you with his body. You were naked, and he still wore his suit trousers, the material soft enough that it felt like exquisite torture against your over sensitive skin. Maekar deftly removes the pillow, takes your wrists in a gentle grip in one hand, and presses his free hand against your cunt, his fingers magic, 

“Tell me you still want to come,”

“Please!”

He grinned wickedly, “Good,”

The way he fucks you with his fingers is everything you wanted, you almost sob as he leans down to kiss you, your wrists released so you can hold him to you, The orgasm almost destroys ypu, it rips through you body with such a force. Tears form unbidden, not from pain or sadness, but Maekar suddenly looks horrified, 

“What?! I-”

“No, don’t, I’m fine, I promise, that was just really, really good,” You know you would reach for his face if you could lift your arm, you're certain of it, “Fuck me, please?”

“Are you sure?” He moves away, “I should let you rest-”

“Yes, do you want me to beg?” You shouldn't be this irritable with him, it's not Maekar’s fault that your past caught up to you, or that you never trusted him enough to tell him about it. You wrap your arms around his neck as he leans down to kiss you, smiling into his mouth as he grumbles,

“Begging would do you good, I fear, you're in an odd mood tonight,”

“Nothing having you inside me won't fix,”

Maekar grunts, running his hand down your side to cup underneath your bottom and tilt your hips up to meet his and pushes inside you in one thrust. It burns briefly, but it's a good burn, a good pain, you revel in it as Maekar fucks you harder, hands grabbing his arse and pushing him into you.

“Fuck me, would you calm down?” Maekar pulls you to him, crushing you against him, “You're going to give me a fucking heart attack,”

“I just- I want it to be-” Memorable. You stop yourself from uttering that, instead leaning up to bite down on Maekar’s shoulder. He hisses, his thrusts stuttering briefly, looking down at you incredulously,  

“Fucking biting now?!”

“I'm sorry, you just feel so good,” and he did, Maekar always had, but you wanted this feeling to last, wanted to feel it in you when you worked tomorrow morning. You wanted to feel Maekar forever because tonight would be the last night.

Maekar’s arms are wrapped around you, he gentles his hold so he can cradle the back of your head, his other around your lower back, his pretty violet eyes almost glowing in the darkness,

“Are you going to be like this every time you do something successful? Should I start training harder at the gym to keep up with you?”

That he thinks so highly of you, that he thinks this will be something he will see over and over again, is more than you deserve, it makes your heart hurt,

“Maekar, you're not that much older than me, for fucks sake. Just give me this one, and I'll pass out faster than you will, trust me,”

“You'd better,” 

He rolls his hips, sending a surge of pleasure through you, and you gasp, moaning Maekar’s name. That seems to send him into the frenzy you'd been desperate for, and he fucks you harder, your legs wrap hungrily around his waist, pulling him deeper into you. When he leans down to kiss you, you kiss him back desperately, pulling on that beautiful silver hair, trying to memorise how every inch of him feels.

Your orgasm hits out of nowhere, all you can do is scream soundlessly as wave after wave of pleasure rolls through you like fire. Maekar comes on a grunt, crushing you to him again to the point that you feel like you can't breathe, but you just hold on tighter, gripping his back hard enough that you know your nails are scoring his skin.

You're both breathless when he meets your eyes again, his voice gentle,

“Better now?” You lean into his touch as he cups your face, “Will you sleep?”

“Yes. You're wonderful,” you mean it with every fibre of your being. He's not perfect, Maekar is grumpy and rude and dismissive… but he's always been good to you. And all you'd ever done was lie.

Right now, you didn't even care that he looked uncomfortable at your too honest words, or that he left the warmth of your arms and moved to the bathroom to get a cloth to clean you both up. You would be honest in this moment, and leave him with that much.

“I wish I understood you better,” Maekar gets back into the bed, leaning over you, “I think… After this weekend, I think we should talk honestly about the future.”

Of course he would want this conversation after you'd made your decision. Tears choke you again, you force a smile on your face, which Maekar thankfully seems to interpret as you feeling happy about the prospect. Suddenly, hope blooms, like the winter rose, you can’t help it. Maybe…

“I want that,” you whisper into the dark, praying that there might be something light coming from it, “I… I want to talk to you. About everything,”

A firm nod is all you get, but Maekar pulls you to him, tugs the covers over you both, and you sleep wrapped in your lover's arms.

You wake to a man in your bed, he's angry, ruthless, you can't shout or scream because he covers your mouth, pulls everything off of you, your covers, your clothing, leaving you naked, terrified. The man was your new fiance, he'd been kind and affectionate when you'd met, now he was rough and violent,

“You can't be my wife, but you'll still be my whore, open your fucking legs!”

“Wake up!”

You jerk at the order, the deep voice in your ear breaking through the one in your memory, and you come face to face with Maekar. His eyes are violet, beautiful and haunting. The eyes of the man that had attacked you were green, cold and putrid. You blink, the vestiges of the nightmare falling away, leaving you realising that you weren't alone in bed. You frown,

“You're still here…”

“I was about to get up,” Maekar admitted gruffly, “but you were whimpering… Who's Robb?”

Your stomach lurches, and you push against Maekar, needing some space. Thankfully he gives it, puts his hand on your back when you turn away,

“A nightmare?”

“Yes,” you shake your head, “just a nightmare, I get them when I'm stressed, and obviously it's stressful right now, so nothing to worry about,”

“Hmmm,” Maekar doesn't sound convinced, you feel him at your back, the weight of his gaze almost physical, but before he can say anything else, you hear his phone ring. It's the tone of some old children's cartoon, and the ridiculousness of it makes you turn around and raise an eyebrow, Maekar scowls,

“Fucking Aegon messing with my phone again,” Aegon was his fourth son, not that he spoke of his children of course, but he was a public figure, you knew who they were, even if the pictures of them were few and far between - especially of his youngest three. Maekar and his wife had been fiercely protective of their privacy.

“Oh,” you giggle, thinking of that little boy deliberately messing with the settings to irk his father, but sober up when Maekar puts his finger to his lips and answers the phone,

“What? When? No, when was he- oh fuck me… very well, I'll be there in five minutes,”

Maekar gets up out of the bed, and you turn back onto the mattress, pulling the covers up to your chin, 

“Is everything okay?” You didn't expect a response, but Maekar shocked you when he turned around and answered as he pulled his clothing back on,

“No, my fuckwit, useless son hasn't arrived yet, and he had Aegon with him, they were supposed to be here by yesterday evening,” 

“Aerion?” He was the second son of Maekar, and you'd heard he'd been sent through several different schools for bad behaviour. Maekar paused buttoning up his shirt,

“What? No, Daeron, that…” he paused, “My eldest is- he thinks he has problems, but he can't keep fucking up like this. He'll change though, he must, or by the gods I swear I'll see him dead,”

“Dead?” You scoff, your father's voice from all those years ago suddenly ringing in your ears, “Wow, little wonder your eldest is so eager to live up to your expectations,”

Maekar couldn't have looked more shocked if you'd clubbed him around the head. You know you should drop it, this is the first time Maekar has even acknowledged his children in front of you, and the first thing you do is call him a terrible father. 

“He can't keep on the way he is,” Maekar finally responds, his voice low. Dangerously low, “Tell me, how many fucking children have you raised?”

You wince, both at Maekar’s words, and at that damn phantom pain where your scar is. You see his eyes flare, anger and regret burning that purple bright, but you shake your head, speaking before he can,

“None. I know that. But… Do you want to know how long it's been since I have seen my father?” You don't wait for his response, “Almost twenty years. He told me- I did one thing he didn't like, and- well, he told me he wished I was dead, that it would be better than-”

Maekar starts towards you, and you hold up a hand, “No, it's fine, and I'm sorry, I know I'm probably overstepping. But don't be like my father, not unless you never want to see your oldest child again,”

You can see him gritting his teeth, his fists clench… and finally he shakes his head and sighs,

“I cannot be lenient with him. It's not as simple as some- well, Daeron has the weight of the Targaryen empire on his shoulders. You can't know how many eyes are on him, on me,”

You of course knew better than he realised, and you force yourself not to say that Daeron was hardly next in line to a throne, it was just a business, now matter how powerful it was, but you choose wisdom this time, holding your hands up,

“Being supportive is not the same as being lenient. And washing your hands of him completely will be even worse. That’s all,”

Maekar stares at you for a long time, then seems to remember that he's supposed to be looking for the son you've just argued about, and rushes to get the rest of his clothes back on. You watch the process, realising this was an intimacy that you'd never thought to expect to witness. Your heart is thudding, and when Maekar stands to face you, hands crossed over his chest, you swallow thickly,

“I'm sorry, it's none of my business-”

“I bought this for you,” Maekar pulls a small box from a pocket in his jacket, “you can't wear my dragon, but this will still put me at ease that you have some form of my claim on you,”

His words send an excited tingle through you, and you open the box with shaking fingers, “Perfume?” You spray a small amount, and hum at the scent. It's a gorgeous scent, deep and powerful. Maybe a little stronger than your usual preference, but it meant so much that he'd tried.

Maekar looked oddly vulnerable for a moment, “It's my favourite scent, and… well, I think it would suit you. Every time you smell it, think of me,”

With that, he stomps over to you, presses a firm kiss to your lips, and leaves. You don't even have time to wish him good luck in finding his sons.

“God's, I feel like fresh shit,” Lyonel thrusts his car keys into your hands as you meet him outside the hotel, “those apple boys and their cider,”

“Hmmm,” you snatch the keys, and push Lyonel to the passenger side, “you're an adult, where's your self control?”

“Oh, please don't be this disagreeable all day,” he gave you a foul look from the corner of his eye, “I'm just looking out for you,”

“Well, there's no need, I haven't needed anyone to look out for me in a long time, so I don't need some stag cosplayer doing it now,” Lyonel groans at that,

“Who fucking showed you that picture? I was in uni! I was drunk!”

You don't answer, enjoying seeing him uncomfortable after his bluntness the night before. You don't tell him that you'd found the picture six months ago when you'd frantically been trying to find out anything you could about Maekar after your first night together. What you'd found was a picture of your lover around the time of the Blackfyre’s attempted takeover. He'd had the oddest looking bob you'd ever seen on a man.

Unfortunately he still looked unreasonably attractive, even with that stupid haircut. 

“Are you mad at me, dearheart?” Lyonel asks as you pull into the fields, 

“Stop calling me that, Lyonel!” 

“Don’t screech, you harpy!” He glares, you glare back, until finally, Lyonel sighs, rolling his eyes, “I apologise for confronting you like that last night. It wasn’t very boss like,”

You make an irritable noise, but finally give an irritated smile, “Thank you. And maybe it was a good thing that you said all that. I think I'm going to tell Maekar after this weekend is over. It's time,”

Lyonel looks doubtful at that, but wisely doesn't say anything else about your relationship, instead directing you to the Baratheon Events tent, 

“Well, good, that saves me lying to the face of that man and his ilk. So! Today!” He claps his hands, effectively drawing a line under the unprofessional discussion of your tangled web of lies, and bringing the conversation back to where it needed to be, “Today should be much easier than yesterday, you did an incredible job of getting everything going,” 

You burn with pride at that, looking down at the grass as you leave the car with Lyonel and head into the tent, which was really just a fold out table and some chairs for you both to come in and answer questions or look up details if needed.

“The main thing today is the jousting, and the kids' games like the egg and spoon race, and the tug of war, and some other childish nonsense that will have them all screaming, laughing… yelling…” he goes green, and all but throws himself into the available chair, “remind me never to drink on the job again,”

“The only reminder I’ll give you is that you’re an adult who can make their own decisions,” 

“Whatever, you’re being annoying and disagreeable again,” he waves you away, “go and find some food, please,”

You make stupid faces at Lyonel after he closes his eyes, his hand over his face, but do as you’re told. You’d barely eaten anything yesterday, and you wouldn’t make that same mistake again today, especially when half of the stalls sold the most delicious looking food. It was still early, the jousting wasn’t due to start until noon, and the children’s games would be happening all day from mid morning, so you had time to go around and check everything first.

You’re gleefully about to sink your teeth into the biggest breakfast sandwich you’d found when a large and looming shadow blocks out the sun you’re sitting in. You sigh harshly, and look up… and up, 

“Hello, Dunc,”

“Am I interrupting?” the big man points to your sandwich, and your lips downturn in irritation, 

“No, this is just a prop for one of Tanselle’s shows,”

“Tanselle?!” Duncan looks around, his face going red, “Oh, shit, I-”

You laugh, “I’m taking the piss, but I do need to go to her tent soon if you want to come?”

Still bright red, Dunc shakes his head, and sits down next to you, “I’m sorry, you should eat,”

“Just give me five minutes, and then we can sort your stall out, okay?”

Again, the young man smiles, and it makes him suddenly so much younger and more approachable. You ask him to tell you what it is he needs whilst you eat and learn all about Ser Duncan “The Tall”, and how his old boss had taken him in, showed him all he needed to know as he grew up, and then died very suddenly at the end of winter, 

“He’s had a few coughs and colds, but we thought we were past the worst of it all, you know? There was still some frost, but the trees were starting to bud, the birds were singing… one day, I came into his office, and he was still sitting where I’d left him the night before. Dead.”

“I’m sorry,” you briefly touch the boy's arm, “but he left you the business?”

He gives one of those smiles that aren’t a smile, and nods his head, “He was signed up as PennyTree defence? Here,” He shows you a video of himself and an older looking man outside a studio proclaiming the business name, which then went into more footage of them working with kids in what looked like a studio. Duncan shows you his bosses website as well, and sure enough, Dunc is on there as his assistant manager. You feel a flash of anxiety, but you can’t see the harm in letting him stay. Duncan definitely worked for PennyTree.

“Oh! Yes, I remember seeing that he hadn’t turned up late last night,” you shrug, finally, “okay, well, I think it’s fine, but we don’t have any of your signage or promotional stuff or anything like that, so you’ll have to make do with whatever you already have with you,”

“That’s great!”

“What do you do, anyway?” You get up and start to walk, heading towards the edge of the field to take him to the empty spot he could set up at. Duncan beamed, 

“Self defence classes for kids,”

“Really?” you could’ve done with some of those growing up, “Okay, well, I’ll check back in with you later, good luck!”

You're watching the jousting, laughing along with the crowd as the “knights” try to unhorse each other. You've been told that they're trained thoroughly, that no one is in real danger, and this is a very well rehearsed show for the children's benefit. Afterwards those same “knights” are going to give some of the children horse riding lessons, and a practice at jousting with big foam sticks where the “victor” will receive some kind of prize that Ashford is giving out.

You're making your way back to your tent when you see a crowd at Duncan’s tent, and start making your way over to it curiously. You can hear his booming voice giving out instructions, and then a much smaller and younger sounding voice making the most ridiculous noises in response, lots of “UGH”, “YAH” and “HUH”’s. Eventually you work your way through the crowd of children and their parents, to see Duncan completing a demonstration with Tanselle appearing to be a damsell in distress of some kind, and a small boy acting as her defense against Dunc. The boy clearly wasn’t skilled, but he looked like he was having the time of his life as he fought Duncan away from the beautiful Tanselle who swooned dramatically. The boy ‘punched’ Duncan, who fell to the floor, before he bellowed at the top of his little voice, 

“Take THAT, you Blackfyre bastards!”

The crowd laughed, Duncan looked bemused, and Tanselle took a bow. You observed all of this within about ten seconds, and tried to keep your face as happily neutral as you could whilst you waited for the crowd to thin out. Duncan was almost euphoric as a lot of adults came to his table and signed their children for his classes, and you waited patiently whilst the stall emptied. Tanselle makes her way over to you, whilst the boy stands and stares openly, you stare back, narrowing your eyes a little. His own are a very dark colour, you can’t quite make it out from where you’re standing, but you do abruptly wonder if he’s wearing some sun screen as he had no hair to speak of. There’s something about that insolent stare that registers to you, but by that time Tanselle is at your elbow, and your attention is diverted. You smile at the younger woman when she comes over to you, 

“You didn’t need that kids help, you could’ve taken Duncan on your own, I’ve no doubt,”

“Later,” she winks, and you snort in laughter, “I hope that was okay? I came to do a quick sign for him, he looked so forlorn and basic standing at an empty stall. Then Egg came-”

“Egg?” You look around, “What’s he using eggs for?”

“No, the boy, he says his name is Egg,” she shrugs, “Anyway, next thing, people were here, and he’s getting enquiries,”

“It’s no problem, honestly,” you lie to her easily, “Thanks for helping him, I think he needs all the help he can get,”

You watch as Tanselle smiles at the tall man, as he then fumbles a sentence in front of his potential clients, and you have to hide a smirk. Murmuring a goodbye to Tanselle, you tell her  to email anything she needs for her show tonight, and almost walk into the small boy - Egg - who is now standing directly in front of you, 

“Who are you?”

Precocious children make you laugh as a rule, you could hardly be angry about their boldness when you knew you’d been just like them at their age. Probably worse when you had a father who ignored you, a mother who was pleasant but absent, and a brother who spoiled and indulged you - until he dropped you with your nanny and ignored you too. You raise an eyebrow, 

“The person who’s going to take you back to your parents,”

“You can’t. My mothers dead,”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. Your father?”

“He left me with my brother,” the boy gives you the most angelic smile you think you’ve ever seen, “and he said I could be here,”

The boy may be angelic, but he can’t lie to save his life, “Oh, I don’t doubt that, but you should still tell me where he is so I can get him to come and get you. Not every adult is as noble as Duncan,”

“I know,”

You frown at that, open your mouth to ask Egg what he means, when Duncan appears at your elbow, 

“Did you see that? I’ve had more enquiries here in an hour than old Arlan got in a month! Way to go, Egg!” Duncan holds a hand up - far too high - and the boy leaps into the air like a cat to hit his palm against Duncan’s on a “whoop!” of celebration. You make a humming noise of mutual joy, smile benignly as Egg goes to the other side of the stall, and then turn to Duncan, 

“Are you stupid?!” His face falls, and you feel like the worst person alive for all of two seconds before you shake it off, “Did you get his parents permission? What would have happened if that boy had gotten hurt? I’m assuming of course that your old boss left you this business in his will, and that you have all that paperwork to hand if someone wanted to see it and not accuse you of some kind of fraud?” Duncan looks at the ground, his face bright red, and your teeth grit as a suspicion you’d had is confirmed. You gentle your voice, 

“My neck is on the line here as well, okay? I need this job, and if a vendor accidentally gets a kid hurt, and it was me that let that happen…” you trail off, breathing a sigh a relief when the tall man nods finally, 

“Okay, I get it,”

“Good, now, I need to take him back to his- where the fuck has he disappeared to?!” you look around, but Egg has vanished. A growl starts to build in your chest, a headache starts to form, when Dunc suddenly starts stammering, 

“W-welcome, would you like a- well, I don’t have a pamphlet-”

The niggling headache abruptly turns into a fully formed pounding nightmare from the base of your skull to behind your eyes when you see Baelor Targaryen, his wife Jena, their son Valaar, and a third young man who is clearly a Targaryen but you're not sure who he could be. Baelor shakes Duncan’s hand, his own smile becoming slightly forced when Duncan seems to forget to let go, prolonging the handshake long past common decency. Finally, the older man is released, 

“I remember Arlan, he once taught at a camp that Valaar went to as a boy,”

Jena all but beamed with pride at her son, it was lovely to see. The redhead wasn’t that much older than you. Your heart ached when you realised that Valaar wouldn’t be too different in age to-

“Ah! And here is the traitor!”

You jump, turning your attention back to Baelor in shock, heart thumping which makes your headache worse, Traitor? You’d had no part in what your stupid family did, how could he possibly imply that, Baelor was supposed to be like his father, good and kind and reasonable-

“We were about to offer you a promotion, and here I find you in the employ of a Baratheon,” Baelor smiles, and your bones unlock all at once, “you’ve done a wonderful job here,”

Your relief is almost crushing, “Oh, well, technically it wasn’t me-” 

“I know event planners who couldn’t get things set up half as quickly, with twice the time to plan that you had,” Jena pipes up, that glorious hair blazing in the sun, “but not to worry, we’ll have poached you back into our family… business, in no time. Lyonel can’t compete, I’m sure,”

You don’t think you’re hearing things when Jena pauses after ‘family’, all you can do is laugh softly as she continues to smile, her blue eyes twinkling,

“Well, I’m happy here, for now. But working for Targaryen Enterprises was a great experience, of course. I’m surprised you even realised I’d gone, to be honest,”

“Oh, I’ve known about you for some months now,” Baelor murmured. You notice for the first time that he had two different coloured irises, and that those eyes were gifted to Valaar. You give yet another polite smile, backing away to leave Duncan to the Targaryen’s when the silver haired young man suddenly pipes up, 

“Your perfume is lovely,”

The headache becomes piercing, a thump in your head to match every thump of your heart, “Oh, uh, thank you,” you’d sprayed more of the scent Maekar had gifted you, the strong aroma soothing you this morning. He sneers, 

“Yes, my mother had one just like it. I’d know it anywhere.”

Abruptly you realise who he is. It's Aerion, you'd seen a handful of photos from when he was much younger. Maekar's second son. Dyanna’s second son. There’s a ringing in your ears, the noise of the event falls away, like your head has been pushed underwater. Your stomach roils, that fucking perfume suddenly too strong, too cloying, and you hear your voice ring out clearly through the distortion, 

“What a wonderful coincidence! Well, it was lovely seeing you all, I’m so happy that you’re enjoying the event, it’s wonderful that you could come. You should sign up to Duncan’s classes though, he’s great. Okay, goodbye!” And you turn on your heel, and leave, all thoughts of finding Egg and dragging him to the safety of his family gone. All joy in the day, destroyed.

You knew Maekar hadn’t gotten over his wife, you weren’t stupid enough to think that he ever would, or possibly even could get over her, but to not even try and carve out a true space for you in his heart? To just treat you like you were the replacement to his tragically dead wife? And it hurt more because you knew that you were wrong, so very wrong, to be this upset. 

Maekar might not be open about his feelings, guarding that side of himself like a dragon guarding treasure, but he’d been honest in his own way. You were a one night stand that he hadn’t intended, he enjoyed your company enough to come back, and back, and eventually it had been something more to him. But you were a secret. Something he kept to himself, for himself. Maekar had said he wanted to talk, he'd at least done that. All you'd ever done was lie, and here you were, angry that your lover had apparently found comfort in having you wear the same scent as Dyanna. The man didn’t even know your real name, and you were throwing a tantrum over a perfume bottle.

You're stomping through the rows of tents and stalls, pushing past people without seeing anything, you just want to get away for a moment, to find some peace and fucking quiet. You close your eyes as you walk into the trees at the edge of the forest that surrounds the large meadow the event is held in, far enough away that the noise is finally dimmer, your headache starts to fade…

“I don't suppose there's a chance that you'll let my brother explain himself?”

You spin on your heel, the motion making the pain in your head snap back to attention, and you squint at Baelor Targaryen,

“I'm sorry?” Your tone is the very opposite of sorry, and you don’t have the inclination to try and change it, “Who…?”

“You can’t possibly think that Maekar hasn't told me about you,”

Your mouth drops open. It hadn’t ever occurred to you that Maekar would tell someone about you, it had seemed so completely like your relationship was something he didn't want anyone to know about. Your temper rises, you didn't know this man, and his stupid nephew had just ruined a gift you'd loved,

“Well, he never talks about you,” you make your tone as dismissive as possible, “Maekar never talks about anything like that, that’s not what he comes to me for, I’m just-”

Baelor grimaces, “You couldn’t be more wrong,”

The sun is too bright, you can’t even look at him properly, all you can do is shrug, “Whatever. Your brother is fucking infuriating, all this time, and I thought-

“Do you care for him?”

Your bottom lip trembles, and you bite down firmly to stop it before he can see. You nod, slowly, “Of course. If you want honesty, he’s the only man… I don’t trust anyone easily, especially men. And yet, I trust him,”

“So speak to him. Maekar treats his loved ones in ways unique to him, you should understand that by now,”

You burst out laughing at the notion of Maekar loving you. It hurts less than bursting into tears, which is what you really want to do. 

You lean against the tree you’re standing next to, and meet Maekar’s older brother's eyes. He’s handsome, in a completely different way to your lover, it’s somehow both gentler, and harder. Maekar looked like the type of man it was dangerous to cross, and he had the social skills of a sullen cat. Baelor, however, looked and sounded like he was softer, and more approachable. He was the face of their empire, ready to take over as soon as Daeron retired. A man like Baelor was more dangerous, because he was the type to let people underestimate him, right before he took everything from them to protect his family’s interests.

Your headache abruptly clears, leaving you able to stand up, “I'm not a loved one. I’m a mistress. I’ve accepted that,” not quite true, but not really a lie, either, “I’ll speak to your brother though, of course I will.” When Baelor nods, and turns to walk away, you blurt, “What does he say about me? I- I really didn’t think he would talk about us, to anyone,”

You don’t see more than his profile, Baelor chooses to smile to himself rather than fully turn back to you. He’s almost as good a dresser as his brother, you note, but his shoulders aren’t as broad. Finally, he puts his hands in his suit jacket pockets, and sighs, 

“I haven’t heard my brother yap so much since he met Dyanna as a teen,” now he turns to look at you, the sun burning at the back of his head, “don’t ruin this for yourself, and him, over what my nephew said,”

And then he leaves you, staring after him in shock, and more than a little frustrated admiration. You wanted to call after him that you wouldn’t fuck this up, you’d rather die than hurt his brother, but you couldn’t, because you knew you were going to. You couldn’t lie to Maekar anymore, so you would have to tell him as soon as you could. Your phone buzzes in your pocket, and you pull your phone out, a stupid smile blooming in spite of your anxiety when you see it’s Maekar, 

“Hello, you,”

“I need you to find a man who has set up in the meadow for me,” Maekar ignores your greeting, but he sounds so serious that you don’t waste time feeling offended,

“Who? Why?” You’re already heading back to your Baratheon tent, and then almost trip when Maekar describes a man just like Duncan, 

“I found Daeron, he’s in one piece, and I’ve promised not to beat him senseless as he swears he’s told me the truth,” your steps pick up as you get closer to the stalls, “ but he doesn’t have Egg with him. My son is missing, and that man took him. Find him for me, and don’t let the bastard out of your sight,”

You stop dead, “Egg?”

“Aegon, woman!” Maekar barks, sounding like his patience has broken beyond repair, “My fucking son! Can you help me or not?”

“Yes, I’m going to help you, I know exactly where to go, how long will you be?” You could hear the roar of his engine as he sped his way back to Ashford Meadow, Maekar wouldn’t be long, before nightfall, so you said your goodbyes and hung up, promising to find his child.

In the meantime, your migraine comes back full force, your sandwich from this morning threatening to come back up. You’d seen that fucking boy earlier, and you’d let him disappear. You’d also let the man accused of kidnapping him into the event even though he clearly was lying about inheriting the business he was representing, because you wanted to be kind and give someone a chance, like you’d had all those years ago. Oh, and you also needed to tell Maekar that you were the daughter of one of the men who tried to ruin his family, and you’d been lying to him all this time because you hadn’t wanted him to turn you away like your family had done.

You stand in the middle of everything for a moment, staring blankly.

“Fuck!”

𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐅𝐨𝐮𝐫

𝐎𝐧𝐞

𝐓𝐰𝐨

𝐓𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞

𝐅𝐨𝐮𝐫

Like how yours and Baelor’ second son, Aerion, had his silver hair and violet eyes, a constant reminder to him of what could have been, of what should have been. Nobody brought attention to the fact that only one of Baelor’s children had silver hair, Valarr had a silver streak, and Daella and Matarys had the plain dark hair of father and grandmother. 

Every visit to the Red Keep had him on an edge he couldn’t quite explain. You hardly looked at him other than to talk to him, and even then it was respectable. There was no fire in your eyes that used to engulf him from your gaze when he could find himself in bed with you and his brother. 

You were just his good-sister. You didn’t tease him, you didn’t flirt with him, you were simply Baelor’s lovely wife, who had raised four respectable children rather than his chaotic brood. You adored Dyanna, it was easy to tell that you enjoyed the company of having a woman around. He was sure that you kept your distance from her, but he was sure you would have done it even if you had despised his wife. 

That was just how you were. 

You had set the boundary. The moment his betrothal had been announced and none of you would cross that line. You would be Baelor’s wife and he would be Dyanna’s husband. There would be no more of the three of you guys together, and he accepted that because he would not shame his wife.

But there was always a reminder.

Maekar sat across from Aerion and he found himself watching the boy. He was four and ten now, he was shorter than his elder brother with silver hair and violet eyes, he had an almost stern look to his face, and often could be harsh with his words, but not in a cruel way. None of Baelor’s children were cruel, not even him. He was slightly more chaotic than his elder brother, but as was Matarys, they were allowed to be. 

But he was still a proper prince. One who even had the possibility of sitting the throne one day though he was currently regarded as the “spare” odder things had happened. He didn’t want the throne though, he strived one day to be his brother’s hand, like his father was.It was obvious he adored you more than anything, but he would always look to Baelor for approval. It would take one nod from the man and he would instantly calm. It brought bile to his throat. He was Baelor’s son through and through despite whose seed may have created him. 

“Aerion, did you ask your uncle?” your voice cut through his thoughts causing him to look toward you. 

He raised a brow, eyes flickering from your face to the boy across from him, “Ask me what?” he then questioned, voice gruff. 

“Oh, mum, said you might be able to take me fishing tomorrow. I normally go with my father, but he is occupied tomorrow,” he said, turning to the man. 

Maekar was sure he looked like an idiot, as he simply blinked at the boy, saying nothing at first. “If you do not have time it is alright I can go some other–” the boy had started, but he had cut him off. 

“I can take you,” he told him. Aerion grinned at him, casting him a small nod before going back to his food, whispering to his elder brother, as they conversed with each other.  His eyes trained down to Daeron who talked to Daella, with a small smile on his face, nodding eagerly at whatever he was saying. 

“Can I join you and Aerion, father?” little Aegon, a boy of only three then asked, looking hopeful. 

“Why don’t you, Aemon and I do something else instead tomorrow,” you then suggested, casting Dyanna a small smile, “I can remember how tiring it can be trying to wrangle littles. It’ll give you the chance to rest.”

Duanna practically beamed at the thought of being allowed to stay in bed for some much needed rest, “That would be great. Thank you.” 

Maekar watched as Baelor leaned over, pressing a kiss to the side of your head, as you turned to the man with a large smile on your face. Supper finished without much more conversation, the kids being put to sleep in their provided chambers leaving Dyanna and Maekar alone. She prepared for bed brushing her long dark hair as he stared out the window, trying to get a hold of his thoughts. 

“It will be nice for you to go fishing with Aeiron.”

He shrugged, “I am sure there are better ways to spend the day,” he lied. He was so excited to take the boy finishing, he had not been able to go in so long. Aemon and Aegon too young, and Daeron having very little interest in it as the years passed. 

“You cannot lie to me after all these years.” She watched his shoulders tense as the words as his long hands came up to rub his face. Maekar had told her of what could have been with you and Baelor, early on in their marriage. He had told her of the suspicions of Aerion, when the boy was first born a mere few months before Daeron, who had been conceived on their wedding night. 

“It won’t change anything, he is Baelor’s son,” he said, turning away from the window, to his wife. 

She only smiled fondly, “It may not change anything, but it will still be good for you.”

Aerion he had discovered was much like him, the way Valarr was Baelor. It was like staring in the mirror of his younger self. The two made their way inside the Red Keep after having spent most of the day out, the boy disappeared down the hall to alert his mother that he had returned. 

Maekar stared after his retreating form when he felt a hand clasp his shoulder, he turned to find his eldest brother smiling at him, but the younger did not return it. He instead stared back at where Aerion’s silver haired had just disappeared, “He’s a good lad,” he finally declared. 

“Yes, he is. Fiercely protective of his family, he once broke a young man’s jaw for insulting Valarr,” he said. Maekar sighed remembering a time he had done the very same. “He wishes to be a hand for his elder brother one day, and I happen to think he would make a fine hand. He reminds me of someone,” he said, nudging his shoulder. 

“He is better than I. You raised him,” he whispered. He wondered what the boy would be like if it had been his stern hand that raised him rather than hsi brother, and it caused him to frown deeper. 

“That was all for my wife.  Valarr, Aerion, and even Matarys live to make her proud.”

“Where is she?” He then found him asking.

“Daeron, Aemon and Aegon were with her last I saw. Valarr went to retrieve Daella and Matarys, and I am sure Aerion has found her by now,” he said. Maekar smiled, his face softened a hair at the thought of her running around with his small boy, listening eagerly as she listened to stories she had probably already heard twice. “Let us go join her. I am sure she will wish to hear how fishing went from your perspective,” he then said, pulling the younger from his thoughts.

His stomach then churned as he felt the guilt seeping through his bones as he thought of his brother’s wife, as his heart flipped at the thought of her with his children. Dyanna’s children. Sweet Dyanna who deserved much better than a man still stuck in the middle of a relationship that he had long been denied. 

The truth was much harder to hide in the walls of the Red Keep, and Maekar could only hope that it did not swallow him whole, or perhaps he hoped it would. He wasn't quite sure anymore.

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It was not a celebration of life to her family, it was a reminder of the loss. Of the life she had taken to make her entrance into the world. It was a wound that felt as if it was being pressed into year after year. 

It was what led to her name day being forgotten almost every year like clock work, and those who did remember it did not make it seem like a grand affair. There were no feasts, nor tourneys, or even more than a present from Baelor. 

It was not a shock to herself that a fortnight after her tenth nameday she was told she was going to ward with her mother’s family. She didn’t even think Baelor did it in malice. It was a simple fact that she was a reminder of loss, a reminder of death, and worse of all the reminder of what they all have to live without. 

Now at six and ten as she approached King’s Landing for the first time in almost six years she was sure they would all trade her in to get you back, without hesitation. She did not know much about you. Only small stories that Daeron and Daella would tell her. Now she at least had your families retelling of you from your younger days, but for almost two decades you belonged to the Dragon House. 

But as if the Gods had not punished her enough, but merely given existence rather than you. She was now told how much she resembled you. She had your hair colors, with silver streaks that she had received from Maekar, and that was the last feature she shared with her father. Everything else was you, eyes, nose, mouth, and even down to height. 

She was your mirror, and the closer she got back to her home, the more it began to gnaw at her, because she could imagine their reactions. Other than the letters from Daeron and Daella, and the occasional from Mekar, no one had truly kept in contact with her, and that was when they couldn’t see her. She imagined now they would want nothing to do with her, not that she looked like you. 

The wheel house came to a stop as did her breathing. She could hear the clanking of armour moving to open the door for her as she stood slightly, her legs trembling as she stepped out. She kept a close look on Maekar’s face watching as his mouth opened slightly. 

She swallowed, moving forward slightly, and before she could even react. Her father was in front of her pulling into his chest, as his body shook slightly as he held her tightly to his chest, “I am so glad you are home,” he admitted, but she did not answer, because she was not sure she was glad to be home. 

The change was uncomfortable. How everyone went from wanting nothing to do with her, to treating her like a plague, and years of silence to the loving family. Maekar made an effort, having tea with her every day. Baelor  was planning a name day celebration for her event. Valarr escorted her to lessons. Daeron asked her questions about her time warding. 

The only one who did not fully change was Aerion, but even he was different. Who stared at her across the table every night, with something she could not place in his eyes. Which put her even more on edge, because though he seemed distant the look in his eyes had changed. He did not stare at her in disdain, with his teeth barred and venom dripping from his mouth. He was quiet, withdrawn, and always kept his eyes on her. 

