all her paths are peace

He loved you, and you loved him. Dex made that quite clear the first time you had sex, when he had confessed his feelings at the height of his climax. Chloe had been shocked when you admitted you said it back. 

“Girl,” she had sighed, running both hands down her face like a disappointed parent. “Be so fucking serious right now. You were literally dick-notized into telling him you loved him.”

You had shrugged, because maybe it was a little true, and countered that it didn’t change what you felt for him. Yes, maybe it was a little quick. To go from stranger to neighbor to boyfriend to “I am in love with this man” in a matter of three months could be seen as fast, but…it was true. 

You loved each other, and despite the questions others would pester you with years down the line, nothing had made you question that fact. If anything, every action Dex took seemed to reinforce it.

Especially when, about two months into your relationship, your period was six days late.

Every day that passed, every time that stupid notification had pinged on your phone reminding you, Hey! Your period is late and you’re probably pregnant!, the pit in your stomach grew. Your cycles were never perfectly regular, but six days was abnormal. You were on the pill, but…it wasn’t perfect. Some days you were late. Other days you would reach for that little tin foil packet in your nightstand drawer only to find it missing, then miraculously discover it hours later on the bathroom sink or the kitchen counter. Oh well, you had thought, popping a pill well past the scheduled time. Work was hard, you were forgetful. Dumb excuses like those.

Normally, this disruption wouldn’t have been a problem, considering you had been quasi-celibate (if you didn’t count your fingers) for months before Dex. But, of course, Dex happened. And so did endless rounds of earth-shattering, mind-numbing, world-changing sex on every available surface in your apartment. Rounds that almost always finished with him inside you. 

So maybe it shouldn’t have been a surprise that your period was late. But for something like that to happen so early, literally two months into your relationship? You wanted to vomit. 

You spent the entire school day circling the possibilities in your head. Any minute not occupied by work was filled with dread over the impending dissolution of your new, amazing relationship. You had to tell him. But what would you even say?

“Dex, remember all the times I begged you to come inside me? Well, about that…”

Surely, he would break up with you. He was a man, after all. And most men, or at least the ones you knew, would have died at the prospect of that kind of commitment.

Dex, of course, was not most men. 

The last bell signaled the end of the school day. You took extra time gathering your things, dreading the conversation waiting for you outside. Finally, you emerged from school, and sure enough, Dex was in his usual spot by the front gates, styrofoam coffee cup in hand. 

“Hey, baby,” he greeted you with a peck to your cheek before pulling you into a tight hug, like he hadn’t just seen you eight hours earlier. “How was school?”

You tried to muster a smile as you hugged him back. Was this the last time he would hold you like this? “Um, fine. Boring, I guess.”

Something in your voice gave you away. Dex pulled back, hands still on your shoulders, concern already etched across his face. “What happened? Are you okay?”

“Dex, I’m fine, I just–” you took a deep breath, trying to steady yourself. You had to tell him. There was no other way. “I need to tell you something.”

Dex’s fingers tightened on your shoulders. A flicker of something unreadable passed through his eyes. “...what is it?”

You swallowed. No going back now. “My period is late.”

Dex didn’t move. His hands stayed on your shoulders, grip so tight you couldn’t move if you tried. His face was still fixed on yours. His eyes didn’t blink once. 

“Dex?” you asked, stomach dropping. 

He blinked in rapid succession, like he just realized he was still present in the conversation. “Sorry, I– how late?”

“...Six days. According to my app.” The anxiety was building in you. It was going to be over. Dex would freak out, he would run, it would all be over. That fear spilled out of you like lava as the words suddenly rushed out of your mouth. “But I–I haven’t taken a test yet. It could be nothing, like, my cycle gets weird sometimes, and I just wanted you to know, so we could–”

Dex said your name firmly, attempting to interrupt you, but you kept rambling. 

“--and I mean, worst case scenario, I don’t want you to feel like I’m, I don’t know, like, trapping you or something–”

“Baby.”

