CurbitKirby

“Who the fuck are you?”

The sound of your husband's voice should startle you (you're supposed to be hidden away after all, out of sight, out of mind, until they could ever so gently break the news of your very existence to poor Maekar), but it doesn't. Of course it doesn't. This was bound to happen, you had warned everyone; keeping him locked up was only going to make him restless, cagey, even more surly than he already was. You pity the maesters who tend to him as much as you envy them.

With a heaving sigh, you look at him.

It's natural to assess him. Even if you're not publicly his wife anymore, you still love the old dog, you want him to be well, but you can't see his injuries through his baggy black sleep clothes. Still, it's good to see him, as he stands tall, proud, angry in the dim light of the nursery. The vein in his forehead throbs as he glares at you, scowling in a way that makes you beam.

At least he’s well enough to glower, you think fondly.

“What? What the fuck are you smiling at?!” Maekar demands, uncertain why your bright expression makes his heart skip a beat. “And what the fuck are you doing here?!”

Oh, right. Reality bites at your heart like the most vicious dog. Tears prick at your eyes and you quickly drop your gaze to the embroidery hoop that rests on your swollen belly. Sliding the needle into the linen, the shoulder you lift is limp. “This is the nursery, my Prince.”

“Yes, I'm aware,” Maekar snarls. “You shouldn't be here!”

Tired, exhausted really, you lift your gaze to his. “Where else should I be?” You ask plainly.

It seems everyone has an opinion on what to do with you; the council said you were best kept close, but Baelor had been ready to ship you off to Summerhall the moment the name Dyanna fell from Maekar’s lips. The death of his own lady-wife still so fresh, Baelor couldn't imagine his poor brother having to relive the loss, not while he was recovering, so he tucked you away.

Not forever, the eldest Prince had assured you as the maids hurriedly packed your belongings, stripping Maekar's chambers of every trace of you, just until he remembered-

“Not in here!” Markar snaps, blue eyes blazing in the fire light.

“Hush,” you snap right back, tossing your hoop into a basket at your side as you ready yourself to stand. “You'll wake my girl.”

“Your girl?” He sneers, eyes narrowing as he watches you struggle to your feet. Awkward, he tries not to look at you directly; it's improper, seeing an expectant mother alone, seeing a woman in your condition in her night dress, the material thin, clinging to your curvaceous form, making your heavy (breasts) belly even more striking. “What girl?”

Oh, that breaks your heart. You pray Rhae doesn't wake; she's been so very eager to see him these last weeks, to see him and not be able to keep him would break her little heart even more. Cringing, you shake your head. “Go back to bed. You need your rest.”

He straightens almost hesitantly as you stand before him, bare foot, your robe too big, much too big, almost reaching the floor. A man's robe, he realizes, black and red, Targaryen colors. He likes it, how it hangs open to reveal your low cut night dress, the thin material clinging to your full breasts, the cut designed to flow over your swollen belly and whisper around your lovely legs. His cock twitches and a rush of shame crosses him.

He had only found out this afternoon that his Dyanna had passed. In a fit of rage, Aerion had finally broke down and screamed- “She's dead! She's fucking dead! She's not at Summerhall, you stupid old man! She's been dead for fucking years-”

The maesters had the King’s guard drag the boy off, and Baelor had been called, sent to comfort him, but Maekar had been irate. Called him a liar, accused him of treating him as feeble, before the younger Prince had heaved a book at him and finally forced his brother from the room.

He had only come to the nursery for a reprieve, for a chance to mourn his loss and have a fucking moment to himself-

“Maekar?”

He blinks, surprised to find your hand on his arm, and stranger still, a concerned frown on your lips. Shaking off the flood of warmth that spreads through his chest, he steps back from you with an uncertain frown.

Hurt, but unsurprised, you force a smile and try to gently steer him away from Rhae's bed; thankfully her thick red canopy covers her well. “Do you need me to walk you back to your chambers, Maekar?”

“Don't get familiar,” the Prince snaps, jaw so tight it aches as he orders, “Now, tell me why it is you haunt me so?!”

Oh, you shouldn't be so proud of that, but the acknowledgement also hurts in a strange way. Torn between a smile and a frown, you settle for a limp, “I haunt you?”

“I saw you,” he hisses, color rising in his pale pock-marked cheeks, the red just visible under his white beard, “that first morning at my bedside, weeping like a war widow, blubbering on with that girl-”

“Don't,” you warn, eyes flashing in the dim light as your heart begins to pound. “Don't speak ill of her, Maekar, please-”

“Whose bastard is she? Hm? Daeron's? Aerion’s?” Maekar paces restlessly, just out of your reach. Hands balled into fists, he can't stand still, as visions of you flash through his mind; on your back, hair splayed out in the pillows, your slack lips kiss bruised and flushed, and it makes him sick to imagine someone else on top of you, to even think of someone else drawing the sweetest of sounds from your throat. He jerks a nod toward your swollen stomach and sneers, “who's bastard is that?”