She did not fully understand it until one night. She lounged on the love seat,  a book propped open on her lap as she heard the door open. She turned slightly, but tensed when she saw Aerion in the doorway. “Aerion,” she greeted, and he immediately went forward. 

He moved the book for a moment, his head moving to her lap, as he curled into himself on the couch before handing her back the book. She stared down at him a minute blinking, “Read to me,” he whispered. It was not a command, but not a request either. It sounded awful coming from his throat, and she would have performed violence to the softness. 

She did as she was told, reading to him, as he directed her hand to his silver locks running through it as he closed his eyes, moving into her touch, causing her heart beat to pick up. Aerion was violet, he was volatile, and this was not him. 

But what if it was, a voice screamed. Before the loss of you. And then the pieces all started to pull together. He was pretending she was you, and now she wondered if that is what everyone had been doing. If that is why her presence had been welcomed back, because they could pretend she was you. 

Rhae was no longer forgotten, but she wished she was rather than the alternate. 

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“Maekar,” you called out weakly, but your voice was unheard over his loud one screaming in the maester’s face. He continued to scream as you only sighed, “Maekar!” you repeated, louder, as stern as your body could handle despite the burning in your throat. 

You watched the muscles in his back tenses, as Baelor dismissed the maester leaving only the three of you. The silence in the room was intense, weighing down all three of you. Maekar still did not turn to face you and Baelor could do nothing, but stare at you.

You wiped your face with the back of your hand, repositioning yourself, “We are going to have to tell the kids.”

That seemed to be Maekar’s last straw as he stormed out of the room despite Baelor’s protests. “Let him go. He will come back,” you assured him coughing slightly, grimacing at the ache in your chest. 

He paused for a moment, before turning back toward you, grabbing the chair and dragging it along the way to your bedside. His hand reached out grabbing yours, as you turned looking to him your head lolling slightly, “You’re gonna have to keep him afloat.”

He nodded, his mouth pushed together clearly trying to hold back the tears to be strong for you, for Maekar, and for your children. But he needed to let it out too, especially because you knew what was bound to follow. Baelor was not going to be the Hammer of your family soon, he would have to be the Anvil, a steady base for everyone. 

“Come here,” you instructed, patting the spot beside you, as you scooted more toward the middle than the end. He hesitated for a moment, before he nodded sliding in beside you. He then opened his arms allowing you to make your way into his embrace. As soon as his arms enclosed around you, tightly as if he could hold you there forever. Then he realized there was no protecting you from this. There was no amount of battles, council discussions, and decrees that could change this. 

And then the tears fell from his face, as your hand gripped his chest trying to anchor yourself to him hoping the Gods would at least grant you a little more time.

The hour was late, but like every night sleep did not claim you, and you refused milk of poopy yet. You had talked to the kids, but Maekar had still not come back. You wanted to be lucid for that, to be able to form a coherent thought.

The door finally opened, and you sat up as quickly as you could. Maekar stood in the doorway looking at you, the torch light from the hallway illuminating his form, “Where is Baelor?” he asked, suddenly feeling even more guilty to the fact that you had been all alone. 

“Daella and Rhae wanted him to sleep with them,” you answered. 

He nodded, still not fully entering the room, but shutting the door. “There is still things we must discuss,” you told him, leaning back against the absurd amount of pillows filling the bed. 

He grunted, shaking his head as he made his way into the room, to the table at the far side pouring himself some wine, “I do not want too.”

“That is too bad. The Gods are not giving us a say on how much time we have left.” The comment made him visually flinch and you sighed, “Maekar, please just talk to me,” you said. 

He could hear the exhaustion in your voice clear as day as he finally turned toward you, “This is my fault,” he then declared, voice cracking out. 

“How did you get to that thought?”

“The Gods are punishing us for the trial… for the nonsense of Ashford…for fucking Aerion.”

“Then it is my fault as much as it is yours. He is my son too,” you tried to reassure him. 

“But you were not there! The only good in that boy is from you,” he began to cry, and he did not hide the fact that time, pushing his hand into his face. 

“Maekar, come here please.”

He moved before he could stop himself falling on the bedside as his face made its way to your aching chest. Your hands moved threading through his silver locks, “I cannot lose you,” he declared, ‘We cannot lose you.”

The words cut without meaning too, straight across your fragile skin as if they were exposing your insides, and you closed your eyes with a sigh. Ignoring how good it felt to just let them rest, oh how your body begged for rest. 

“Maekar, you need to promise me that you won’t let this consume you. The children are going to need you,” you said sternly, the fire in your throat spreading to your throat, with every word. 

“They have–”

You finally reached up, grabbing his face in your hands and forcing him to look at you. His violet gaze swept over your face noticing just how tired you looked, “They are going to need you too. Baelor is going to need you just as much as you need him.” 

He didn’t say anything while staring at you. You looked more like a ghost than anything and now he wondered how long he had been ignoring the inevitable. You looked hollow, your clothes bigger from the weight loss, and you look exhausted. 

“I love you, Maekar.”

“I love you,” he choked out, before he pushed his lips together repositioning himself. You were tired, your body ached for rest and here he had been avoiding you all night, as if that would change the facts. It wouldn't be the Gods had already claimed you and they would take what was theirs. 

The tragedy of his house had now come for you, just like others before you. Baelor and Maekar had caused this, and he knew that deep down. He held you tightly, trying to hold back his tears, trying to not let them consume him, but it was hard when he knew that the possibility of you ever waking up was slimmer and slimmer after each hour that passed. Targaryens never could outrun it, and neither could anything they touched it seemed as the stranger came to claim you despite everyone's protests and offers of exchange.

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The gates would open for you without question now. The guards had long since stopped asking for your name or id.

Inside the house itself — things moved around you as if you had always belonged there.

Babysitting Egg hardly felt like babysitting anymore. It felt closer to something instinctive, something familiar in a way you hadn’t quite expected when you first stepped through those doors.

You checked his homework at the long marble kitchen counter while he kicked his feet against the barstool and complained dramatically about calculus and high valyrian. You made him snacks; grilled cheese cut into careful triangles, fruit arranged into crooked little shapes, even though the staff hovered nearby insisting they could prepare something far more elaborate.

You ignored them. Egg liked it better when you made the things.

You took him outside when the weather allowed it, wandering the gardens while he bombarded you with endless questions in that bright, breathless way boys had when they believed the world was still endlessly explainable.

Why did dragons go extinct? Could someone theoretically build one again? Did you think his father had ever done something dangerous?

That last question had caught you off guard the first time he asked it. You had laughed it off gently, ruffling his buzzed head until he protested and squirmed away.

Day by day he grew more attached to you, in that wholehearted way children do when they decide someone is theirs. And if you were being honest with yourself the feeling had begun to mirror itself.

Als the rest of Maekar’s children were… more complicated.

Daeron for one had begun to soften around the edges in your presence. He still carried the same restless energy, that jittery tension that seemed to live beneath his skin; but when you were around it seemed to quiet, as if someone had turned the volume down on the constant noise in his head.

Aerion was another matter entirely. He still held himself with that same sharp, coiled arrogance, his temper simmering just beneath the surface like a kettle always threatening to boil over.

The fight, the one that had nearly ended in tragedy, had clearly bruised something deeper than his pride. You could see it in the way his jaw tightened whenever his father entered a room or mentioned Baelor.

Still — even he had begun to tolerate you. Which in the strange ecosystem of the Targaryen household counted as progress.

The girls — Daella and Rhae had had embraced you with startling enthusiasm. They had folded you into their small, glittering girl world with the ease of people who had decided long ago that you were no stranger.

They pulled you into their rooms after dinner, sitting cross legged on soft rugs while makeup palettes and hairbrushes were spread across the floor like artifacts from some sacred ritual.

They told you their secrets. They asked you questions. They whispered about school gossip, insecurities, crushes they swore you could never repeat to anyone — especially their brothers or father.

You were older than them by nearly ten years, and not technically related in any way that mattered. Yet they treated you with the easy intimacy of someone who had always been there.

And you found — much to your own surprise, that you trusted them too.

It was only a matter of time before you appeared in one of the family photos, standing somewhere in the background — half laughing, half caught off guard as if you had always been meant to be there.

And Gods spare him, Maekar noticed. Of course he noticed. How could he not?

You had slipped into his household like water finding a crack in stone; slow and subtle but impossible to stop once it began.

He had to admit in the beginning he had been deeply skeptical of you. A college girl barely older than Daeron. Terribly soft spoken and polite; pretty in that disarmingly simple way that made men underestimate you at first glance. You sometimes wore bows in your hear for the sake of the Seven.

You had arrived with a careful smile and the sort of earnest determination he associated with people who had no idea what they were getting themselves into.

He had expected you to last two days. Three at best.

His children were not easy. He was all too aware of it.

They were loud, stubborn, brilliant in inconvenient ways and reckless in others. They carried too much fire for people their age. Too many expectations on their shoulders.

Yet somehow, against all reasonable logical expectation you had done the impossible. You had won them over; you had furrowed your way into all their hearts.

He saw it in the small things.

In the way Aegon ran to greet you at the door every day without fail. In the way Daella and Rhae dragged you upstairs by the hand after dinner. In the subtle shift in Daeron’s posture when you spoke to him; as if the world became slightly less unbearable for a moment. Even Aerion, impossibly proud Aerion had stopped treating you like an intruder.

And Aemon all the way in Oldtown — had apparently written to Daeron once asking how the babysitter was doing. Maekar had hated hearing that more than he cared to admit.

Because he had noticed something else too. Something far worse. Because you had somehow managed to find your way into his heart too. Which felt utterly impossible since he paid serious attention to keeping his walls guarded and impenetrable at all times.

He hated himself, gods he truly did, for the number of nights he had lain awake awake in the vast quiet of his bedroom staring up at the ceiling thinking of you.

Dyanna’s side of the bed beside him remained untouched, cold. Perfectly smooth, as if no one had ever lain there at all.

And yet, despite every effort to focus on anything else — business deals, company strategy, the endless grind of responsibilities that filled his days; the only image that returned to him in the dark was you.

It had begun innocently enough.

The first afternoon you arrived after yoga, hair still slightly damp, smelling faintly of sweat, wearing that skin-tight top and leggings that clung to your figure in a way that had made him abruptly look away.

He had tried to ignore the sudden, unwelcome heat creeping up the back of his neck, tried to dismiss it. But the mind was a treacherous thing when left alone too long. And his body seemed to be working against him too.

Sometimes he caught himself imagining the feeling of your waist beneath his hands — the warmth of your skin, the softness of it. How pliant you would feel in his arms. He imagined how his calloused hands would trace your figure — how your delicacy would contrast to him.

Other nights it was something domestic, far more strange.

You standing in his kitchen beside Aegon, leaning over the counter while explaining a homework problem. Your laughter drifting through the hallways as you sat with his girls.

The way you had looked at him that night in the hospital, calm and steady, as if everything was not threatening to fall apart.

He had looked at you and you had simply said, you called, as if that explained everything. And you had come to him, to his family, without hesitation.

It was wrong. Gods, it was wrong in every conceivable way. You were Kiera's best friend — you were younger than half the people he worked with. Younger than he had been when some of his children were born. Young enough to be his daughter, for the sake of the Seven. And not to mention he was your employer — you worked for him.

And yet the thoughts came without fail, uninvited and persistent.

The ones that scared him the most were the ones where he dared imagine a life with you. A life with you as something more than his son's babysitter.

The empty side of the bed no longer empty. Your perfume lingering faintly in the bathroom beside his cologne. Your clothes draped carelessly over the back of a chair. A second toothbrush beside his in the glass holder.

Your presence filling the quiet spaces of the house. Decorating the rooms with your favorite flowers, small trinkets, lighting the kind of candles you liked.

He would catch himself imagining you there — warm and alive and impossibly close, and the thought alone was enough to make his chest tighten with something dangerously close to longing.

He needed to stop himself, before it became something worse, before it got out of control. Before he began to believe in the fantasy his mind kept building piece by piece; this absurd idea of you fitting into his life as something more than what you were.

What was he even imagining? Playing house with you? Pretending that in some ridiculous alternate world the two of you could ever exist as something resembling husband and wife?

You were young. You were a bright and clever girl. Beautiful in the effortless way only youth allows.

You were finishing college, with an entire life stretching ahead of you, so many possibilities he had long since buried under responsibility and regret.

There was no world in which someone like you would choose a man like him. A man too old, too tired, too weighed down by the ghosts of everything he had already lived through.

And even if by some cruel twist of fate you ever did choose him — he would never allow it. He would never forgive himself for dragging someone as young and bright as you into the shadowed ruins of the life he had already made.

For corrupting something so unbearably, painfully good.

—

The first time his composure had truly been tested — pushed so close to the edge he could practically feel it fraying; was the night you slept over.

In all truth he hadn’t even known it was happening and therefore did not mentally brace himself.

Maekar returned home late that evening, the way he often did after particularly brutal days at the office. The house was quiet when he stepped inside, that peculiar nighttime stillness that only settled once every child had been coaxed into bed and the staff had finished for the day.

The lamps in the living room glowed dimly, casting long shadows across the polished floors. His tie had already been discarded somewhere in the car, and the first few buttons of his shirt hung open, the fabric creased from hours spent leaning over a desk.

He was halfway across the room when he noticed movement. He noticed a frame — it could only be you. He had long since come to recognize your silhouette.

You softly padded across the living room barefoot, dressed in nothing but an oversized shirt and a pair of tiny pajama shorts that left far too much bare skin exposed for his peace of mind.

For a moment you froze when you noticed him standing in the doorway. Like a deer caught in headlights.

“Oh.” you let out softly, a little breathless with surprise. “Hi.”

He didn’t return the greeting.

“What are you doing here?” His brows knit together in that severe way of his.

To someone who didn’t know him well it might have looked like anger, but it wasn’t quite that — only a flash of confusion cutting through the exhaustion on his face. His voice came out low, roughened by a long day.

You shifted your weight awkwardly. “Aegon asked me to sleep over,” you explained, fingers instinctively fidgeting with the hem of the shirt you were wearing. “And I thought… well why not. I figured you wouldn’t mind.”

Your gaze flickered down the hallway as you added quietly, “I just put him to sleep.”

And that was when the intrusive thoughts began. Awful, invasive things that manifested themselves and refused to leave.

For one treacherous second his mind conjured an image so vivid it made his chest tighten; you waiting there in the quiet of the house after a long day, the children tucked safely into bed, standing in the warm lamplight as if you belonged there. As if you were waiting for him.

The idea was ridiculous. His mind knew it. Every shred of reason inside him rejected it instantly.

And yet the image lingered. You greeting him at the door. Listening to him talk about his day. Your soft voice filling the empty spaces of the house. Helping him undress. Your hands— gods. He had to stop himself.

“Sir?” Your voice pulled him abruptly back into the present.

You tilted your head slightly, brow furrowing when he didn’t respond.

Maekar cleared his throat, dragging a hand through his hair as if the motion alone could shake the thoughts loose.

“Yes—” he began then stopped himself. “Just… Maekar." The correction came out stiff, almost reluctant.

“…and of course I don’t mind, I mean you spending the night. If Aegon wishes it so.” He clarified and nodded once, a small gesture meant to reassure you he wasn’t upset. Your shoulders relaxed visibly at that.

“Oh, great.” You smiled shyly, the tension leaving your shoulders. “Thank you. I’ll be sleeping in the guest room.”

He had to bite down his tongue at the word that nearly left his mouth. Don’t. Don’t what? Don’t sleep there? Sleep with me instead?

The thought alone made something tighten dangerously in his chest. So he said nothing. Just nodded.

You hesitated another moment before speaking again. “There’s leftover dinner in the kitchen if you’re hungry,” you gently spoke. “The staff made chicken and fried vegetables.”

After a small pause you added. “I wouldn’t mind warming some up for you.” The offer was simple. Polite. Nothing out of place.

But the quiet domesticity of it stirred something warm and unsettling in his chest. He shut it down immediately.

“It’s quite alright,” he said, a little too quickly. “I can manage it myself.” His tone came out sharper than he intended.

You looked away briefly, unsure what to do with the sudden rejection.

Only then did you seem to realize how you looked — bare legs, loose shirt slipping slightly off one shoulder, hair clipped up messily as if you had prepared for bed hours ago. You really ought to stop appearing like this in front of your employer.

You took a tentative step closer. Until you were standing directly in front of him. “I know,” you said softly. “But I really wouldn’t mind helping.” The words slipped out before you could stop them, and the moment they did your cheeks flushed with color.

Because suddenly it didn’t sound like you were talking about dinner anymore. Or anything appropriate for that matter.

Maekar felt something low and dangerous shift in his chest. For one terrifying second he nearly reached for you, his hand twitched at his side. But he forced himself still.

Every instinct in his body screamed otherwise.

You seemed to take his silence as encouragement. Slowly, carefully like a sly cat, you lifted your hand and placed it against the side of his neck.

He flinched — not away, just… sharply enough that the reaction was impossible to miss.

You smelled like vanilla, he noted. Something soft and faintly sweet. Your skin was warm. Your hand impossibly soft. He did not move to remove it.

He could feel his pupils widening, the blood rushing traitorously through his body, heat pooling somewhere deep and unwelcome. Every nerve in him strained toward you even as he forced his body into rigid control.

He would not lose himself like this.

“Stop this, girl,” he said hoarsely. The command sounded weak and frail even to his own ears.

You hummed softly in response, something almost mischievous flickering in your eyes as you cocked your head to the side.

Without thinking, his hand lifted to the chain around your neck. He rolled the small heart-shaped locket between his fingers and inspected it closely. It wasn’t the one his family had given you. The one that carried the three-headed dragon. This one was different. It was much simpler, much more delicate.

Who had given it to you? And why were you wearing it?

The sharp spike of possessiveness that rose in his chest startled him more than anything else that had happened that evening.

Your breath caught when his fingers brushed the skin of your collarbone.

“You don’t want this,” he warned quietly. His voice had hardened now, it was steadier. “You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into.”

But your hesitation only lasted a moment. “I don’t care—”

“I will hurt you.” The words came out blunt. His purple irises remained unflinching, locked onto your reaction.

“And this—” He gestured faintly between the two of you. “—will hurt Aegon. It will hurt the entire family.” His tone awoke something self-conscious in you.

That stopped you. The color drained slightly from your face as the weight of his words settled in.

Slowly, your hand fell away from his neck and you stepped back. Shame burned hot across your cheeks.

Of course he didn’t want you. What had you been thinking? You must look desperate. Pathetic. Yearning for the attention of an older man.

Tears prickled uncomfortably behind your eyes and you swallowed them down, refusing to let them fall.

Maekar exhaled quietly. Guilt twisted in his chest. “Y/N—” He reached toward you instinctively, but you were already stepping away.

“No.” Your voice came out sharper than before, brittle with wounded pride. “You’re right.” The words clearly cost you something to say.

“I don’t know what I was thinking. I— I…”

You stopped yourself, then straightened your shoulders as if that could save some of your remaining pride.

“Good night, Maekar.” Your words were blunt and final. Before he could respond you slipped past him, moving quickly down the hallway toward the guest room.

For one terrible second he almost gave in. Almost reached out, grabbed your wrist and pulled you back into him. Almost kissed you the way his mind had been threatening to for weeks now.

But he forced himself to remain still. Rigid.Silent.

It’s better this way, he repeated to himself. Even as every part of him fought the lie.

—

From that moment on it seemed — at least to Maekar — that you had made it your personal mission in life to test the limits of his restraint.

You teased him with a dedication that bordered on cruelty. Not openly. Never in ways anyone else would immediately notice.

To the rest of the household you were exactly as you had always been: sweet, attentive, soft-spoken. The reliable babysitter who helped Egg with homework and braided Daella’s hair before school and occasionally stayed too late because the girls wanted to show you some new makeup trick they had discovered online.

But Maekar noticed. Gods, he noticed everything.

You began wearing the flimsiest tops when you were around him — delicate little things made of silk and lace, with tiny bows tied here and there like decorative afterthoughts. They looked almost innocent at first glance, the sort of thing any college girl might wear during a warm spring afternoon.

Except they clung to you in ways that made his jaw tighten. The fabric was always just thin enough. The neckline just low enough. The bows just suggestive enough that he couldn’t help thinking you looked like a gift waiting to be unwrapped.

A constant reminder for him. Of exactly what he had turned away that night.

And the worst part was he couldn’t even comment on it.

The weather was warm — bright and pleasant in that early summer way that filled the Targaryen gardens with blooming flowers and long golden evenings. You had every right to dress lightly.

He could hardly order you to change clothes. He wasn’t your father. The thought alone made something unpleasant twist in his stomach.

Still, one evening at dinner he made the mistake of trying to mention it, very carefully and vaguely.

“I’m not certain those sorts of outfits are particularly… appropriate for this environment,” he had said stiffly, cutting into his steak with unnecessary force.

Daella's eyes widened at his words and the reaction was immedieate. “Father!” She gasped, scandalized. “You have absolutely no right to comment on that,” she continued, pointing her fork at him in righteous indignation. “What an invidual wears is one of the most important forms of self expression and trying to change or control that is incredibly patronizing.”

Rhae nodded enthusiastically beside her.

“They’re the cutest things ever,” she added. “Just because you millennials have zero fashion sense doesn’t mean the rest of us can’t be chic.”

Maekar stared at them in stunned disbelief; opening his mouth to protest. Across the table, you looked dangerously pleased and amused.

“See, Maekar?” you said sweetly, batting your eyelashes at him with exaggerated innocence. “Listen to your children.”

He grumbled something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like a profanity.

You had become utterly insufferable. A wicked little creature determined to provoke him at every possible opportunity.

And though he would never admit it, not even to himself, the anger you stirred in him was dangerously entangled with something else entirely. Something he did not want to name — desire perhaps.

Aegon, thankfully, seemed blissfully unaware of the strange tension simmering between you and his father. If he noticed anything at all he never said so.

You weren’t entirely sure whether that was genuine innocence or quiet discretion. Either way, you were grateful he never spoke up about it or questioned you.

Because you absolutely knew what you were doing. And you were doing it very, very well.

Like today. You had seen the outfit on Pinterest that morning; some effortlessly cool girl leaning against a sunlit wall, the caption something vague about summer energy and upcoming trends.

It had seemed harmless enough. Cute, even.

She was wearing low-rise jeans and a simple white top. But the real star of the show — the tiniest sliver of lace visible above the waistband, a delicate pair of cotton underwear tied with a little bow.

Apparently it was in trend again and you seized the opportunity.

You hadn’t fully considered the consequences until you stepped into the kitchen after arriving to the Targaryens and saw Maekar already there pouring himself a coffee.

His gaze dropped once, just once — to the strip of soft lace peeking above your jeans. Then snapped right back up again as if the sight had physically burned him. For a moment he looked genuinely stunned.

Before he could open his mouth, however, the girls descended upon you.

“Oh my gods!” Rhae shrieked, rushing forward to grab your arm. “That’s so cute!” She leaned closer, inspecting the waistband of your jeans with delighted fascination.

“This is like… ridiculously hot right now,” Daella agreed, circling you approvingly. “Everyone on TikTok is wearing it.”

“Thanks,” you said with a small smile. Out of the corner of your eye you caught Maekar’s expression. He looked as though he might faint — or explode. Possibly both.

“Oooh, Dad, can we go to the mall later?” Daella asked suddenly, turning toward him with sparkling enthusiasm. “I need low-rise jeans too.”

“No.” The word came out instantly; they were sharp and final.

“But Dad—” Rhae groaned.

“I said no.” His voice carried that immovable authority that usually ended arguments before they could begin. “I will not have my daughters walking around looking like—”

He stopped himself abruptly. Both of the girls recoiled slightly, sensing the tension.

“Like what?” you asked quietly. You were leaning against the kitchen counter now, arms loosely folded. Your eyebrow lifted in challenge. “Go on,” you added softly. “Say it.”

For a moment the room went very still. Maekar swallowed hard. A dozen words threatened to spill out of his mouth. None of them appropriate. Especially not in front of his daughters.

“Nothing,” the word tore from his throat, voice lower now. His tone sounded like restraint.

The girls exchanged glances before clearing their throats. “Um… we have some homeowork to finish up..” Daella muttered, awkwardly stepping towards the door.

“Yeah,” Rhae added quickly. “So much homework.” Within seconds they had disappeared upstairs. Leaving you and Maekar standing alone in the quiet kitchen.

You hummed thoughtfully. Then pushed yourself off the counter.

As you walked past him, far closer than strictly necessary, your shoulder brushed lightly against his arm.

The contact lasted less than a second. But it was deliberate. Your perfume lingered in the air as you moved toward the refrigerator.

He stood perfectly still. Jaw clenched.

“Are you always this dramatic about fashion trends?” you asked casually, opening the fridge and pretending to look for something.

“You know exactly what you’re doing,” he replied flatly.

You glanced back over your shoulder. Innocence practically dripping from your expression. “I have no idea what you are talking about.”

Your tone was light, playful even. But the look in your eyes gave you away. And it infuriated him to no end.

Maekar exhaled slowly through his nose, as though steadying himself.

You shut the fridge and stepped back toward the counter. Your hand brushed his sleeve this time. A soft, accidental touch that neither of you acknowledged.

It had become a strange sort of game. Cat and mouse. Except neither of you seemed entirely certain who was hunting whom.

—

Your antics did not quiet after that ordeal. If anything, they grew worse.

You appeared wherever he happened to be, always by coincidence, always with that same innocent expression that made it impossible to accuse you of anything outright.

And yet the intent behind it all was painfully obvious.

Take the kitchen drawers, for instance.

Maekar had developed the habit of preparing coffee himself in the afternoons before leaving for his second shift. It was a small ritual he preferred to keep to himself; ten quiet minutes before the chaos of the day continued.

On one occassion he opened the cutlery drawer to retrieve a spoon. And suddenly you were standing there beside him.

“Oh, sorry,” you murmured softly, squeezing into the narrow space between him and the counter. Your hip brushed his as you leaned forward.

“I just needed a knife.” There were three other drawers with knives in them. Yet somehow you had chosen that exact one.

Maekar stood rigid as stone while you rummaged around for several unnecessary seconds, your shoulder pressed lightly against his arm. The warmth of your body seeped through the thin fabric of his shirt.

When you finally stepped away with a cheerful little “thanks,” he remained frozen there long after you were gone.

Other times, you simply… dropped things.

Your phone. A spoon. Once even a pen you had been using to help Aegon with his homework. It would slip from your fingers in the most suspiciously convenient way whenever Maekar happened to be nearby.

“Oh—” You’d bend to pick it up; painfully slowly.

The motion unhurried as you crouched, stretching just enough that he had to immediately look away.

The first few times he thought it was coincidence. By the fifth or sixth, he knew better.

He would stare very intently at the nearest wall, or ceiling, or window. Anywhere but you.

You always noticed and you always smiled.

Then there were the juice incidents.

One afternoon he walked in expecting to find the staff preparing dinner.

Instead he found you standing at the counter squeezing fresh oranges into a glass. Egg was sitting nearby doing homework, his pencil tapping restlessly against the table.

“Almost done,” you told him cheerfully. “Then you get your juice.” You were focused enough on the task that you didn’t notice Maekar at first.

When the last orange was squeezed, you lifted your hand and absentmindedly licked the sticky juice from your fingers. The worst part was that it wasn't even deliberate and yet—

Only then did your eyes flick up. You froze for half a second when you noticed him standing in the doorway. And then your expression shifted. That familiar spark of mischief appeared. You did not break eye contact as you pushed another digit between your lips.

“Care for a taste?” you asked sweetly. Your fingers hovered just slightly in the air between you.

His answer came instantly. “No.” The word sounded almost alarmed. He turned and walked out of the kitchen so quickly it might have actually been on fire behind him.

Egg blinked in confusion. “Why did my father leave?” You only shrugged and shook your head. "No idea."

But perhaps the worst offense of all had begun recently.

The yoga. Specifically the yoga in the garden.

“Aegon ought to do some kind of physical activity,” you insisted innocently when the topic first came up. “It’s good for him,” you explained one afternoon while rolling out a baby pink yoga mat on the grass. “He’s still growing — stretching helps with muscles and nerves.”

Maekar almost scoffed at your words, muscles and nerves. Like Seven hells.

However Egg seemed to love the idea immediately. Within minutes he was trying to mimic every pose you demonstrated. He shrieked with laughter when he lost his balance, collapsing dramatically into the grass.

“Look!” he shouted. “I’m doing it!”

Maekar had made the mistake of looking out the window at that exact moment. You were standing on the lawn in a fitted athletic top and leggings — the same kind you had worn that evening in your early days at the house.

Your body bent into various poses with effortless flexibility. Sometimes reaching upward. Sometimes folding forward. Sometimes twisting in ways that made his brain short-circuit entirely.

Egg giggled constantly beside you, trying to imitate the shapes.

“Like this?” he asked.

“No, sweetling— like this,” you corrected gently, stepping behind him to guide his arms. Then you bent forward again to demonstrate.

Maekar closed the curtains immediately and went upstairs.

He took three cold showers that evening.

Three.

The shame of it made his face burn even hours later.

Gods. You were turning him into a foolish green boy. And the worst part was that it didn’t stop even when he left the house.

At work he tried desperately to focus on anything else. On spreadsheets, meetings, endless reports. But his mind betrayed him constantly.

Sometimes he tried forcing himself to think of other women. A young executive who had recently joined the company. A woman at a conference who had openly flirted with him over drinks. Even random faces from meetings which faintly resembled you.

He tried imagining them the way he imagined you. In the same scenarios he imagined you—

But nothing happened. No spark. No reaction. Nothing at all, nothing from his body nor his mind.

It was as if something in him refused to respond to anyone but you. Like you had woven yourself somewhere deep in his thoughts where he couldn’t remove you.

A spell. That was the only way he could describe it. A slow, maddening enchantment.

And the more he tried to resist it; the stronger it seemed to grow.

—

The final straw came late one evening.

Maekar was alone in his study, the house long since quiet. A single lamp burned on the desk, casting a warm amber glow across the room and painting the rest of the space in long shadows.

The light caught the angles of his face as he leaned back in the chair, the faint pox scars along his skin still visible even after all these years. His hair; once silver-blond — had long since faded to a sharp winter white, neatly trimmed along with the beard that framed his jaw.

He looked much older than he was in moments like this. More tired.

The glass in front of him held expensive whiskey he barely tasted anymore. He had poured it out of habit more than anything else, letting the burn sit heavy in his throat as his thoughts churned restlessly.

Work. Endless meetings, contracts, problems waiting for his attention the moment morning arrived. With Baelor still recovering, most of the responsibilities fell upon his shoulder.

He though of his family. His children — each of them complicated in their own exhausting ways.

And then there was you. Always you.

His fingers tapped idly against the rim of the glass as he sighed, leaning forward to reach for the bottle again.

But the door creaked open behind him. Softly. He didn’t even have to turn to know who it was.

You stood there in the doorway as if summoned by his thoughts alone. You wore a simple grey cotton top and matching shorts — nothing extravagant, nothing particularly revealing. Yet somehow the casual softness of it looked more intimate than anything else you owned.

For a moment you simply lingered there like a ghost. Then you stepped inside tentatively and pushed the door closed behind you with a quiet click.

His gaze flickered up slowly. The alcohol humming faintly through his veins did absolutely nothing to help maintain his composure.

“I hope I’m not bothering you,” you said softly, though the faint curve of your mouth betrayed how little you believed that.

He gave a quiet scoff from where he sat. “As if that has ever stopped you before.”

You laughed under your breath. The sound was light — dangerously pleased with itself.

“Do you not enjoy my company?” you asked, tilting your head slightly as you moved farther into the room. The lamp light caught in your eyes, making them glimmer in that way he had come to recognize far too well.

Maekar studied you for a moment. There was something almost resigned in the way he looked at you now — exasperation tangled helplessly with something much warmer.

“You ought to feel ashamed,” he said at last, voice low and rough. “Torturing an old man like me and not feeling an ounce of guilt about it.”

It was the most honest thing he had said to you in weeks. Maybe months. And you seemed to like that; your eyes shining with a curious glint.

Instead of answering him, you only hummed softly as you approached him. The sound lingered in the quiet air between you. You stopped directly in front of the chair.

Maekar had been leaning back before, but now he shifted slightly forward without realizing it.

His thighs parted instinctively where he sat.

His gaze lifted slowly, upward, meeting yours. And for a moment neither of you spoke.

Your tongue clicked quietly, awaiting his next move but he remained frozen, rigid.

He felt his composure rapidly unraveling beneath his skin. The lone thought anchoring him to reality was that if anything ensued he would not be the one to initiate it.

You took his silence as a sign and settled yourself into the spot between his legs. For a moment he remained utterly still, the only reaction you could register was the hitch of his breath. He smelled of expensive cologne and musk, perhaps a faint trace of cigar.

You leaned dangerously close as his large hands steadied you in his grasp. Your eyes glanced down and noticed how large his hand seemed compared to your torso and your head dizzied at the thought.

Your orbs flickered back to his own and you could see all the logic and rigor in them begin to dissolve. His fingers carefully found their way beneath the back of your shirt as he gently traced your bare skin. For a man so rough and stiff you were surprised he was capable of such gentleness.

"Why.." he croaked desperately, as the lust overshadowed his pupils and you felt his manhood solidly press up beneath you.

Why. Why were you here? Why did you chose him? Why were you asking for this? Why not a nice boy your age — who could treat you right, take you out, date you without shame, without the constant lingering thought he was old enough to be your father.

Seven hells it would have been more appropriate for you to date Daeron or Aerion or even Valarr. Even if he almost sneered at the thought.

Your skin felt so plush and warm against his touch. It had been ages since he touched a woman like this — since Dyanna he could not bring himself to harbour such feelings for anyone. To let someone know him so intimately.

And suddenly a surge of insecurity arose in him, lika an ugly beast rearing its head. What if he wasn't good enought? What if he wasn't capable of performing like he used to? What if he couldn't satisfy your needs?

The thoughts swirled in his mind, threatening to plague him — but your next move quieted them. You traced your hand down his chest, all the way down to between your bodies and grazed the outline of the rigidness in his pants.

The corners of your lips tilted up in a devilish smirk as he let out a low growl. "Don't mock me woman."

Woman — there it was. He always called you girl and now —

"You want this." You stated simply, your voice had shifted into something lower, more primal, it was filled with an impatient desire. A neediness apparent in your tone.

He swallowed, attempting one last time to refuse you but finally, for the first time in months — he relented. Weeks of carefully constructed restraint simmered away. He accepted there was no point in fighting it. He could not even deny it himself anymore.

"I have wanted this since the very first day you came through that door. Holding yourself as if you belonged here. As if you had always belonged to me." His own words tasted foreign and strange on his tongue; as if they had been ripped from some deep pit inside of him that he had long sought to bury and forget.

You let out a needly little whine at his words and crashed your lips against his own. His beard slightly itched your skin as he moved a hand to your hair. gripping it as his fingers laced through the strands.

Your tongue clumsily fought for dominance and he relented, letting you take control just for a moment. But just for one single moment — before he broke you apart.

You were gasping for air as you removed your lips from him. "Please…" your voice was so vulnerable and needy he felt another surge of desire roll over him. He would not be able to restrain himself.

"Please what sweet girl?" He taunted, it was his turn to tease you now. All those days and hours of restless dauntng were ready to bite back at you. Full force.

"I don't know what you want if you don't tell me. You're a big girl, aren't you? Use your words." He pressed on, gathering your hair in his fist and toying with it.

"Please Maekar.." you whined and he could smell your arousal through the flimsy cotton shorts, he could feel how it pooled against his dress pants and probably glistened in the evening light.