Your rambling stopped. With embarrassing clarity, you realized that hot tears had welled up in your eyes. You gave a choked laugh and ducked your head, avoiding Dex’s gaze. “I’m sorry. I’m just…really scared.”

Without another word, Dex pulled you into him, holding you tight in his arms. One of his hands reached up to grab the back of your head, stroking your hair. For once, the roles had been reversed and he was the one soothing you. 

“You don’t need to be scared,” Dex murmured. “Everything is okay.”

Jesus, why did he have to be so perfect? A small sob escaped from you. “But it’s literally not okay, Dex. We practically just started dating. Everything would change. But…I know there are options so–”

The hand in your hair stopped moving. “...Options?”

Your throat tightened, and you buried your face deeper into his chest. He smelled like your laundry detergent and vaguely of gunpowder. You wondered, briefly, if he had gone to the shooting range that day. “I mean…yeah. Options. I don’t know, whatever we’d decide on.”

“There’s nothing to decide on.”

Your throat tightened. Dex must have sensed the confusion, or the first small seeds of protest growing in your mind, because his hand started moving again, slow and careful against your hair.

“What I mean,” he continued, voice soft, “is that you don’t need to scare yourself right now, baby. You don’t need to stand here thinking anything bad is going to happen. If you are pregnant, then it’s going to be okay.”

His mouth brushed your temple. “I love you. I’m not going to leave. I would never do that.”

“You promise?” you sniffed. 

He kissed the side of your head. “Promise.”

And so, the two of you had walked back to your apartment, hand-in-hand, and you knew with absolute certainty that Dex was right. He would never leave you. No matter what happened, it was going to be okay, because he would always be there for you. In fact, for one brief moment on that walk, you allowed yourself to imagine a life: the two of you walking just like this, except with someone small between you, swinging from both of your hands. Maybe with Dex’s hazel eyes and your smile. It was a quick image, but it made you happy. 

All your worries, and all those tentative future imaginings, quickly disappeared when you returned to the apartment and changed into pajamas that evening, only to find a patch of blood on your underwear. You emerged from the bedroom victoriously, waving the bloodied pair of panties in the air like a trophy.

“Guess who’s not pregnant!” you had whooped. 

Dex had looked up from the book he was reading on the couch, and for a second, nothing on his face moved. He slowly set the book down. Your smile had faltered a bit as he stood and crossed towards you, eyes fixed on the fabric in your hands with such strange, concentrated focus that you became aware of how ridiculous you surely looked. 

He stopped in front of you, and stared down at the blood like it was evidence. Like he was trying to understand it. 

You laughed awkwardly and pulled your hand back. “Sorry. I realize that’s probably super gross, waving period panties around. I just…wanted you to know.”

Something passed over his face like a shadow. You didn’t know what it was in the moment. Disappointment, maybe? No, it was sharper than that. Colder. 

But then Dex blinked, and you thought maybe you had imagined it all. His mouth arranged into that careful smile you loved so much. 

“You’re probably cramping,” he said casually, already reaching for you. His hand settled at your waist. “Do you want me to get your heating pad? Tea?”

You exhaled and leaned into him. “Yeah, thank you. That would be nice.”  

Dex kissed your forehead, became your perfect boyfriend once again, and soon, you forgot about the whole thing. He was good at that. 

You would have thought that, after the pregnancy scare, you would’ve learned your lesson. Wrap it up. Try to stop your birth control packet from vanishing every other day. Maybe cut back on the rabid fucking. That would’ve made sense, right?

Wrong. 

You did not learn your lesson. In fact, if anything, the ordeal made you want to jump Dex’s bones even more than you already did (if that was humanly possible). 

Just like Dex’s presence, sex was constant. Waking up in the morning? His mouth was already open and hot against your neck, his fingers sliding under your sleep shorts to toy with your already-wet pussy. Making dinner? You’d take a break halfway through chopping ingredients so he could bend you over the counter and fuck you from behind. Taking a shower? You made the mistake of showering without him once and learned your lesson. Showers were the perfect place for Dex to whisper how pretty you were while he hiked your leg over his hip and slowly slid his cock inside you, suds still clinging to both of your bodies.