“Neither are bastards, I assure you.” The words are almost curt, as you look up at him with-

With what, Maekar thinks, the expression itching at the back of his mind. He knows that face, those eyes, those lips, but he can't-

Something doesn't-

Something isn't right.

“I want to go back to my room,” he says lowly, uncertain of the painful throb in the back of his mind, or why it worsens as your pretty face falls.

“Of course, my Prince, whatever you need.”

Humming, he eyes you, skeptical, anticipatory, even more confused as you look away from him, back toward the fireplace. He can see the tears unshed in your eyes, and they pain him for a reason he cannot place. “You're upset.”

“I've been upset for weeks, what difference does it make now?” You ask, not so much snide as simply sad, as you spin your wedding band absently.

Maekar thumbs his own in reply, uncertain why he wore two now; his classic gold band for Dyanna, strong and certain, and then a thinner band of silver that sat atop it. “You shouldn't be worrying about anything in your condition.”

“Oh?” A smile twinges at the corner of your mouth, and he desperately wants to touch it, to thumb the tender curve, but he resists, and scolds himself for his impropriety. What an old fool he was! Lusting after a taken woman! An expectant mother, no less! Face hot, he demands, “So who do you belong to, then? Hm? Who's been keeping you locked away?”

Coy, your head tilts. “Who would suit me best?”

His eyes narrow as your hand raises to smooth his sleep tussled hair from his brow. The soft scent of jasmine and powder on your wrist almost breaks him, but the familiar touch is so much worse- “Stop it,” he whispers firmly, but he makes no move to step away as you edge a little closer. In fact, damn him, he leans into you, slow, careful, drawn to you like a moth to a flame as you offer a husky chuckle, full of warmth and familiarity.

“Who do you think I belong to, hm?” Your eyes sparkle with tears as you tease mirthlessly, “Who would I look best under?”

A red hot flash of heat surges through him at the very thought. Daeron the drunk, Aerion the sadist. “They don't deserve you!” He hisses, snatching you up by the arms and yanking you to his chest. “Any man who would hide his love away to wallow-”

Fuck, his body is just like his temper, it always runs so hot, it makes you twitch, makes you forget, just for a moment, just like he has-

He falters as your thumb finds his bottom lip, shutting his mouth so quickly he teeth click.

“I told you,” you murmur, leaning up to nose his jaw. He smells like summer sweat and musk, and that queer woodsmoke scent that always lingers around Targaryens, and a fire strikes in your belly as you tap his (rock hard) chest with the tip of your finger. “Don't wake up my girl.”

“My girl,” he barks, mocking you as he leans down to meet the gentle nuzzle, confusion knotting his brow. With every beat of his heart, his head pounds harder and harder. Married, you're married, to whom, who could you belong to, and why would you touch him so freely if he couldn't keep you? How cruel could you possibly be-

“I may not have birthed her, but yes, she's mine, heart and soul.”

His brow knits. His head aches, but yes, he can almost see it, a little one in your lap, only a toddler then, peering up at you with such love as you read fables to her in the gardens. The thought warms his chest, though he doesn't know why. “Circumstances of birth…” his hands slowly lower, smoothing down your arms to take your hands. "Don't always a family make.”

The smile you give is bright, warm and true. “I agree.”

His gaze skirts over to the canopy bed. “She…she lost her mother?”

“Aye,” the sigh is passive, sad, and you instinctively rub his arm, as if soothing him from the truth. “The maesters…they gave her mother a choice, and her mother chose the life of the babe over her own.”

“Very noble of her,” he murmurs, heartsick at the thought.

You nod, a tear slipping from your eye as you remember Dyanna, her exhaustion and her fight, how she held on just long enough to see her sweet Rhae, to name her, before she passed. “It's a pity, is what it is. She was…the finest of us.”

His fingers find his aching temple. Maekar sighs. “I…rushed to judgement. It has been…a tiring day, forgive me.”

Pensive, you purse your lips. “Did something happen?” The question is too gentle to be truly probing.

His gaze drops back to yours. “My wife is dead,” he tells you needlessly, surprisingly cold.

Your eyes widen, but only slightly. Your heart breaks for him, for the low acceptance in his voice, the rage in it. “Aye. She is, ser.”