He was still utterly patient — a newfound virtue, alas for all the wrong reasons this time.

He cocked his head to the side, studying your hazy eyes, lust crowding in them. He did not like to wait. He did not like to tease. But this time he concluded it was necessary — to teach you a lesson, to show you that you could not get away with riling him up so easily.

You swallowed your pride and let out the words. "Please I need your fingers…"

You were so sick for wanting this. A man old enough to be your father. Drooling in the lap of your employer like some desperate whore. Yet you could not bring yourself to care.

He still did not act, clearly intent on torturing you.

"Where? Here maybe?" He daunted bringing a digit up to your lips and parting them. You immedieately welcomed the intrusion and his finger was enveloped by the warmth of your mouth. His head spun at the sight. You were so pretty like this… all whiny and pliant. All for him. Only him.

You unlatched after coating it with glistening saliva, and shook your head. "Inside me… please." The last shred of dignity was gone, but you were so desperate to feel something — anything.

And that was all it took, all his self restraint was out the window as one of his calloused hands found their way into your shorts. You leaned forward, steadying yourself with a hand on his shoulder as his digits slowly traced your most sensitive spot.

You sighed and raised your hand to stiffle your moan. He quickly pushd it away. "Don't. I want to hear you." He commanded.

The house was empty. Aerion and Daeron were not at home. The girls were at a sleepover and Egg was hanging out with Valarr and Kiera.

Which left just the two of you.

Thinking about any of his children in this position felt so utterly wrong. But the pleasure quickly erased any unwelcome thoughts from your mind.

Maekar did not waste a singe moment as he plunged a digit into your weeping cunt. You let out a strangled cry at the intrusion. Your walls immedieately clenched around him, sucking in his finger.

"Fuck." He rasped at the feeling of your hole squeezing him so deliciously. His head spun at the thought of what it might feel like to have you wrapped around his cock. To have you gripping him so tightly.

"So fucking tight." He moved his other finger to toy with your clit, rubbing it in careful circles.

You felt the warmth pooling in your lower belly spread over your entire flesh. Little jolts of electricity surged through you as you squirmed in his hold.

The thought suddenly occured to him — could you possibly be a virgin? Surely you were not — because gods spare him he wasn't sure he had enough patience to handle you like that.

"Maekar." You moaned his name, gripping and clawing at his shoulders, like your life depended on it as you rode his fingers.. "More." You let out as your lips pressed against the skin of his cheek. A wet mark left on the place where your mouth had been.

"So greedy.." he chuckled but obedeyed as another finger pressed into your hole.

Gods — even one of his digits felt like two of yours. His fingers were so much thicker and longer than your own. The sting was painfully delicious.

Your head suddenly conjured up all the times you had spent desperately chasing your high, sweaty underneath your bedsheets, shame burning your cheeks as you touched yourself . Fingers toying with your clit as arousal seeped out of your hole — imaginaing it was his large hands carassing you, touching you. Splitting you open on his cock.

"Tell me girl, do the boys at college touch you like this?" He did not know what urged him to say it — but he did not care, all sense had long abandoned him.

You shook your head furiously.

You weren't a virgin. You had slept with a few boys on campus. Plenty of one night stands and short lived relationships. But none of them felt like this. None of them awoke such a primal desire and need in you. None of them could compare. None of them had your blood flowing and heart thumping like he did.

"Though so…" he replied as the corners of his lips curled upward, clearly amused but pleased with your answer. His fingers reached impossibly deep inside you and you felt the coil in your belly begin to tighten.

He sensed it too; the way your breaths become more shallow and how you desperately rutted against him.

He steadied you with his other hand. Locking you into place. Your juices were freely flowing all over his lap. The squelching noises were so scandalous you might have been embarassed if you hadn't been so caught up in the heat and passion of the moment.

"M'close…" you let out in a breath. A moan tore from your chest.

As you neared your orgasm you began to understand why he had six children. His fingers were working you open and bending you to his will as if it were second nature.

He hummed, curling his fingers inside your gummy walls. Your eyes gazed into his purple irises, your mouth hanging open in a silent moan.

You felt yourself being pushed closer and clooser to the edge, the coil in your stomach threatening to snap at any moment.

"Come for me girl…" His voice croaked out, and the last thing you felt was the warmth of his breath against your earlobe as absolute pleasure overtook you.

Your thighs shook and your body convulsed in his arms.

The orgasm washed over you in waves. Pure ecstasy flowing through every inch of you.

"Maekar.. maekar.." You chanted his name like a prayer as you rode out the high. His fingers were still working inside of you as he helped you ride through the orgasm.

As you reached the end of your bliss, he carefully pulled his fingers from your hole. And you whined at the sudden emptiness. The loss of contact an uncomfortable sensation.

Your eyes glanced down at the absolute mess you had made — your shorts were soaked and covered in arousal, his dress pants glistened with the remnants of your pleasure and the earthy smell hit your senses like a train.

Maekar brought his digits up to his lips — the same ones that had been buried knuckle deep inside of you just a few moments ago, soaked with your scent; and he licked them clean without hesitation. One by one.

He was still rock solid beneath you. And a breathless little mewl escaped you at the sight. You leaned forward as your legs spasmed and found their place on either side of him.

You laid your head gently against his chest, matching your breathing to his own. His chest rose and fell steadily as he held you in his arms.

How were you going to explain this to Aegon, to Kiera, to the girls — to anyone?

The thoughts suddenly swarmed you, unpleasant and intrusive, in the aftermath of your shared sin. And you found it was both endlessly exhilirating and horrifying.

—

Things became infinitely more complicated after that.

Maekar insisted on driving you home. You had attempted to protest at first — weakly and half-heartedly — but he simply shook his head, gave you a look and was already reaching for his keys.

“I’m not letting you take public transport like this.” he said firmly. The tone left very little room for argument.

You opened your mouth to object again, then closed it.

There was no point pressing the matter when he had already made up his mind. When Maekar decided something, the world tended to arrange itself around that decision whether anyone liked it or not.

So you followed him out to the car.

The drive through King’s Landing was painfully quiet.

A different kind of tension hung between you now; heavier, unfamiliar, something that seemed to fill every inch of the car’s interior.

You said very little. Instead you leaned your head lightly against the window, watching the city lights blur past in streaks of gold and white. Neon signs flickered across the glass. Street lamps passed one after another in steady rhythm.

You tried very hard not to think about the warmth still lingering in your body, the strange electric awareness humming beneath your skin. You tried not to think of the way he had touched you and how easily you had melted under his fingertips.

The plush leather seat of his Mustang creaked softly when you shifted. Beside you, Maekar drove like a man carved from stone. His hands were steady on the steering wheel. His gaze never left the road.

Not once during the entire drive did he look at you.

The silence between you stretched long enough that it began to feel almost fragile. When the car finally slowed in front of your apartment building, he pulled neatly into the empty space beneath the streetlamp. The engine went quiet.

For a moment neither of you moved. The only light came from the soft glow of the dashboard and the pale wash of the streetlight spilling through the windshield.

Maekar turned slightly in his seat, clearly about to speak. But you beat him to it.

“Do you regret it?” The question slipped out before you could stop it. Your voice sounded more desperate than you had intended. But you needed to know. You needed him to be honest and straight with his answer. Otherwise it would drive you to madness.

You swallowed, searching his face desperately for something — an answer, reassurance, anything at all. Because no matter how you tried to frame it in your mind, this had changed everything.

There was no pretending otherwise now.

Maekar exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand over his temple in that tired way he often did when something weighed too heavily on his mind.

You waited. Your teeth pressed lightly into your bottom lip as the seconds stretched.

Yes. That was what he should say.

He should tell you it was a mistake. That it could never happen again. That the line between you had already been crossed too far and that he would not allow it to happen another time.

He knew exactly what the responsible answer was supposed to be. But the words never came; never left him.

Because when he looked at you he saw the quiet hope lingering in your eyes. The fragile uncertainty beneath it.

And something in his chest twisted painfully. He had already taken too much from you tonight. He could not bring himself to wound you further with a lie.

“No.” The word came out almost as a whisper.

For a moment you didn’t react. Then the faintest hint of a smile tugged at your mouth. Not triumphant. Not teasing. Just… relieved.

The light returned to your eyes in a way that made his chest tighten again and for a flicker of a moment he felt he had made the right decision.

You reached out gently and placed your hand over his. This time he didn’t flinch.

“Neither do I,” you said softly.

You should, something in his mind screamed. You should hate me for this.

But the words stayed trapped behind his teeth. Instead he sat there in silence, your hand warm against his.

Eventually you withdrew it and reached for the door. “Good night, Maekar.” Your voice was quiet now that you bid him goodbye.

You stepped out of the car, pausing only long enough to glance back at him one last time before disappearing up the stairs toward your building.

He watched until the door closed behind you. Then he kept sitting there. He did not know how long he remained under the street light, sitting in his car. Waiting for something, anything. Perhaps to wake up and realize all of this had been a dream.

Maekar leaned forward slowly until his forehead rested against the steering wheel.

The entire evening replayed in his mind with brutal clarity. Every look. Every word. Every touch. Every moment he should have stopped himself and didn’t — came back to haunt him.

“Oh, fuck me,” he muttered quietly into the empty car. “What have I done…”

©padmespetal 2026 : I DO NOT APPROVE OF MY WORKS TO BE TRANSLATED OR COPIED ANYWHERE WITHOUT PERMISSION

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He was slouched over a pile of papers he had to sign, his fingers tense and weary from holding a fountain pen for so long. His hand repeatedly scribbled his name. His eyebrows were pinched in that familiar, ever-present frown on his face.

He had come into the office early this morning, hoping to keep his mind occupied and busy. If he was overloaded with meetings, strategies, and supervision, he wouldn't have to think about the conversation he had with you in the foyer of his house.

The way the twinkle in your eyes slowly faded when he refused to let Aegon stay at home. How his chest ached at the defeated look on your face.

But most of all he wouldn't have to think about how you made him feel, how when you were around color seeped into his life again, how the house felt less haunted and hollow with your presence. How it tugged at his chest when he saw you take care of children, play with them, teach them, be gentle with them, love them.

Love themm in a way he didn't know how, in a way he never would know how to. For the longest time he thought it impossible to let someone in, least of all a complete stranger. He never thought a foreigner could learn to love and understand his children in a way only so few did. After Dyanna's death he couldn't bring himself to deal with the void she had left.

I don't know how to be a mother and a father. His own voice echoed in his head. You don't have to be. You had replied with such earnest honesty that for a brief moment hope had flickered in his chest and a dangerously optimistic thought bloomed in his mind.

But just as quickly it had died. The realization that you could never be a replacement for Dyanna, that you could never love his sons and daughters in a way that only the mother who birthed them could, quickly settled in.

And in that cold moment of letdown he had dismissed you, refused to listen to yours pleas of letting Aegon stay at home.

But now, with his posture tense and back rigid, he wondered if he had been wrong to disregard you so quickly. He sighed, releasing the pen from his grasp and letting it topple and roll over somewhere on the mahogany desktop.

His entire hand ached; enough of signing, he decided.

Instead his hand found the mouse of the computer in front of him and he opened the digital mail app. There were always things to be checked here. Reports to be read and complaints answered. Yet as he scanned through the list, scrolling down nothing caught his eye, nothing piqued his interest. All of the emails seemed like dull, lifeless, utterly boring affairs. He'd rather claw his own eyes out than read any of these messages.

His brain was pulsing against his skull and he felt the familiar headache setting in. He was about to exit the site when something caught his eye. Your name — more precisely your email. He didn't scan the topic of your message, just immediately clicked on it.

Dear Sir, I am sorry to inform you that I can no longer continue working for you as Aegon’s babysitter. This was not an easy decision, and I am deeply grateful for the time I have spent with your family. However, I believe it is best for everyone if I step away.

He read the text twice before going back to check if he had indeed clicked on your email and not that of some random employee. He felt the quiet disbelief settle in his chest as he desperately scrolled to make sure this was some kind of mistake.

He stood from his desk, pacing over the office and striding outside to his assistant who worked in the front. She was a middle-aged, curvy woman with a short blonde bob.

The entire office practically stilled when he walked outside and it felt like everyone was walking on eggshells all of a sudden. He did not pay them any mind.

"Clarice, did you fire my son's babysitter?" His question was more accusation than inquiry. The poor woman shrunk in her seat at his fiery gaze.

"No sir... I would never do such a thing without your consultation..." The woman replied evenly.

He knew the entire office was gawking at them but he couldn't bring himself to care.

"Then tell me why the fuck there is a resignation email sitting in my inbox that I have not been notified of?" He demanded, raising his hands in agitation.

"I... I'm very sorry sir but I do not know..." She replied, clutching her floral shirt nervously.

"Why do I always have to handle everything, oh fuck me…" He muttered under his breath, turning on his heel to return to his workspace. Except this time he did not sit back down, he didn't look at emails or sign papers. He grabbed his black wool coat off the hanger, wrapped it around his shoulders and strided out of the office like he was preparing for battle.

As he exited the Targaryen Corp. building, his mind was fixed on one singular objective. Finding you.

—

The late afternoon air was sharp against his face, the city loud and indifferent around him, yet he heard none of it.

His driver stood waiting beside the blacked-out SUV, posture straight, hands folded neatly in front of him. The moment he registered Maekar’s long, purposeful strides, he stepped forward and opened the rear door without a word.

Maekar slid into the backseat, the leather cool beneath him, and waited as the door shut with a muted thud. The engine hummed to life.

“Where to, sir?” The driver’s eyes met his through the rearview mirror.

Maekar opened his mouth. And nothing came out. His brain short-circuited entirely.

Where did you live? He had no idea.

“Hold on a moment.” He lifted a hand, palm out, signaling the driver to wait. The man gave a single nod and kept the car idling at the curb.

Maekar reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his phone, staring down at the screen as if it might provide him with answers on its own. How, exactly, was he supposed to know where you lived?

Personal addresses weren’t required on casual job arrangements, and the truth was—there hadn’t been much of a formal arrangement at all. You hadn’t forged a traditional contract because he had been entirely convinced you wouldn’t last longer than a day.

He almost scoffed at himself.

A mental note formed instantly: change that. The moment he found you.

His thoughts began shifting rapidly, gears turning, rearranging, calculating. How could he possibly locate you? He could call. He could send a message. Demand an explanation.

But that felt wrong. Too distant. Too impersonal.

You would refuse him outright over the phone. You would be polite, composed, stubborn. No, he needed to see you. Needed to stand in front of you, face to face, so you couldn’t slip away so easily.

His brow furrowed in concentration.

Then it clicked.

He leaned forward abruptly, the leather creasing beneath him. “Have you ever taken the lady who takes care of Aegon home?”

The driver blinked, visibly surprised at the sudden question, but professionalism smoothed over his features within seconds. “Yes, sir. Once. She stayed until late one evening. Your son Aerion commanded me to take her home.”

A flicker of surprise flashed in his violet yes but he quickly concealed it. Instead he hummed low in his throat. “Very well. Drive there.”

He leaned back into his seat as the small privacy window between the driver and the back compartment slid up automatically, sealing him into silence.

His mind immediately began constructing scenarios.

Would you even be home? Were you at university? Out with friends?

The thoughts lodged unpleasantly in his chest.

It didn’t matter. He would find you wherever you were.

His thoughts ran ahead of him, rehearsing conversations, arguments, apologies he wasn’t certain he knew how to voice. By the time the SUV slowed to a stop, he hadn’t even registered the passing of time.

“We’re here, sir."

He looked up.

The neighborhood was modest. Slightly grimy. Ordinary. Not dangerous, not dilapidated—but far from luxurious. No marble façades. No polished glass towers. Just aging brick, narrow balconies, laundry lines strung between windows.

It did not suit him. But it suited you.

He stepped out of the car, smoothing a hand down the front of his coat.

“Shall I wait for you here, sir?” the driver asked.

“Yes.” Nothing more.

He strode toward the building entrance, jaw set.

By sheer luck, an older man was entering at the same time. Maekar caught the door before it shut, offering a tight, practiced smile as he gestured the man inside first. He followed after him, silent and composed.

He did not belong here, it was plain for all to see.

The pale silver of his hair, the immaculate cut of his coat, the overly polished shoes—everything about him screamed money, power and distance. He felt the old man's eyes linger, curious, assessing.

He ignored him.

He located your name on the row of mailboxes, committing the apartment number to memory, then took the stairs two at a time.

When he reached your door, he stopped.

For a split second, uncertainty crept in. Was he supposed to knock? Ring the bell?

He lifted his hand and knocked. Firm and controlled. Then he waited. Seconds stretched thin. His jaw tightened. Still no answer.

He shifted, about to press the doorbell when— he heard footsteps on the other side.

His heartbeat picked up sharply, pulse thundering in his ears. He straightened unconsciously, breath caught somewhere between anticipation and something dangerously close to relief.

The door opened. And it was not you.

A girl stood there, unfamiliar. Long chestnut hair pulled into a low ponytail, an oversized band T-shirt hanging loosely over shorts. She held the door with one hand, studying him with open skepticism.

“Hello?” One fine eyebrow lifted. “Can I help you?”

Maekar composed himself instantly, though the brief flicker of something—hope, perhaps—had already died behind his eyes.

“Excuse my… interruption,” he said, forcing civility into his tone. “But doesn't Miss Y/N Y/L/N live here?”

She was scowling before recognition dawned on her face at the mention of your name. “Oh—yeah, she does. Well. She’s renting the apartment for now. She’s away in Sunspear. For some exchange program or something.”

The words struck like a physical blow. Sunspear? Exchange program?

The air seemed to thin around him.

You hadn’t said a word. Not a hint. Not a mention of such a thing.

He had seen you only days ago.

“Sir?” the girl prompted, visibly uncomfortable. “Are you her dad or something because—”

“Thank you.” He cut her off cleanly, voice clipped, already turning away.

He did not offer another glance. He did not bother to offer apologies or explanations.

“Creep,” he heard her mutter under her breath as he disappeared down the corridor.

He did not care.

He reached the car in long, sharp strides and slid back inside, slamming the door harder than necessary. His hand dragged through his hair, fingers catching briefly in the silver strands before moving to scratch at his beard. His mind was racing now—truly racing.

Sunspear, the capital of Dorne.

If he left now, he could be on a flight within three hours. He could get there. To you. He could find you.

And then what?

“Sir, where should I—” the driver began cautiously.

“King’s Landing Airport,” Maekar barked without a second thought.

The driver hesitated only a fraction of a second before pulling away from the curb.

As the city blurred past the tinted windows, Maekar’s thoughts spiraled.

He would arrive in Sunspear and do what exactly? Hunt you down across a foreign city? Stand in front of you and beg you to come back? To resume caring for his son? For his broken household?

Would he ask you to abandon your future because he was incapable of being a competent father on his own?

The image formed vividly—your face, resolute and disappointed.

He had already ruined enough lives with his grief, his coldness, his inability to move forward. Dyanna. Aegon. And now was it your turn?

Yours did not have to become another casualty. The car slowed at a red traffic light.

“Stop,” he breathed suddenly, the word almost lost beneath the hum of the engine.

The driver glanced back. “Sir?”

“Turn back.”

Silence filled the vehicle for half a heartbeat before the indicator clicked on.

He leaned back into the seat, closing his eyes briefly. He would not be the one to ruin this. Not this time.

—

Life in Dorne moved differently.

It was in the languid warmth of the sun that never seemed in a hurry to set, in the salt that lingered in the air and clung to your hair and skin long after you had left the sea. It was in the people who roamed the streets with unhurried steps, in the way laughter drifted lazily from shaded balconies, in the music that seemed to exist without performance — simply because it wished to.

The air was thick with the scent of exotic spices, sweet and sharp all at once. Markets spilled over with the finest silks in sunset hues and deep ocean blues, glittering jewelry catching the light as vendors called out softly to passing strangers.

Fresh fruit was piled high in woven baskets — oranges split open to reveal jeweled flesh, figs glistening with nectar, citrus elixirs poured into delicate glasses that sweated under the heat.

Everything about Sunspear was royal and grand. But not in the rigid, towering way King’s Landing was — not in marble columns and suffocating expectations — but in something slower. Something steadier and older. The kind of magic that did not need to announce itself to be known.

The people here did not rush. They did not shout. They did not live with anxiety curled tight in their ribs.

They lived for pleasure, not for survival.

They argued with fervor, and kisssed with passion.

The city was cradled by three seas, waves pressing against its shores like a constant lullaby, and by the Shadow City on the fourth side — narrow streets twisting through sun-baked stone and vibrant fabric awnings.

It felt insulated from the rest of the world. From politics. From grief. From dragons.

Your arrival had been entirely abrupt, messy and unplanned. You had not packed with excitement, rather with necessity.

Yet somehow, your days in Dorne offered something dangerously close to peace. A silent escape. A retreat from everything that had unraveled in the last few weeks — from the heavy halls of that house, from silver hair and violet eyes.

You were stretched out on the sand now, midday sun pressing warm kisses to your damp skin. A soft towel lay beneath you, grains of sand clinging stubbornly to the edges. You wore a simple bikini top and short linen trousers you had purchased from a local market — cream-colored and airy, tied loosely at the waist.

The fabrics here breathed with every movement, light and unrestrictive in a way your life in King’s Landing never had been.

Clarisse, bright-eyed, sun-drenched Clarisse — had insisted on bringing you to her favorite beach. She had claimed it was the perfect spot for swimming and tanning and forgetting.

You had agreed without hesitation. You would have agreed to anything that promised distraction from King's Landing.

Anything that might pull your mind away from the dragon family thousands of miles from you.

Clarisse was Dornish in every sense of the word. She studied at the University of Sunspear, the same exchange program that had given you an excuse to disappear.

Long brown curls framed her face in wild spirals, freckles scattered like constellations across her rich chocolate skin. She was beautiful in the effortless way all Dornish girls seemed to be.

Untouched by urgency, utterly carefree and languid.

They looked like they had stepped from oil paintings — springy locks, sun-kissed skin, gold and silver jewelry clattering musically against their wrists and ankles as they moved.

Their laughter was loud, unashamed. Their eyes bright with something playful and curious.

You often found yourself wondering if Dyanna had looked like them. Your thoughts drifted to her more often than you cared to admit.

Had she spoken with the same lilting accent? Had her voice carried that soft warmth beneath its strength? Had she possessed that playful glint all Dornish girls seemed to be born with? Had she dressed in flowing silks the color of ripe pomegranates or in the deep royal purple of House Dayne?

Would she have liked you here?

Would she have thanked you for loving her son? Her family?

The questions came uninvited and lingered far too long.

You sighed softly, leaning back on your elbows and squinting against the brightness overhead. The sky was impossibly blue, stretching endless and indifferent.

Clarisse was still somewhere in the sea, her laughter occasionally carried by the wind as she floated on her back. You could just make out her figure in the distance, arms spread wide as though embracing the horizon.

Beside you lay a discarded book — half-read and forgotten.

And Theodan, one of Clarisse’s friends. Apparently he was her neighbor incapable of missing an opportunity.

When he had heard Clarisse befriended the new foreign student, he had begged to tag along. He worked in his father’s shop in the city, she had told you.

"He's sweet, very persisten." She had warned you. "But harmless."

He had jet-black hair that curled slightly at the ends and warm chocolate-brown eyes that lingered a second too long. You had noticed the way he watched you throughout the day — offering to carry your beach bag, to fetch you drinks, to help you apply sunscreen.

You had politely refused the last offer.

Dornish people were very straightforward. You had learned that quickly. They said what they meant. Wanted what they wanted.

It was refreshing, sometimes intrusive.

You should have been flattered.

You should have been overjoyed to be here — in the sun, by the sea, admired by a sweet boy with kind eyes.

And yet something inside you felt hollow. As though a small, vital piece of your soul had been left behind in a house of cold stone and silver hair.

No amount of Dornish sunlight could warm that missing part. No lingering gazes could fill it.

You felt his eyes on you now but pretended not to notice, fingers sifting slowly through the warm sand.

“So…” he cleared his throat, his Common Tongue broken and thickly accented. “You like Sunspear?”

You turned your gaze to him slowly. He was propped on one elbow, absently drawing lines in the sand as he admired you with open sincerity.

You hummed. “Yes… it’s nice.”

Nice. Such an empty word for a place so alive.

“Westeros is different?” he asked, more question than statement.

A small chuckle escaped you. Technically, Dorne was part of Westeros. But you understood the pride here — the fierce independence threaded into their bones.

“Yes, it’s… much less…” You paused, searching for the word that would not offend. “Unhurried.

He frowned slightly, clearly unfamiliar with the term. Embarrassment flickered across his face before he shifted topics.

“Do you have boyfriend in Westeros?”

The bluntness almost made you laugh. You looked down at your hands, sand slipping between your fingers like time.

“No… No, I don’t.”

He huffed softly. “I don’t believe.”

Your lips twitched. “You don’t?”

He shook his head. “Someone… you… love? Care?”

The question struck deeper than he intended. And no matter how much you tried to stop it, faces rose unbidden in your mind.

Aegon with his mischievous eyes. Daeron’s awkward smile. Maekar's rare smile. Rhae and Daella tangled in laughter. Valarr’s quiet observance. Kiera’s bright laugh.

And even— Aerion.

You swallowed. Your throat tightened painfully.

But you shook your head. “No one.”

The lie tasted like saltwater.

He opened his mouth to press further, but before he could, Clarisse came sprinting from the sea toward you both, water dripping from her limbs, laughter spilling from her mouth. Her curls were plastered to her back, droplets catching in the sunlight.

“What are you two up to?” she demanded, grabbing her towel and scrubbing at her hair. Her Common Tongue was far smoother than Theodan’s.

“I hope he hasn’t annoyed the living hell out of you. He flirts with everyone.”

She plopped down beside you, bumping your shoulder playfully as Theodan smacked her arm in mock offense, clearly understanding far more than he could articulate. She shrieked in laughter.

You forced a smile.

“No… it’s fine. I appreciate the company.”

In all truth you appreciated the noise. The distraction. The way they did not know you well enough to see through you.

“There’s this new bar some girls from my class want to try tonight,” Clarisse said, eyes sparkling with excitement. “You should come with us. It’ll be fun.”

Fun she said. You searched her face — so open, so bright, so contagious — and found yourself unable to deny her.

“Sure,” you replied softly, lifting a hand to shield your eyes from the sun.

“Great!” She beamed, genuinely exhilarated.

“Can I come?” Theodan asked innocently.

“No!” you and Clarisse said in unison.

And for a moment — just a brief, fleeting moment — you burst into laughter with them. Real laughter, which was light and unguarded.

And yet even as you laughed, a quiet ache lingered beneath it.

Because no matter how beautiful Dorne was, no matter how warm the sun or how kind the people, deep down you knew some part of you remained elsewhere. Across the sea. With dragons.

—

Daeron was nursing a glass of whiskey in his hand.

It was late at night — the kind of late where the house had long since fallen silent, where even the restless creaks of the old halls seemed to grow tired. Likely around one or two in the morning.

The darkness outside the tall windows was thick and endless, swallowing the gardens and the distant city lights whole.

His dreams had woken him again. As they always did.

It was such a casual occurrence now that part of him no longer even questioned it.

Since childhood the dreams had come and gone like unwanted guests — violent flashes of fire and wings, of heat so intense it felt as though his lungs might collapse beneath it. Yet no matter how many times they came, no matter how many mornings he woke with them fading from memory, it never became easier.

He always woke the same way. Cold sweat clinging to his skin. His heart hammering violently against his ribs.

And that invisible tension coiled deep in his muscles, as if some ancient instinct inside him believed he had truly been there — among fire and ruin.

So he had done what he always did.

He slipped quietly from his bed and padded down the dark hallway toward the study, bare feet soundless against the polished floor. The house was quiet enough that even the faintest movement echoed.

He pushed open the large oak doors.

The study was empty. Of course it was.

He reached for the small table lamp at the center of the room and flicked it on. Warm golden light spilled outward, illuminating the polished desk, the towering shelves of books, the heavy curtains drawn against the night.

For a moment he simply stood there, letting the quiet settle around him.

Then he walked to his father’s alcohol cabinet.

It was usually locked. But Daeron had a spare key. Because of course he did.

He slid it into the lock with practiced ease and opened the cabinet doors. The smell of aged liquor drifted out immediately — expensive, heavy, almost ceremonial.

His hand hovered briefly before selecting one of the stronger whiskeys.

He poured it slowly into a crystal glass, dropping in a few cubes of ice. They clinked softly as they settled, floating there as though daring him.

It always began like this. Just one glass. He would tell himself that every single time.

Just one to calm his nerves. Just one to quiet the racing thoughts that clawed at his skull after the dreams.

One became two. Two quickly turned into three. And somewhere along the way he stopped counting altogether.

Now the bottle of that ridiculously expensive whiskey sat in front of him on the desk — half empty.

He stared at it with dull, unfocused eyes.

The burn of the alcohol lingered in his throat, spreading warmth through his chest in that familiar way he had come to depend on. It stung going down, sharp and punishing.

How familiar it had become.

For years he had used it like this — to dull the fear, to smother the memories of dreams that felt far too real, to quiet the grief that never seemed to leave this wretched house.

And then you had come along. The thought rose unbidden, unwelcome.

You with your kind eyes and your careful words.

The way you moved through the halls as though you belonged there, as though the cold weight of the Targaryen household had never intimidated you in the first place.

You weren’t afraid to reprimand Aegon when he was being impossible, yet you loved him just as fiercely — fiercely enough that the boy had followed you around like a shadow.

Something in Daeron’s throat tightened painfully.

Hope. That was what you had been.

A small, fragile flicker of it in a house that had long since forgotten what it felt like.

And he — with his stupid dragon dreams and his quiet misery — had driven you away. He thought miserably.

He had asked Aegon where you were earlier that day.

The boy had nearly burst into tears right there in the hallway before stubbornly wiping them away with the heel of his hand.

“Gone,” he had said.

Just thst one word. Gone. He could see how much it pained his youngest brother.

Daeron hadn’t known what to say to that.

Now he couldn’t sleep. And when he did manage to drift off, the dreams came worse than ever — monstrous shapes tearing at each other in cavernous darkness, wings blotting out the sky, fire roaring so loud it drowned out every other sound.

He always ruined everything.

His dirty blonde hair fell into his face as he lowered his head, pale violet eyes shimmering with a sheen of unshed tears.

What use would crying do now? None. What’s done is done.

He swallowed hard and reached for his phone, some half-formed drunken thought bubbling up in his mind — maybe he could call you, maybe he could—

The study door creaked open and he froze instantly.

For a brief second he braced himself for his father’s voice, sharp and disappointed. A lecture. A reprimand. Another reminder of everything he had failed to be.

But it never came. Instead there were quiet footsteps.

They crossed the room behind him and stopped.

A sigh followed. Daeron would recognize that sound anywhere

Aerion.

He waited for the inevitable insult — something cutting and cruel, something designed to twist the knife deeper.

Or perhaps Aerion would snatch the bottle away with that cold sneer of his, saying the whiskey shouldn’t be wasted on drunkards like Daeron.

Instead there was only the soft sound of the cabinet door opening again. Daeron blinked slowly, confusion dulling his intoxicated thoughts as Aerion retrieved a second glass.

The chair across from him scraped softly against the floor as his brother sat down. Aerion’s movements were slower than usual, lacking their usual sharp aggression.

He looked… different. His eyes were sunken, shadows dark beneath them. Without a word he poured himself a small measure of whiskey. Then he downed it in a single swallow.

He did not meet Daeron’s eyes.

For the first time in what felt like years, Aerion did not look like the cruel, angry boy the world knew him to be.

He looked defeated. Hollowed out.

The sight reminded Daeron painfully of another day — years ago now — standing beside him at their mother’s funeral, both of them too young to understand the kind of grief that had swallowed their family.

The silence between them stretched long and fragile.

Neither spoke. Neither dared to.

But Daeron would never forget the way Aerion’s lip trembled, barely noticeable in the dim light of the lamp.

Nor the single, silent tear that slipped from his violet eye and fell onto the polished wood of the desk.

—

The kitchen was quiet — quiet only in the strange way it could be when half the members of its household were sitting inside it, yet no one was speaking to each other.

The large room was flooded with pale morning light filtering through the tall windows that overlooked the gardens. The marble counters gleamed softly, and the long dining table in the center of the room was set with the usual precision: porcelain plates, silver cutlery, linen napkins folded neatly beside them.

Breakfast had been laid out lavishly, as it always was.

Aegon sat opposite his sister Rhae, poking and prodding at the omelette on his plate but not actually putting a single bite of it into his mouth. The fork scraped idly against the porcelain as he moved the food around in absent circles.

In the past few days he had been too defeated to eat. Too defeated to study. Too defeated to play or do anything at all really.

The girls sat opposite him on the other side of the table, neatly dressed in their school uniforms. Their silver hair had been braided to match — two careful plaits resting over their shoulders the way the servants always styled it before school.

Rhae was staring down at her bowl of oatmeal with quiet dreariness, stirring it slowly though she wasn’t eating either. Beside her, Daella was scrolling lazily on her phone beneath the table. The slice of toast in front of her had grown cold and untouched.

At the head of the table sat Maekar.

He held a cup of black coffee between his hands, occasionally lifting it to take slow, thoughtful sips while he scrolled through emails on his phone. The faint glow of the screen reflected against his sharp features.

For once his brows weren’t furrowed in that constant scowl everyone in the house had grown accustomed to. But his lips were set in a straight, unmoving line.

One of the servants approached quietly, setting down a silver jug of freshly brewed tea beside the plates. The faint steam curled upward into the air, carrying the soft scent of bergamot and honey.

The table was filled with warm bread, fresh fruit, delicate pastries, perfectly cooked eggs — every possible luxury that could be expected in a household like this.

None of it seemed to matter. To Aegon this had always been normal. The luxury, the servants, the silence.

Still, he could tell something was gnawing at Rhae.

She kept opening and closing her mouth, as though debating whether to speak. Her spoon clinked faintly against the bowl before she finally lifted her gaze toward their father.

“Is YN going to come back?”

The question sliced cleanly through the quiet and lodged itself in the air like a knife.

Maekar slowly lifted his eyes from his phone.

For a brief moment — the briefest flicker — he looked unsure how to answer. His shoulders slumped ever so slightly.

“No.”

The reply came cold and straightforward. Just like the rest of him.

Aegon’s mood soured instantly, pausing the scraping of his fork.

“Why?” Rhae pressed, her voice small but stubborn. “I liked her, she was nice and—”

“Enough of this now.” Maekar’s voice cut her off sharply, before she could press any further.

“Eat your breakfast, all three of you. And you too, Daella — leave that phone.”

His gaze moved over his children in quiet reprimand.

Daella slowly lifted her eyes from the screen to look at him. Then she scoffed.

This makeshift family breakfast was a strange occurrence none of them had wanted. Normally they ate at different times, drifting in and out of the kitchen like strangers passing through a hotel lobby.

But that morning their father had insisted on it. Why, none of them could decipher.

Rhae pushed her chair back suddenly. The legs scraped loudly across the floorboards as she stood. Without another word she walked out of the kitchen.

A servant stepped forward almost immediately to collect her untouched plate.

Maekar watched his daughter leave, his mouth parting slightly as if he meant to say something. But the protest never came.

Daella stood soon after.

“I’m not hungry,” she muttered, shoving her phone into her pocket. “And we need to go to school.” She disappeared after her sister without waiting for permission.

Which left only Aegon and Maekar sitting at the table.

The silence that settled between them felt thicker than before.

Maekar glanced down at Aegon’s plate, jaw tense. “I suppose you’re not going to eat that.”

Aegon shook his head.

The older man sighed, rubbing slowly at his temple.