Before bed? Sex. Watching a movie? Sex. Just got off the phone with your parents? Sex. Trying to grade papers? Sex. 

Sex, sex, sex. 

More often than not, you walked with a limp and had bruises from his hands on your hips. You had never been in a relationship where sex was such an anchor, but you wouldn’t have had it any other way. Your sexual chemistry was out of this world. He was so precise, so focused while he fucked you, it felt almost supernatural. There were times you reflected on how Dex must have learned how to be so good with other partners and became quite irrationally jealous that any other women got to have him the way you did now. Because, Jesus Christ– if you had Benjamin Poindexter even just once, surely all other men were ruined for you. It wasn’t every reason you loved him, but it certainly helped. Any moment you could have him on you or in you, you wanted it. Maybe it was just because it was so good. 

Or maybe it was because, when Dex was inside you, hips driving into yours, hands pinning your wrists above your head while he panted against your skin, you felt like he was finally being himself.

In daylight, outside the sheets, Dex was careful. He closed up when you asked too directly about the orange prescription bottles he had moved from his apartment’s bathroom cabinet to yours, or when you talked about his time in the Army, or wondered what his family was like. He gave you pieces, never the whole thing.

You learned he didn’t have a good childhood and that his parents weren’t around much. He enlisted in the Army as soon as he turned eighteen, and that’s how he got recruited to attend Quantico after he left. With these facts, you deduced he certainly had some mental struggles, which would explain the frequent need for reassurance, the anxiety about small things like you taking the train alone or not responding to his texts, and the medication. But who didn’t have their own problems? You didn’t want to pry, you just wanted to accommodate. You didn’t need to know or analyze every single piece of him to love him.

But in bed, Dex gave you everything. 

It was like it was the one place where he could stop being so careful. It didn’t matter if the kisses were sloppy with saliva or you knocked teeth, or if Dex was too loud when he would spill inside you, or if he got too excited and finished within seconds. He was just him in those moments, the honest version who didn’t need to be perfect, and you loved it. 

Though, you would admit that the honesty could be a lot, at times. 

There was one instance in particular. You had flaked on Chloe (again) for your usual Friday wine-and-pizza after Dex had come home and seemed disappointed you wouldn’t be able to spend the evening with him. 

“I feel like we barely got to see each other this week,” he had murmured into your neck, clinging to you from behind as you attempted to sort laundry on the bed. “Besides, work has been shit… I was really looking forward to spending time with you.”

Who were you to say no to that? 

So, after one quick text to Chloe with the usual excuse along the lines of “my sexy FBI boyfriend has a hard job and loves me too much :(”, both your previous plans and hopes of folding laundry were forgotten as you straddled Dex and sank onto the hard, veiny length of him. 

Soon, the only sounds in the room were the slap of skin against skin and your mingled moans of pleasure. 

Dex’s hands gripped your hips, urging you to ride him faster and faster until the rhythm became uncharacteristically aggressive. 

You gasped, air knocking out of your lungs, as he met your downward movements with a thrust, his cock hitting deep enough in you to send a spark of both pain and pleasure through your entire body. When you finally regained your breath and looked down at him, Dex’s face had gone strange beneath you. His eyes were glassy and unfocused, mouth parted as he stared up at you like he was witnessing something holy. 

“Dex?”

His hips jerked up into you, desperation bleeding through the movement. “Don’t stop, please.”

The words made your pussy flutter around him. “Babe, I’m not–”

“No, I know, I know, I just–” he panted, and suddenly you felt his hands shaking where they held you. He thrusted up again, making you moan. “Just– fuck, just tell me.”

“I’m not going to stop.”

His throat bobbed, and his relentless movements of forcing you to bounce on his cock faltered. “I…I mean, I want you to tell me that… That I’m yours.”

Startled at this seemingly random request, you tried to stop yourself completely, settling onto his hips, but Dex chased the movement and bucked his hips back into you. 