“Everyone knew but me, they knew the whole time and they let me play the fool for weeks-”

You take his right hand in both your own, rub it in a way the Prince finds more soothing than placating, much to his surprise. “They didn't want to hurt you,” you tell him, smoothing your fingertips along the back of his hand. It takes everything in you not to kiss it. “You were so fragile-”

“They wanted to keep me in the dark!” Maekar snaps, cheeks going red under his white beard again. “Keep me compliant-!”

“Shh!”

Maekar blinks as your fingers clip his chin, forcing his mouth shut.

“Do not wake-” you hiss in pain as the little one in your womb wakes with a swift kick to your ribs.

“What? What's wrong?” His blue eyes widen in fear as you bend. Quick, anxious, he guides you backward toward the rocking chair you had been in earlier.

The roaring fire in its helm casts a warm orange shine over you, your silhouettes long on the carpet, and you sit a bit harder than you mean to. “Oof!”

Panic swells in him. “What?! What is it?! Is it time?!”

“Nothing so urgent,” you laugh, a bit uncomfortable, a bit breathless. “The babe is restless, thus so am I.”

His lips twitch in empathy. Humming, he takes your hand a moment and gives it a careful squeeze of comradery. “The final weeks are always the hardest.”

“Hm,” Touched by his gentle words (Gods, how you missed him, his gruff voice, his rough hands, his sharp tongue-) you smile absently, wincing at the next kick.

“I remember when Dyanna was expecting Daeron…”

You blink with surprise as he sits in the rocking chair across from yours. The orange light of the fire reflects across his face, his skin so pale it almost seems to glow in the dim light. He eyes the fire idly, nostalgia softening his sharp features as he goes on lovingly.

“The first time he kicked, she drove her knee into my back.” He chuckles, fond, wistful. “Woke me up out of a dead sleep, I thought the worst had happened.”

A snicker leaves you as you try to settle into the chair, but the padded cushion does nothing.

“She was so excited.” He stares at the flames a moment, thoughtful, before he looks back to you, expectantly. “Is this your first?”

You nod, a small proud smile on your lips.

“You're…older, than most of the new mothers, are you not?” He tries to say it casually, but it comes out a bit stilted, a bit awkward. Not judgemental, just curious.

Your smile widens. “I…yes, I am,” you admit with a laugh that warms him. Your forearms cradle your bump protectively, and you pat it fondly as you confess, “My second husband was kind enough to share his family with me for many years before this little surprise came along.”

“An unexpected miracle is still a miracle,” he assures you, his nod of approval, or perhaps understanding, making your chin dip. “Most of my children were…unexpected.”

That makes you snort. “Oh?” Your teasing turns his cheeks pink again. “You're telling me you didn't set out for six?”

“Six?” He echoes, and your smile falls. “Four. I have four children.”

“Right, right, my apologies, sir,” you bow as best you can to him without getting up, babbling as panic grips your heart. What a fool you were! “I misspoke, I was thinking of-”

His head cocks. His head throbs. Six? Six children? Ludicrous- “Why would you say six?”

You lick your lips, blood rushing so loudly in your ears you can barely hear yourself stutter, “I- I was thinking of…ouch!”

Maekar jumps to his feet as you clutch your side dramatically. “What?! What's wrong?!”

“Oooh. Oh. Oh, uh, no,” you feign a moan and he all but crumples to his knees, his blue eyes wide with horror. “I- I should go to the, um, maesters.” Fuck! Insolent little fool! Batting your eyelashes, you lay it on thick as he peers up at you with such unadulterated fear. Shit, the guilt would eat you alive, if you weren't so eager to change the subject. “Could- could you help me get to them?”

“Of course! Of course,” he doesn't hesitate, just slips a careful hand under your back and guides you to your feet. “Easy now, easy…”

You let him brace some of your weight as you limp along, out of the room and down the hall, and up the stairs, and to the left, across from the courtyard. You know the walk well, you make it every night, just before dawn usually. You'll make the walk, but never go inside the healing chambers where your husband makes his home now. You just stand outside his door and try to imagine him asleep behind it. With an ear pressed against the thick wood, you can almost convince yourself you can hear his snores, but in your heart you know you can't.

“Easy now, easy,” he repeats, over and over throughout the walk. His hand shakes slightly in your grasp, but yours is steady-

Grounding, your hands are chapped from hot water, dry from folding linens all day, familiar in a way he can't place. In fact, now that you're out of the room, you seem almost calm. The odd grunt leaves you as you toddle up the stairs, but they're few and far between. You actually seem kind of-

He freezes as you raise your hand to knock upon the healing chambers door, a quick confident knock that confirms his suspicions. His brow furrows. “You tricked me.”