“Go to your room. Maellon should be arriving any minute. Did you do your High Valyrian homework?”

“Yes, father.” The reply came automatically.

“Very well.” Maekar nodded once.

“May I go now?” Aegon asked, staring at the two empty chairs where his sisters had been sitting only moments ago.

“You may.” His father dismissed him with a small wave of his hand.

Aegon stood and left the kitchen without another word.

As he walked through the long corridors of the house toward his bedroom, the quiet followed him like a shadow.

His thoughts drifted back to the first day you hadn’t come.

The day after the charity gala. At first he thought you must have fallen ill. Maybe you had simply forgotten to text him. It happened sometimes.

So he waited.

He waited all morning, wandering restlessly through the house, glancing toward the door every time he heard footsteps in the hallway.

But you never came.

By afternoon he had begun to feel uneasy, and by evening the feeling had turned into something sharper.

Finally, at around six o’clock, he decided to message you himself.

Egg

hey, where are you? are you sick? you forgot to mention you weren't coming?

The message sat there. Delivered. But unanswered.

Something about it bothered him deeply, though he refused to admit it even to himself. He told himself he wasn’t a little child anymore.

He didn’t need someone hovering over him all the time. He didn’t need to be reassured and coddled.

Still, that night he slept uneasily.

The second day he asked his father about it.

Maekar had barely looked up from his paperwork when he answered. “She resigned.”

Resigned? The word hadn’t made sense. Why?

Aegon had stared at him in disbelief, waiting for the punchline — waiting for the moment his father would admit he was joking. But there had been no humor in his voice.

Aegon almost shouted at him then. He almost accused him outright of driving you away. Yet something stopped him.

A quiet, traitorous voice whispered in the back of his mind.

Of course she left. They always leave, don’t they? It’s all your fault.

The incessant voices kept repeating.

The thought had burrowed deep inside his chest.

He remembered every moment he had been difficult. Every sarcastic remark. Every time he had rolled his eyes or refused to listen.

The charity gala. Running away from it like a stupid child because he couldn’t stand being there. Because he wanted to escape.

Maybe that had been the final straw. Maybe you had simply grown tired of him. Fed up.

And so you had left. Just like that.

Aegon rubbed angrily at his eyes as he reached his bedroom door and slammed it shut behind him.

Maellon would be arriving any moment. He had to compose himself.

Still, the absence lingered everywhere.

In the quiet halls. In the empty afternoons. In the way the house seemed colder somehow.

He missed your laughter. Your honest words. The way you cared for him like no one had in a very long time.

Stop. He scolded himself. She’s just a memory now. Forget about it.

He repeated the thought stubbornly as Maellon entered the room moments later, greeting him warmly before setting down his satchel and preparing for the day’s lesson.

Maellon had been speaking for nearly ten minutes.

Something about the origins of the Free Cities. Yet Aegon had not absorbed a single word.

His mind drifted constantly back to you. Where were you, what were you doing, with who were you—

“And that is how the merchants who went to Braavos—” The old man stopped mid-sentence.

“You are not listening, young sir.”

Aegon sighed. “I am.” But even he knew that wasn’t true.

“Then tell me,” Maellon said calmly, adjusting his spectacles, “why did the merchants sail and set out for the Free Cities?”

Aegon had no answer.

He leaned his head against his hand, elbow resting on the desk, and rolled his eyes. “This is stupid anyway,” he muttered under his breath.

Maellon leaned forward slightly in his chair.

“I see the young lad is in a foul mood today.”

Aegon said nothing.

“What irks you so?” the old man asked gently.

Still Aegon refused to look at him.

“Nothing.” The answer came quietly.

Maellon studied him for a moment.

“Is it the young lady who looks after you?”

His voice had softened now.

Aegon refused to respond.

But the tightening in his throat returned instantly. His eyes stung.

Maellon slowly removed his glasses, setting them carefully on the desk.

“I speak to you now not as a professor,” he said quietly. “But as the man who pulled you from your mother’s wailing body and into this world.”

Aegon blinked, startled by the words.

“And I was the one who placed you upon her chest when you were born.”

The old man’s gaze softened.

“So listen to me very well, boy, when I say this: your mother will love you until the very end of your days. In life and in death.”

Aegon frowned. “I don’t understand why you’re telling me this.”

“My mother is dead.”

The words came out sharper than he intended. Venom and sorrow tangled together.

“Aye,” Maellon said quietly.

“But that does not mean she is not here with you. She lives inside your heart.”

He leaned forward slightly, pointing at his own chest.

“And I know this much — if she had wanted anyone to look after you… to care for you… it would have been someone like her.”

Something cracked inside Aegon then. He turned his watery gaze toward the old man, pleading.

Maellon reached into his satchel and offered him a tissue.

“Come now, lad,” he said gently. “Wipe your tears.”

Aegon took it reluctantly, rubbing at his eyes.

He wasn’t sure what he felt. Only that the hollow ache inside his chest had grown heavier.

Maellon picked up his glasses again and placed them back on his nose.

“Now,” he said calmly, opening the book again, “shall we return to the Free Cities?”

Aegon leaned back in his chair. And this time… he tried to listen.

—

The air in the bar was filled with smoke.

Everything around you felt hazy and foreign. The unfamiliar music thumping through the speakers, people yelling over the noise in languages you did not speak, even the drinks they served here were different.

The way people danced and moved their bodies was more languid, more natural than you had ever seen before. Their arms curved through the air like waves, hips swaying without embarrassment, laughter spilling easily between them as if life itself moved to the same rhythm as the music.

You were in a pale white linen dress — the fabric thin and light against your skin, the kind of dress that belonged in warm weather and seaside afternoons. It clung faintly to your legs whenever someone brushed past you.

The bar Clarisse had dragged you to was full of people, bodies packed shoulder to shoulder, the smell of citrus and alcohol and smoke swirling into one heavy haze.

The group of girls you were with sat beside you at the bar, laughing and dancing, their bracelets clinking against the marble counter whenever they raised their drinks.

One of them had climbed halfway off her stool already, swaying along to the music with a grin so wide it made the bartender laugh.

You were nursing a cold unfamiliar cocktail, taking a sip every now and then. It was bright blue — some kind of fruit you had never heard of floating inside the glass. The taste was sharp and sweet at the same time, and every time it touched your tongue you winced slightly, not quite able to place what it was supposed to be.

You scanned the crowd, not quite certain what you were searching for, though deep down you knew you were anticipating that flash of pale white hair that never appeared.

The thought was ridiculous. Impossible.

And yet your eyes kept drifting to the door anyway.

Every time it opened you felt your heart give a tiny stutter before logic returned and reminded you how far away King’s Landing was. How far away everything was.

Clarisse clearly noted your discomfort and she leaned on her elbow beside you.

“Hey, is everything okay… you seem kind of, far away?” She asked gently. Her voice cut through the noise somehow, softer than the music around you.

You gave her a weary smile — you hated being the buzzkill but no matter how much you tried to, your life in Dorne was simply not going as you had anticipated.

“I.. no—” you began, pinching at your fingers beneath the counter, but she shot an arm out and put it on your shoulder.

“Hey, no need to lie. I can see it on your face.” She tilted her head, studying you in that quiet observant way of hers.

“Your body cannot lie, and by the way northerners are always so see through.”

She was not judging you. She was merely observing.

You huffed out a nervous cough taking a sip of your colorful drink and wincing at the taste.

“I have known you for a very short time…” she continued calmly, “but I can see it on your face… your heart, your mind it does not belong here. It cannot appreciate Dorne while it yearns for someplace else.”

The truth in her words froze you and for a moment you stilled, unsure how to respond.

Your fingers tightened around the glass. You bit your lip.

And what if you went back to King’s Landing? What then?

Would life just resume? Normally?

No. You knew it would not.

People would gawk at you and ask why you hadn't stayed in Dorne and you'd awkwardly have to explain. There would be whispers in hallways, curious glances across tables. Lyonel Baratheon would never forgive you and you'd have to live with that uncomfortable reality for the rest of the year.

You hadn’t texted Kiera since you left. Would this be it? The end of your relationship?

And Gods — the Targaryens.

They would certainly never take you back in after just disappearing off the face of the earth.

The thought made your chest tighten. Aegon’s face flashed in your mind.

You swallowed hard.

You were trying to calculate, to do the math in your head, but there was no solution. There was no equation where everyone came out unharmed.

You could feel the tears prickle at your eyes.

“I’m sorry I need a breath of fresh air..” you barely choked out as you stood up from the bar and pushed through the crowd of people.

Clarisse called after you and stood to follow but after a while she got lost in the sea of bodies. You didn’t look back.

The outside air was warm but at least not so stuffy.

The street outside the bar stretched out in uneven cobblestones illuminated by golden streetlamps. Somewhere nearby someone was playing a guitar, the music drifting lazily through the night like it had nowhere urgent to be.

An old man was selling some kind of fruit on the other side of the street, even at this late hour, his stall lit by a dim lantern. The fruit were bright red and cut open to reveal deep orange flesh.

A few children ran shrieking through the street, chasing each other between the buildings while a woman shouted after them in a language you did not understand.

The lights and moonlight illuminated it, and for the first time you let the tears fall freely.

You thought coming to Dorne would solve your problems.

You had made a promise to distance yourself, for the better.

Yet it only left a worse ache in your chest.

You hugged your arms around yourself as the warm wind moved through the street, carrying the smell of salt from the sea.

For a moment you imagined the Red Keep rising above the cliffs instead of the sandy stone buildings of Sunspear.

You imagined the sound of Aegon’s laughter echoing through the halls.

You imagined—

Just as you wiped furiously at your tears, your breath caught and your heartbeat stuttered.

A boy with an almost completely shaved head was standing on the corner of the street. Thin and small. Almost exactly Aegon’s height.

“Egg?” you called out without thinking.

The word left your mouth before logic could stop it.

The boy turned sharply. But he did not have purple eyes and the lines of his face were completely different.

He scowled, clearly insulted by the nickname he did not understand.

“I.. I’m sorry..” you let out, though you knew the boy probably didn't understand much.

He stared at you another moment before turning away and walking down the street.

You gaped at him as he disappeared into the night. Your hands tightened in the fabric of your skirt. The ache in your chest deepened.

You clutched at your skirt and decided to go back inside.

The music hit you like a wall the moment you stepped back through the door. There you found Clarisse. A less carefree expression on her face this time.

Clearly she had given up on comforting you. When you appeared she did not acknowledge you. She merely turned her head and ignored you.

Clearly she was cross because of what you had done. Which she had every right to be in some sense.

“I'm going to the bathroom.” you shouted over the noise but none of them paid you any attention.

You pushed through the crowd and made it to thebathroom which was just as old and dingy like the rest of the place.

The tiles were cracked and the fluorescent light flickered faintly above the mirror.

You found a free stall where you sat down. It was dirty and frankly disgusting but you could not bring yourself to care. Not right now.

You pulled out your phone.

Your fingers hovered over the screen before searching for a familiar contact.

Kiera.

You doubted she would pick up.

It was what — maybe around 6am in King’s Landing?

The phone rang. And rang.

You stared at the stall door as your heartbeat pounded in your ears.

And then— “Hello?”

A groggy voice called out.

“Kiera.”

Your breath caught.

“Wh.. shit it's you.” Her voice suddenly sobered up, recognising your tone.

“Oh Kiera..”

You felt the tears come the second time. And right now you were full on sobbing.

“Oh shit.. yeah Valarr it’s—” you could hear her speak to her boyfriend over the phone.

“Hey listen to me everything is going to be okay, are you fine, are you hurt? Where are you?”

She bombarded you with questions as you heard her rise from the bed.

“I’m fine Kie… I just… I want to go home..”

It physically hurt you to say it. But once it tore from your chest you felt more free than ever.

“I can’t do this..” you whispered.

“Oh honey..” she sighed, voice more calm now knowing you were fine.

“Are you drunk?” she asked.

“No.. I pinky promise..” you laughed weakly. You had only one cocktail, which did not even count for being tipsy.

“Shit. Why did you fucking leave? I told you not to go!”

Her tone was not angry. It was more of a I told you so. And you couldn't help but laugh, feeling like yourself for the first time in a long while.

“Look we’re going to get you on a plane from Sunspear to King’s Landing just.. hang on.. it’s 6 am here, reckon you could wait one more day?”

“Yeah… but not longer..” you breathed.

She laughed. A disbelieving but free laugh.

“Seven hells… I'd love to stay and talk to you but Valarr is giving me a death glare, I have to go now, it’s like 6 am and I am severely decaffinated.”

You could practically hear her rubbing her eyes through the phone.

“Love you Kie.” You breathed before she would disappear.

“Love you too, and see you soon I guess." You could hear the smile in her voice.

The line clicked.

And suddenly the bathroom was quiet again. But the grin on your face was larger than it had ever been.

—

You were laying in your bed in your apartment in Sunspear.

It must have been around four or five in the morning.

The smoke still clung to your skin, tangled in your hair and the linen dress you had not bothered to change out of. It was a little bit dusty and stained after your night out.

You thought back to the girls you had met. Clarisse’s bitter rejection felt stale in your chest.

But none of it mattered as you lay on the cold sheets looking out at the sea. Your window was open and the curtains moved softly in the breeze.

Beyond the balcony the water stretched endlessly into the darkness, the moon painting silver lines across the waves. And somewhere beyond that sea was King's Landing.

You were going home.

The thought settled into your chest like something fragile and glowing. Like the soft quiet promise at the end of a long song.

Tomorrow you would pack your things. Tomorrow you would get on a plane.

Tomorrow—

And then as if a thing out of a dream or trance your phone dinged.

You glanced at it lazily and your heart skipped.

Daeron Targaryen. The notification clearly read.

Something wonderful perked in your chest. Your fingers moved before you could think.

But when you opened the message it was like everything had ceased to exist. Like the world had been plunged into darkness.

The screen glowed in the dim room.

Daeron Targaryen

hi, i know i have absolutely no right to be texting you but… we need you to come home, baelor has been in an accident.

And your heart dropped to your stomach.

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________________________________________________________________

You watched with wry amusement, as Maekar rolled his eyes, from across the room.

The sharp citrus smell of grapefruit wafted through the air. Your hands peeled back the tough skin, half-heartedly listening to whatever your boys were arguing about.

You lounged on a velvety loveseat, your legs drawn up underneath you. Lavish silks of black and silver pooled around you.

Your eldest, Daeron, was trying not to snap at his brother. Aerion, the younger, though not by much, was goading him. They were eight and six, respectively.

They were arguing. Because of course they were. There was hardly a moment where they were not. Childish disputes of who spoke better High Valyrian, who's turn it was to play with the dragon toy. Not serious things. But always something.

Now, they pestered each other over some game they were playing. You hadn't been paying much attention. You chewed thoughtfully, on a piece of the sour fruit, before sighing.

“...Enough,” you said gently, in the voice you reserved for only your sons. “Both of you.”

Neither boy paid you any mind. Daeron was standing rigidly by the hearth now, his cheeks flushed with offence, a wooden game piece clutched tightly in his hand.

Aerion had both hands on his hips, chin tipped up in all the unbearable arrogance only a six-year-old prince could manage.

“He cheated,” Aerion declared.

“I did not cheat,” Daeron snapped. “You changed the rules because you were losing.”

"I was not losing!" Aerion protested, his hands curling into fists.

"Liar."

You pinched the bridge of your nose.

The grapefruit sat forgotten in your lap, juice sticky against your fingers, "Sweet boys..." you tried again, your patience undying, "... Surely, you can see sense... Aerion, stop taunting your brother, and Daeron-..."

“No,” Aerion said at once, with the full force of princely outrage.

Daeron, at least, had the decency to look faintly guilty for a moment, but he only crossed his arms and looked away.

You stared at them both, in slight exhaustion. “Aerion,” you said, warning threading through your voice now.

His lower lip pushed out, "Daeron always gets his way."

"That is not true." Daeron said, hotly, "You're just a baby. You don't know anything."

"I hate you...!"

"I hated you first!"

You rubbed your temple tiredly, "...Boys--..."

"No!" The word cracked across the chamber with all the shrill indignation two children could manage.

And then, from across the room, Maekar cleared his throat, "That is quite enough."

His voice did not raise once raise his voice; he had no need to. Maekar had been seated in the oak chair by the window, one ankle over the opposite knee. As if their squabbling were no more disruptive than birdsong.

But now he straightened, broad shoulders shifting beneath dark cloth and leather, and fixed both boys with that hard, level stare that had made seasoned knights think twice.

Daeron stiffened instantly. Aerion froze. Even you felt your spine go a little straighter, a little bit pleased as he took your side.

He crossed the room in slow, measured steps. Silver-white hair caught the firelight, pale as snow. His hands, those thick, scarred hands that could wield a sword as though it weighed nothing at all, crossed over his arms, as he came to stand before the boys.

The old pockmarks and weathered scars on his face only sharpened him somehow, made him look less polished than his brothers had ever been. And he was all the more devastating for it.

You bit at your lower lip. You had been married long enough that you ought to have been immune to him. You were not.

Maekar looked first to Daeron. “Did your mother speak?”

Daeron swallowed. “Yes, Father.”

“And did you heed her?”

A pause. “...No, Father.”

Then his gaze shifted to Aerion. Your younger son was already wilting under it, chin trembling with the effort of being defiant and afraid all at once.

You had to stifle a quiet laugh. Daeron caught it and shot you a hopeful look. But he was shot down with a stern shake of your head.

“Aerion.”

A sniffle.

“Did your mother speak?” Maekar asked, voice firm, but gentle. Always so gentle with you and your little family. It had your heart squeezing.

Aerion’s eyes grew wet immediately. “Yes.”

"And did you heed her?"

His lip wobbled harder. “No.”

Maekar nodded once, sharply. “Then you will both apologize.”

Neither moved. Maekar narrowed his eyes, “Now.”

Daeron, being the sensible one when it mattered, dropped his gaze at once. “I'm sorry, mother.” He said, quietly.

He sounded sincere, if still slightly put-upon, and you offered him a small smile. “Thank you, sweetling.”

Aerion made a strangled noise of protest. Maekar's lips curled slightly, in displeasure. That was all it took for Aerion to burst into tears.

Not the dramatic howling of true injury, but the offended and wounded sobs of a child who had been told he was wrong and found it deeply unjust.

His face crumpled in an instant, and then he was moving, straight for you, boots scuffling against the stone.

".... Mama...!" He collided with your knees and buried himself in the silks pooled in your lap, fists clutching at your skirts as if the world had ended.

You bit back a laugh and stroked a hand over his silver hair. “Oh, sweet boy.”

"He is mean to me." Aerion wept into your gown, though whether he meant Daeron or Maekar was anyone’s guess.

Daeron rolled his eyes. “He always does this. It's ridiculous.”

“Daeron,” Maekar warned, but there was a thread of amusement in it now. Your eldest sighed with all the exhaustion of a man thrice his age.

Maekar crouched then, bringing himself level with both boys.

The sternness in him remained, but it softened at the edges. He reached out, resting one hand on Daeron’s shoulder, the other briefly smoothing Aerion’s hair where he hid against you.

“You will not speak over your mother. Ever,” he said, quiet and firm. “Either of you.”

Daeron nodded at once. Aerion hiccupped into your skirts.

Maekar’s mouth twitched, just barely. “You will not ignore her when she gives you instruction. You will not take that tone with her.”

His eyes lifted to Daeron. “Do you understand?”

“Yes, Father.”

Then to the damp little bundle attached to your lap. “Aerion.” Another sniffle. Maekar waited.

Slowly, Aerion turned his face enough to peek out, lashes wet and lips pouted.

“Do you understand?”

“Yes,” he mumbled.

“Good.” Maekar’s thumb brushed once over Aerion’s temple, surprisingly tender for such a severe-looking man. “Your mother is to be treated with respect. Always. She is kind to you. You will be kind to her.”

Something warm bloomed low in your chest. He said it so simply. As if it were obvious. That the whole world ought to know what he knew... That you were to be cherished and listened to.

Maekar had always been like that. He did not tolerate disrespect towards you. Whether it be from some silk-tongued lord who thought your softness meant weakness.

Or here, in the nursery, when your sons grew too comfortable in the safety of your love.

He never made a grand display of it. Never raged for the sake of being seen raging. Maekar was often stern, and sometimes moody. But he was not an angry man.

He always stepped in, always by your side. And gods, if that didn't make you feel like having ten more children...

You watched him there, crouched before your sons, firelight catching in the pale strands of his hair.

Watched the broad span of his shoulders strain the fabric of his tunic. The scarred planes of his face, roughened and imperfect and somehow all the more handsome for it.

The heavy hands that could command armies, now tucking a loose curl behind Aerion’s ear.

Daeron was mumbling something now, probably about fairness or idiot little brothers, but you scarcely heard him.

Maekar rose again, towering over all of you, and handed the wooden piece to Daeron. He gave his son a soft pat on the head.

Then Maekar looked at you.

Just a glance. But it was enough to make heat curl through you. You smiled up at him, softer than before. “Thank you, husband.”

His expression shifted almost imperceptibly. Less stern. More private.

“Mm.” Not much of a reply. But you knew him well enough to hear the affection in it. He bent and pressed a kiss to the crown of your head.

Aerion, still draped dramatically across your lap, immediately made a sound. “Me too.”

Maekar snorted.

But he obliged, leaning to press a kiss to Aerion’s hair as well. Then, after the briefest hesitation, he did the same to Daeron, who pretended not to care and failed miserably.

And just as quickly as it had started, the battle was over.

Aerion stopped sobbing the instant he was sufficiently comforted. Daeron resumed acting long-suffering. The grapefruit remained forgotten.

And you? You spent the rest of the evening looking at your husband as if you had never properly seen him before.

________________________________________________________________

That night, your chambers were quiet save for the soft crackle of the hearth.

The boys had long since been put to bed, bathed and kissed and tucked beneath warm furs (after a final round of arguments over whether dragons preferred sheep or maidens, naturally). The castle had settled into its midnight hush.

You sat before the mirror while a maid unpinned the last of your hair, until at last you dismissed her and finished the rest yourself.

Across the room, Maekar was stripping off his outer layers with efficient, unceremonious movements.

Each piece discarded with maddening indifference. You watched him in the mirror.

He caught your gaze there, just briefly, and one brow raised, "... What? Are you displeased with me?"

"No. It's nothing." You said, far too quickly, "The boys were very sweet tonight."

He sighed, begrudgingly amused. Maekar crossed the room to stand behind you, his hands resting lightly on your shoulders.

"They were tolerable." He hummed, kissing the top of your head.

You laughed, "They are children."

“They are your children,” he corrected, as though that explained everything.

“My children?” You turned on the stool to face him. “And whose fault is that?”

A rare, dry huff of amusement escaped him. You rose to your feet and brought your hands up to his strong chest. His hands moved to cover yours, and you tried to not notice the way they were thick, and calloused.

If you had less restraint, you might have drooled.

"... I was thinking..." You hummed, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

That alone should have warned him. But he seemed oblivious. "Aren't you always?" Maekar mused, grabbing your chin gently, so he might capture your lips in a slow kiss.

Your mouth met his, eagerly. And maybe, a little hungrily. You broke away after a moment, relishing in the way his lips chased yours.

"Perhaps. But I'm being serious, Maekar."

"Are you?"

You shot him an amused glare. One of your hands slipped into his, and you tugged him towards the bed.

You moved to fold back the coverlets, “The boys are getting older.”

"So they are." He agreed, taking the heavy blankets from your hands. He adjusted them for you with unnecessary care, smoothing the embroidered edge

You smiled, quite pleased, "They're sweet things. We make cute children."

He glanced back at you, unsure where you were going with the conversation, "... I suppose-..."

"And they are very clever."

“Daeron is clever,” Maekar said. “Aerion is… loud.”

You bit back a huff. “Aerion is clever too.”

“He uses it for evil.”

You laughed again, and when you glanced at him, he was looking at you now. Really looking, as if trying to predict your next words. Though still with maddening calm.

You moved closer. “So,” you said, voice airy, “I thought perhaps… it might be nice to have another.”

Maekar hummed, considering your words. His hands found your hips, and he tugged you closer.

Then he nodded simply, "If that is what you wish. You know I'd never oppose you."

You stared, tracing patterns into his shoulder, "Is that all you have to say?"

He frowned faintly, clearly uncertain what answer he had failed to provide. “We have room.”

You could have thrown a pillow at him.

“Room.” You echoed.

“In the nursery.” He nodded, sitting on the bed now.

You stepped between his knees where he sat at the bedside, your loose night-robe whispering over the floor.

One of his hands slipped inside your robe, settling at your waist. Maekar thumbed over stretch marks from your previous pregnancy, with a sort of admiration.

The other found your waist and pulled you closer. That alone nearly undid you.

"Maekar." You pouted, though you knew it was childish.

"Hm? Tell me." He sighed, his head pressing into your abdomen with a certain reverence.

"I do not mean within a year," your hands smoothed his hair, his locks silky and soft, "I do not mean eventually."

You leaned in, close enough to smell the clean soap on his skin, the faint smokey scent that seemed to belong to him no matter how often he bathed.

"Then what do you mean?" Maekar asked, "I cannot read your mind. As much as I would like to."

You closed your eyes for one brief, exasperated moment. Then you opened them, looked directly into his, and said, very clearly, “I want another baby, please. Right now. Or I think I shall die.”

The corner of his mouth twitched.

"Do not smirk at me,” you muttered, though there was no real bite in it. “I have been trying to seduce you for the better part of an hour.”

“You were?” he asked, with such maddening sincerity that you could only gape.

“Maekar.”

His hands slid higher on your waist, warm and heavy, spanning nearly the whole of you. “Wife.”

"Stop your teasing. It is not helping me." You demanded.

That finally earned you a real smile. Small and crooked. Rare enough to feel like a private gift, just for you. It softened the harsh lines of his scarred face.

Gods. You truly might have ten more.

"You should speak more plainly for what you wish." Maekar teased, pressing kisses down the inside of your wrist.

"Yes, well..." You scoffed, with all the dignity you could manage while standing half-undressed between your husband’s knees. “I was not speaking plainly. I was being alluring.”

He looked over you then.

From your face to the loose fall of your robe, and lower still where the silk gaped just enough to show the curve of your leg.

The look in his eyes changed. Heat pooled low in your belly so quickly it nearly made you sway.

His hands tightened on your hips, pulling you a fraction closer until your knees nudged the bedframe. “You should have said so sooner.”

“I should not have had to.” You tipped your chin up. “A woman likes to think her husband notices when she is nearly climbing him like a tree.”

"Forgive me, wife." Maekar hummed, thumbs brushed slowly over your sides beneath the robe, soothing and warm.

His gaze dropped, briefly, to where his hand rested over the softness of your stomach. When he spoke again, his voice was low.

“You say it lightly,” he murmured, “but it is not a small thing.”

You knew that look. Knew the quiet caution that sometimes overtook him when the subject turned to your body, your pregnancies, and the dangers that came with them. Maekar was not a man given easily to worry... but he had worried over you.

Your chest ached with tenderness. Of course he would think first of that. Of you. Even now.

You reached up, cupping his face in both hands, your thumbs brushing over the familiar roughness of old pockmarks and scars. They were beloved to you, every line of him.

“I know,” you said softly. “I know, my love.”

His eyes lifted to yours.

“I would never ask it of you carelessly,” you continued. “And I would never give it if I did not truly want it.”

Something in him eased then, though not fully. It never fully would. That, too, was love.

“I was watching you tonight,” you confessed, voice going smaller, more intimate. “With the boys.”

Maekar’s expression shifted, curious.

“The way you stood up for me.” Your fingers drifted into his silver-white hair, smoothing it back from his brow. “The way you always do.”

A flush of warmth spread through you again, only this one was slower, deeper.

“You looked so handsome I could scarcely think.” You smiled, embarrassed and fond all at once. “All I could see was your hair in the firelight, and those hands, and that stern face… and I thought-...”

His hand came up, covering yours where it rested against his cheek. “What did you think?” he asked, though by the glint in his gaze, he likely knew.

You leaned down until your forehead touched his, "That I would very much like you to give me another baby.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, considering your words. When he opened his eyes again, there was nothing uncertain in them now. Only affection. Hunger, yes, but wrapped tight in tenderness.

"If you are certain... truly certain..."

"I am."

Maekar let out a huff of laughter through his nose, "... Very well."

He searched your face one last time, as though he might still find some hidden hesitation there. Whatever he saw must have satisfied him, because his shoulders loosened, and his thumb stroked once over your hip.

Then, with no warning at all, he rose.

You gave a little startled gasp as he stood to his full height and swept you up with him as though you weighed no more than one of your silken blankets.

Your legs wrapped around his waist, "Maekar-...!" You cried, delighted.

He set you down in the middle of the bed, carefully. The mattress dipped beneath his weight as he climbed after you, caging you in without ever making you feel trapped.

Your robe had fallen open somewhere in the motion. His eyes flickered downward, then back to your face, as if even now he would ask permission before taking what had always been his.

You reached for him first. Your fingers curled into his chest, tugging him down until his mouth met yours.

It was the kind of kiss built from years. From arguments soothed and hands held. From being known, entirely, and cherished still.

You sighed into him when his hand slid to cradle the back of your head.

His mouth softened against yours. “My sweet wife,” he murmured, kissing the corner of your lips, your cheek, the tip of your nose. “You need only ask. I'd give you everything of mine, and more.”

Maekar kissed you again, needy and lingering. His large hand splayed protectively over your waist.

"Good." You whispered.

And when he drew you closer, settling you beneath him like something precious, you only smiled against his lips.

Very glad, indeed, for your husband.

Kayden grumbled in his sleep. His arm stretched out further, laying across you. His hand then curled, grabbing you side and pulling you in closer. There was a rumble of thunder outside at the same time. Well, everyone in town had been gossiping all week about a huge storm coming. Maybe that was it.

Your thoughts of rain and thunder distracted you long enough for Kayden to strike. He rubbed his face between your breasts, grabbing you in a tight embrace. He moaned, breathing in and letting out a snarl.

“I want it.”

“Kayden!” You gasped, unsure if you should fight or see what he was doing. “Good morning.” You pet the top of his head, running your hands through his soft hair.

He growled low again and it tickled your sternum. “I want it,” he drawled again.

“It sounds like we won’t be working in the garden at school today.” You let out a nervous chuckle. “You can sleep in if you want.”

Kayden’s head zipped down, disappearing under the quilt.

“Kayden?” You lifted the quilt to peek under. Kayden was kissing your belly, your thighs. He breathed against the front of your panties.

“Oh!” You flopped back against the bed, biting back a smug smirk. “Okay, uhm…I don’t know how active I’ll be in the morning but I am-” Your voice drifted off as Kayden’s warm tongue lapped against the fabric of your panties. You could feel his breath, a tinge of wetness. You swallowed back that throbbing of your heart and tried to catch a deep breath.

“Th-that feel since,” you giggled girlishly. “But we have to get ready for uhm…for uh…work!”

Kayden moved aside your panties, licking your folds directly. He wasn’t concerned about work or much else. He moaned against you, pressing in deeper so his tongue parted the soft flesh.

“Kayden,” you began to really lose your breath.

He kissed and growled, finding your clit to focus all his attention upon.

You closed your eyes, throwing our head back as the wolf under the blanket began to feast at your red riding hood. 

Lightening flashed right outside the window of the A frame with thunder booming soon after. You jolted, snapping your thighs tight around Kayden’s head.

“Ow!” He said in a laugh.

“Sorry!” You smashed yourself back down into the bed, releasing him. “I don’t like storms.”

Another laugh emanated from under the quilt.

“You think that’s funny? It’s not! Not for me anyways. I get really scared. Like, panicked even.” You pouted. “When I was a kid I would hide in my mom’s closet and wrap myself up in her winter coat to try and block the sounds out.”

Kayden’s head popped out from under the blanket. “I don’t think that’s funny.”

You frowned ta him.

“I don’t,” he was tempted to chuckle, but didn’t. “What scares you so bad? Is it the loud noise?”

“Kind of. I don’t like much of it at all.”

His head tilted, and some of his chestnut curls popped out from under the quilt. “How come?”

“Lightning struck my childhood home,” you confessed. “It hit the roof and it caught on fire. My dad was trying to put it out and he fell off the roof. Then my grandpa hurt his leg trying to help my dad. It was…it was a really stressful night…morning…week.”

His expression went soft. “That is scary.”

“I know people like storms, and it may be silly to be so scared of it all at my age, but I can still remember that night like it happened yesterday. My grandma wasn’t sure what to do so she put me and my brother in her car while my mom tried to cover dad up from the rain while we waited for the ambulance.” You frowned, looking up at the ceiling. “I hated that car. It smelled like cigarettes and White Diamond perfume, and the old car seat grandma had pinched my legs. And she always had Elvis playing in it. I hated Elvis too. Sometimes when it storms, I can still smell her ash tray overflowing in the car. That’s why I would always hide in mom’s closet, to smell her and not cigarettes with White Diamonds.”

Shaking your head you scoff. “Mom and Dad laugh about it now. It makes me mad when they do. It was so scary for me, I thought it was for them too.”

“How about you stay with me then?”

I cut my eyes back to Kayden’s face, his head covered by the quilt. “I’ll take care of you during this big storm. I’ll make sure you don’t get scared, or smell cigarettes.” His fingers were inside you, pressing against that most sensitive of spots. “I’ll distract you from it. Even if the power goes out, I’ll make sure you’re comfortable and calm. I bet I could even make you like storms.”

You whimpered, shutting your eyes tight and biting your bottom lip. Damn him and his long, strong fingers. “Hey…what about…it’s early.” You were having a hard time collecting your thoughts.

He laughed seductively, moaning into your ear. “That’s my good girl. You get so wet for me.” His fingers were the ones making the magic happen, his voice happened to be the overkill.

Your teeth released your bottom lip and you let out a sigh. Kayden licked your lips then bit the tip of your ear. “I want you so fucking bad.” His deep voice growled against your skin, vibrating down to your core.

Thunder rattled the windows and you locked yourself tightly around Kayden. Your thighs trapped his hand and your hands clutched tight onto his arms.

“Aw, my poor girl.” He kissed and nibbled your neck. “There’s nothing to worry about while I’m here.” He growled into your ear. His arm bulged under your grasp, becoming furrier, thicker. “I’m going to protect you. I promise.”

You whimpered, burying your face into the curve of his now fluffy neck.

His warm body pressed against you. He was wrapped around you like your mom’s wool, winter coat. Heavy, a little scratch, but ultimately warm and inviting. 

“What’s scarier, huh?” He kissed your cheek, pressing his cold nose to you temple. “Me? Or that silly storm?”

You opened your eyes, gazing up at the mighty wolf above you. “Don’t tease me.”

“But it’s fun.” He opened my thighs again, settling himself between him. He laid his cock against your thigh and pushed up your shirt. “I like to make you pout.”

You took that very look off your face. 

Laughing, Kayden slowly moved into position. “The way this storm is going, I’ve got all weekend to tease you.” He arched his hips, placing the tip of his cock at your folds. “How lucky am I?”

He pressed inside slowly, filling you until the knot pressed firmly against you. A sigh escaped your lips and you moved your hands up his back. You would get used to this soon right? You’d get used to the werewolf? The pleasure? You hoped not, but maybe one day you wouldn’t get so flustered every time.

The thunder faded away, leaving only the patter of rain behind. Everything was calm and covered in fog. The world hadn’t started yet. The morning rain had made time freeze. But inside the A frame, everything was moving very quickly. Kayden’s deep thrusts, his growing growls. You were pushed back into the pillows, your moans growing louder.

“Take it! Take it!” Kayden said through gnashed teeth.

