𝕯𝖊𝖓 𝖔𝖋 𝕯𝖊𝖕𝖗𝖆𝖛𝖎𝖙𝖞

Two years had passed since your first birthing. You remembered it with the smell of blood and agony, though the castle women named it an easy labor, especially for a babe so large. You remembered cursing Robert as a drunken oaf whilst you strained to bring forth his son, and afterward you would not suffer his touch, as though the kisses he pressed upon your brow and hands might quicken another child in your womb.

The banishment did not endure for long, however. You had ever been weak before Robert’s puppy-dog eyes and shameless pleading, and when he begged to hold you close again, your resolve melted before the man you lovee. One moon passed into the next, and you found yourself heavy with child again.

Orys, your firstborn, had come into the world the very image of his father, so much so that it near offended you. He had spent near ten moons in your belly, making you swell, retch, and bleed, only to emerge as though Robert himself had been divided in two. He was a little bundle of black curls, chubby limbs, and a frequent frown when told 'no'.

And truth be told, you adored him.

He was a clingful little creature, always mewling for your arms or your breast, and all you wanted to do was squeeze his tummy and kiss his cheeks until his entire face was red with the ink you applied to your lips. Robert seemed oft jealous, though not of the boy himself; instead what vexed him was his son's blatant favoritism for you. He cried whenever you slipped from his view, with a hellish shriek that made Robert question if they had swapped your child for a changeling, like it happened in those morbid tales you told Orys to get him to sleep.

The child had seen two springs when your belly began to swell again. He delighted in resting his small hands upon it, whispering to his sibling within. Most oft he boasted of what a great brother he would be, with all the arrogance of his father.

The sun hung low when Robert returned to your chambers, weariness plain upon him. He had spent the day with Stannis, speaking of grain stores and merchant tolls after a bitter sickness swept through the farms of Storm's end, compromising the production of wheat and grain.

He practically collapsed upon the bed as you sat near the hearth with a cup of tea warming your hands. From your seat you regarded him.

“Good eve, husband.”

“I swear it to the gods, if I hear one more word of grain I will hang myself from the battlements,” Robert groaned, voice thick with misery.

A laugh escaped you then. Setting aside your cup, you crossed to the bed and seated yourself beside him, your fingers threading through his tangled dark hair.

“It is for your people's sake,” you reminded him gently.

“They may feast in my hall every night if it spares me another meeting.” He huffed.

You laughed again, for you did not doubt him. Robert would in fact throw open his gates to every peasant in the stormlands and drink himself blind among them than spend another hour discussing accounting.

“My sweet wolf,” he murmured then, shifting until his head rested near the swell of your belly. A smile touched his lips. “Has this little one troubled you today?”

“Nausea found me at noon,” you admitted. “Whilst Orys was nursing. Yet I am well enough now.”

Robert lifted his head at once. “The boy still suckles?”

Though he spoke it like a question, you had discussed it before.

“Aye,” you answered, less than pleased.

“And when this babe comes?”

“Barbrey told me her own son gave up the breast when he was ready. Orys shall do the same.”

Robert snorted. “If I’d had to suckle at her teats, I would have weaned myself in the cradle.” Robert did not like Brandon's wife, neither did she like him one bit, you slapped his forearm in protest.

"Do not speak like that of my good-sister." You settled back against the pillows with a sigh. “Orys shall be weaned when the time is right. If he still nurses by the birthing, then a wet nurse shall feed the babe.”

Robert stared at you as though you had proposed drowning the child upon birth.

“A newborn babe needs its mother’s milk,” he declared. “Would you starve them to satisfy the whims of that little fat tyrant?”

“Do not call our son a fat tyrant.”

Two years had passed since your first birthing. You remembered it with the smell of blood and agony, though the castle women named it an easy labor, especially for a babe so large. You remembered cursing Robert as a drunken oaf whilst you strained to bring forth his son, and afterward you would not suffer his touch, as though the kisses he pressed upon your brow and hands might quicken another child in your womb.

The banishment did not endure for long, however. You had ever been weak before Robert’s puppy-dog eyes and shameless pleading, and when he begged to hold you close again, your resolve melted before the man you lovee. One moon passed into the next, and you found yourself heavy with child again.

Orys, your firstborn, had come into the world the very image of his father, so much so that it near offended you. He had spent near ten moons in your belly, making you swell, retch, and bleed, only to emerge as though Robert himself had been divided in two. He was a little bundle of black curls, chubby limbs, and a frequent frown when told 'no'.

And truth be told, you adored him.

He was a clingful little creature, always mewling for your arms or your breast, and all you wanted to do was squeeze his tummy and kiss his cheeks until his entire face was red with the ink you applied to your lips. Robert seemed oft jealous, though not of the boy himself; instead what vexed him was his son's blatant favoritism for you. He cried whenever you slipped from his view, with a hellish shriek that made Robert question if they had swapped your child for a changeling, like it happened in those morbid tales you told Orys to get him to sleep.

The child had seen two springs when your belly began to swell again. He delighted in resting his small hands upon it, whispering to his sibling within. Most oft he boasted of what a great brother he would be, with all the arrogance of his father.

The sun hung low when Robert returned to your chambers, weariness plain upon him. He had spent the day with Stannis, speaking of grain stores and merchant tolls after a bitter sickness swept through the farms of Storm's end, compromising the production of wheat and grain.

He practically collapsed upon the bed as you sat near the hearth with a cup of tea warming your hands. From your seat you regarded him.

“Good eve, husband.”

“I swear it to the gods, if I hear one more word of grain I will hang myself from the battlements,” Robert groaned, voice thick with misery.

A laugh escaped you then. Setting aside your cup, you crossed to the bed and seated yourself beside him, your fingers threading through his tangled dark hair.

“It is for your people's sake,” you reminded him gently.

“They may feast in my hall every night if it spares me another meeting.” He huffed.

You laughed again, for you did not doubt him. Robert would in fact throw open his gates to every peasant in the stormlands and drink himself blind among them than spend another hour discussing accounting.

“My sweet wolf,” he murmured then, shifting until his head rested near the swell of your belly. A smile touched his lips. “Has this little one troubled you today?”

“Nausea found me at noon,” you admitted. “Whilst Orys was nursing. Yet I am well enough now.”

Robert lifted his head at once. “The boy still suckles?”

Though he spoke it like a question, you had discussed it before.

“Aye,” you answered, less than pleased.

“And when this babe comes?”

“Barbrey told me her own son gave up the breast when he was ready. Orys shall do the same.”

Robert snorted. “If I’d had to suckle at her teats, I would have weaned myself in the cradle.” Robert did not like Brandon's wife, neither did she like him one bit, you slapped his forearm in protest.

"Do not speak like that of my good-sister." You settled back against the pillows with a sigh. “Orys shall be weaned when the time is right. If he still nurses by the birthing, then a wet nurse shall feed the babe.”

Robert stared at you as though you had proposed drowning the child upon birth.

“A newborn babe needs its mother’s milk,” he declared. “Would you starve them to satisfy the whims of that little fat tyrant?”

“Do not call our son a fat tyrant.”