“I did,” you agree, straightening up with a sad smile as the door swings open.

Baelor’s mismatched eyes widen at the sight of you together. They flicker between you two, disbelief turning into annoyance as he addresses his brother with a firm, “I'll take your apology now.”

“My- my apology?!” Maekar bellows, but neither of you so much as flinch.

The familiar sound of its father's voice makes the baby kick, no doubt still accustomed to it from all the time he had spent reading to you in the early months of your pregnancy before it was known, and the long-winded conversations (usually a long list of complaints about his day or his sons or his duties, etc. etc.) Maekar had with your bump before the unfortunate accident at Ashford's tourney. It kicks again, right under your ribs. This grunt is real, and you rub your side with a scowl. Baelor eyes you sympathetically, and ushers his brother inside.

When you don't move to follow, Maekar pauses. His scowl shifts, lightening, but only so much, as he frowns, reaching for your hand. “Come on then.”

Uncertain, you stumble, “I…” Your gaze flicks to Baelor's, a silent question of permission passing between you.

“You've come all this way,” Maekar huffs, visibly twitching with agitation as he takes your hand in his (fuck, you've missed his hands-) again, his strong fingers insistent. “You best let the maesters check the babe-”

“Something is wrong with the babe?!” His brother asks urgently; there's no resentment between you, you understand he only tries to ease his brother's suffering, but as he steps forward, as he takes your other forearm gently and starts steering you into the room, a small flash of embarrassment goes through you.

“Oh, please,” you murmur, cheeks warm as Baelor looks you up and down, as his kind gesture breaks your hand from your husband's; you immediately miss Maekar's warmth, even though Baelor runs with the same heat, it's an unfamiliar one, and it unsettles you. “I’m fine. Simply some…enthusiastic kicking.”

Baelor doesn't look convinced. He knows how stressed you've been, knows a pregnancy at your age isn't always the easiest to begin with, and he frets; somewhat from guilt, you know. “Maekar is right.”

The (slightly) younger man's chest puffs up, as he tries to dismiss the coolness of your fingers against his own; he knows those hands, that touch, how does he know them?! His fingers twitch as his brother slides a hand over your shoulders.

“You've come this far, best you see the maesters.”

You wave a hand, but allow yourself to be fussed over a bit, knowing he means well. “Nonsense.”

“Please,” Baelor smiles, charming, benevolent, a bit of well-meaning condescension in his voice. “For my sake of mind.”

A small twinge in your back decides for you. The walk from the nursery isn't long, but in the last few days it has become more tiring… “Perhaps I could use a seat, for a moment.”

“Splendid, please,” he offers his arm, and you huff as you take it. Voice low, he praises, “You're radiant, by the way. Positively glowing.”

“I'm fat.”

Baelor snorts and Maekar suddenly feels very out of place. His brother, of course, he had been told of Jena's death, but not his own lady-wife's, his brother, of course-

The revelation should bring relief, but instead, disappointment floods him.

Of course you were Baelor's, sweet Baelor, gentle Baelor, deserving Baelor, of course it was his steadfast older brother who found himself a second love, a beautiful soul to lean on in his grief.

Maekar hates him, just a little bit, the envy so overwhelming a moment he can barely stand to look at him, but he can't tear his eyes from you-

You really are radiant, he thinks with a hint of mourning, his heart sinking low in his chest as he takes in your smile, your messy braid, your tired but fond eyes-

“Here we are, sit tight.” Baelor pats your hand placatingly, and you chuckle and take a seat before he rushes off to find (you both) a maester.

Alone again, Maekar swallows as your gaze lands back on him. Eyes sparkling in the brighter torchlight, you're a vision of loveliness, and his stomach tightens, his spine straightens, as you speak.

“You'll forgive my little deception, won't you?” You ask, a teasing little lilt to your tone as you play the role of the Mother, patting the top of your round belly almost smugly.

He turns his chin away. “Hmph.” Fuck, he can still see you out of the corner of his eye, fuck, you're his fucking sister-in-law, his mind rages, his blood is so hot-

Voice soft, diplomatic, very Queen-like, he thinks, you try again, “I meant only to-”

“Change the subject, that's what you wanted to do.”

Your smile falls. Caught, you bite your lip a moment before you confess, “So what if I did? It's not my place to-”

“To tell the truth?” His angry blue eyes flick back to you, accusing.

They almost make you swoon, but you manage a weak, “To speak of a life that I had no part of.”

No real part of, anyway. You had only been a handmaid at the time, only a glimmer on the lake of his life, barely a sparkle, there and gone before you could make a splash.