There was a pop, a stillness. Kayden was silent as he held his breath tight in his chest. The knot was inside you, firm, tight, almost pushing you over the edge. One more hard thrust and you could topple over.

Kayden laughed as he pushed aside pillows. “Fuck, you’re perfect. You take my cock and knot like they were made for you. I’m proud of you.” He licked his teeth as he gazed down upon you. “Are you gonna be even better and come for me?”

Why did he always want to talk at these moments? You were a blushing, wheezing mess, yet he could be moments away from nutting and still dirty talk you like he wasn’t even the least bit flustered.

“I’ll give you a present,” He stroked your cheek. “I love how flushed you get. Rosy cheeks and your pussy.” His laugh snapped you out of it for a moment.

“Sssshhhh!” You managed to hiss out.

His fluffy ears perked up. “Oh? What’s that?” he leaned down. “You finally got the nerve to say something while I’m inside you?” He rut his hips, circling them so he pressed against your walls. 

“Muh-maybe you ssshhhh-should stop talking,” you whimpered.

His smirk grew and his ears slicked back. “You found your voice!” he was teasing you now. “I want you to use it while I make you come.” He thrust in deeper, pressing before pulling back and thrusting in again. Something about the knot made everything that more intense. It pressed against everything good, making every motion of his body ripple through your like an electric current. 

“That’s it. It’s all over your face,” he snarled. “Talk to me. Open those lips for me. I want to hear your voice! Come for me. Come for me!”

What did you say as the orgasm erupted in your body? You weren’t sure, but there was a certain reaction on Kayden’s face as you screamed it. You weren’t able to process it, everything went to white, hot light as you came. Your body tensed, relaxed, and your lashes fluttered. You melted into the bed, panting for breath as Kayden stilled above you.

“That’s it,” he whispered, petting your chest. “Take me.” He slowly moved aside, laying back down upon the bed beside you.

You rolled over to cuddle him, but he was strangely still and quiet. His eyes were focused upon the ceiling. Beyond the ceiling actually, it was like he was staring through it and into the sky, through the sky even. 

 “Is something wrong?” You asked.

“Hm? No.” He turned his head away. “Just listening to the rain. That’s all.”

You pouted. He was usually so cuddly and snuggly after sex. He seemed a bit distant now. You rested your head on his chest, closing your eyes to also hear the pitter patter of rain. What did you say? You know you said something but everything was pushed out with the climax.

Kayden sat up. “We should get ready for work though. I can’t believe how late it got.”

“I told you!” Your legs wobbled as you got out of bed.

At school, the kids were obviously disappointed that the rain had canceled gardening day. Instead, you had them draw what their own ideal gardens would look like. 

“You can make them all flowers, vegetables, giant berry bushes! Whatever you would like,” you told them. “Imagine growing up and planting one behind your house.”

“My dad said no one can afford a whole house,” one child chimed in.

“Uh-” You were stunned, unsure how to respond. 

“He said we’re lucky Mrs. Locklear gives us a good deal.”

“Mr. Billy lets my mom pay in cookies sometimes,” another kid added to the conversation.

How the hell was I going to get out of this? “Imagine you can buy a house!” You laughed, desperate. “You can do anything with your imagination.”

“My mom does! She writes books!” A little girl cheered excitedly.

“See?” You hoped to get off the topic of the crumbling infrastructure and the bleak outlook of housing. “You can do anything you imagine!”

“I can’t fly!” A kid screamed as there was a knock on the door.

The door opened and Kayden stepped in, thank goodness. Hopefully this would redirect the kids’ minds.

 “Here about the leak.” He dragged in his toolkit with him. All the kids waved and welcomed him into the room.

“What’s up little people?” He mumbled.

You motioned to the window. “Over here. It’s leaking pretty bad.”

“Oh yeah, this is the only classroom left with the old windows,” he continued to barely speak up. “Shouldn’t be a problem. They’ll probably replace these over the summer. But I’ll get the leak under control.”

“Thanks.” You smiled and he looked as though he was blushing.

“Okay kids, let's put down our things for a minute,” you called out. “It’s time for snacks.” You rolled out the prepared snack tray. You picked up one of the metal pans that held the snacks and started delivering them to the kids.

“Mr. Kayden, would you like one?” You offered sweetly. It was the last paper bowl on the tray. It would have been yours, but you thought Kayden would need it more. “We have orange slices and  carrots because orange is the color of the day.” You set the empty baking sheet down to take the snack to him.

He took your offering. “Thanks, teacher.” Even in front of the kids he wasn’t going to smile. “The snack from this morning is wearing off.”

I glared at him, giving him a warning. “Shh!” I hissed.

He licked his lips before biting into a baby carrot.

“We also have mango juice for-”

Thunder as loud as it could possibly be rang out through the classroom. You screamed, grabbing ahold of your ears to cover them. This caused a knee jerk reaction from all your students. Dozens of little eyes stared at you. One student held the baking sheet, having dropped it on the ground which caused the loud, thunder-like noise.

“Pfft-”

Your eyes darted to Kayden.

His face was red, his eyes shining. He was biting down on his lip so he didn’t laugh. Puffs of air escaped his nose, a smile spread as you stared at him. The kids all started to giggle. Kayden laughed.

He laughed.

Julian came into the room with the cups. “Is everything okay in here? I heard a scream.” he looked concerned, just like Kayden should have.

“Yeah! Fine!” You gave Kayden a terrified but angry look before turning and heading over to Julian. “Just got startled is all. I’m not a fan of storms.” You admitted under your breath to him.

“Looks like you’re headed for an unhappy weekend then,” Julian chuckled. “Supposed to be big thunderstorms all week.”

“Yeah, I know.”

Julian tilted his head. “You sure you’re okay.”

Your brow was pinched as you took the cups. “Yeah. I’ll be okay. I just need to distract myself.” 

You kept your back turned to Kayden as you couldn’t stand the sight of him now. You poured juice, accidentally spilling some as your hands were shaking.

Why would he laugh at you? Especially after you told him how badly storms scared you. You could still vividly remember that night as a child. The sound of your dad falling off the roof, his small, quick yell. Your grandfather screaming just out the front door. Your mom panicked, your grandma lifting you up into her arms and her bulky, flowery necklace poking you in the face.

“Here, let me do that.” Julian took over pouring the juice for you, as your hands were still shaking.

“Thanks.”

“No problem. Do you want to take an early lunch? I can handle things from here.” He gave you a reassuring smile. “We’re drawing gardens right? Maybe I could read them some Amelia Bedelia.”

“Yeah. Okay. Thanks.” You wiped your hands off on your smock. “I think I’ll do that. And the kids will love that.”

Despite Kayden being in your classroom most of the day, you did everything in your power to ignore him. The more you saw him, the angrier you got. The longer the day went on, the more you over thought, and his laugh pierced you like a knife. Everytime you caught a glimpse of him or even heard him working on the window, that laugh stabbed at you again. If he would laugh at you over that, what else would he laugh at? Would he laugh every time your period cramps got too bad? Would he laugh when you cried during movies? Would he laugh if you got hit by a car? 

Things spiraled into your mind until you had no other choice than to be angry with him. You’d stay angry forever!

At the end of the day, you were finishing up cleaning for the weekend when Kayden popped his head into the door.

“Wanna go get some food, babe?”

You remained quiet, brow pinched. Babe! Ha! He had the nerve to call you that. By this point, you had thought too much, it was too late for him.

He walked into the room, hands shoved into the pockets of his coveralls. “I was thinking we could pick up a few snacks too, get settled in for the stormy weekend.”

“I think I’ll just go home,” you pouted.

Kayden's lips slightly parted. “Oh…okay.”

You slammed papers down upon the desk to even them out. “I don’t want to get laughed at all weekend.” You set the stack of paper into a basket.

His brows raised and his hands slipped from his pockets. “Laughed at?” His face was blank for a brief moment before he remembered, but I was already heading for the door.

“Wait!”

“Sorry, I’m busy.” You hurry down the hallway, unsure if he is chasing you or not. It didn’t matter, you were too mad to talk to him anyways. You were stopped in your tracks as you went to step outside. It was raining still, everything was wet and muddy. 

“You came with me. Let me take you home at least!”

You stormed outside, using your smock to cover your head.

“Are you crazy?” Kayden snapped.

“You’ll see crazy if you keep following me!” You snapped back at him.

He stared, jaw slack, eyes wide. “What?”

Maybe it was a bit dramatic to run out into the rain like that. You didn’t have your car, and by the time you got to your apartment, you were soaked to the bone. You sat at your kitchen table, wrapped in a robe and blanket while you stared into your cup waiting for the tea to steep.

It wasn’t funny to you. Why would he laugh like he did? You just told him how frightened you were of storms, of the loud thunder. Whatever excuse he had, you didn’t want to hear it, so your phone was off.

So much for protecting you over the weekend.

You glanced through the kitchen window, watching the deluge come down. The small awning over the back porch was sagging with the heavy weight of all that rain. Gray water poured down, hitting the earth with a splattering, sputtering sound that was surely kicking up dirt and grass.

“I should talk to Mrs. Locklear about that,” you grumbled. You lifted up the cup of tea to take a sip when there was a low, ominous rumbling in the distance. Your hands clinched tight around the mug, you shoulders tensed, and you eyes flicked back out to the window.

“One…two…three…” You slowly began counting down until you saw lightning. But it never flashed, so you breathed a sigh of relief. “Still far off.” You drank some tea and grimaced. “Bitter.”

Leaving the cup behind, you got up and went to the bedroom, throwing yourself down upon the bed. Sprawled out, you took in a deep breath and closed your eyes. That morning had been so nice. Waking up to Kayden cuddled up on you, his beautiful hair, his long eyelashes. Why did it have to get ruined? Why did this storm have to interrupt it at all and change everything?

Why did he laugh?

You sighed loudly, dramatically. Rolling over onto your side, you glared at the wall across from you. Maybe you should talk to him. Maybe he did have something to say to excuse his laugh.

Thunder rumbled again and your eyes cut over to the shut curtains.

Sitting up, you went back into the kitchen, picking up your turned off phone from the table. You looked at it, wondering if you wanted to see how many times he had called or how many texts he sent. You didn’t want excuses though. Him trying to talk his way out of it was only going to annoy you more. Maybe that’s what you wanted though, to have reason to stay mad at him.

He laughed at you! Stay mad!

You turned on the phone, watching the loading screen twinkle and chime before it went to the wallpaper and clock. Nothing popped up at first.

You were about to get mad at that.

“I’m sorry.” The text appeared, alone, singular, nothing else.

Your mouth hung open. “That’s it?” You unlocked your phone to make sure that wasn’t all. One phone call. Two texts.

“Please tell me you got home safe. I’ll leave you alone after that.”

“I’m sorry.”

That was all? Were you impressed or were you about to erupt?

“I’m home.” Was all you texted.

Then you waited. You stared at your phone clutched tightly in you hand. What if he tapped at your window then? Had he been watching you all that time? He better not be pulling an Edward Cullen!

Your phone chimed as the thoughts began to spiral again. “I’m glad. I was worried.”

“Glad? You’re glad?” You snapped at the phone. Another chime stopped you from turning your phone off again.

“It’s supposed to get bad tonight. I want you make sure you’re going to be okay.”

“How dare you care about me? You care now? Not when I was actually scared?” You snarled at the phone. “Damn him,” you muttered.

“Can I send you take out?”

“Fuck you!” You snapped at the phone. “Stop being nice! I want to stay mad.” Tears welled up and you sniffled. “Stop ignoring it.” You sat back down at the table, staring at his kind offer to get you food. He knew you hadn’t gone shopping yet, you both were going to do that Sunday. That had been the plan. The Food Rainbow always had the best sells on Sunday, and if you beat the church crowd it was bliss.

“You like the Pho at Charlie’s Garden, right?”

Stop it.

“Maybe the bagel basket as Cthulu Brew.”

“Are you trying to apologize?” You typed. You deleted it and typed something else out before deleting that. “Do you know why you’re apologizing?” You hit send, but you instantly regretted it.

“I sound like a fucking nag!” You whimpered, standing back up again.

“I laughed.”

Yeah you fucking laughed! You traitor!

“I’m sorry. It startled me and I laughed as a reflex.”

No forgiveness, or else that dramatic running away you did was even more ridiculous by context.

“You know how scared I get.”

“I know. It wasn’t a good look.”

Good look! Ha! It was hideous, disgusting, monstrous. Liek his werewolf form had rolled around in poop and mud.

No. Stop. That wasn’t kind either.

“I’ll send you food.”

Stop trying to take care of me, you thought.

“Another boar? How about a deer?”

Stop trying to make jokes! 

“I’ll be fine. I just need to cool off.”

“I understand.”

You pouted, setting your phone down and walking over to the back door. The rain was still coming down, the waterfall from the awning was somehow worse. Your eyes flicked up, noticing what looked like a screw ont he awning frame coming loose. You squinted your eyes, stepping closer to the glass of the door. The awning came apart, falling downa nd breaking a window pane. All that rain water came down at once, flooding the porch and seeping in through the back door and sloshing through the broken window. 

You yelped, jumping into action by trying to block the door with the towel wrapped around your hair. But there was so much pouring in at once, the old door couldn’t hold it back. You ran and grabbed more towels from the bathroom, shoving them around the door and floor. You then worked on cleaning up the shatter glass, but it had exploded all through the kitchen.

Thunder rumbled again amongst all this panic, but this time, lightning flashed near by.

“Fuck.” You grabbed you phone and made a hurried search on how to temporarily repair a broken window. You scurried through the kitchen, barefoot, to find some duct tape and anything waterproof. You stepped on glass and right as you were stopping to look, the power went off.

You whimpered, ready to break down in tears.

You hobbled to the bathroom though, managing to light the candle there and use your phone to check the damage. The piece of glass was hard to find against all the blood. It hurt to touch and you wondered if you would have to get the foot removed. You kept blood from flooding the wound and you managed to get out the shard of glass.

Thunder boomed and you screamed, falling into the tub where you curled up there. You gathered up your courage to put a bandaid on your foot, then you hunted for a pair of socks to cover it. Your room was extra dark, and even with the phone flashlight it was hard to search the drawers.

Again, thunder roared, ripping through you, tearing apart your nervous system. You don’t remember flinging yourself into your closet, but as you curled up in the far corner, you realized it wasn’t as good as your mother’s closet. The smell wasn’t there, her lingering scent of laundry detergent and vanilla musk. You sniffled, covering your head with the bridesmaid gown you wore for a college friend’s wedding.

“It’s okay,” you tried to assure yourself. “It’s okay. You’re going to be fine.”

The bright flash of lightning made you cower back into the closet. You wrapped the skirt around your head again.

“It stinks in here,” you grumbled.

“Where are you?” The voice came from the front, muffled by clothes wrapped around your head. “Oh my god…hey!” Kayden called out your name, sounding panicked. “Where are you?”

“Here!” You started to full on sob in the closet, sobbing into that bridesmaid gown and a pair of old jeans.

There was a good scent now, a warm scent. “It’s okay,” he said gently as he knelt down in the closet before you. 

You wanted to see him, but you were frozen in place as you sobbed.

“I was going to leave the food outside but I smelled blood and I…sorry. I just barged in.” He murmured.

“It’s okay,” You shuddered through sobs.

“I saw the kitchen. Let me go patch that up okay? I have some old tarp in my car I can use.” He started to stand up, hesitating before leaving.

You wanted him to stay, you wanted to follow him, but thunder once again broke what little calm you gathered and you shoved yourself back into that corner. You listened for Kayden as he worked in the kitchen. After a while, he came back to the closet. 

“Want to come out?” His hand reached out, touching your knee. “Or do you want me to go?”

“Please stay,” you whimpered.

“Then can you come out?”

You slowly unwrapped the jeans from around your ears, seeing him for the first time. You took his hand, crawling out from the closet with him. He picked you up, carrying you to the bed where you wrapped you up in blankets.

“I’ll go get the food.”

You nodded, blinking tears from your eyes.

He smiled at you, kissing the top of your head. “I’m sorry I find you cute right now.”

You flicked him a dirty look, but you couldn’t hold it. Instead your pouted. “What food did you bring?”

“I wasn’t sure. I got you noodles, dumplings, and bagels.”

You sniffled. “You’re trying too hard.”

He chuckled. “Maybe I am.” He left, vanishing briefly before he came back with three bags. “What do you want to start with?”

“Noodles,” you were still pouting.

Kayden sat down on the bed beside you, taking out a container and opening it for you. The noodles smelled wonderful, garlicky, tangy, and exactly what you needed. Your grandmother always made noodles when you had a bad day.

“Once the rain lets up, I’ll fix that leak in your door. I’m sure Mrs. Locklear will get the window replaced real quick. But until then, we should stay at my place.” Kayden said trying to be of comfort.

“I’m not going out there,” you said between bites.

He chuckled. “I know. Not tonight. But I’ll stay here tonight. I’ll sleep on the couch if you want me to.”

“No. You can sleep here.”

“I am really sorry I hurt your feelings,” he replied. “I didn’t realize what had happened until it was too late. Then I thought I could ignore it and hoped you would forget.” he shook his head. “I guess I was hoping for an easy fix.”

“You made me think that this morning as all for nothing,” you grumbled. “I don’t tell people I’m scared of storms because they do laugh like that.”

Kayden’s beautiful eyes fell apologetically on me. “I know.”

You offered him the container and he took it, eating noodles while you opened up another containing the spicy pho.

In the morning, you woke to the sound of gentle rain and small beams of light coming through the curtains. You sat up, rubbing your eyes. They were puffy and sore from crying. You sighed with relief that the storm had passed. You never thought you’d fall asleep last night, but having Kayden there helped.

Kayden!

You sat up, looking around for him. He wasn’t in bed, and it seemed the power was still out. You got out of bed, walking through the quiet. It was always so strange how quiet it was without any power.

You stepped into the kitchen, seeing Kayden had taped up a panel of tarp both inside and outside of the broken window. The towels had been cleaned up as well, and there was only one around the bottom. Your phone was still on the table so you picked it up.

“Went to get us breakfast. Hopefully power isn’t out in town.” The text on screen read.

You sighed with relief as you made yourself comfortable at the table. “How does town look?” You asked.

It took a bit, but he responded. “Sorry, I’ll be a bit. There were a couple of trees down on the way in so I stopped to help.”

“That’s okay. I was mainly worried when I didn’t see you this morning.”

“Not mad at me anymore?”

You pursed your lips. “Don’t push your luck buddy.” You set your phone down to inspect the fridge. Maybe you had some cold brew left over you could have to tide you over until Kayden got back home. There were some chimes behind you as you took out the bottle.

You added caramel sauce and creamer, then sat down to inspect the texts.

“I can’t wait to get back and make you cum.”

You nearly spit out your drink.

“I’m going to knot you all day, baby.”

“To make up for those tears I’m going to make you cry out my name.”

Then there was a picture of the bulge in his jeans.

You gulped down your coffee and typed a reply. “You’re crazy.”

“Let me be corny and say it’s all for you.”

You bit down on your lip, wondering if you should even reply to that. Your eyes darted around as you tried to plot out a coherent reply.

“There’s a line around the block at Cthulu Brew. It’s one of the few places open.” Kayden replied, sounding less lewd.

“You don’t have to wait if you don’t want to. I’m sure the power will come back on soon. I still have some cold brew if you want it.”

“I want you more than anything.”

There it goes again! How do you reply? You’ve never really sexted before. At least, not with someone who wasn’t long distance. Kayden was right there! Why sext when you could just, you know, actually sex?

“I want to tease that pretty little pussy of yours.”

Your whole head warmed up at once. Who knows how red you got with just that one suggestive sentence. “You’re going to be at the window soon!”

“No too soon. I’ve got time to metaphorically fool around. I want you to be dripping wet by the time I get home.”

He’s not fooling around! “Don’t tease me.”

“I’m serious about this teasing.”

You pouted. “I don’t know what to say,” you texted.

“What do you want me to do to you?”

Everything was warm, steamy. It was humid, but also, just thinking about all the things Kaydenb did to you got your warm under the collar.

“Do you want to touch my cock?”

You bit your lip a little more.

“Do you want to feel me in your throat again?”

Yes. No! He couldn’t read your mind could he. You’d barely ever given oral, but Kayden’s cock always seemed to be begging for it. The glistening tip was so nice on your tongue, even better as it started to press at your throat. You pinched your thighs together.

“Talk to me.”

You released your lip from your teeth and ran your tongue over it. “Will you be a werewolf for me?”

“Of course. Is that what you like?”

“Yeah.”

“Come on now, baby. Tell me what you want.”

You thought about the previous morning, how he snuck under the covers, how his hard sex pressed into your thigh. “ I want-” you typed out and hesitated. “I want-” you said out loud as you tried to get the words out. You then messaged him your reply.

“I want you to call me a good girl.”

“You like that huh?”

“I want you to massage me, rub me all over. Tease me.”

“With this?”

He sent a picture of him sitting in his car, his jeans unzipped and cock exposed.

“You’re in public!” You fuss.

“No one is around.”

You frowned, but your eyes kept focusing on his hard, thick cock. Your mind went blurry, remembering how good it felt inside. Throbbing. Pulsing. Filling you with heat.

“Are you touching it?”

“I am.”

You reached a hand between your thighs and began grinding on your wrist. “Why would you do that there of all places?”

“Because if I don’t I’ll jump out of the car and hump the first tree I see.”

You giggled. “Aren't you worried you’ll get caught?”

“Nah. It feels too good to worry. Not as good as you though.”

Your panties felt damp.

“I wanna be inside you.”

You too.

“I want to fuck you. I want to cum inside you and watch it drip out.”

Fuck! You too!

He sent another picture of himself, cock in hand, expression pathetic. “I need you, baby. In more ways than one.”

You lifted up you shirt, taking a picture of your breasts for him. It was exciting and a little embarassing.

“Thank god the line is moving fast. I can’t wait to get home and ravage that little, perfect body of yours.”

You were touching yourself through your panties. “Hurry.”

You pushed aside your panties and rubbed your fingers directly against your warm, dripping sex. You were aching, hungry for him. What had you been mad about?

You must have lost track of time, because the next thing you knew, Kayden was barreling through the door and pressing you into the cold linoleum. He was kissing you, biting you lips, sucking your tongue.

“You perfect thing you,” he snarled. He didn’t waste time by taking off clothes or worrying about where you were. He was inside you, the sipper of his jeans pressing into your leg. He was snarling, feral.

“Good girl! You got so wet for me.” His jowls were glistening, teeth barred.

“Kay-Kayden!” Your voice trembled as he thrust harder and deeper inside you. Was he bigger than usual? His knot was so hot against your folds.

“Take it. Take me. Oh you fucking gorgeous creature. You take my cock so good!” He growled, shivering before locking eyes with you.

“Don’t stop-” you gasped.

You nod once, allowing the petals to fall into the mortar before setting your hand against the work table. Your father's unofficial lessons are precarious, often based on his mood and defined by his meticulous nature. He did not achieve his position within the Red Keep through careless work.

Today, he seems content, his peace evident in the lightheartedness of his corrections. Days like this keep your world on its axis, the time with your father making you ever grateful for his position as well as your own. It is rare for a Maester's child to be allowed to stay near their father, let alone work within the same home as him. His place within the Red Keep allowed him the privilege of bringing you and your younger sister to work as royal maids after your mother's passing.

"Of course."

He plucks another petal from the jar, dropping it into the bowl with no sense of malice. You're glad for his patience, but in all honesty, you're grateful for his attention and lessons no matter his disposition.

As a woman, you may never be able to become a Maester or dedicate your life to the work that fascinates you, but his lessons still hold great value. You help your father heal others between your domestic labors within the Red Keep, and at times, you aid sick or injured members of the royal staff.

He nods approvingly, giving you the confidence to reach for the pestle. You begin to grind the combined herbs sitting inside the mortar.

Hurried footsteps echo from somewhere beyond your father's door. You hesitate, eyes darting towards the entrance. You are not barred from assisting your father with his labors, but many frown on the idea of a woman so close to such an important Maester's work.

The door is pushed open with a protesting groan from its tired hinges. The individual turns, revealing a too familiar uniform. A guard.

You blink, immediately turning your attention towards the unfinished herbal remedy in front of you.

"Grand Maester," the man's greeting is curt, uncertain as he glances in your direction. You busy yourself with blending your herbs. "It is the prince, once again pained by his missing eye."

That alone tells you all you need to know about the guard's hesitation to speak in front of you. You've never once spoken to Prince Aemond, but everyone knows of the childhood injury that cost him his eye. Some maids even claim that a great deal of current political turmoil stems from the mistake that occurred during youth driven roughhousing.

The recurring pain that has afflicted the prince since is a lesser known ailment. Over the years, your father has often been called to the prince's apartments at odd hours to clean and treat the prince's permanent injury, late at night or during the early hours of the morning, when the halls of the Red Keep are most empty.

Your father moves away from the work table and towards the shelf of prepared medications. "Did the prince describe the pain? An ache, soreness..."

"It is a burning pain," the guard begins, "The prince did not go into detail, but he did say his skin felt warm."

Your father stills. "That is not his usual ailment." He turns to face the guard. "I will need to cleanse the eye before the pain can be treated."

The guard is silent for such a long moment you find it in you to look away from the safety of the work table. "His highness...The prince has mandated that no Maesters be brought to him. He only wishes for me to bring him the salve you offered him last."

The Grand Maester begins to pace forward. "May I send his highness the girl?"

Your hand stalls too suddenly, the pestle striking the mortar's side. Surely, your father is referencing some--some other girl. A prince's maid that he is familiar with, or--

"My daughter has witnessed and aided me in my practices her entire life. She is well versed in the process of cleaning injuries and applying remedies in a way that avoids contamination." The guard is silent as his attention shifts onto you.

The guard finishes regarding you with no real flourish. He looks over at your father. "The prince's desires were clear, he does not want more people aware of the situation than necessary."

"You would have a prince of the realm apply a salve himself to an already agitated wound without first having it properly cleansed?" He begins to walk forward, approaching the guard with a confidence you've seen him wear before. "I am more than willing to serve him at a later hour, but his ailments do concern me, and time is a significant factor."

The guard says nothing as your father continues to take measured steps towards him. "She offers the prince the discretion of a maid and the skill of a Maester."

Warmth begins to burn its way up your neck. You had never been put into the position to work closely with the royal family, only ever seeing them from a distance. That does not mean you have not heard stories.

You're not a particularly shy or nervous maid, you understand your place and the importance of keeping silent. But the princes...gossip about them often permeates the maids' quarters. Prince Aegon and his entitlement, Prince Aemond and his anger. Why is your father attempting to throw you to the dragon's? Is he--is he that concerned about the prince's current state?

The guard's eyes briefly find yours. "She can't tell anyone."

Your lips part, unsure if the statement is meant for you or your father. Before you can think of anything to say, your father agrees on your behalf, "She is loyal to the crown and instruction. Rumors will not spread from my daughter's lips." There's a beat of silence, and then the guard's careful nod. "Very well. I will gather the necessary materials."

"I must return to my post, a maid will be sent to take her to the prince's apartments." With those final words, the guard begins to approach the door, glad to be done with his involvement on a change that may upset the prince.

Once the door shuts, and you are finally offered the privacy of your father's company alone, the dread you had been warding off burrows itself in your chest. "Father, why--why would you ask to send--"

"I have treated the prince for many years, more than other Maesters within the Red Keep because of his desire for privacy, discretion." Your father's attention returns to the already prepared remedies. He steals a small jar from its place, setting it on the work table. "You are well trained, and no one will assume you are there to treat the prince."

He opens a drawer of bandages. "You also have a kind disposition, and a patience with the injured that even the most experienced Maester would envy. The prince's exterior may be hardened, but I remember him as a sensitive child."

The reminder of his childhood wedges itself into your chest, distracting you from your own fears long enough for you to feel something akin to compassion. Forever suffering due to an injury inflicted by the brashness of childhood anger.

Your father sets the bandages next to the salve. He then reaches for a cleaning ointment you are familiar with, placing it on the work table as well. Now satisfied with his collected materials, his attention finally finds you.

He approaches you slowly, a fondness not often seen pooling in his eyes. If this is a way of bringing your father pride, perhaps this task will not be as dreadful as it seems. "You have matured before my very eyes, growing into your mother's heart and beauty."

Your father extends an arm, his palm coming to brush against your cheek. The gesture is easing, a display of affection he has rarely offered you since your mother's passing. His fingers settle against your hairline, his nails carefully combing a stray piece of hair behind your ear.

"If you are to walk through the halls of the Red Keep, your hair should not flow as freely as a child's." The comment digs at you in a way you do not comprehend. When no worthy reaction comes to mind, you nod.

He steps back, attention returning to the supplies laid out on the work table. "Be careful, take your time checking the prince for infection and other sources of irritation. See to his needs, you are a good, kind girl. I am sure you will find a way to offer the prince comfort."

You swallow, unease settling in your stomach once again. With that, your father turns away from you.

----

The residential halls of the red keep are vast, with never ending turns and stairwells that come together to form a sort of labyrinth. Despite your lack of familiarity with the prince's maid that came to find you, you are grateful for her guidance.

She eyed you and the laundry basket disguising your medical supplies skeptically, but made no attempts to question you as she led you through the castle. Maids that are tasked with the direct care of the royal family tend to be familiar with the other staff members that work closely with the nobles. This woman has already recognized you as an oddity, a stray in routine.

If she had seemed less hesitant to be around you, you would have liked to ask her for her name, and to perhaps find a sense of normalcy through common ground. Her rejection and pointed distance has forced you to try to find a sense of peace through your surroundings.

You've rarely found reasons to wander through this part of the castle, the beauty of it serving as a way of distracting your racing thoughts.

Your guide stalls in front of a large set of doors. "These are the prince's apartments." She pushes open the doors, allowing you to enter before her. "The prince is resting in the room behind the seating area."

Your eyes land on the wooden door behind the small couch. One misstep in that room and things could very well be over for you and your family.

"Will you be able to find your way back?" The question is small, almost hesitant. You're sure she was tasked with getting you to and from the prince's apartments, but there's something about her stance that feels flighty. She does not want to enter the room the prince is resting in.

You have no way of knowing how Aemond reacts to treatments or his own pain, but if he fears the court gossiping about ailments enough to refuse a visit from a Maester, you doubt he takes well to maids witnessing his vulnerability.

"Yes," an act of mercy for you both, "Thank you for bringing me here, but I am certain I can make it back on my own."

She lets out a breath, nodding once. "Then I will return to my usual duties."

Considering that her usual duties revolve around Aemond, there's a good chance she's simply accepting the opportunity to excuse herself. You don't mind, glad for the excuse to not draw attention to what you're here for. She leaves you without another word.

You approach the door pointed out to you, firmly rapping your knuckles against the wooden surface once. A flat, "enter" provides you the strength to push open the door.

The details of the room are more intriguing than you can afford them to be, the intricate patterns on his walls and the ornate carvings etched into his bed frame so enticing a part of you nearly forgets of the prince.

You blink, forcing yourself to focus in an attempt to project the maturity your father had seen in you when he recommended you for this task.

You step further into the room, your eyes landing on the bed. There he is, head resting against the pillow, majority of his body covered by plush bedding.

Your father has only ever felt honored to care for members of the royal family, no matter Prince Aemond's sentiments, you're sure you'll feel something similar. "My prince?"

His head turns, the movement sluggish. "You...Who are you?" The words are more labored than they are defensive. That is not enough to ease the dread in your chest.

You exhale carefully, "The Maester--the Grand Maester sent me." You remain near the doorway, your hold on the laundry basket tightening. "I have a salve for your ailments."

He lifts his head further, his forearm pressing into the mattress. This new angle allows you to see the entirety of his features, the sharp slope of his jaw, the set of his lips...the jagged scar that cuts across porcelain skin. He regards you with an openness that leaves you without words.

The scar that marks him does not dull the beauty of his well sculpted features. Seeing him like this, studying him and what the loss of his eye has taken from him leaves your face warm, as if you've been caught searching for something not meant for you. You've never heard of a maid that's seen him without his sapphire eye.

"Alright." The response feels significantly less hostile than he was a moment before. "Leave it at my bedside table."

You walk forward carefully, mind begging you to think of a way to bring up why your father sent you here. "My pri--"

"You did not answer my question." The authority in his statement doesn't feel like an accusation. When you remain silent, he continues. "You are not my usual maid, the one who is sent to retrieve items from the Maester."

"No," you agree, "The Maester suggested that I bring you your remedy because he found the description of your pain slightly worrisome. He wanted to abide by your wishes to not be visited by a Maester while also assuring that your injury was properly cleansed before being treated." After a beat of no response, unease burrows itself further into your chest. "I can leave you, if you'd pref--"

He turns his head to better look at you, strands of silver hair falling past his shoulder. "What could possibly qualify you to cleanse a wound?"

The question, though delivered sharply, is a fair one. "The Grand Maester, my father..." If the revelation intrigues him in any way, he gives no indication of it. "Has had me assist him with his duties nearly my entire life. I have been trained in basic care and am confident in my ability to properly cleanse a wound."

Prince Aemond is silent for a moment, watching you with an all consuming focus. You've heard stories of his intensity, of his seriousness. The prince pushes himself to sit up fully. "Very well. The maid before you left clean water and rags at my bedside."

Your attention shifts to his nightstand, a small bucket and wash cloth waiting on the hardwood surface. You nod, digging through the clean sheets of your basket until you find the remedies and bandages your father had picked out for you. You lay out your supplies before looking over at the prince.

He has always seemed tall to you, but with him sitting in his bed, you cannot think of a proper way to lean over him to reach his eye while standing. You turn your head, eyes landing on a small desk and chair tucked into a corner. "My lord, would you mind if I..." You gesture towards the chair.

"Do as you need."

You nod in acknowledgement of his permission before moving the chair to his bedside. You dip the soft rag into the water before sitting. The proximity of your new position is oddly disorientating. Small Folk may not be held to the same pious standards as noble born women, but your father has raised you with certain expectations and regulations. With the exception of family, you doubt you've ever been this close to a man.

You lift the rag, but you cannot bring yourself to press it against his skin. "May I?"

He straightens. "Yes."

Even with that, you cannot will yourself to begin the cleaning process. Your father has always been careful when it comes to treating others, following every rule no matter how minor the injury. "My father has taught me to feel the area bordering the wound before cleaning it to make sure the extent of the injury is understood. However, I know this is an older wound, so if you'd prefer for me to only clea--"

"You may do as your father instructed. I am accustomed to the prodding." Sympathy briefly jabs at you. This is something he's experienced for over half his life.

You nod before lifting your free hand, fingertips gently brushing against his cheek. His skin is warm, perhaps a little warmer than a person should be. Your fingers shift forward gingerly, following the path of his scar. The closer you get to his eye, the warmer his skin feels.

"You don't look like him."

The comment pulls you out of your analysis. "Pardon me?"

"Your father," he tries again, "You don't look like him."

If his tone had been any less soft, you might have interpreted the observation as an accusation. "Oh, no." Your touch continues its path across his features. "Actually, I've often been told I take after my mother."

The skin around his eyebrow feels different than the rest of his injury, puffier, as if beginning to swell. Odd. "Does she work in the Red Keep as well?"

His curiosity is jarring, but not unwelcome. Having an excuse to speak makes focusing on such a personal task seem less invasive. "She did..." You blink in an attempt to reduce the impact of thoughts of what happened to your mother. You're doing well, you cannot allow an old grief to ruin everything. "Before she passed."

Prince Aemond hums once, the sound giving no indication of anything. Pleased with your preliminary analysis, you let your hand fall away from him. You turn to once again dampen the cloth held between your fingers.