“Please,” he said, voice cracking around the word. “Please, baby. Tell me.” 

…if that’s what he really wants, you thought. Odd, but not completely unusual. You’ve heard of worse requests while getting pounded.  

You leaned forward, bracing yourself on your forearms by his head as he continued to drive into you. Your lips brushed his. “You’re mine.”

His eyes rolled back, a broken groan leaving him as his head flopped against the pillow. 

“Again, please.”

“You’re mine, Dex.”

“Ooh, fuck. Tell me you own me, baby, please.”

Your pause as you tried to think, even in your cock-drunk haze, as to why your docile boyfriend was now wanting to be treated like property. The hesitation was not acceptable to him, apparently. His fingers dug into the flesh of your hips, hard enough you were sure it would be purple in the morning. 

“Please, baby,” he whined, eyes wide and wet. “Please tell me I belong to you, I’m begging you.”

Normally, you would have stopped and tried to have a conversation with him about why he wanted to be treated like property in a relationship you very much attempted to make equal. But Chloe was right– in moments like this, it was like you were hypnotized by him. 

You were still bent over him, your breasts pressed to his chest, your mouth open against his as he split you open again and again. When you looked down between your bodies, you could see his cock, shiny with your slick, plunging in and out of you. The sight made your thoughts scatter. Your mind went fuzzy, overwhelmed by heat and the frantic way Dex was looking at you.

“Dex, fuck–” Your voice came out breathless and rough. “I own you. I own you.”

His reaction was immediate and violent. His eyes squeezed shut as a full-body shudder rippled through him.

“Again,” Dex begged. “Please, again.”

“I own you.”

“Yes,” he choked. “Yes, baby, fuck–”

“You belong to me.”  

Dex made a sound you had never heard from him before, something primal and almost painful. His hands clawed their way up your back, pulling you down harder until there was no space left between you, until his breath was hot and damp against your mouth.

Then, so quietly you almost missed it, he whispered, “Hit me.”

Your hips stuttered. What the fuck? 

“Dex, w-what?”

His eyes opened. It was like the mossy color of them had shifted into something radioactive and feverish. 

“Hit me,” he repeated, more frantic this time. “Please. Just–just make me listen.”

Even in your lustful fog, you knew this was an unusual request. Your beefy FBI boyfriend wanting you to…hit him? “Dex, I don’t know if I should…” 

“Please.” His voice broke. He looked like he was going to cry. “Please, baby. I need you to. Tell me I’m yours and slap me.”

You should have stopped. You should have known better. 

But Dex thrust up hard, grinding against the deepest part of your cervix, and the pleasure punched the thought clean out of your skull. You moaned, nails scraping against his shoulder, your cunt clenching around him as he stared up at you like he would die if you denied him.

You lifted your hand before you could think better of it.

The first slap wasn’t hard. More shock than force, your palm catching his cheekbone with a sharp little crack that made both of you go still.

Dex reacted like you had just shown him the entrance to heaven.

His hips snapped up into you, a strangled moan tearing from his throat as his cheek began to flush beneath the mark of your hand.

“Fuuck,” he sobbed. “Fuck, yes. It’s so fucking good, baby.”

Your pulse roared in your ears. He had stopped his upward thrusts into you, so you took control, grinding yourself down onto him. Instead of bouncing up and down, you switched the rhythm to a steady but vicious rock, grinding against him, his cock still fully seated and twitching in you. The coarse hair on his pubic bone tickled your clit with every grind against him. You were using him, and he liked it. You couldn’t stop. “You’re mine.”

“Yours,” he gasped immediately. Dex’s hands had gone still on your hips, gripping but letting you move. He wasn’t in charge anymore. “Only yours.”

Your body had separated itself from your mind. There was no rationality left, only the chase for pleasure. Your palm came down hard on his face once again, and his whole body arched beneath you. 

“You belong to me.”

Dex nodded fervently with his reddened face, looking up at you with the most adoring expression like this was the only truth he had ever understood.