The babe kicks as if punishing you for your deceit. Wincing, you let out a huff, and despite his annoyance, despite his stormy expression, Maekar finds himself crossing over to you.

“Hm.” His mouth sours. “There was no need to lie.”

“I'm sorry, m’lord.”

“Maekar,” he corrects, taking your hand absently, reassuringly. It may be improper, he thinks, but it feels right. Giving your fingers a faint squeeze, he bows his head and mutters his congratulations on your pregnancy; “May the Seven bless you and keep you both.”

Touched, your vision goes misty as you offer a low, “Thank you, Maekar.”

It kicks and kicks and kicks-

This could be your last chance to be alone with him, you realize, your last chance to share a moment together before the baby arrives. Tears well in your eyes a moment, but you fight them back with a lick of your lips. Maekar had missed so much of the pregnancy already…surely Baelor wouldn't begrudge you just one little moment of intimacy with your husband?

Heart pounding, you steel your nerve and ask, “W-would you like to feel?”

“Feel?” His brow knits.

“They have a mighty kick.”

Oh. Your smile is so proud, as you guide his hand down to your side. He swallows and bends to one knee without thought, kneeling beside your chair so he can be eye level with you, which is so much harder for some reason. His stomach tightens, as you press his fingers just under your ribs, the silk of your robe smooth and cold, but he barely feels it. His expression tense, he doesn't breathe as you gently prod his fingertips around, until he feels something shift under your flesh.

Yes, yes, yes, of course Jena had shared her pregnancies with him too, but her touches hadn't made his blood burn, she had never looked at him like that-

“There, that's the foot,” you whisper, afraid to spook your husband, afraid he might think you too forward, too brazen, but the Gods knew, the Mother knew, this pregnancy has been so hard to do alone, and his hand is so warm, he always ran so much hotter than you-

The babe inside replies to his touches with gusto, and Maekar grins at the quick powerful thumps. “Strong,” he says approvingly.

Fresh pride swells in your chest. “You think so?”

“Oh yes,” he promises, smirking as the kicking against his fingers goes on and on, as if the little one had a point to make. “Very strong. Dragons always are.”

Hope blossoms so bright in your chest it actually hurts-

“Baelor must be so proud.”

And your world comes crashing down again. “B-Baelor, ser?”

He nods, but before he can speak, the man in question strolls back into the room. The maester follows close behind him, shuffling at a pace that quickens when he sees the position Maekar is in. “Space!” The old man grunts, waving the Prince away. “Give her some space!”

Scowling at the intrusion, Maekar glances at you one last time, holding your tender stare a moment longer than he should. Jaw tight, he huffs as he removes his hand.

The babe kicks again, as if searching for their father's heat. You rub a hand over your bump soothingly as Baelor urges Maekar to bed, but-

His words are stern as he slowly raises to his feet, “I'm not going back to that room.”

“Brother, please, you need your rest-”

“What I need is everyone to stop treating me like a fucking invalid!”

Baelor sighs, his eyes rolling over to you. You two share another smile, his exasperated, yours patient-

Fuck! Maekar's heart pounds, unsure why that stings so much, why the small moment of intimacy between husband and wife hurts him so- “Why didn't you tell me about Dyanna?”

Baelor cringes at her name.

“Everyone knew. Everyone was…everyone was aware, except me. I was made a fool of at my weakest, why?! Why didn't you tell me about her death?!”

“I…” he sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth. “I thought it best the memories return on their own.”

Maekar's eyes narrow. “Bull shit.”

That makes you smirk (and swoon a bit, God's, you have missed your ornery, unagreeable man!).

Baelor doesn't. “I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me. You didn't want to be the bearer of bad news,” Maekar accuses with agitation. “Coward.”

Baelor's mouth twitches, the same annoyance on his face as his brother's. “Fine. I suppose that's fair.”

The soft sound of the maester’s hum gives the men pause, and they turn their attention to you. The old man pokes at your belly, humming and hawing and nodding to himself-

“What?” The younger brother demands, bristling like a wet cat, which to be fair, was his usual way.

“She's in fine health, sers, just fine.” The maester takes the pulse at your wrist, holding still a moment, then nods. “Very very good, just wonderful.”

Unsurprised, you still beam with relief; good news was so rare these days, any little bit of it was welcome.

“Should be any day now.” The old man tells you, patting your hand encouragingly. “Best we get you back to bed, Princess.”

With a nod, and his help, you rise to your feet.

Maekar is the first one to make a move. He only manages to take one step forward. “I'll walk you back-”

“No,” Baelor says immediately, his hand snapping out to brace his chest. “You should rest. I'll walk her.” His glance told you there was much to discuss.