"What happened?" The question is void of both empathy and brutal curiosity.

You bring the cloth to the side of the Prince's face. "She died..." Your only defense against his gaze is to focus on the irritated skin near his eyelid. Such swelling on such an old wound cannot be typical. "Bringing my sister into the world."

He falls silent again, allowing you to concentrate on dabbing the washcloth against his cheek. "I'm sorry."

Heat begins to burn its way up your chest, the way it always does when your mind dwells on the loss of your mother for too long. "I appreciate your sympathies, my prince."

Water beads against his skin, a single droplet beginning to drip downwards. Your hand stretches forward on instinct, thumb dragging against the hollow of his cheek to wipe away the water.

You do not realize your error until it is much too late. While wiping away the excess water dripping down the skin of an equal is expected, to do so to a prince without so much as asking first implies a familiarness that you are not entitled to.

"My lord, I apologize--there was water--" You stumble through your explanation while pulling your hand back.

Aemond extends his arm, long fingers latching themselves onto your wrist. His touch, though sudden, is far from harsh. You cannot manage to take in a full breath. "There is no need for apologies." He does not release you until you nod.

You return to cleaning his wound, this time making sure to be aware of your instinctual movements. The flesh above what once was his eyelid is jarringly hot. What would your father do? He'd--he'd examine the irritated area.

You shift towards him, so close you can make out individual strands of his silver hair. Your mind works at keeping your breaths even. There is a small area of his skin that's more swollen than the rest. At the center of the swelling, there's a thin line that seems to extend beneath his brow bone and into the space once occupied by his eye. As gently as you can manage, you lift the cloth to the space above his eyelid. He winces.

"I'm sorry." You're immediately pulling back, your spine pressing against your seat. "Are you hurt?"

Aemond's eye flits away from the wall in front of him and onto you. His lips are pressed together, his expression incredibly stoic. "No." The lie is a fragile thing that cannot matter. You saw him flinch. "If anything, you have been more thoughtful than most."

There's a tentative softness laced through the syllables, a hesitance that does not suit him. His careful assurance feels heavy, the pressure of it grounding you. In certain contexts, you can see how the strength of his personality could be perceived as violence, but there's something else to this quality...an intensity that can also apply to good things.

"I'm glad you feel that way." The nail of your thumb digs into the wash cloth. "I--I think I know why your eye has been troubling you, my prince."

His eyebrows draw together, expression coming dangerously close to displaying curiosity. "Why?"

"The skin just above your eye is slightly swollen and more irritated than the rest of your injury. When I examined the swelling more closely, I noticed a scratch." You pause, thinking through your wording. "It's small, but seems to be irritating the scarring around your original injury. You should have an ointment applied with your usual salve to ward off infection for the next few days."

You can't interpret the silence that follows. His expression morphs into something heavy. "A scratch?"

"It is nothing to be concerned about, my prince." The source of his pain is small, if he is careful, there should be no risk of infection or long term consequence. "Truly, the scrape is no wider than..." You glance around the room, looking for something to estimate the size of his injury. Your eyes fall to the hand on your lap. You lift your arm, holding your palm out between the two of you. "The width of my smallest finger."

Aemond lifts his own hand, his fingers bending around around yours. You let him move your arm forward. He studies your pinky before dragging his thumb against your knuckles. The gesture is so comfortable you have to work at not pulling away. He lets out a quiet breath.

"My prince?"

Aemond's hold on you tightens. "Such a dismissible ailment, and I am left defenseless."

Oh--had he taken your attempts at easing him as an insult? His current wound may be small, but skin so marred is easily agitated, easily made sick. "I did not mean it that way." The earnestness of your own voice should startle you. "Your pain is no dismissible thing, the extent of your original injury is brutal enough, I cannot imagine how it feels for it to be agitated."

The words tumble past your lips so quickly, you are not given a chance to think through them. It is never a good idea to express opinions in front of the nobles. "I apologize for over stepping, my lord."

"I told you," his thumb moves against your knuckles once more, "There is no need to apologize."

You nod, still not feeling completely certain. "You should feel much better after the remedies take. The swelling will likely begin to go down before day's end."

His focus remains on your hand. Aemond releases you slowly, his fingers dragging against your skin as he lets go. A part of you is glad for the excuse to return to the familiarity of your tasks.

You open the ointment, fingers gathering a generous amount before returning to Aemond's wound. "Where do you usually work?"

"Often with my father, preparing remedies and organizing herbs and other supplies." You spread the product onto his skin carefully, your touch as light as you can manage. "When I'm not doing that, I assist the other maids, usually with the laundry and in the kitchen."

He nods absentmindedly. You straighten as you finish applying the salve. You wipe your hands onto the discarded washcloth before unscrewing the jar containing the salve.

Aemond is still as you apply the salve onto irritated skin. This time, as your fingers trail against his skin, you can feel Aemond's gaze focusing on you. You work quickly, focusing your distribution of the product onto the cut beneath his brow bone.

Finishing is more bittersweet than you expected it to be. You're glad to know that you've done what's been asked of you, to know that you've done nothing to offend the prince. However, some small part of you is reluctant to leave.

You reach for the cloth, dampening the fabric before wiping your hands clean once more. "The medications should begin to alleviate your pain soon." You twist the rag between your fingers. "Is there anything else you need, my prince?"

He watches you for a moment. "Only your name."

Unease lunges at your chest, nearly making your heart skin a beat. It is quite rare for a noble to ask for a servant's name, especially if the servant does not regularly see to their needs. When Aemond continues to watch you expectantly, you offer him your name.

He tries your name on his own lips, repeating it slowly. Unsure of what the proper response would be, you briefly dip your chin downwards in a subtle nod.

His lips part. You straighten, preparing for the appropriate dismissal. "Sit with me a little longer." The phrasing is gentle, but it feels far from a question. "Conversation would be a decent distraction."

You wring the washcloth further. Cautionary tales of low borns who found themselves overly comfortable spending time with the royal family have been recited to you as often as traditional bedtime stories. However, there is nothing inherently wrong with making polite conversation if it is asked of you. Either way, the dangers do not matter. It'd be a fool's error to directly deny the prince.

"Of course, my prince."

The immediate silence that follows tangles your stomach. Aemond has asked you for conversation as a way to distract himself from his pain and you have nothing worth saying to a prince. You lift your head, glancing around the room. Your observations are in vain, what common ground could you both possibly have?

Your eyes land on his desk. There are a few books stacked neatly on the wooden surface, one with a familiar title written on its spine. "Are you reading The History of the Conquerors?" The question feels too abrupt without a clarification, "I finished the final volume less than a fortnight ago, my lord."

Aemond studies you so openly you almost convince yourself you've misspoken. "You read?"

Despite the politeness of his tone, his true question is easy to assume. A majority of maids and other royal attendants can only read certain words, being taught just enough to get through their day to day lives. Your father had gone out of his way to teach you to read fully. He originally taught you to read to make it easier for you to understand texts detailing remedies and health conditions, but you quickly developed a passion for any text he could bring you.

"Yes, my father taught me." You smooth the washcloth over your lap. "Originally, he wanted me to be able to read about treatments and diseases, and now he is forever cursed to find me new reading material." As soon as the words are out, you're immediately mentally cursing yourself for your casualness. "I apologize, my prince, that was a...joke."

He shifts, his hands coming to rest on his lap. "I told you not to apologize." The correction leaves an uncomfortable heat clawing its way up your chest. Your nails dig into the rag. Aemond lets out a breath. "And you do not have to trouble yourself with proper addresses."

That's--You know for a fact that no maids in the Red Keep have ever spoken of a noble dismissing the need for formal addresses. If it happens, it's something kept secret. Not even your father, who has known and treated the prince since he was child, addresses him casually.

You squeeze the wash cloth, the fabric dampening your palm. "Alright." The word sits there, floating aimlessly without his title to guide it.

Aemond nods before allowing his attention to shift towards the books on his desk. "Did you enjoy the book?"

"Yes." At least this is a topic you feel capable of speaking on. "The descriptions of the seven kingdoms before they were united together were interesting, I haven't found many historical accounts that go that far back."

He takes a moment to digest your response. "It is a detailed account, but at times the writing seems to overly rely on the author's perspective."

"To me, that felt intentional." The excuse to debate narration is more welcomed than it should be. "The author is only taking the time to recount these events because of his personal investments in the conflict. The constant references to his own position felt like an attempt to get ahead of any accusations of bias."

Aemond sits up a little straighter, one of his hands coming to rest on the side of his bed. "That's a fair interpretation, though if that's the assumption we're reading under, it is a poor attempt at denoting political bias when compared to The Recounting of the Dornish Wars."

The Recounting of the Dornish Wars is a relatively popular account, your father had no trouble finding you the first and third volume. The second volume seems to be more of a rarity, something no one in your world has been able to track down yet.

"That's a good point, but the author of that account was in a completely different situation." You fold the towel in half. "It's one of my favorite accounts, even without the context of the second volume, the depiction of the conflict is so thorough one can still understand all the dynamics that came into play."

Aemond taps his fingers against the comforter, the rhythm slow but steady. "Without the second volume?"

"I've yet to track it down, but I've read the first and final installments." The admission feels small, almost uncertain. You move past it quickly, hands fidgeting with the wash cloth on your lap as you continue, "What did you think of the final act? I liked the sharpness of the ending, but I can also see how the suddenness could come off as inconclusive."

His hands move back to his lap. "I enjoyed it. I found the ending's sharpness an accurate depiction of a dragon's strength."

Right. To him, the historical accounts and enthralling tales are more than just stories. They're a part of him, familial legacies he is expected to continue.

A part of working within the Red Keep is dismissing any curiosities you may have regarding what is left of Old Valyria. The Small Folk may think of the dragons, may even discuss them in private, but they do not ask their riders about them.

This is the danger of losing certain formalities, lines begin to blur. You squeeze your hands together before asking, "Really?"

The corner of his mouth pulls itself upwards. Aemond presses the heel of his palm into the mattress as he shifts. "Even the smallest dragons are more fearsome than you can imagine." He angles himself towards you, morphing the remaining distance between the two of you into something inconsequential. "Each of them capable of a destruction that could devastate entire armies."

You're more drawn in than you should be. There's very little you can offer in return. To the Small Folk, the dragons are closer to an ideology than something to be known. Your curiosity combines uneasily with the acute awareness of his proximity. You rest your chin against your elbow. "Your dragon is...Vhagar? The same one from the History of the Conquerors?"

His chin dips forward, making the gentle curve of his mouth impossible to ignore. The prince's sole eye remains on you as it is dragged downwards, the pace of his analysis so unhurried you can feel each moment of it. Bearing the weight of Aemond's full focus is no small feat.

"Vhagar was once ridden by Queen Visenya, who used her size and strength to help unite Westeros." His voice is low, giving the reminder of what is connected to him through blood the reverence it deserves. He shifts even closer, the warmth of his breath now a tangible force against your skin. "And now she is mine."

Heat claws at your skin. You feel your lips part, but there is no waiting response. Before you can string together a coherent set of words, the familiar echoing of footsteps brings you back to the world outside of Prince Aemond.

Your spine straightens on its own accord, the entirety of your back pressing against the seat. Your fingers find the wash cloth again, nails digging into the fabric as if attempting to make up for the time the fabric spent abandoned on your lap.

There's a soft knock agaisnt his door, one Aemond only halfheartedly acknowledges with a blank "enter". He does not move until the door begins to creak open, and even then his new positioning is subtle, more of a turn of his head than an actual attempt to create distance between the two of you.

A maid, the same woman who first led you through the twisting halls of the Red Keep, is standing in the doorway. Her gaze briefly finds you before settling onto the prince. "My Prince, the Queen wishes to meet with you in the great hall before supper."

Aemond is quiet for a moment. You cannot will yourself to look away from the doorway to read his expression in an attempt to understand the silence. "Alright, tell my mother I will be there in a moment."

The maid nods. "Of course, my prince." Her eyes fall to you once more, the corners of her mouth tugging downwards before she shuts the door.

You maintain your posture as silence falls over the two of you. He studies you with the same openness that's characterized most of this interaction. An odd pang of some somber feeling you can't quite place strikes at somewhere deep inside your bones. "Do you need anything else before you meet with the queen?"

He presses his lips together before responding, "There is a book at the end of my desk that I've been meaning to return to the library."

You nod, a part of you relieved to be given such an understandable task. You stand, arms reaching for the abandoned laundry basket before you've fully straightened. "Of course." You adjust the basket onto your hip before letting your attention fall to the supplies still on his nightstand. "I'll leave the supplies here so that you can reapply the ointment and salve before bed."

You step back, eyes falling to the desk chair. One arm falls away from the basket, fingers coming to grasp the seat's wooden spine. "You may leave it."

The instruction is strange, but you don't think much about releasing the chair. "Of course." You move a few paces back before looking over at him again. Much to your dismay, the newfound distance does not rid your mind of the warmth of his breath against your skin. "If you'd like, I can tell my father that you'd like him to visit you tonight to check on your eye."

"No," his tone is decisive, "I trust your work." An unexpected pride swells in your chest at his certainty. Aemond sits fully, his legs moving out from under his bedding and onto the floor. "In fact, I'd like you to return tonight to check on my recovery."

Tonight. Your mind leaves you with no response. It is one thing to be sent to treat the prince when you are the only option for him to maintain the privacy he desires, but to come to his apartments at the hours you've heard of your father being called during, when the world is quiet and all the well behaved are already in bed.

You force those thoughts to stall. Aemond is a prince, and this is only an act of service. This is not a source of impropriety. "Of course, I'll be here when you call."

His acceptance of your compliance serves as a dismissal. You turn towards his desk, your eyes scanning the neatly organized items before finding the sole book waiting at the surface's edge. A copy of the second volume of The Recounting of the Dornish Wars.

This cannot be more than mere coincidence. You blink, throat a little drier than it was a moment ago. You're careful as you pick the novel, your hand supporting the book's spine. "This--"

"The library is not expecting it back for some time, but I believe it is best to keep things orderly." His voice remains neutral, but the set of his mouth, the upturn of his lips is much too knowing to not imply more.

He has directed you to a copy of the book you've been searching for that no one will think to look for for some time. The gesture settles against you, squeezing your chest in a way that makes it difficult to keep breathing. You allow yourself to grin openly as your gaze shifts between the prince and the book in your hand. "I agree, my prince."

The title falls from your lips before you can prevent it. You had been doing so well at disregarding titles...Perhaps it had been an act of fate, or some desperate attempt of your subconscious to remind you that any imaginary kinship your mind has created while treating him needs to be forever abandoned at his apartment's threshold.

His expression morphs into something unreadable. Instead of reminding you of what he had told you about titles, he says, "Aemond." The suddenness of his name throws you. "When we are alone, I'd prefer it if you called me Aemond."

Warmth burrows itself in your chest. If you thought any of the casualness the prince had shown you throughout your time here was dismissible, this is the opposite of that. A nail in a coffin you do not understand.

Still, you nod, fingers tightening around the book as you respond, "Then...I agree, Aemond."

A sharp nervousness digs into your chest, taking control of your limbs as you turn away. You leave his room without another word, a maid's basket on your hip and the prince's book in your hand.

----

“Have you ever cleaned up after yourself? Listen, if I trip on another fuckin’…”

Joel didn’t expect his heart to stop mid-sentence while scolding Ellie to pick up her damn things. Standing with a hand on his waist, his other arm swinging dramatically across the living room, he hears his brother’s voice beyond the open window of their Jackson home. Joel turns in Tommy’s direction and sees you walking alongside him on the main road of the little town, leading a big-bodied horse on your other side. 

He watches your eyes scan every object and person you pass by, all while Tommy gestures to different buildings and waves to others walking through. 

Why did Joel feel his chest tighten? His body started aching at your presence despite his better judgment. How on earth could you handle such a bigger animal despite your size? He lets out a shaky breath, tucking in his fingers into his palms at the thought of not being able to hold you. Jesus christ, you were the prettiest thing he had seen in a long, long time. 

“Uh, hello? Joel?” Ellie’s impatient tone snaps his attention back to his teenage roommate and he grunts as she checks outside the window herself, a mischievous grin growing on her face. 

“Oh, let’s go say hi to that pretty girl with Tommy,” she exclaims, eager to get away from another one of Joel’s lectures and beelines towards the door.

Joel calls after her, following her path towards the main road. His boots carry him until he’s next to Ellie, the two of them standing across from his brother and the newcomer. 

"Joel!" Tommy says happily before turning back to you with a smile, "This is my brother Joel, and Ellie’s always nearby." Tommy gestures to each of them before continuing, "He helps with our patrols a lot, works with the horses and livestock.” 

“Yeah, Joel wants to be a sheep farmer,” Ellie adds with excessive cheerfulness, her arms swinging lazily only to drop her smile when she discovers Joel scowling at her. 

You watch Joel turn to face you again, his gruff voice reaching out, “I don’t just work with sheep.”

“Alright…well, nice to meet you,” you reply warily, leaning slightly closer to your steed as you glance at Tommy, “I think now’s a good time for me to settle Amigo in the barn.” You tighten your grip on the leather reins and start to step away from the group when Tommy suggests that Joel help you with your horse. 

“I know how to take care of my horse,” you blurt out, your eyes widening at your rudeness and you try to save face before these townspeople kick you out for being an asshole, “I mean, you don’t have to help get his stall ready. I don’t want to be a bother.” 

Joel nods curtly at you, “I’ll just show you where he can stay and where the feed is.”

You hum in agreement and turn around, your loyal horse stepping alongside you with care. As you make way to the barn Tommy had showed you earlier, you miss the exchange between the two brothers. 

“Joel, keep an eye on her,”the cheerfulness disappearing from Tommy’s face, a somber undertone in his voice.

Joel simply wags his hand vaguely to his younger brother as his long legs carry him towards you. He knows he needs to help keep Jackson safe, for his brother, for Ellie, for the others. Welcoming newcomers into the community wasn’t unheard of, but there were plenty of reasons to be on guard. 

His eyes travel up and down your form as you walk ahead of him. Yeah, he could keep an eye on you alright. 

Once you both enter the barn, Joel motions towards an unoccupied stall closer to the right corner, fresh bedding already laid down from earlier this afternoon. It was an old barn, the wood weathered and missing the modern touches of fancier facilities you had worked in before the pandemic, but the stalls were larger than average and had clean water for the animals. 

Your fingers start unbuckling Amigo’s bridle when you feel the weight of Joel’s stare so you try to fill in the silence, “Sorry if I don’t say much, it’s usually just me and him.” You pat Amigo on his strong shoulder and hang the bridle near the stall door to give Joel an apologetic smile. 

“That’s OK,” Joel answers, taking your words as permission for him to move closer, his arms crossing loosely along the top rail of the horse stall. He watches you lift the saddle and pads from Amigo’s back with ease, “You'll probably feel more comfortable once you get to know more people. Talking to others in town, making friends.” 

He opens the stall door for you to pass through with the heavy tack, nodding as you murmur a quick thank you, closing it securely once you’re in the barn aisle.

You turn back and see him stretching out a hand to scratch Amigo’s neck, a laugh sneaking past your lips at what Joel suggested, “Oh and you know this because you’re so chatty?” 

Joel’s mouth perks up, a grin covering his face as he hears you laugh for the first time, “Not exactly,” he shrugs his broad shoulders, his eyes rolling at the idea, “but you’re a pretty little thing. You’ll make friends in no time.”

You set down Amigo’s saddle on an empty rack, a smile still on your face, "You calling me pretty?"

You watch Joel's eyebrows scrunch together, "Not like you don't already know that," he mutters just loud enough for you to hear, the low timber of his voice burrowing into your brain. 

"It's still nice to hear," you murmur back, diverting your gaze away from him momentarily to the barn entrance. 

The sound of his boots makes you look back in his direction, Joel's solid body suddenly before you. It’s embarrassing, but you can’t help as your chest takes a shaky breath. You stare up at him, his broad chest inviting your gaze to sweep across his shoulders. There's a beat of silence as the two of you study each other, your brain and body already deciding to trust him. 

Nope, you remind yourself. It’s too soon to trust anyone. 

His hand moves across the small empty space between you, his fingers extended as if to caress your arm, but he pulls back at the last second, "Dinner'll be ready any minute now." He twists his torso slightly away from you, softly motioning towards the center of the town.

He can't understand why the furrow appearing between your brows at his statement makes his heart shrink. 

“I still have food in my pack. I’ll stay here and eat.” Your arms stretch towards your worn backpack as if to prove that you're OK. 

He looks you up and down, trying to imagine how long you’ve been rationing bites to eat before he takes a step away from you. It's irrational that you miss his closeness already, but you keep your composure. Your fingers fiddle with the zipper of your bag instead of reaching out to pull him back to you. 

"Why don’t I bring you a plate to eat here? That way if you decide to leave in the middle of the night, you’ll still have some food to eat later.” 

"OK…just in case," you agree quietly. 

Joel lifts his hands up slowly as if calming down a startled horse, his low voice and hopeful eyes relaying all kinds of assurance, "Alright then, I'll be right back." 

He swiftly turns around, his long legs carrying him straight towards the mess hall. His brown eyes scan the crowd of people until he catches sight of a familiar brown ponytail. 

"Ellie!" Joel calls, his hand waving for her to walk faster to him. 

"You sure took your time showing that pretty lady an empty stall." 

"Yeah, uh, have you finished eating yet?" Ellie nods at his hurried words, her arms crossing at her chest as she waits for him to ask for a favor. 

"Run to the house and grab one of my jackets and some shirts…" 

"Why? You're already wearing clothes," Ellie interrupts, confusion on her face. 

"They're not gonna be for me," Joel rubs the back of his neck awkwardly, saying your name softly, "She'll need some clean clothes." 

A wide grin breaks on the teenager's face, her eyes growing with excitement as she claps her hands, "Oh so you want her to wear your clothes! Alright Joel, kinda caveman of you but that's cool." 

He frowns at Ellie's comments, "Get some things from the house and I'll meet you there to walk back to the barn together." He stomps away from the giggling girl, rolling his eyes at her response. 

*****

With a heavy plate of food in one hand, Joel walks down to the barn with Ellie. Despite all her teasing, she had stuffed a bag full of Joel's clothes. 

Once inside, Joel sees you unrolling your sleeping bag on the ground next to Amigo's stall. 

"Joel," you call out, "you came back." 

His body warms at the way you say his name, the smile on your face forcing his own to appear. 

Ellie gives a big hello before Joel can reply, and he lingers a step behind as the younger teen invades your personal space, swinging the bag of clothes next to you. 

"We brought you some stuff! They gave me some new underwear when we first got here but they weren't my size. I grabbed a toothbrush for you too," Ellie rattles off as you peruse the bag, crooking an eyebrow when you pull out a man's green flannel. 

The worn material is soft, lived-in and comfy, and you look up to Joel, comparing the shirt in your hands and the one he has on. 

"Joel said you'd need some clean clothes too," Ellie half-whispers, her true feelings on the matter barely contained. 

Joel hastily hands you your dinner plate, eager to change the subject for now, "But you really need to eat, here." He nods as you let his shirt fall onto your lap to accept the plate, grimacing when your stomach rumbles loudly. 

"Sorry," you mutter abashedly, warmth rushing to your face. 

"Why didn't you want to eat at the big hall with the rest of us?" Ellie wonders as Joel surveys your crumbled sleeping bag. 

"Still getting used to seeing so many people, I guess," you mouth between small bites, your eyes tracking Joel as he disappears from view. 

Ellie lets you take a few more forkfuls of food before asking you another question. 

"So what do you think about Joel?" Something in her tone makes you believe she knows more than she's letting on. 

You squint at her in mock seriousness and avoid her question with one of your own, "Is Joel your dad?" 

The man in question comes back to the main barn area once again, carrying a small cot with blankets over his shoulder, "Ellie, grab the blankets."

"Ugh, he wishes he was my dad," she grumbles to her feet and reaches for the bedding before it hits the ground. 

You frown at the extra hassle Joel's gone through for you, ignoring the way your body aches at the sight of a bed, even one as makeshift as the one Joel's hoisting. 

"You didn't have to bring that, I have my sleeping bag."

Your statement falls on deaf ears. Joel gives a small grunts as he sets the cot close to the stall, wiping his hands against his jeans as he waves away your protest, "You should be sleeping in a real bed, but I got a feeling you'd rather be with your boy this first night."

Images of your peaceful face on his pillow invades Joel's mind. He imagines the way his fingertips would feel running over the sheets against your body as the sunlight crept through the window…

Ellie gets your attention by calling you by name, unknowingly stirring Joel out of his daydream as well, "You could live in our house. We can make Joel sleep on the couch. That way you don't have to be by yourself in here." She crosses the few steps to the cot to set down the blankets she was still carrying, and you smile at her offer. 

"That’s really kind…but Joel's right. I'd rather be here tonight, but I promise to think on it, Ellie," you plop down on the cot with a laugh. "We gotta run the idea by your dad first anyway." You cock your head at him, biting on your lower lip as you take in the sight of him leaning comfortably against the stall door watching you and Ellie together. 

“Joel! Let her stay with us. She’s already gonna be wearing your clothes. Why wouldn’t she be with us?” 

******* 

Joel wakes up earlier than usual the next morning. No doubt the few interactions he’s shared with you played like a loop in his mind as he slept, branching off into imaginary scenarios as he dreamed for a few hours. 

He walks out of the home silently after peeking into Ellie’s room to find her still asleep, leaving a note by her bed that he’d meet her later for breakfast after finishing the morning barn chores. The fact that you were also there made no difference to him. 

Fuck, why did he bother lying to himself? 

Doubt starts to creep into his mind as he walks down the dirt path. What if you did run away in the middle of the night? He should have insisted on keeping watch, on staying with you. His pace quickens, his heart racing as he accepts the fact that he’ll have to go looking for you. He won’t be able to let you go.  

The sight of you walking out of the big barn door, your eyes squinting slightly at the sun’s turn in the morning sky, steadies Joel. He gazes at the open flannel you’re wearing, his shirt hanging on your shoulders over the plain white tank you wear beneath it. A rumble echoes in his chest, and Joel can feel the blood in his veins bubbling as you step out wearing something of his. aHis nerves soften as you wave hello, walking towards him and looking more at ease than yesterday. 

“Hi,” you say eagerly, walking right into him to give him a hug - the real kind of hug where you squish the side of your face against him, sighing gratefully into his chest with your eyes closed. “That cot made me feel like a brand new person.”  

“Morning,” Joel drawls, pulling his face back a tad to look into your eyes while he keeps his hold around your waist a moment longer. “Just wait until you sleep on my bed,” he teases with a squeeze of his arms before letting you go. 

Shit, did he say that out loud? 

You snort at him, “In that scenario, are you on the bed too on or the couch?” 

He shrugs his shoulders chuckling, “Depends, maybe the couch if I do somethin’ to make you mad.” He shakes his head looking at you, the lightness of the early morning mirroring the warmth his chest is feeling. 

The two of you make quick work of the animals. Once he’s shown you where the feed and equipment are kept, the familiar rhythm of mucking stalls, filling feeders, and moving animals to the pasture keeps you and Joel busy. Working alongside him feels easy, as if you’d been shoulder to shoulder with Joel in another life. He points out different things in the pens, shares embarrassing stories about Ellie with you. You tell him about a few different places you and Amigo traveled through until Tommy and some of the lookout crew found you yesterday by chance. 

There are moments when all you can hear is the sound of hooves as the animals move lazily about the paddock, the grunts from Joel as he hauls a heavier bale of hay, or the song of a bird looking for its mate. You sneak glances at him during these wordless moments, only to miss his own peeks at you as you try to focus on grooming Amigo. 

Leaning against the pasture fence with Joel after completing the morning work, you turn at the click of his tongue. 

“You wanna try eating at the hall with me and Ellie this morning?” He sets his eyes on you, his head tilted to the side waiting for your reply. 

“Is it alright if I stick with you?” you ask, rolling up the sleeves of the flannel as the sun rose higher.

“Yeah, you can stick with me.”  

You bump your hip against his side in agreement, “Good. Let’s go then, I’m starving.” 

*****

Walking along the main road towards the mess hall with Joel, your ears are overwhelmed by the amount of chatter. 

People talking about their plans for the day. Kids are playing and screaming. Families and friends gossip about the latest news from town. A mass of individuals all walking in the same general direction.   

“It’s like we’re walking down fucking Main Street USA with all these people. Like the world isn’t falling apart outside this town,” you exaggerate under your breath. 

“Wait, this isn’t Disneyland?” Joel whispers sarcastically, leaning so close to your ear that you could feel the smile on his lips, the lightest prickle of his scruff. 

Ellie’s voice breaks through the commotion as she runs into you and Joel. 

“There you are!” she links her arm with yours as you’ve known each other for years, “How’s your horse? You sleep OK?” 

Concentrating on Ellie makes you feel more grounded despite the crowd so you give her a light squeeze on her forearm, “He’s adjusting really well. Joel said to put him in the same pasture as Callus and they seem to be getting along while we were down there.” 

She glances at Joel quickly with narrowed eyes and then turns back to you with a playful grin, “That’s Joel’s horse. We rode him in here.”

You smirk at Joel over Ellie’s head, “Really? He didn’t mention that to me.” 

The three of you make it inside the main hall and you follow Joel and Ellie’s lead, collecting your plate and mug of coffee. Ellie opts for a glass of orange juice, muttering that coffee still smells like burnt shit to her. 

“You’re a little shit,” Joel mouths back at her, guiding the three of you to a clear table. 

Your stomach flips frantically as Joel settles in the seat next to yours. Perhaps you’re just extra hungry and the butterflies have nothing to do with the growing attachment you’re harboring towards the handsome man next to you. 

There’s a pause in all teasing as the three of you make quick work of your breakfast, especially after working up an appetite from the morning’s work. Ellie’s patience is pushed to the limit as she waits to start her friendly interrogation only until she notices the look of satisfaction on your face as you sip your coffee. 

She smiles your name, “Are you liking it here so far? Will you stay? Who do you like the most so far?” 

You set your mug down and chuckle at her rapidfire questions, “Uh, yes. It’s been good so far. Granted it’s been,” your hand waving slightly in the air, “eh, less than 20 hours since I got here so there’s still time for things to go horribly wrong.” 

Ellie laughs, her arms stretching across the table, “Just stay! If things get bad, we’ll be with you. Joel, tell her she has to stay with us.” 

You look to your right and find Joel with his coffee midair, eyeing you across the rim of the ceramic cup. 

“You don't have to be alone anymore if you don't want to be,” he offers softly. “I can take care of you.” 

A loud clatter on the far side of the table halts the conversation, the three of you whipping your heads towards the source of the sound. 

“Hello there,” a tall man coos in your direction, “You must be the new girl that arrived last night. I’m Llyod. Whole town’s been itching to meet you.” He leans over the table to ogle at you from a closer distance, the twitch of his mustache creeping you out. 

You slide closer to Joel’s side and feel his hand hold onto your thigh firmly below the table, “Move along, she’ll meet the rest of the town soon enough.” Joel doesn’t spare you a glance, his undivided attention on this man.  

“Oh come on, Joel! You can’t hog her,” the Lloyd man wags a finger at him with a roguish laugh, sitting down at the table. He takes a bite of his toast, smacking his lips obnoxiously before adding, “It’s not like I won’t give her back to you.” 

At that, Joel stands suddenly, his chair skidding behind him as his body blocks you from view. The clatter of it all attracts the attention of this side of the mess hall, the breakfast goers nearby quieting down as they watch the interaction unfold. 

“I’m not gonna tell you to move again,” Joel warns, one hand hovering near his belt and the other arm reaching out behind him towards you. Ellie mirrors Joel, the angry look on her face pointed at Lloyd. Your hand moves towards Joel’s outstretched arm, but another voice sounds out before you can tangle your fingers with his.

“Good morning, everyone!” Tommy and another woman - Maria, his wife you later find out - walk right between Joel and Lloyd. “Gentlemen,” he cautions with a lower voice, “do we need to talk outside?” 

The mustached man sniggers before splashing a big smile on his face, “Just making friends, Tommy.” 

Tommy nods and swings his arm in front of him, “Great! Joel, can you and the ladies join Maria and me? We’re having a late start today.”

Joel finally turns his back on the asshole and checks you over with his brown eyes, his hands running up and down your arms as you stand up from your chair, “OK?” 

He watches you nod your head quickly and puts a firm hand on your lower back to herd you behind Tommy, “Let’s go. Ellie.” 

The teenager leaps out of her chair and walks briskly alongside you and Joel, “What a fucking creeper.” 

“Language,” Joel says sternly, his hand still ushering you with him, his other hand on Ellie’s shoulder. His touch is firm and it feels safe. He keeps a hand on the two of you until you reach a larger table on the other side of the big hall with Tommy and Maria. 

As you sit down next to Ellie, you look around at the other adults with an accusing expression on your face, “So that guy lives here? Is he always like that?”

“He’s a really good hit, has a lot of military-type training that’s helped Jackson stay safe,” Tommy answers, spinning his response in favor to Llyod’s contributions. 

“I’ve wanted him out the moment he approached Ellie weeks ago,” Joel barks at his brother, his arms crossed tightly against his chest as he stood behind the chairs where you and the girl sat. 

“I know, Joel, I know,” Tommy raises his hands as if surrendering, “and I’m trying to think of what we can do to move forward with him.” 

“I know exactly what to do with him,” Joel snaps back, his arms tensing at his sides as he paces at his side of the table. 

Maria folds her hands in front of her on the table as she calls you and Ellie, her pretty eyes heavy with sympathy, “Llyod has his job here in town just like all of us. Tommy will make sure that Llyod sticks to where he needs to be, and you and Joel can focus on what you all need to do.”  

Joel grabs the back of your chair with his head down as he listens to Maria’s attempt to diffuse the situation, looking down at his boots as he takes a deep breath. 

“Fine,” he pulls himself to his full height, letting the Lloyd problem slide for now. “I’ll ride and do some repairs along the pens.” Joel taps your shoulder, and you move to stand. It was time to leave. 

“I can help,” you say, not wanting to come off as a freeloader in Jackson in front of Tommy and Maria. They give you encouraging looks before settling into their own meal and private conversation. 

“I’m coming too,” Ellie jumps out of her chair to join you and Joel.

“You don’t ride as well as us. It’ll slow us down,” Joel says gruffly, opening the door for you and Ellie to exit the hall before him. 

“Well you never have time to teach me how to ride better,” Ellie counters, stuffing her hands into her hoodie pockets, her moody teen spirit coming out in full force.

“Hey,” you bump her shoulder with yours, “why don’t you practice on Amigo? He’s really good to learn on, and I can give you some tricks to make riding easier.” 

And what was it that you were crying for? Relief that Bucky had feelings for you or were you mourning the lost time you could’ve had together had you two talked sooner? Perhaps both.

“Just get up,” you mumbled, willing yourself to get out of bed and lay out a random sundress to wear.

You wondered if anyone else was awake as you showered and brushed your teeth. Guilt crept in for skipping out on game night. Whatever transpired between you and Bucky, you couldn't let any of those feelings bleed into the rest of the time with your friends. You had to suck it up no matter the outcome.

Glancing down the hall as you left your room, your gaze lingered on Bucky’s door before your footsteps moved in that direction. You raised your hand to knock, wanting to check on him and make sure he got enough sleep. Part of you was tempted to sneak in and crawl into bed with him. Not even completely for sex, which you did not need to think about, but to have him hold you close and assure you that everything would be okay.

And to stop torturing yourself.

But you let your hand fall. You didn't want to assume that he wanted to see you first thing upon waking up. Assumptions and not communicating were what led you on this path to begin with. But you didn't want to smother him.

We can still figure it out together.