“I belong to you,” he sputtered. “I belong to you. I love you.”

It didn’t take long for both of you to finish after that, your cunt spasming around him, milking his cock as he groaned your name and repeated again and again: “I belong to you. You own me. I love you.”

So…yes.

Maybe the honesty could be too much at times. But, fuck it. It was hot, right?

Sex was just a reflection of your connection, your devotional and adorational and absolutely loving tether to Dex. Everything about him, about what you had, was so simultaneously intoxicating and grounding that it became easy to let your life fold around him. 

Everything just kind of…narrowed down. To only you and him. 

Dinner with friends became coffee with friends, long calls became texts, and then apologies about how busy school was. Solo errands became easier when Dex came too. Your phone stayed closer to your hand, because Dex got worried when you didn’t answer. Your apartment was strange and too quiet when he wasn’t in it. 

But still, none of that felt like you lost anything. 

It just meant, in the mind you would later think of as warped, that you gained love. You gained Dex. 

Which was why it felt so strange, almost unnatural, the first night Dex told you he couldn’t come home until the next morning. 

He had told you while standing in your living room, already dressed for work in his FBI jacket and gray slacks, holster slung across his waist. You hated when he wore that jacket because it made you stupid and wet. 

“I don’t know when I’ll be back,” Dex said, checking the watch on his wrist for the third time in five minutes. “It could be early morning.” 

You looked up from where you were curled on the couch. “Early morning? Must be important.”

Dex’s mouth tightened. “It’s just a…work thing.”

“Work thing,” you hummed, tapping your finger to your lip like you were very seriously considering what a ‘work thing’ could mean. “Very specific. Thank you.”

That earned you a small smile, but it didn’t last. Dex was distracted and cagey in that way he got when whatever was happening inside his head had pulled him somewhere you couldn’t follow.

“So…what kind of work thing?”

“Just a protective detail,” he answered, shrugging nonchalantly. “Nothing serious.”

Your eyebrows lifted. “You? I thought you were more of a…you know.” You mimed holding a rifle.

Dex huffed. “That’s exactly the point. It’s kind of complicated.”

“FBI stuff?”

“FBI stuff,” he confirmed, then glanced away.

You watched him cross the room to the window, where the precious fern that you should probably thank for your relationship sat on the sill in its little terracotta pot. Dex touched one of the drooping leaves, frowning. 

“I think it needs better light…” He turned the pot slightly. He adjusted one of the leaves, then another, shifting the pot until it faced more toward the room than the window.

You didn’t think anything of it. Dex had always been particular about things and also had become the de facto plant-whisperer in apartment 416, remembering to water everything you would have probably let die. He noticed details you didn’t, fixed little problems before you even knew they existed. It was just another way Dex loved you. 

He turned back to you. “Chloe’s still coming over tonight?”

“Yep!” You sat up on the couch, crossing your legs under you. “I think she’s pretty excited. It’s been like, what, maybe three weeks since she’s been over? She keeps joking you’re holding me hostage.”

Dex’s cheek muscle twitched, and you rolled your eyes. He could be so sensitive sometimes. 

“Babe, you know she’s joking. She loves you!” You opened your arms up. “Now, stop pouting and give me a kiss goodbye, please.”

Dex obliged, coming to the couch and leaning down over you, one hand braced on the cushion beside your hip. He pressed his lips to you slowly, lingering like he didn’t want it to end. He tasted like toothpaste. 

“Text me if you need anything,” he murmured, lips still against yours. “And don’t forget the lock the door.”

You pulled back, then swooped back in to press one last quick kiss. “I always lock the door.”

“Remember to check it twice.”

You sighed fondly. “Yes, sir.”

Dex kissed your forehead and straightened. Before the door clicked shut behind him, he looked back at you one last time. “I love you.”

You knew he did. Everything told you that. “I love you too, Dex. And be safe, okay?”

Dex nodded. And then, he was gone. 