“Nonsense,” Maekar waves a brisk hand, knocking his arm away. “I'm wide awake-”

“You've had a trying day, ser,” you try, but your husband will have none of it.

He shrugs the hand Baelor tries to place on his shoulder away. Voice gruff, he tells him, “I said I'm walking her. You can come if you like.”

“Fine,” his brother agrees placatingly.

“Do I get a say in this?” You joke.

Baelor's cheeks go pink. “Of course. We…we should all go together, just in case you need a hand getting back from the nursery, brother.”

“I know the way,” Maekar spits, pure venom in his tone at the insinuation.

“Of course you do! I merely-”

“Baelor,” you tease, stepping forward to gently right the collar of the Hand’s robe, your eyes pointed and pleading at once. “Don't be over-protective. Maekar, don't be difficult.”

“I wasn't,” he grumbles.

“You were a little,” Baelor argues.

Chuckling, you pat Baelor's arm affectionately. “Maekar will walk me, I'm certain he can manage his way back to his chambers after that.”

The elder Prince frowns, but inclines his head. “Very well.” His eyes twinkle with fondness in the torch light as he inclines his head. “But only because I know better than to argue with a Dragon in your condition.”

Chuckling, you allow him to place a gentle kiss to your forehead, chin dipping with a hint of resignation. He means well, you know. He always had Maekar's best interest at heart, but he was still grappling with the death of his own lady-wife, and sometimes, that grief clouded his judgement. “Goodnight, Baelor.”

“I'll visit soon,” he assures you, passing you carefully off to his brother. “We have much to discuss on Maekar's progress.”

“I'm standing right here,” the younger Prince grumbles, but to those who know him best, he simply pouts.

Your eyes roll. “Of course, ser, my deepest apologies, ser.”

Baelor snorts, and when Maekar shoots him a dark glance, he tries and fails to cover it with a cough. Not wanting to be the center of one of their many petty bickerings (not that there was anything wrong with that, brothers were ought to do such things, even ones as close as them, but you were growing tired; the sun would be up soon and so would Rhae), you slide your arm into Maekar's and tug him along.

“Come, my Prince. Let me lead the way.”

“I-! I can lead the way!”

“Very well,” you turn, walking backward toward the door as you tug him along. “So lead.”

Baelor forgotten, he grunts, “I shall.”

“Good.”

“Good.”

“Very,” you tease, voice sparkling as you guide him out the door.

He follows helplessly, drawn to your smile like a siren's song.

It's quiet, but not uncomfortable, he notices, as you hum softly, idly, absently eyeing the pitch black courtyard across the way, your arm safe in his.

“You shouldn't be out so late,” he finally says, breaking the quiet with a soft voice.

You flash him a cheeky smirk. “You shouldn't have bothered me.”

“I didn't mean to.”

“I'm glad you did. It's…it's been so very nice to see you, Maekar dear.” You take his hands as you approach the door to the nursery. Squeezing his long beautiful fingers, you want to tuck them under your chin and sigh, but of course you can't, so you just smile-

But it looks so fucking sad, Maekar thinks morosely.

“We've been so worried about you, me and Rhae-”

“Rhae?” He interrupts with a smile, “A fine Targaryen name.”

“Yes,” you laugh. “Through and through Targaryen that one is.”

“Hm.”

You edge a little closer, and then a little closer still, until your swollen belly brushes his firm one, just barely. “We've missed you, and hearing about your progress isn't the same as seeing it, and she's been so scared for you, we all have.”

Maekar listens with a heavy heart; his chest tight, he can't tear his eyes from your face. He thumbs the tear that falls from your eye away without thinking. Thoughtful, firm, he tells you, “I will see you at breakfast tomorrow, you and your girl both.”

“Will you?” Doubt twinges your tone; Baelor won't like that.

His gaze sharpens. “Family should be together.”

Your nod is certain. “I agree.”

“Tomorrow, than.” The bow he offers is slight, respectable-

And it makes your heart race. No! You can't say good-bye, not so soon- “You-!”

He arches a brow, pausing his step back as you reach out in a flash to take his elbow.

Voice a croak, you try to be firm, as you tell him,“You'll have to be gentle with her, my girl.”

He smirks at the order, and how flustered you seem to be to give it. “Oh?”

“All these weeks alone have made her…shy, skittish maybe, I'm sure…”

He smirks. “And I'm hardly the most delicate flower.”

“Yes!” You laugh, relieved, a pleasant little sound that makes his stomach flutter. “Tell me you'll be patient with her.”

He smiles, almost boyishly, and you want to touch him, to smooth his hair back, touch the joint of his jaw under his beard, and kiss him soundly on the mouth, but you don't. “I'll be on my best behavior,” he promises.