You crept downstairs, spotting a few empty bottles from the night before. The main floor was dark, minus the sunlight coming in through the windows and the kitchen. You stayed quiet when you saw Natasha and Sharon huddled together in a hushed conversation by the counter.

Which stopped the moment you walked into the room.

It didn't take a genius to figure out that they were talking about you. Not with the concerned look in Sharon’s eyes. Natasha, on the other hand, stared back at you in contemplation. At least it wasn't pity. You couldn't take that.

Did Bucky tell them? Or did they figure it out?

“Hey. Sorry for skipping game night,” you said, shifting on your feet as your gaze flickered between them. “Guess Steve and Sam aren't up yet?” You asked, purposely not mentioning Bucky.

“Don’t need to apologize,” Sharon said, concern continuing to show in her eyes. “I think they’re getting a run in.”

“Oh. Gotcha,” you said. Looking between them again, you hoped things wouldn't be this awkward for the rest of the week. “Am I interrupting? I can just grab breakfast when you two are done.”

“Not interrupting. Go sit in the living room,” Natasha urged, nodding toward the direction of the couch. “Look like you could use a pick-me-up.”

“Smoothie?” You guessed, glancing around at the array of fruit ready for blending.

“Oh, yeah. Better than coffee,” the redhead teased as she threw a few pieces into the blender with some ice, bringing a small smile to your face as you went back to the living room. She was a good friend.

All of them were.

“You okay?” Sharon asked, sitting beside you on the couch.

You hesitated for a moment. You adored them and always would. But when it came to Bucky, you feared everyone would always side with him over you. Your chest tightened at the thought that if things went south you’d get left behind.

And hadn't you been left behind once before?

“Yes and no,” you answered, not wanting to expand completely yet as Natasha walked in and handed you a glass, your hands gripping it tight. They didn't need to deal with your issues, did they? “Did Bucky talk to everyone? I’m guessing he said something since you two are looking at me like I'm going to break.”

“We don’t think you’re going to break, but you look on edge,” Natasha answered, taking a seat when you didn't disagree. “The guys talked to him a little bit. He wouldn't give them all the details, but we know you two had a long overdue chat.”

“And the way you bolted upstairs last night and how he looked like a kicked puppy, we guessed it didn't go well,” Sharon added, raising an eyebrow. “I think Nat wanted to kick his ass.”

“He looked like he kicked his own ass. Would've just been rubbing salt in an open wound if I did anything else,” she said with no trace of humor. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“It may help,” Sharon said.

Maybe.

With a deep breath, you told the girls what had happened. How you and Bucky admitted that you had feelings for each other, which neither of them appeared surprised by in the least, but that you walked away from him once the talk was over. How you wished you would’ve given him a chance then and there, but didn’t. It helped and hurt to tell them about it.

You hung your head by the time you finished, your throat tight. “I’m sorry,” you whispered, swallowing a little. “This is supposed to be a fun trip and I’m messing it up with my issues.”

Sharon rubbed your back as you took a sip of your smoothie. “Hey. You’re our friend. You didn't do anything wrong or mess anything up, okay? We all love Bucky, but he's an idiot.”

“Huge idiot. Don't know what you see in him,” Natasha winked as you scoffed. You would always try to see the good in him, even when you were upset. “But I have to say, I’m glad you two finally told each other how you feel.”

“Took you long enough,” the blonde teased halfheartedly. “Kind of hoped you would've said something before we showed up.”

Heat rushed to your cheeks. The gang ran late to the beach house on purpose. Of course, they did. The girls were perceptive. Always had been. “So, you knew.”

“Everyone knew, except for the two of you. What’s that trope?” Natasha questioned, her gaze directed at Sharon. “Idiots in love?”

“Oh, yeah,” she smiled. “You two are a walking romance novel, torturing yourselves for no good reason.”

“So, I'm an idiot then?” you said, narrowing your eyes when they both opened their mouths. “You know what? Don’t answer that.”

You beat yourself up enough.

“Like I said, I’m glad you told him and now you finally have confirmation that he feels the same way,” Natasha said, cocking an eyebrow. “What's the problem then?”

“What do you mean?” You replied.

“You said you took the night to think, but you don't exactly look like you're ready to move forward.”

“Because I don't know if I am,” you admitted.

You were overthinking the situation. You wanted to be with Bucky, but some of your wall was still up and you didn't know how to tear the rest of it down. Why was it so hard?

“Look, I'm not excusing what Bucky did because he's an idiot for going out with Dot instead of talking to you, but you know how he feels now,” Natasha began, diplomatic and level-headed like always. “Do you plan to keep him at a distance as a way to protect yourself? Or are you maybe punishing him just a little bit for seemingly abandoning you?”

Leave it to her to ask the tough questions.

“I'm not trying to punish him,” you promised. Both of you had punished yourselves enough. “I just don't want him to hurt me. I mean, I spent two years thinking he'd never want me, but he just didn't want to fight for me,” you said, tears brimming your eyes.

“Or maybe he thought he never stood a chance and settled,” Sharon said. “Which, again, he’s an idiot. Most guys are.”

“So, what are you saying? That I should just pretend the last two years didn't happen?” You asked.

“No,” they said in sync.

You huffed. Why were girls both direct and cryptic? “Then what are you saying?”

Natasha grabbed a tissue and handed it over when a tear slid down your cheek. “We’re saying that we think Bucky is genuinely sorry for his stupid assumption and wants you to be his girl. Start slow if you have to and set the ground rules. If it means him apologizing every day with his words and actions, he will. And we know if you gave him your heart, it would be the last thing he'd break. Don’t you owe it to yourself to be happy?”

“Yeah. Maybe just start with a date,” Sharon said, tilting her head when you didn’t say anything. They were only trying to help, but why did it feel like pressure of sorts? Did they fully understand your apprehension? “You really don't see how he looks at you, do you?”

“Why would I when I convinced myself he'd never want me?” You whispered.

Bucky had convinced himself of the same thing. Maybe the two of you were idiots. How long would you continue to torture yourself? They had a point. Why not start with one date and see where it led?

What would be the harm in that, besides risking your whole heart?

“Well, we see how he looks at you,” Sharon said, her eyebrows shooting up. “Wait. I have it.”

Natasha narrowed her eyes. “Have what?” She asked. You wondered the same thing.

The front door opened before you got your answer, your heart skipping a beat when Bucky stopped in the doorway with a beach bag in hand. You realized after a moment that he was still in the same clothes he wore the day before, his eyes bloodshot as he looked your way. His hair was disheveled, too. He didn’t look like he slept well, if at all.

It broke your heart.

“Hey, Butterfly,” he croaked when you got to your feet, clearing his throat with a tired smile. “You look beautiful.”

“It’s just a sundress, Dreamboat,” you said, the compliment making your stomach flip before you took a step toward him. “Are you okay?”

His eyes lit up. “You’re still calling me that?”

“Of course, I am.” you smiled softly. He’d always be your Dreamboat. “Did you get any sleep?” You added, sighing when he confirmed your suspicion with a shake of his head. Had you been on his mind? “Why not?”

He gripped the bag handle like a lifeline. “I needed to find a way to say I’m sorry. Tried writing a letter and it wasn't enough.”

Your heart swelled, glancing back at the girls as they both gave you an encouraging smile. “Look. Before you do anything, why don’t you take a nap?” You suggested. “It’s still early and I’m not going anywhere.”

“A nap sounds like a good idea before volleyball,” Natasha said, leveling Bucky with a look. “In fact, why don’t you get him to bed?”

“Nat,” you hissed. Of course, she’d suggest you take him upstairs.

“Yeah, we’ll catch up with you two in a bit,” Sharon said.

The hopeful look in Bucky’s eyes was irresistible. “Come on,” you said, taking his arm once he kicked his shoes off. You felt his gaze on you as you took him up the stairs. It amazed you that he didn’t trip over his own feet since he kept his eyes on you. “I can tell you’re staring at me.”

“I half expected you to be gone this morning,” he said, opening his door. “I wouldn’t have blamed you.”

Your stomach dropped. “You think I’d bolt after the conversation we had?” You asked. Did he think little of you now?

He chuckled under his breath. “I said half expected,” he teased.

Instead of releasing your arm, he pulled you into his room before you could protest. It wasn’t a good idea to be there, yet there you were. Not fighting it as he pulled you toward the bed.

His large, inviting bed.

“So, what’s in the bag?” You asked curiously to distract yourself as he set it down and stretched out on the bed, pulling you down with him. He gave you plenty of room so you wouldn’t have to cuddle close. He also left the door cracked open.

He was giving you an out.

“I can’t show you yet because I have to put it together,” he yawned, giving you an apologetic smile. “It’ll spoil the surprise otherwise.”

A giddy smile appeared on your face. He was actually going to make you something. “I’ll be patient,” you said, letting him keep your hand in his.

“Haven’t we been patient long enough?” He asked, his hair falling in his eyes as he gazed at you. Even exhausted, he was breathtaking. “I know you needed the night to think it over.”

The smile fell from your face, silence stretching in the room before you squeezed his hand. “Bucky, you need to get some sleep.”

He couldn’t mask the dejected look on his face. It wasn’t an outright rejection, but you hadn’t exactly declared that you should move forward. “I couldn’t sleep,” he said, his voice thick. “All I could see were the tears in your eyes and knowing I caused them.”

“It’s okay,” you told him. It was an assurance for yourself, too. You were okay and he hadn't tried to hurt you.

“It’s not okay,” he argued, the familiar determination back in his eyes. “And I don’t want to sleep. I want to make you smile. I want to win you a stuffed animal at the carnival.”

“You promised me that at dinner yesterday,” you teased.

“I want to take you dancing,” he added, rubbing his thumb over the back of your hand.

You could easily picture him smiling as he twirled you around and moved to the beat. Maybe that could be your first actual date. “As long as you don’t step on my feet.”

“I want to take you to bed,” he whispered,

You inhaled, your heart pounding at the implication. “Bucky…”

“I want to hear about your day. The little things, even the details that you think are mundane,” he said, scooting a bit closer. “I want to be the one you talk to and depend on again.”

Each declaration worked its way into your heart. Why couldn’t you just take the leap of faith? “We can’t just-”

“I want you to be my girl,” he said, his face inches from yours. “I want to give you everything.”

Your heart screamed at you to comfort him, kiss him, to tell him the same. “Bucky, you’re not giving me anything until you get some sleep,” you whispered, resting a hand on his cheek. He needed rest. “Please, for me?”

“I’m afraid if I close my eyes, I’ll wake up and you’ll be gone,” he whispered, fighting to keep his eyes open. “I can't lose you again.”

You didn't want to lose him either. “You won't lose me because I’m not going anywhere. I said we’d figure this out together and I meant that,” you promised, needing to give him hope. “Close your eyes. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

He finally shut them as he breathed out, “Butterfly, I lo…”

You gasped as Bucky trailed off, smiling to yourself as your eyes misted over. You weren’t going to run. Not from him. Not when you owed it to yourself to be happy.

You told yourself that as his phone rang.

Even as Dot’s name showed on the screen.

It's fine, lovelies! 😭 Things will look up. Love and thanks for reading! 💙

He ran faster, until he could not make out the faces of those he passed, shouting for a Maester to be sent to their chambers immediately. One of them must be a servant. With luck, the Maester would already be there when they arrived.

She cried out as he began to ascend the stairs, wincing with each step, her weak grip on him tightening. “It hurts, Aemond.”

“I know, my love.” He slowed down, though his pounding heart urged him to do just the opposite. “I’m so sorry. The maester will be here soon, and he’ll help you feel better, hmm?”

“He has to stop it. It’s too early,” her voice cracked, and Aemond’s heart with it. “They’re not ready!”

But it couldn’t be stopped, not by man or gods. Their children would be born today. The only question was whether they would survive. If their mother would survive. Her poor body was so weak, and her heart… he had broken that, too.

If any of them died today, that blood would be on his hands, and he would gladly accept his damnation to the worst of the seven hells.

“Come now,” he chided gently as they reached the corridor to their chambers. “Our sons are dragons – they will be strong. And so will you, ābrazȳrītsos.”

“Sons?” She lifted her head, her entire body trembling with the effort it took. Her eyes – those beautiful eyes now gilded by the setting sun outside the windows – locked with his. “How… you sound so sure.”

Just one more lie. One more, and then he would never lie to her again.

Besides, this lie was small, nearly inconsequential. Many fathers insisted that their children would be sons until the child itself proved them wrong. It would be so easy for her to believe. The truth would hurt her – perhaps weaken her further. Aemond did not want her to hear Alys’ name. She should never have to even think of that witch ever again.

But he could not bring himself to do it. He could not sully the birth of his sons with yet another lie. He pushed their door open with a shoulder, never breaking her gaze. “Alys told me after you left. Before… she had a vision of us holding our sons. I’m so sorry, love.”

She slumped again, her face dropping into the curve of his neck. Once, she kissed him there, slept with her head tucked there. Now, it was simply where her head lolled. “I’m glad it’s sons. You’ll have two heirs…”

Her words were cut short by a gasp of pain, but Aemond heard it clearly. It echoed in his very bones. So if I live, you’ll have no more need of me. The gods had just crumbled the ground beneath him, his heart and soul with it. He was falling, falling, falling…

“I am glad, too.” He set her down gently in the bed, brushing away several tangles of hair stuck to her sweaty brow before arranging the pillows around her, hoping he was adequately managing to hide his devastation. For he could not bear to be without her, could not bear to love her only from a distance. He would go mad. Yet he would happily accept that horrible fate if it meant he would not lose her to the Stranger. “Mother will be, as well.”

“Mother!” She tried to rise, but he held her softly to the bed. “I can’t do this without Mother, Aemond. We must return home immediately!”

“I am afraid that is not an option, Princess.” Maester Artos stood just within the doorway, maids and Septas streaming in behind him. He was a mountain of a man, better suited to the battlefield than the birthing bed. But he was good at what he did – very good. Aemond had seen him work miracles on men who should have never survived their injuries.

The moment the women began attending to his wife, he approached the Maester, speaking quietly so as not to frighten her. “Something is wrong, Artos, she is bleeding. And she’s very weak.”

Artos hardly acknowledged him, looking only at the princess lying in the bed. “The blood is not the problem. She is distressed and too thin.” He stated, as cold and clinical as all other Maesters.

“Yes, I know that already.” Aemond took a shaky, calming breath. He did not like the way Artos observed her, as if she was a thing to be studied rather than a woman – a princess. Perhaps when it was all over, he’d kill the man for it. “I fear she is not strong enough to survive this.”

She cried out behind them. Two maids were pressing damp cloths to her forehead. Another was hastily braiding her hair back. A Septa had begun cutting away her dress, leaving her only in her chemise as two more maids removed her slippers and stockings. Two other Septas knelt by the windows, praying, while one woman who seemed to be neither maid nor Septa laid metal and wood instruments atop a tall, thin table.

It took every ounce of Aemond’s self-control not to go to her. To shove away each woman because it should be him – and him alone – to touch his wife while she was so vulnerable. He should be the one to protect her, but he couldn’t. He could only hurt her, it seemed.

“Artos!” Aemond hissed.

“Is her spirit weak as well?” There was suspicion in his dark eyes. The same he’d shown when he confirmed Alys was carrying a child. If he hadn’t been so proficient a healer, Aemond might have killed him then.

But for now, Aemond was glad Artos was alive. He swallowed, avoiding looking back at the bed as his wife continued to whimper and moan. “Yes.” The maester just hummed before approaching the bed. Aemond followed, kneeling at the bedside, the maids immediately clearing away.

“This is Maester Artos, ābrazȳrītsos.” She stared wide-eyed at the hulking mass of the man who now knelt between her legs. Aemond tugged on her hand, her gaze snapping back to him. “I know him well. He’s going to take very good care of you, I promise.”

She shuddered, her eyes closed tight as she squeezed Aemond’s hand so hard he had to bite his tongue to keep from crying out. He delighted in it. She was not as weak as he thought, thank the gods. If she needed to break every bone in his hand – in his body – to live through this, he would let her do so without complaint.

“Are you going to stay with me?” she asked, her voice already ravaged by screaming.

Aemond blinked. When they first learned they were to have a child, he swore he would. But now, it seemed impossible for her to want him there. Not after what he’d done. “Do you… want me to stay?”

She opened her mouth, but nothing came out but another moan of pain. Her eyes darted all over his face. The longer she stayed silent, the further Aemond’s stomach dropped, and his heart ached.

“I believe it wise to have the prince wait outside,” Artos said decisively.

Aemond felt her hand slide out of his, the sensation the same as if he were falling from Vhagar’s back—her answer.

He nodded, and though he knew he shouldn’t, he leaned over her and kissed her forehead, trailing a hand down her cheek. “I love you.”

As he walked to the door, he still held a little shred of hope in his heart, waiting to hear her say it back.

It never came.

The moment the door shut behind Aemond, she regretted sending him away. She wanted to call him back so she wouldn’t be alone with so many strangers. But panic began to set in as the maids pulled her gently down the bed, and her voice failed her.

“It won’t be long now, princess,” the maester said, but she found no comfort in it. She couldn’t even remember his name. Alton? Alyn? Amos? Aemond had said he trusted him, but…

But that meant he had been here when Aemond was with Alys. And that glint of pity in his eyes, not just for her conditions, but for what he knew. He knew. Seven Hells, he’d probably been the one to care for Alys and her pregnancy.

Alys. Alys, Alys, fucking Alys!

She did not know what to think of the woman who had stolen so much from her. Had she stolen it, or had Aemond given it? She could hardly make sense of what she’d learned in that dreary little room.

Alys was not the evil, scheming witch she had first imagined. But neither was she innocent in the affair, not wholly. She was not remorseful for her actions, but she apologized for hurting her. She had been kind.

Blinding pain shot through her, and she screamed. Wordless and desperate, her only outlet for release. She needed to scream, needed to roar, needed to breathe fire. Anything to distract from this. Gods, she even wished for a moment for Alys to be there, holding her hand. At least then, she could return some of that pain.

“Princess,” the maester said, though he sounded far away. Though it was more likely that her shouting was drowning him out. “Very soon, I will ask that you push. Do you know how, your highness?”

Push. That’s what the septas had instructed Helaena to do at the birth of her twins and for Maelor. She even had vague memories of the word from when she peeked through the open door to her mother’s chambers when Daeron was born. But what it meant and how to do it?

Her confusion must have been apparent, for the maester continued. His voice was frustratingly calm and steady. “It is fine if you do not, princess. You must simply follow your instincts. When you feel the urge, push the child outward with all your might.”

“I have no might.” She heard herself laughing through tears and only then realized she was crying. Someone took her hand – she didn’t know who. But the feeling of another’s skin on hers was heavenly.

“You have carried these babes for months,” the maester – Artos! that was his name – said gently, “while your husband and the realm were at war. In my estimation, you are the mightiest woman in Westeros.”

She felt nearly every muscle she had tense, turning her answering grateful smile into a grimace. The mightiest woman in Westeros would not have weathered her pregnancy as well as a paper boat in a storm. The mightiest woman in Westeros would not still love her husband after he betrayed her. The mightiest woman in Westeros would not have let her emotions weaken her or put her children’s lives in danger.

She was far from the mightiest woman in Westeros, and she could not do this. She wasn’t strong enough. She was only a weak and broken little girl.

A maid approached, a fresh cool, damp cloth in her hands. The princess had not looked at any of their faces, too absorbed in her pain and panic. But now, she caught the eyes of this girl—deep, rich brown, so similar to her own – to her mother’s.

“I want my mother,” she whispered to the maid, even knowing it was impossible. “I can’t do this without her.”

The maid gaped at her as if she could not fathom a princess ever speaking to her. She looked to her companions for guidance, but the princess only looked into the maid’s eyes and thought of her mother—the scent of the rosemary oil she used in her hair, the warmth of her embrace, and the soothing tones of her voice.

“Please, I want my mother,” she begged. A new surge of pain gripped her, radiating into her legs. They were coming faster now; she barely had time to breathe between each wave. “Please.”

“I’m so sorry, Your Highness.” The maid’s voice was high and breathy, nothing like her mother’s. “The queen is not here.”

She cried, turning away from those false eyes. She was alone – entirely and utterly alone.

“Princess, I need you to be strong now.” Artos’ sweaty brow was furrowed with half a dozen creases, his eyes wide and mouth a firm line. He looked more like a commander on a battlefield than a maester. The Grand Maester would have smiled at her, but he was not here, either. “Your labors are progressing quickly. It is nearly time to push.”

“I don’t know how,” she cried. She refused to open her eyes. If she kept them closed, she could almost imagine she was home.

Artos wrapped his hands around her ankles, pushing them upwards and further apart. “You do, princess. The Mother wove the knowledge into your body. Listen to it, and all will be well.”

“I – ”

Her next scream rattled the room, the keep, the entirety of the Riverlands.

Fire, ice, steel, and claw seemed to rake down her spine to her thighs. But Artos was right; her body reacted to the pain, her muscles moving near-unconsciously to force the babe out of her womb. She followed the instinct, pushing it harder, harder, harder.

“Very good, princess!” Was that Artos or Orwyle? She couldn’t tell anymore.

It was never-ending.

Pain, pushing, and a brief moment of reprieve.

Again.

Again.

Again.

It lasted hours, days, perhaps even years.

Was a child – a son – even worth this pain? How could she love someone who had tortured her so? Would she ever be able to look at him without remembering how she suffered?

Pain.

Pain.

PAIN.

Then –

“Stop, princess!”

She went limp, vaguely beginning to feel other sensations creep in: the coolness of the water on her forehead, the slight scratching of the sheets beneath her, and the hushed whispers of the maids and midwives.

The pain was still there, but softer. Less insistent.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, her voice nearly unrecognizable, even to her.

Artos emerged from between her legs, relief painted over his harsh face. “Nothing is wrong, princess. It is simply time to be gentle and allow your body to do its work.” He smiled, chuckling under his breath. “I can see your babe’s white hair – quite a bit of it.”

Laughter bubbled up in her throat. Deep, joyous laughter. Another slight wave of pain passed through her, but she didn’t care at all. She was thinking about her niece and nephew, how Jaehaerys was born with nearly a full mane of silver frizz while Jaehaera had not a single hair on her head until she was over a year old. “He has hair?”

“Yes, although I do not know yet whether it is a boy, princess.”

“It is. He is.”

There was one more brief surge of pain, and then she heard her son cry.

It was torture to wait outside while his ābrazȳrītsos screamed with pain. At first, Aemond stood leaning against the wall, as Aegon did when Helaena began her labors, but his knees failed him when he heard a scream that rattled the world.

He’d been on the floor since, resisting the urge to cover his ears. But he had caused her this pain, so he must listen.

He would be in that room with her if he hadn’t been a weak, damnable fool. He would have held her hand, letting her release her pain onto him. She had only squeezed his hand once, yet he still felt the ghost of her touch on his skin. He would savor that pain for the rest of his life.

It seemed to be never-ending, the torture his son was inflicting upon her. How could he ever forgive the child for doing this to his own mother?

Then, it stopped.

Aemond leaped to his feet, panic infecting his blood like a disease. Why had she gone quiet? What was wrong? Was she dead? He couldn’t face –

A babe cried—his first cry, with his first breath.

Their son.

He tried to push the door open, but it was locked.

“Let me in!” he shouted, pounding his fist on the door. “Artos, let me in!”

There was no answer, but he could hear soft voices inside. None sounded like hers. Oh gods, had she brought their son into the world at the cost of her own life?

Aemond slammed himself against the door again and again, not caring for the damage he was doing to his own body. “Open the door now, Artos!”

He threw himself against the wood again and again. At some point, it had to yield. Either it would, or his body would.

It opened just before he launched himself at it again—not all the way, but it was open. Then, Artos stared at him through the gap with his hateful, disapproving gaze.

“Let me in,” he growled. Trying to force the door open was useless, as the maester was practically a giant and, apparently, throwing all his strength into holding it closed. “If you don’t let me see my wife, I swear I’ll – ”

“Your wife has not finished her labors yet, my prince.” Damn him, the mountainous bastard. “But I am pleased to inform you that she has borne you a son.”

Though he knew it was to be a son, the words still shot through him. A son. His son. Their son.

“Is he healthy? Is she?” There was no more fight in his voice. The warrior prince had vanished, replaced only by the husband and father. By all the gods, he was a father.

Artos nodded. “The boy is small but healthy. Your maester may have miscalculated the date of conception. He is remarkably healthy for being born so early.”

“And my wife?”

“She is tired, but well. The second babe is not quite ready to emerge, so she is resting.”

The weight of all the world was lifted from his shoulders. He felt like the little boy he had once been on Driftmark, wanting nothing more than to see his zaldrīzītsos and take comfort in her embrace. “May I see her? Please.”

“I’m afraid not, my prince.” Artos at least had the decency to sound genuinely apologetic. “She needs this rest. With the first birth, she was wonderfully strong, more than I could have ever imagined. But I fear she has depleted her strength. She fell asleep the moment it was done.”

“Is… is it bad that she fell asleep?”

Artos sighed, his eyes turning to the floor. “Ordinarily, no, but with how thin she is, how weak… it worries me.”

No. No, no, no. “Is there anything you can do? To help strengthen her?”

“I am afraid not, my prince.”

“Well, do something. Do whatever you can.”

A soft moan came from behind the door. Ābrazȳrītsos. Aemond pushed against the door, opening it as far as he could to try and catch the barest glimpse of her.

Her eyes were nearly closed, her reddened cheeks making them appear as dark as night. Her chemise was soaked through with sweat and whatever other fluids came out with their child. But no blood beyond what he already knew to be there.

“Ābrazȳrītsos! I’m here!” He shouted. It took a moment for her to look his way. He could have sworn she smiled. “I’m with you! You must be strong, my love. I know you can be. I love you! I love you so much, ñuha zaldrīzītsos!”

Artos pushed against the door, forcing Aemond back. “That is enough, my prince. Upsetting her will only drain her strength.”

Aemond knew it was true, that his presence would likely upset her rather than comfort her. So, he stopped resisting and allowed the maester to close the door. Just before it closed, he whispered one final command, “Take care of her, Artos. She is my world.”

The pain returned, worse than before. The lightning crept down her spine again, but it was now accompanied by a great force set on tearing her body apart at the seams. Pushing brought no relief, nor did it seem to move her son any closer to the world.

Artos came to her bedside, resting the back of his hand against her brow.

 “It’s worse this time,” she confided in the maester when it finally ebbed. “It’s so much worse. Why?”

He sighed and sat on the bedside, his massive hand nearly eclipsing her head as he stroked her hair. It made her feel remarkably like a kitten. “I cannot say, princess. There are many possibilities. This child could be larger, in a slightly different position, or…” He hesitated. “As I said, there are too many possibilities for me to be sure.”

His pause unsettled her, but it soon faded away when another wave went through her. “Is he nearly ready? I can’t do this much longer.” At least she knew what to do this time, so surely it would be better.

“Ah, another son, is it?” Artos stood from the bed to examine her spread legs. Several maids gently moved her to replace the sheets beneath her. “Not yet, but soon. Your motherly instincts will tell you when.”

Motherly instincts. Gods, she was a mother now. There was a child on the other side of the room that she had given birth to, that she had grown within her. A son who would depend on her for his entire life. Her, and his father.

Aemond would be a good father, she knew, even if he were decidedly lacking as a husband. But as a father, he would be attentive, kind, and loving. He would give their sons all the love he was denied by their own father.

They would not repeat the mistakes of the past. They would love their sons. They would not ignore them, speaking to them only to scold them. They would teach them the language of their ancestors themselves instead of relying on tutors. As soon as they were old enough, they would teach them how to be compassionate and fair rulers. They would not force them to marry for political advantage or the continuation of the bloodline but let them fall in love, as they had.

She could see them now. Both with white hair and unruly curls. Bright lilac eyes. The elder would take after her, but with Aemond’s determination. The younger would take after their father but with her gentle temperament.

As if the vision was summoning her second son, she felt her body constricting, muscles tightening. Without fear, she began to push.

“Princess, stop!”

Artos screamed as if someone was holding a sword to his throat, desperate and panicked. His eyes were wide and bulging as he looked from her face to where her second son should be emerging. “You mustn’t push now, princess. Not once. I…”

He stood, pulling one of the Septas aside. Others followed, and their frantic, poorly hushed whispers grew louder. She knew the sight should frighten her, but she forced herself to remain calm. Aemond said he trusted this man and had seen him work miracles. Whatever was wrong, Artos would fix it.

She was sure.

Artos burst out of the door without warning. Aemond pushed away from the wall. “Is it over?”

The maester sighed.

Shit. Seven Hells and all the Gods.

“Your wife is strong, my prince,” he began. Holy gods, he sounded as if he would cry. “Enough so that I would have little doubt that she could deliver your second child, but…”

“What’s wrong?” Aemond felt his heart race, his blood surge, his finger twitching for his sword. He was going into battle, but this was not a battle he could fight with steel or fire. This was not a battle he could fight at all. “Artos?”

“The babe is not in the right position.” He moved his hands as if it would somehow make Aemond understand what he was saying.

“What does that mean?”

“It means that the babe cannot be born, your highness.”

No. This couldn’t be happening. Not after everything she had suffered and survived.

“If she were to continue her labors, neither she nor the child would live.” Artos put a hand on his shoulder, an attempt at comfort. “I can save only one. Who survives… that is your decision, my prince.”

The gods were cruel to force this upon him – the very choice that had damned their family decades ago when Viserys chose to sacrifice his wife and queen for the chance at a son. That was where the seeds of destruction had been sown.

Aemond could not repeat the mistakes of the past. He would not be like his father. He had his son and heir. A second would be preferred, but not at the cost of his ābrazȳrītsos.

His ābrazȳrītsos, whose heart would break to lose her son. Who would never forgive him if he decided to –

He couldn’t choose. He couldn’t let her die, and he couldn’t let their son die.

He couldn't live without her, and he couldn’t take away her will to live.

He tore himself out of Artos’ grasp and stormed into the room.

Aemond threw open the door, his eyes wide and wet, and suddenly, she was not so sure that Maester Artos would fix whatever was wrong.

He ran to the bed, not sparing a glance at their new son. She burst into sobs the moment he took her in his arms. “Oh, ābrazȳrītsos,” he whispered into her hair as he kissed her temples. She entwined her fingers with his, desperately squeezing. “I’m here now. Everything is going to be fine.”

Liar. Sweet Liar. Beloved Liar.

“I want Mother. I want Helaena.” Her voice crackled with tears and exhaustion. Everything hurt. Someone – most likely her – was crying, though it sounded distant. And if Aemond was here, not waiting outside…

If Aemond was here, holding her hand and stroking her hair, it meant something was wrong. Something was very wrong.

“Mother is not here right now,” he said, squeezing her hand tighter. He wouldn’t look at her, wouldn’t meet her gaze. “And Helaena… she can’t be here. I’m so sorry.”

“She told me she would hold my hand like I did for her. She promised!”

“I know. I know, my love, but it is not possible.”

Because Helaena was dead. So were Daeron, and Jaehaerys, and Jaehaera, and Maelor, and Otto, and Ser Criston, and nearly every other person she loved. Aegon would be dead soon, too, then she would only have her mother and her husband.

Her mother, who had begged her to forgive the husband who betrayed her and broken her heart.

“I can’t do this alone, Aemond. I can’t.”

“You can, I know it. You are so strong, dearest.” Yet there was no confidence in his voice.

She wanted to scream. She wanted to tear his hair out just to make him hurt, too. “I can’t! I’ll die if you make me, Aemond, I know it. I know something is wrong. Please, tell me.”

He pursed his lips, eyes narrowed. “My love, I…” his voice faded, leaving them in total silence, save for that distant crying.

Then, he kissed her—not the soft kisses on the temple or head of the past fortnight, but the way he had kissed her when he said goodbye all those months ago. His lips slotted against hers perfectly, and she opened for him on instinct. She knew she should stop, push him away, and scold him, but she couldn’t.

Everything felt wrong—her entire body felt wrong. But this, kissing Aemond, felt right. Her desperation for comfort far overpowered her anger and resentment. Her trembling hand rested on his shoulder, her fingers bunching in his shirt. She pulled him closer, wanting more—more rightness, more connection, more feeling.

More Aemond.

But he pulled away, resting his brow against hers as she chased his lips again. He placed a hand on either side of her face, holding her still. “I’m going to fix this,” he rasped, his voice shredded by fear and desperation. “I will fix this, I swear.”

Then, he let go.

He stood from the bed and turned away from his wife.

He was leaving. He was fucking leaving her.

She screamed his name, cursed him, begged him to come back, hurled insults, and cried for him. He couldn’t do this to her, not after everything he’d already done.

This was not love. The heat that burned in her chest was not love.

It was hate.

For the first time in her life, she truly hated Aemond.

“Alys!” Aemond bellowed as he descended the stairs to the servant’s quarters, taking the steps two, three at a time. No one dared approach him. Not even Artos had tried to stop him as he ran away from his ābrazȳrītsos.

She may hate him forever for this, for leaving her when she was so weak and scared.

Fine. It would be worth it.

“ALYS!” The door snapped from its upper hinge as he tore it open. The witch was precisely where she’d been when Aemond left, her hand on her chin as she looked into the fire. What vile hell did she see in her visions now? “Alys!”

“I heard you, Aemond.” She did not look at him, only staring at the flames, those green eyes flitting around as if she were reading a book. “The entire continent heard you.” There was no humor in her voice, no hint of a smile on her face.

He swallowed, panting. He was crying – weeping like a little boy. That didn’t matter now. Very little mattered now.

Aemond fell to his knees before the witch with whom he had destroyed his life. He would do whatever she asked, destroy what little was left of his pride if necessary. “I need your help, Alys. Please.”

“She’s dying?”

“Yes. The maester said I had to… that I had to choose who to save.”

“And you can’t choose between her and the child.”

 “No, I – ” he swallowed as his voice shattered. He was going to vomit. “I can’t, Alys. I can’t. Please.”

“What is it, exactly, that you want me to do?” She was colder than the Wall, than the entirety of the lands beyond it.

“Save them, both of them.”

Alys’ eyes narrowed. Her face was painted with an expression he had never seen. He had no clue what it meant. “What would you sacrifice,” she asked flatly, “to ensure your wife and her children – your true heirs – live?”

“Anything,” Aemond croaked, “Everything.”

One corner of her sinful mouth lifted in a way that did not bring him comfort. She sighed as if taking the time to thoroughly consider his plea. The wicked bitch was gleefully stalling when the lives of his wife and child could end at any moment.

“Please, Alys,” he begged again, desperation crawling through his veins like spreading ice. “I cannot live without her, and she will never recover from her grief if she loses the babe.”

Something passed over her face, and she smiled fully. “You have always been a man of loyalty and nobility, Aemond.” Her grin sharpened as she laid one delicate hand upon her belly. “Almost always, at least.”

“Alys,” he growled in warning.

“Oh, don’t be a beast about it,” she scoffed. “I will do it – save them. If only in memory of our time together.”

Aemond sagged as relief swept through him, but it did not last long. She was still dying. The babe was still dying. Whatever Alys would do, she needed to do it now. He opened his mouth to command her to start, but she held up a hand to stop him.

“I promise it will be done.” She flung her hand to the door in dismissal. “You should be there for her. She is still so very frightened.”

He needed nothing more to run back to his wife.

She was alone. Even with Maester Artos and the dozen women hovering around her, even with her son cooing softly from the cradle by the window, she had never felt so alone.

Aemond was gone.

He’d left her. Without even a goodbye, he’d left her. He had not even stopped to meet his son.

Artos murmured something to one of the Septas, who quickly gathered the other women on the far side of the room. He approached the bed, again seating himself upon the edge, and pressed the back of his fingers to her brow briefly before petting her hair. “How are you feeling, princess?”