“Good,” your fingers flex as you dismiss the urge, and instead tighten the belt of your robe. “Goodnight, Maekar.”

“Goodnight, dear sister.”

Fuck!

“I'll see you in the morn.” It's instinct, to take your shoulders under his hands, to kiss your brow as Baelor did, but he doesn't. Even the urge makes him sick, disgusted with himself, for this silly foolish infatuation he has with you, so strong already…

“Remember,” you pop the door open, but can't resist touching him one last time, poking him in the chest, in the little bit of flesh you can see under the laces of his night shirt. He's so warm, you can't help easing a bit closer to him as you tease, “Best. Behavior.”

His heart skips a beat at the teasing twinkle in your eyes. “Yes,” he breathes, “I swear it.”

“Good,” you chirp, a little forced, a little lightheaded, as you step back. “Now go get some sleep before your brother wets himself.”

Snorting, Maekar nods, his smile broad and fond as you drift inside the nursery. The latch clicks quietly.

“Guilty.”

The bang of the gavel seals your man's fate; guilty on all charges, no doubt a life sentence to follow. Tears well in your eyes, but you refuse to close them, refuse to miss even a moment of seeing him for one last time. He's so close, you could reach out and touch his shoulder, if it weren't for the stupid plate glass they keep him in-

Ole Munch is stockstill, as he waits to be dismissed. From what you can see, he barely blinks at the verdict, unsurprised, unmoved, unafraid. Just accepting, as he was of most things that happened. Rarely had he ever felt…anything, really, until you came along, until he saved you-

The battle against your tears is a losing one, and you blink them away as he stands. Leaping to your feet, you reach for the glass, scrambling up against it, desperate to be close to him one last time, who knows how long it will be until you can see him again, and even longer until you can touch-

Ole Munch's blue eyes simply blink at the sight of you, your panicked eyes and snotty nose hurting him so much more than the verdict; who will protect you now? His soft-hearted wife, his heart, his everything-

His eyes close, and he bends to rest his forehead against the cool glass. Popping up on your tiptoes, you press yours against his, and swear you can feel his body heat through it, even though you know you can't.

“I love you,” you mouth to him as a guard takes him by the shoulder. “Be good.”

Behave more like, he thinks glumly, knowing he won't be able to keep his promise to you now. He had promised to give up the sword, promised to live a peaceful life; you wouldn't whore, and he wouldn't kill, that was the deal unspoken between you.

Not anymore, he thinks, shrugging off the man's touch, desperate for one last fleeting moment with you-

“I said move it!” The man grunts, shoving the slender man, knocking him back from the glass.

For a sickening moment, you see him; your kidnapper, your monster, the man who had stolen you from the Tender Trap in the dead of night and chained you to the radiator; he flashes behind your husband's face, the menace so great it startles the guard even. You pound on the glass with your fist and shake your head beseechingly when he meets your gaze.

Then the monster is gone, and Ole Munch is in his place again. He grits his jaw, nods, and raises a hand to the glass, but before you can raise yours in kind, the guard shoves him again. Your heart breaks as he obediently steps back from the glass, but you force yourself to flash him an encouraging smile.

Pain-filled, he thinks, his gaze lingering a moment longer than he wants it to, before he turns and leaves the court room through the side entrance.

Your knees go weak. They buckle, and you find yourself back on the bench, staring helplessly after the man you had grown to love.

It sort of surprises you, the achiness between your legs as you lay eyes on him for the first time in months.

He looks very much the same; same grim expression, same stormy blue eyes, same restless energy as his gaze flicks around, searching for you.

You beam as he finds you, bouncing in your seat and waving eagerly, picking up the phone before he can even take a step.

His shoulders sag with relief under his orange jumpsuit. You look good, or at least healthy, at least clean, and he's so grateful; thanking God, Ole Munch approaches the seat behind the glass, and immediately places his palm against the clear barrier, before he even has the chance to fully sit.

Thoughtless, your palm finds his. For a moment the two of you simply smile like fools at one another. His hair’s grown out a bit, his face is a bit thinner than before, if that's even possible, but it looks as though he's gained a bit of muscle mass, maybe from his time in the yard-

He picks the phone up. The quiet sound of your breathing is enough to soothe him, and his shoulders ease as his eyes flutter close, leaning into the receiver the way he used to your breast. “Uxor,” he sighs.

“Are you okay?!” The warble embarrasses you, but you shove it aside. There's no time to be embarrassed, you only have precious little time- “Have you been eating?! Sleeping okay?!”

He nods, blinking and offering you a wane smile. “Okay,” he repeats, he promises.