“Am I going to die?”

He hesitated in answering. “I cannot say for certain…”

“I know something is wrong. Please, tell me.” Her heart constricted as his fingers brushed against a spot where Aemond had kissed her. “You told him, now tell me.”

“Very well,” he sighed. His harsh face fell, and she swore she could see his eyes glistening. “The babe is breech. It should emerge head-first, but it is not. It’s… the way it is attempting to come out is nearly impossible. Should I not intervene, one or both of you will die.”

No. No, no, no, it wasn’t fair. To suffer for this long, to endure what she endured, only for her child to enter the world wrong? In a way that would kill them? She had always been good and devout. She prayed and studied holy texts, listened to her Septas and the Maesters, and avoided sin at all costs. Then why was she being punished?

Unless… the gods had not sent this to punish her.

Aemond had abandoned her and their marriage – their holy union – when he slept with Alys. It would be fitting, and very like the gods, for him to lose that which he had forsaken. She and her second son were merely instruments of punishment. But it wasn’t fair.

“There is nothing you can do?” She felt hollow as Artos continued to look at her in pity.

The warrior-maester looked as if he were about to cry, as well. “In these situations, it is usually asked of the father whom he would rather save.”

So that was why Artos left the room – to ask Aemond whether to save her or the child.

“Who did he choose?” Either answer would devastate her. He would either prove the fragility of his love for her, or he would willingly break her heart by killing their son. Whatever he chose, he would become a kinslayer thrice over.

“He… he did not, your highness.”

“What?”

“I explained the situation, and he stormed in here – to you. When he left, he said nothing. He just ran. I presumed he had…” But he hadn’t. Had not said a word about the peril she and their son were now in.

A coward. Too frightened to maintain his vows of marriage. Too weak to admit his wrongdoing. Too cowardly to even make this most crucial of decisions. The gods damn him.

If they hadn’t already.

“So… what will you do?” If she had to be the one to make the decision, so be it.

“There are three options.” None of them were very good, she knew, simply by looking at his forlorn face. She had thought him a grave man when she first saw him. Now, he looked mournful – a reluctant harbinger of death. “I can forcibly remove the child, more than likely killing it in the process. I can attempt to save it and, in so doing, certainly kill you. Or we can proceed with the birth, risking killing both of you and pray that the gods may be merciful.”

Such a choice – a decision of life and death – should be difficult. It should tear away at the soul to condemn another. It should be far beyond the limits of the heart or mind.

But it was easy.

“Save him,” she whispered. “Let me die.”

Artos frowned deeply, shook his head, and said something in return, but she did not listen – she could not and would not hear his words. She only vaguely saw him move to the end bed, ripping away the sleeve of his robes as he barked orders at the maid and midwives. Perhaps the gods were merciful to dull her senses now so she could pass peacefully.

What did it matter if she died now?

She will have fulfilled her duty and given her husband his heirs. Finding a new wife would be easy – what woman would not want to marry him? Even if news of Alys spread beyond the walls of Harrenhal, surely it was nothing in exchange for a crown. Aemond would have everything he needed to be king.

If she lived, what sort of life would it be? To raise one son while constantly mourning the other. To be the wife of a man she could no longer trust. To remain empty, a shell of her former self. She would be alive, but she would still be a ghost.

“Save him,” she said again, her voice fading.

It was easier this way. Hadn’t she already learned that it was easier not to fight? Letting Aemond take care of her was easier than fighting him. Perhaps it would be easier to let him care for the children, too. He would love them enough that they would not feel her absence.

Distantly, she felt pressure between her legs, then heard her firstborn son cry out to echo her own screams.

Her son.

Oh, he had no name.

She couldn’t leave him motherless and without a name.

Months ago, she had decided on names, but they were hard to remember now. What was it? She could grant him this one last gift. She just needed to remember…

“Daeron.”

Yes. It had been her brother’s name. Her kind, brave, daring brother. He died some months ago. There had been a battle. Why was her little brother fighting? He was too young for that.

Tendrils of pale mist crept into the edges of her vision, playfully willing her to sleep.

Once she was gone, Daeron—her Daeron—would have a little brother, too. He would need a name as well—a strong name, a courageous name. When she was dead, he would need courage.

“Aenar.”

A strong name. With courage enough to forge a new beginning.

There. Names for her sons, the little princes.

With that last parting gift, she could close her eyes at last.

Goodbye, she tried to say.

I love you, my children.

Be kind to each other.

Love each other always.

Goodbye.

The mist filled her vision, illuminated by a distant light. It was cool, like a late spring morning. She did not hurt anymore. Did not feel anything but an overwhelming sense of peace.

The distant light faded.

The mist darkened.

Through it, she swore she could see grass-green eyes and hear the faraway cry of a babe.

She was still screaming. Good.

Screaming meant she was still alive. Screaming meant Alys was fulfilling her promise. Screaming meant that Aemond was racing back to his wife – his living, breathing, beloved wife – and not her corpse.

The door was still locked when he arrived—one final obstacle between him and his family.

No, not final. Far from it. The door was the only tangible thing keeping him from his wife and children, yes, but there was far more beyond it. The pain he caused her, the hatred his ābrazȳrītsos now surely felt for him, and the third child that would soon be born still kept them as far apart as the earth and stars.

They would get past it. They had to. They were siblings, husband and wife, now destined to become King and Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. They were meant for each other. The gods or fate or whatever else had made her for him and him for her.

They were two parts of the same whole, cleaved.

“Prince Aemond.”

Cregan Stark, the man who humiliated him and his wife mere hours ago, stood behind him. Aemond snarled. “Leave. Now.”

Stark stood strong and still. “You have been my enemy. You may be still, I have not decided. I have no admiration nor respect for you, my prince. In short, I do not like you.”

“Do you want me to kill you?” Aemond asked. He did not wish to greet his sons with blood-soaked hands, but if Stark didn’t close his fucking mouth –

“To lose the woman you love so dearly in this way… it is a pain I know all too well and one I would not wish on anyone. I have instructed all my men to pray for the Princess and the child, and I will join them soon. Negotiations will be postponed indefinitely.”

“I…” Perhaps Aemond had underestimated the brute, if he was a brute at all. And though he knew the prayers were unnecessary, gratitude still dulled his rage. “Thank you, Lord Stark.”

He simply inclined his head and walked away, leaving Aemond leaning against that godsdamned door, listening to nothing but the sound of his own panting breath.

Oh gods.

He froze.

The screaming was gone.

It was silent.

Was she dead?

Had Alys betrayed him?

He would kill her. He would tear her apart with his own hands and –

A child cried.

Then…

Oh, thank each and every god a thousand times over.

For then, Aemond heard his wife laughing.

“Princess?”

She always expected that the voice of the Father would be deep and smooth, but shouldn’t it be the Mother to greet her, given how she died? And shouldn’t the gods greet her by name, not her title?

“Princess, it is time to wake up,” the voice said again. “Open your eyes for me.”

Oh, her eyes were closed. She should open them.

The Heavens were not as bright as she imagined, nor as golden. They were dark and sparsely decorated and looked very much like –

“I am not dead?”

Maester Artos looked down at her and smiled. It reminded her of the few times she had seen her father smile at her, sparking a warmth in her chest she had not felt for years. She had not known she still remembered those smiles. “I am very happy to say you are not, your highness.”

“But, my son – ”

“He lives, too.”

It couldn’t be. After all the suffering of the past year, she could not believe it could be true. Loss had become a certainty, as sure as the sun rising each morning.

A babe cried, and she turned toward the sound. A young maid was wrapping an infant boy with a shock of white curls in a cobalt blue blanket. Daeron.

A different, softer cry came from the other end of the room. There, another boy with only a smattering of silver wisps atop his head was being gently cleaned by a Septa. Aenar.

Her sons – alive and well and here.

She threw her head back against the pillows and laughed.

She laughed with joy and relief, with eight months of eager waiting and sickness. She laughed with a body nearly dead, saved only by some miracle she did not understand. And she laughed with a heart that was both shattered and overflowing.

This was the moment she had dreamed of since she learned she was pregnant, since the moment she married Aemond. She had dreamed of this all her life. It was her destiny, even if it was vastly different from how she had dreamed it. For she was not at home in the Red Keep but within the cursed stones of Harrenhal. Her mother was not by her side but miles away. The family that was supposed to crowd around her and coo over the children were nearly all dead. And her husband…

“Let me in!” he shouted through the door, the wood pounding against stone as he threw himself against it. He had been doing that before, but she did not notice until now. It was so like him, the impatience and need to act, that she laughed again. “Ābrazȳrītsos! Is that you? Tell me you are safe!”

Taking her laughter as permission, Artos opened the door. It was mere heartbeats later that Aemond was upon the bed, his eye flitting over every inch of her, his hands roaming to try and locate something wrong, to stem blood that did not flow or relieve pain that did not exist.

“I’m fine,” she said, breathless. “I did it, lēkia, and I’m fine.”

“You did it?” He looked down at her in utter disbelief and joy before his eye drifted to the Maester. Tears slipped from his eye and caught the light of the setting sun. “She did it…”

Her gaze went to the maid that held her firstborn – the girl with eyes like her mother’s. Fitting, for her to be the one to hold him. But it was her turn. “Bring Daeron to me,” she ordered,” some strength at last returning to her voice. “I want to hold him.”

Aemond stared at her. “Daeron?”

Was he angry that she named their sons without him? She couldn’t quite tell. Her mind was still fuzzy, like the mist she had seen still lay over her, casting everything in a sweet, happy light. She shrugged. “There are already too many Aegons, so…”

He laughed. She had missed that sound – she loved it so dearly. He settled into the bed next to her, their bodies fitting together perfectly, like two halves of a broken plate. So many familiar feelings – the warmth of his arm around her, the rhythm of his heart, his lips kissing her temple in the gentle way that always sent shivers down her spine. Hadn’t her spine hurt not long ago? “Daeron is perfect.”

Indeed, he was absolutely perfect. So tiny and precious as he was put in her arms, looking up at his parents with wide lilac eyes. Neither she nor Aemond said anything as they beheld him, taking in each tiny, perfect detail. The wild curls of his silver hair. Each and every eyelash framing his bright eyes. The pink of his lips. Fingers and toes so wonderfully soft and small. A toothless smile that lit the world.

“He’s going to be king someday,” she realized aloud. How could someone so tiny rule an entire kingdom? He had a lot of growing to do before the Conqueror’s Crown would fit.

“A great king, I think,” Aemond mused. He held out a finger, and Daeron instinctively wrapped his hand around it. “Wise and strong. Daring, like his namesake.”

“He must be kind, too.”

“He will be,” Aemond assured, brushing out her damp, tangled hair with his fingers. The feeling was so familiar, but each touch had her flinching slightly. “We will raise him to be kind. His brother, too.”

“Aenar.”

Aemond stiffened. Had he forgotten they had another son, or did he not like the name she gave him? He pulled his finger back from his son’s fist to touch the babe’s hair. “The Exile?”

“I just thought…” Perhaps it had been a foolish name. But it had felt right when it came to her, when she was on the brink of death. “Our family needs a new beginning.”

“Yes… I suppose it does.” He kissed her again with slightly too much pressure. “Another fine name.”

She looked at the Septa that had been cleaning him. Maester Artos stood with her now, along with several other women, crowding so much she could not see the babe. “I want to hold him, too. Bring him to me.”

None of them moved. The room fell silent.

“Allow me just a moment longer, princess,” Artos said. His voice shook, and he would not look at her or Aemond. “I am still finishing my assessment of the boy.”

He’s dead, her mind insisted. They saved your life at the cost of his. He died because of you.

“No,” she whispered. “No, no, no.”

Daeron began fussing in her arms, disturbed by how she began to tremble. She failed one son by killing him, and now she was already failing as a mother to the one who survived. Aemond tightened his arm on her shoulders, pulling her closer as his free arm gently lifted their son into his own grasp.

He hushed her, ducking his head to press his cheek to hers. “Lykirī, ābrazȳrītsos. Izūgō daor īlo bēvili gō.” Calm, little wife. Do not panic before we have reason to.

“Kostan daor,” she whimpered. If Aenar was dead…

“Is he alive?” Aemond’s hand moved to shelter Daeron’s head as if to shield him from whatever danger or heartbreak lurked. She turned to press herself into him – into the safety of his arms.

Brother. Husband. Protector.

Why did the feel and scent of him no longer make her feel safe?

“Yes, my prince,” Artos answered.

“Will he remain that way?”

“Yes…”

“You could tell me he’s green-skinned and winged for all I care.” His arm curled protectively around her, but it did not comfort her. Rather, she bristled against it, the possessiveness of it. He did not notice. “He’s alive, and that’s enough. Bring him.”

Artos hesitated but obeyed, hastily wrapping the babe in a dark blanket.

He looked whole – unbroken. Aenar’s eyes were closed as the Maester placed him in her arms, but she could feel his warmth, his little heart beating, and the faint rise and fall of his chest. He only woke when a tear fell from her cheek onto his.

Even then, he did not cry. He only looked at his mother with bright eyes – the same shade of violet as his father's and brother’s. “Ñuha trēso,” she whispered, and he smiled. My son.

“Taobosa sylvȳse,” Aemond added. “He already recognizes the language of his ancestors. He will serve his brother well. Dārys sepār Ondoso zȳhon.” Wise boy. The King and his Hand.

They had two perfect sons. So why did Artos still look like that?

The Maester’s frown deepened. “I am afraid…” he cleared his throat. “It appears that the younger prince was injured during the birth.”

She examined him again but could find nothing wrong. He was perfect. Surely, Artos was mistaken.

“May I?” His large hand hovered over the edge of the blanket.

Her instinct was to pull away, to not let this man touch her son. Yes, he had saved both their lives, but he must be wrong now. Why should she let him make a problem where there was none?

She suppressed that instinct and allowed him to uncover Aenar’s right arm. Artos’ demeanor had made it seem as though something was horribly wrong – that the arm would be missing or deformed. But it was just an arm, small and plump and pale, with a splotch of reddish-purple covering the shoulder like a pauldron.

“It… is it a birthmark?” She brushed a thumb over it, the skin smooth but slightly raised. A birthmark wasn’t an injury, nor was it exceedingly unusual. There were several families where such a mark appeared on nearly every child born.

“Explain yourself, Artos,” Aemond hissed. He looked ready to tear the man to pieces. If he did, he would likely do so without even setting Daeron down.

With a sigh, Artos ran a finger down the length of Aenar’s arm. “Note how he gives no reaction.”

“So he is calm,” Aemond spat. “I fail to see the injury.”

“Do the same to the elder.” He repeated the touch. “Gently, my prince.”

Aemond obeyed with a scowl. The moment he touched the babe, Daeron squirmed and flailed his arm.

“But he looks fine.” She looked down at her second son, her wise boy, and held out a finger, as Aemond had with Daeron. Aenar’s left arm squirmed within its wrappings, but the right was still. She touched the arm, silently pleading with the gods for it to move, for that tiny hand to reach for her.

It remained still. A desperate noise escaped her. “What did I do wrong?”

“Nothing,” Aemond and Artos said in unison. Her husband attempted to pull her into his chest, but she pushed him away. An embrace could not fix this. Nothing could. He did not pursue her again.

“It is not uncommon among children born breech.” the Maester explained. “I have seen many such injuries and many even worse.”

Artos offered no sympathy or apologies, and she was thankful for it. There was nothing he could say to ease the pain of knowing that her son would never be whole, just like his father. But unlike Aemond, he was never even given the chance, wounded from his first breath. What would the people call him? ‘Prince Aenar One-Arm, son of King Aemond One-Eye?’

“What do we do?” She asked her husband, the Maester, the gods. Anyone who may have an answer.

Aemond’s face was drawn with grief – for his son and for himself. “He will adapt, as I did. I will ensure it. He will be stronger for this. I promise.”

I cannot trust your promises.

The thought was a sudden gale of icy wind scattering the lovely mist coating her mind into oblivion, leaving her with only stark, wicked reality and the faint memory of green eyes.

“How did I survive?”

Too quickly, Aemond turned to her, taking hold of her chin and pulling her close to him. “It does not matter, ābrazȳrītsos. All that does is that you are still with me. You and Aenar.”

If he wasn’t holding her firstborn, she would have shoved him from the bed.Liar. Liar. Liar.

I will fix this. he’d said before he left her. The pure, unrelenting anger she felt as she watched him leave had prevented her from considering what those words meant. Now, she could think of nothing else. What could he do? He was no midwife nor Maester. He had no knowledge of childbirth, beyond the few questions he’d asked of Orwyle months ago. What could he have done for her and Aenar except beg the help of another?

Of Alys.

Alys, who had eyes the color of fresh grass and possessed a dark magic that allowed her visions of the future. Was she also able to influence that future?

How?

At what cost?

What had Aemond promised her in exchange for their lives?

“No Maester wants to admit to ignorance,” Artos smiled sadly as Aenar continued to try to wriggle his left arm free of his blanket, “but I cannot explain it. All I can think is that the gods are kind to you, princess, and for that, I am glad.”

She could not look at him or any of the others in the room who watched her as if they could see the Mother’s hand upon her shoulder.

The gods weren’t kind. They were cruel to allow her to now owe her very life, and that of her son’s, to the two people who had destroyed her. Would she ever be able to look upon Aenar and not remember? To not feel her soul torn between unyielding hatred and infinite gratitude?

Yet, she had her life – and her sons. Surely anything was worth that.

Wasn’t it?

“I’m tired,” she said. The day had seemed to last a year, and the sun had not even set. “I want to rest now.”

After what she endured, no one argued.

His ābrazȳrītsos fell asleep mere moments after Daeron and Aenar were settled into their cradles. She did not even wake when Aemond lifted her so the servants could replace the soiled bedding. Just as she had so many times before, she tucked her face into his neck as they sat in the window, sighing contentedly. Now, he lay beside her in the bed, trying to memorize how it felt to have her in his arms.

When she woke, he knew she would never allow him to hold her like this again.

She knew. Somehow, his wife knew what he had done to ensure she and Aenar survived, and she would never forgive him for it for as long as she lived.

But she would live.

Aenar would live. Though he would bear the wounds of his father’s sins forever.

After his wife had fallen asleep, Maester Artos had told him that it would likely be necessary to amputate Aenar’s arm. The purple mark on his shoulder had grown, apparently indicating further bleeding within the limb. If it grew much more before morning, the arm would be removed before midday.

It was his fault, Aemond knew.

Alys had told him that in her visions, both boys had been healthy. But that was before his ābrazȳrītsos knew that he betrayed her. Before he brought her to this cursed place. Before he failed to stop her from meeting Alys and learning the full extent of his sins.

He only hoped Aenar would not grow to hate him for it.

For now, the boy slept in his crib, limp arm hidden beneath the dark blanket he was swaddled in. Aemond rose from the bed, moving closer to his son.

How peaceful he looked now, with the redness of his skin finally faded. He did not have as much hair as his older brother, but his was wilder - more reminiscent of his mother’s curls than his father’s straight locks. At least he had that part of her, if not the warm brown eyes Aemond had hoped for.

In the other cradle, Daeron fussed slightly, though he did not wake. It seemed he resented being confined within the tight swaddle of his blanket. The thought made Aemond smile, remembering how his younger brother once did the same. It faded quickly.

He had to go to Alys. To thank her for giving him his family - a kindness he did not deserve. To say goodbye to the child he would never meet. Another cost he would force himself to pay.

He had to go now, while his ābrazȳrītsos slept.

“Before our wedding,” he whispered, careful not to wake her as he approached, “I promised to hold you every night I could, that I would do anything to return to you when I was away. I have failed to uphold that promise, and for that, I am so sorry.”

When he stroked her cheek, she turned into his touch, a small smile upon her lips. Seeing that some unconscious part of her still reacted to him with love warmed his heart, even as the knowledge that her conscious mind would never allow her to do so felt like a dagger buried in his gut.

Aemond knelt at her side, basking in her beauty, memorizing her peaceful face. “Now, I swear my devotion again. I know you no longer wish for me to hold you, and I promise I will not try to persuade you otherwise. But I swear I will always be with you, to love and protect you, even if I must do it from a distance. I will never fail you again.”

It did not matter that she could not hear his vow. Even if she did, she would not believe him. But he made it anyway, for his own sake, and so the gods, wherever they may be, would hear him. It was to them he spoke next.

“Should I ever harm you again, I pray that the gods will strike me down where I stand. And if they do not, I shall do so myself.” He kissed her brow - the sealing of a promise and a farewell - and left.

A maid shrunk away as she passed Aemond in a corridor deep beneath Harrenhal, cradling the bundle of cloth she carried closer to her chest. It was one of the same maids who had tended to his wife—the young girl with deep brown eyes. She did not wear the clothing of a midwife, but the colors of her linen dress were similar. Perhaps a midwife in training.

Strange, then, for her to be here. Stranger still for her to be seemingly performing the duties of a laundress.

He glanced down at the bundle of cloth she carried and froze.

There was blood. Too much blood.

A young midwife, carrying bedlinens soaked with blood.

What would you sacrifice? Alys had asked.

Aemond ran.

He knew what he would find. There was no other explanation. Yet he still hoped and prayed he was wrong. Loss had followed him like a loyal dog for so long, but today it was banished. It must be.

Alys stood in front of her fire. One hand rested on a stomach that was not as distended as it had been only hours ago.

His wife’s stomach now looked very much the same.

“What did you do?” His voice shook with fear and guilt and shame. Gods, he felt so weak.

Her eyes, cold and distant, slid to his. “What you asked.”

“I didn’t ask you to…” This blood was on his hands - the blood of his child.

The word that had haunted him for more than a year - the word that had nearly led to the death of every person he ever loved - echoed in his mind.

Kinslayer.

Killer of his nephew. His uncle. His child.

Aemond looked back into the corridor, hoping to see the young midwife again. Had he not looked closely enough? Had she been carrying the body of his child within those bloody linens?

“I only wanted you to save my wife and son.” His words were a justification, a plea. It fell on the deaf ears of the gods and the dead child’s mother.

“And you thought there would be no cost?” Alys laughed, cruel and cackling. “No god in the world is so generous as to save a life and ask for nothing in exchange, boy.”

“I didn’t think – ”

“You never do.”

Grief morphed into anger. Reckless, aimless, dangerous rage. “You should have told me!”

“What would you have done?” She faced him fully now, her hand falling to her side. There was no trace of the woman who had once comforted and reassured him - who had kept him sane amidst the insanity of war. There was only annoyance and derision. It reminded Aemond of his dead half-sister and her bastard sons. “If I had told you?”

“I –”

“Would you have left your wife to die? Let her son die?” Alys’ lip curled in a hateful sneer. “You could not choose between wife and son, yet you believe you could have chosen between two sons?”

The world stopped. Only Alys’ flickering fire and burning eyes remained.

“I… it was a boy?” Aemond leaned against the wall, sliding down to his knees, savoring the scrape of the rough stone against his back. He deserved every bit of pain. More.

Alys let a single hint of sorrow slip through her cold façade. “It was. Three sons within a year. What your father would have given to have had the same.”

The last thing Aemond wanted to do was to think about his father. The king who had nearly destroyed his throne by choosing one child over another.

Gods, was he any better?

Did his ignorance of his son’s sacrifice absolve him of blame? The guilt?

It certainly didn’t feel like it.

Alys sighed. “Better for his death to mean something than for his life to be spent destitute and fatherless.”

“I would not have allowed that to happen,” Aemond said. It was a reflex, a reassurance he’d grown used to giving since he learned he seeded a bastard.

“Wouldn’t you? Perhaps if my visions had not changed. But now…” She shook her head, more exasperated than sorrowful. Did she mourn the child at all? “No. You’d have wanted us as far away as possible and done anything you could to not think of us.”

“I would have ensured your comfort.” The words felt as hollow as his chest.

“Your wife would, yes.” Alys smiled fondly, just as she had when his ābrazȳrītsos sat across from her earlier that very day. She had never smiled that way for Aemond. Never truly cared for him. He should have known. “She is kind-hearted. But not you. Your resentment of me, of us, would have festered until you found some way to be rid of us.”

He wanted to deny it. To say that there was nothing that could drive him to do what she insinuated. Once, it would have been true. But now, with the man he’d become in the war and how close he’d come to losing his heart itself, it would be a lie.

If he had killed Alys along with the rest of her cursed family, would he have become this man? Would he have learned to cherish the metallic tang of blood and its warmth as it coated his hands? Would he have become so proficient a liar that false words rolled off his tongue like a Valyrian lullaby? Would he have grown so accustomed to violence that it now came as naturally to him as loving his wife?

Would he have broken his ābrazȳrītsos’s heart?

He’d trusted her visions. It had been a mistake.

One mistake that led to thousands more, and it was all her fault.

Alys was the one who lied, who deceived him. Who had pulled his strings as if he were no more than a puppet, knowing that he was married and his wife was lonely and infirm.

His failure as a husband. His wife’s pain. The death of his third son.

Her fault. Her fault. Her fault.

Aemond’s heart slowed, his breathing becoming deep and steady. No longer the heart of a broken boy or a desperate husband. Now, it was the blackened heart that had carried him through countless battles and raging rivers of blood.

“I will be rid of you now,” he hissed as he stood. “And I will be rid of you forever.”

The bitch had enough sense to look scared.

“In memory of the son you killed, I will allow you to live. But no more than that.” She didn’t even deserve that, this woman who did not mourn her own child. Perhaps it was good that the babe was gone, for surely he would have suffered with a witch as his mother.

He approached Alys, sneering down at her and the false bravery on her wicked face. “As Prince Regent of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, I banish you from these lands forever. You have ten days to leave Westeros. After that, if you are ever seen here again…” He reached out and grabbed her by the throat, holding just tight enough to steal a bit of her breath - just enough to make her fight for it.

“I will kill you myself,” he promised. “Without hesitation or remorse, I will kill you. Slowly. And I will savor every moment, for it will bring me far greater pleasure than that withered cunt of yours ever did.”

She fell to her knees when he released her, clutching at her throat as she coughed and gulped for air. He didn’t care. He only turned on his heel and left, not sparing a single glance at the woman who had only hours ago been carrying his bastard child.

Only one woman mattered now, had ever truly mattered to him.

His ābrazȳrītsos was still asleep when he returned to their chamber, as were their sons. They had no idea where he had gone - that he had even left at all. No inkling of the fact that a moment ago, he had again become the man who wiped an entire bloodline from the earth, slaughtered tens of thousands, and delighted in the suffering he had wrought.

Now, as he leaned down to gently kiss his sons’ brows and muss their soft hair, he was a mere man of twenty, his heart bursting with love and affection for his family. How could a heart overflow with such love at the same moment it was fracturing with grief and regret?

It was a question far beyond him at that moment. Perhaps forever beyond his reach.

He was so tired. Too tired to consider the heartbreak that would come when he woke in the morning and his wife pulled out of his grasp. He could face that pain when it came. But now, he needed to feel whole, if only for a few hours.

So, Aemond climbed into bed with his wife, wrapping his arms around her and tugging her into his chest. He remained awake only long enough to kiss the top of her head and whisper, “Jāla tetan, ābrazȳrītsos. Īlon lentot selagon kosti.” It is over, ābrazȳrītsos. We can go home.

She woke to the sound of Daeron fussing. Strange how quickly she was able to tell them apart, even just by their little noises of discontentment. Although, considering she had been with them every moment of the last seven - near eight - months, it may not be strange at all. Perhaps that was why she felt so sure that it had been Daeron who occupied the top of her belly, constantly pestering her with his tiny fists pounding against her at the most inopportune times.

“Hush, little prince,” a soft voice said. “You’ll wake up your mother, and after what you and your brother put her through, I dare say she needs her rest.” A maid was speaking to him, a slight, old woman leaning over his crib. She had not seen the maid before, and somehow, it comforted her.

Daeron continued to grumble. She moved to stand but found Aemond’s arms wrapped around her waist. Thankfully, he was still asleep. Quite deeply asleep, apparently, for when she untangled herself from him, he did not wake.

The maid curtsied when she saw the princess approaching and stepped away from Daeron’s cradle. His fussing had now roused Aenar, but the younger prince made no sound, only glaring at his brother in what seemed to be intense displeasure at his sleep being interrupted.

“Is something wrong with him?” she asked the old maid. Daeron quieted slightly upon seeing his mother but still fussed.

“Nothing to concern yourself with, princess.” The old maid had a kind, soothing voice - that of a wise grandmother. She looked at the babes with fondness and a hint of apology. “They are simply hungry.”

“Where is the wetnurse?” She immediately regretted asking. In her sleepy haze, she had forgotten that Alys was the wetnurse at Harrenhal. Why wasn’t she here? Did she even want Alys here? No, of course she didn’t. Had Aemond requested another be found so she would not have to see Alys again?

The old maid looked away, sighing. “I’m afraid she’s left us. No wonder why, poor thing lost her babe again. Such a shame. We all thought she’d had a miracle with this one. But not to worry, Maester Artos sent some men to find another girl from the closest village.” She shook her head and again leaned over Daeron’s crib. “You’ll be fed soon, darling prince, don’t you worry.”

Alys’ child - Aemond’s child - was dead?

It was a good thing, wasn’t it? There would be no bastard son of the new king, no living reminder of what he’d done. This was good news. She should be happy, shouldn’t she?

But she wanted to cry.

“Mother, forgive me,” the old maid looked horrified as she clutched her pendant of the Seven-Pointed Star. “I should not have said that, princess. Not when you’ve only just finished your own labors. Please, forgive me.”

She glanced at Aenar, now peacefully asleep once more. How close she had come to losing him. It had devastated her. Made her willing to forfeit her own life if only he could live. If she had lost him and had to live with that loss… it would have driven her mad.

“How…” she licked her lips. “How many children has she lost?”

The old maid dropped her pendant. “I do not know, exactly. Enough that we all stopped counting.”

Oh gods. She blinked to clear her eyes, wiping away an errant tear with her thumb. “You said she’s gone?”

“Yes, princess. She left in the night. Didn’t say where she was going, to my knowledge.”

It made no sense. If Aemond had struck a bargain with Alys to save her and Aenar’s lives, why would she leave? Had whatever he offered her not been enough to keep her in the place where she’d lost so many children?

Daeron cried again, his face reddened and wrinkled. He was so hungry, she could nearly feel it herself. She… she could feel it. When she looked down at herself, she saw two dark stains on her chemise right above her breasts. Her milk had finally come in, which meant -

“I can feed them.”

The old maid looked aghast. “Princess, there is no need - ”

“I want to do it.” She was their mother, why shouldn’t she be the one to feed them? It was her body that made them, that brought them into the world. It made sense that it would continue to care for them even now. “Can you show me how?”

It took a moment for the maid to close her mouth before she smiled gently. “I’ve raised nine children myself, princess. I think I know a few tricks.”

The maid had gone by the time Aemond woke.

Daeron was still suckling at her left breast while Aenar had fallen asleep using the right as his pillow. She had not realized how heavy and uncomfortable they had felt until the boys had drunk from her, easing the pressure that she’d become accustomed to.

“You should not be doing that yourself,” Aemond muttered as he raised himself on an elbow. His eye darted from son to son, only ever glancing over her exposed breasts. Once, he loved to worship them, quite similarly to how his sons fed from her now. “Where is the wetnurse?”

Did he not know that Alys had left? Had no one told him of the death of his child?

No. Those were the faint remnants of tear tracks lining his cheeks, and there was a deep sadness in his eye that was not there when he held his sons for the first time. He knew. He knew, and he was grieving, though he was fighting to hide it. She still saw it.

Perhaps that was the real reason he never returned to King’s Landing during the war - he knew she would be able to see the guilt on his face.

“There is no other wetnurse,” she explained gently. “Alys left. They’re looking for another woman now.”

Aemond froze, his gaze growing distant. She could not decipher his expression. Rage? Guilt? Sorrow? Grief?

“I’m sorry, Aemond.” He frowned and shook his head, but she continued. “Truly, I am.”

“It’s better this way,” he whispered. He didn’t believe it. Neither did she.

He reached out to her. No, not to her, but to Aenar, gently stroking his hair. She allowed him to take the babe and hold him against his own chest.

Aenar opened his eyes and looked up at his father. Then, he smiled.

Aemond took in a deep breath. “That boy should never have existed,” he said, letting Aenar take hold of his thumb and mouth at it. “I already had what I needed. And wanted.”

So it was a boy. Another son. A brother for her own. Would he have had his father’s nose, as Daeron did? Or his stern brow, like Aenar? Gods, why did she care?

“You are allowed to mourn him. He was innocent. I bear him no ill will.” Bastard or no, a babe was a babe, blameless of his parents’ sins. Deep in her heart, she mourned him, as well.

Again, Aemond shook his head. “I cannot mourn what never should have been.” He turned his head to face her, face open and pleading. “And I am mourning too much already.”

“I am alive. Aenar is alive. There is nothing to mourn.”

“You know that is not what I mean, ābrazȳrītsos.”

She did. He mourned not for the loss of a life, but for the loss of their life. The life they should have shared, and would have, had Aemond not strayed. In truth, she mourned for it, too.

“I know.”

They sat in silence for a moment as Daeron finally finished feeding, stretching his little arms to push her breast away. She pulled her robe closed again to combat the chill.

Aemond raised a hand to help her. She flinched away. He winced in response.

“Ābrazȳrītsos, please.” His voice was already breaking, his eye watering. The sight should have tugged at her heart. His begging should have fanned the flames of her anger. But looking at him, she felt very little of anything, save a small seed of pity. “Alys is gone. My… the bastard is gone. Can we not return to the way we were? Pretend none of this ever happened? Can’t you forgive me at last?”

The answer came without hesitation.

“No, Aemond.”

Within her, there was no longer a grassland, barren with loneliness and despair. The never-ending field of raging fire had also vanished. In its place was a small, lush garden, safely contained within tall stone walls draped with flowers and a polished iron gate – locked firmly, but perhaps not sealed forever.

“I shall always be your sister, your blood, and the mother of your children.” Daeron cooed, as if he knew she was talking about him, and she could not help but smile down at him. “I will remain your wife in the eyes of gods and men. And when Aegon dies, I will be your faithful queen.”

Aemond shook as his breath quickened, failing to keep the heartbreak. “You will be a wonderful queen, ābrazȳrītsos. I know it.”

She pulled away, taking Aenar from him and into her empty arm. “But I will never again be your ābrazȳrītsos.” She forced herself to ignore the whimpering, broken cry that escaped him, the breath that carried it echoing like a death rattle. “I will not share your bed. And I will no longer allow you to hold my heart.”

Between desperate sobs, Aemond raised his head to face her. Utter devastation lay in his eye, but so too did acceptance. Anguished surrender. “My heart is and always shall be yours.”

I don’t want it, her mind told her, even as her heart cried, I will cherish it forever.

But her decision was made. In all but name, their marriage – their once legendary romance – was finished. A few fragments of love remained but would never be repaired. Could never be.

Slowly, she rose from the bed, her sons still in her arms. Aemond began to reach for her, but when she did not even acknowledge him, he covered his face with his hands and wept. Though it tugged at her heart, it was the same she would feel for any man weeping so, no longer the instinctive pull of a wife. She did not comfort him.

The soft, pitiful sounds of Aemond’s grief faded as she walked toward the eastern window, settling herself in the cushioned seat just beneath it.

Daeron smiled, watching the trembling branches of an oak tree dotted with the first tight green buds of the season. Aenar angled his head just so, until the sun warmed every bit of his fat, pink face, then promptly fell asleep. She sighed, taking in the sweet scent of spring on the wind, and realized she had not breathed so easily in months.