Relief floods your chest, loosening it, and with it, your tongue, “I-I missed you so much, I've- I mean, the bed’s been so cold without you, Munch-”

Ole Munch smirks as you squirm, and he knows what you need. “Uxor,” he coos, lowering his hand so he can get closer to the glass. “Speak plain.”

“I miss you,” you babble, copying his posture. “I miss sleeping with you, in your arms, I mean, and I miss waking up with you inside me, and I miss-”

“Oh,” Deputy Governor Haynes groans, palming his cock through his navy slacks as he eavesdrops on your conversation with your freak husband.

It had been Hell, being transferred to Minnesota in the dead of winter, and Ole Munch had been a thorn in his side since day one. The man stuck out like a sore thumb, made trouble defending himself, and wouldn't take orders. He had been given a cushy library gig, not because he deserved it, but rather because so many others refused to work with him; he made the other prisoners cagey and restless, a bad combination, so Haynes had stuck him somewhere with no cameras, hoping for a little prison justice to take care of the nuisance.

Ole Munch put three men in the infirmary on the first day, and no one had bothered to try anything with him since.

Plan effectively failed. Miserable, that's what Deputy Governor Haynes was. Absolutely miserable.

Then, one unsuspecting morning, there was you, innocently hopping off the visitors’ shuttle. He had been peering out the window, a phone tucked under his jaw, pinning it to his shoulder when your sunshine yellow coat distracted him. He gave you a quick once over, taking in the shapely set of legs wrapped in black fishnet stockings, and told the man on the line he would have to call him back.

Now here the Deputy Governor sat, peering at you through a surveillance camera; you had a cute face, but all he could focus on were your plump tits, your nipples straining against the white cotton of your T-shirt as you purr pure filth over the telephone line, not knowing every call was recorded, or maybe just not caring.

“-cock, nothing fits right, nothing feels right, I can't get my fingers in all the way like you can-”

Ole Munch grunts, forehead banging lightly against the glass as he stares at your breasts. “Show,” he demands, and you don't hesitate.

The Deputy Governor groans as you peel your neckline down, almost ripping it in two in an attempt to appease him, flashing him the sweet curve of your breasts, a flash of silver piercings sends drool flooding to his mouth, a shock of pain in his cock as it strains against the metal zipper of his slacks-

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, gaze hot as he leers, but he only has a moment to appreciate you before a prison guard is rushing over.

A startled yelp escapes your lips as you are yanked off the stool from behind.

“This ain't a conjugal visit!” The guard hisses, grabbing your shirt and tugging it up. “Visitation time is over! Back to your cell, freak!”

The latter is directed at your husband, who bangs furiously at the glass with his phone, but it's bullet-proof, shatter-proof, and you're unreachable. Glancing helplessly behind you as firm hands drag you away, you barely hear the static voice over his radio prompting the man to bring you to his office. All you see is your husband, red faced and furious as he slams the phone against the glass-

The prison guard huffs, but turns you around before you can get to the front exit. “Come on,” he snaps, grabbing you by the scruff of your shirt. “The Deputy Governor wants to see you.”

The Deputy Governor is a tall, slender man, who reminds you a bit of Ole Munch, if Ole Munch had his shit together, if he had lived a life of privilege, and frankly, if he was an insufferable prick. His smile is stiff and smug at the same time, his blue eyes cold, calculating, and he makes no show of hiding his gaze as he leers at you outright. The prison guard steers you into a seat across from the desk he stands behind, his stature imposing, and stifling.

Hackles high, you glare at him, trying to fight the tears in your eyes and losing- “I didn't mean to get him in trouble,” you mutter before he can say a word, curling your shoulders into yourself as he dismisses the guard with a nod.

The man goes, shutting the door behind him, and the Deputy Governor moves around to your side of the desk. You tense as he drifts behind you, as he chuckles at your paranoia, but it's all the more justified as you hear a sickening *click* of a lock being snapped into place.

“So. You're the Mrs, hm?”

His terse British accent startles you, and you glance at him with wide eyes as he strolls back to his desk. It's when he leans against it you finally notice his straining erection. Cheeks hot, you snap your chin aside, away from him, but he merely smirks.

“Mrs Munch.”

Your jaw tightens at the mockery.

“Quite a man, your husband. Gets himself into a lot of trouble…” His blue eyes roam your face, your neck, your shoulders. Your white T-shirt is thin enough that he can see you're braless, something he already knew of course, but the faint outline of your peaked nipples make his cock throb with need. “You love him?”

Your eyes cut to his, sharp and stark with rage. “Yes.”

The word is simple, plain, with a jagged edge.