For a few minutes, you just sat there, staring at the closed door and wondering what exactly Dex was walking into. You tried not to think too hard about it. He was FBI. He had been doing this for years. He knew what he was doing.

Still, you hoped he would be okay, and whatever “protective detail” meant was just that it would be a boring night. 

Before the apartment could start feeling too empty without him, Chloe showed up like the Tasmanian Devil, bursting through your door with a greasy box of pizza in one hand and a $6 bottle of wine clutched victoriously in the other. 

“You bitch,” she announced, kicking the door shut behind her. “You can totally tell your apartment has a man in it now, and it’s disgusting.”

You blinked. “Um…hello to you too?”

“No, seriously.” Chloe set the wine and pizza on the kitchen counter and looked around the apartment with a horrified look. “It’s like I can feel him here. Like a fucking FBI ghost or something.”

You laughed, getting up to lock the door behind her. Then, because Dex’s voice had already lodged itself in your head, you checked it again. “I already feel like you’re going to be in rare form tonight.”

“Rare form?” she mused, opening up your cabinets and helping herself to a wine glass. “I think that should be expected, considering I haven’t seen you in years because Mr. Blonde and Handsome is, like, brainwashing you into forgetting you can leave the apartment.”

You sucked your teeth. 

Chloe had made it…known (for lack of better words) that she wasn’t exactly the biggest fan of Dex before. Mostly, her complaints centered around him being the reason the two of you didn’t see each other as much anymore. You understood, but at the same time– you had your own life. She was your best friend, but she wasn’t entitled to every single spare second of you. You lived with Dex, for God’s sake. Of course you were going to spend more time with him. 

Still, you wanted to mediate the two of them. You wanted Chloe to like him. Or, at the very least, stop acting like he was some kind of parasite slowly absorbing your social life.

“He’s not brainwashing me, Chloe,” you tried to keep your voice light as you took the glass she had filled to the brim with white wine. “It’s a new relationship, you know how it goes. It’s the…honeymoon stage, or whatever they call it. We just like being around each other.”

Chloe huffed and continued filling up her own glass. “Sure.”

You desperately wanted to change the subject. You lifted up your glass. “Okay, enough about Dex. I love you, we haven’t seen each other in weeks, so let’s just have fun tonight, okay? Let’s cheers.”

A smile finally broke across Chloe’s face. “Aww, you know I can’t stay mad at you when you say cute shit like that.” She raised her glass. “Fine. No more boy talk. Cheers!”

The two of you managed to stay true to that rule for a good portion of the evening, stuffing your faces with pizza, downing the entire bottle of Moscato before cracking open another from your fridge, gossiping about old classmates from college, and discussing crappy reality TV with the kind of passion usually reserved for political elections. For a second, as you watched Chloe animatedly explain her winning strategy if she ever got selected for one of those dumb dating competitions, it felt like it used to. Before Dex.

You even checked your phone and saw only one text from him.

Dex: Lock the door, baby. Please.

You: already did twice!! love you be safe please ❤️

Dex: Good girl. I will. Love you too.

Things were good.

That was, until you reached the bottom of the second bottle of wine.

Chloe was sprawled across one end of the couch, swirling around her fourth glass. There was a glint in her eye beginning to form that warned she was ready to be a little too honest with you. 

“No,” you said immediately, wagging a finger at her. 

She raised her eyes in mock surprise. “What? I didn’t say anything.”

“You’re doing…that face.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she hummed, taking a long sip from her glass. “Besides…I’m surprised you even remember what my face looks like…”

There it was. “Chloe, stop. I thought we said no more talking about Dex.”

“I’m just joking with you, babe,” she drawled, sitting up a little straighter. She pointed an accusatory finger right back at you. “Besides…I didn’t say anything about him. You’re the one who brought it up, which kind of implies you feel like–”

“Chloe, I’m serious.” You put your glass down with a thunk on the coffee table, maybe a little harder than needed. This was all so…Chloe. You dragged your hands down your face, which had already become flushed with wine. It certainly didn’t help this conversation that you were more or less drunk at this point. “Dex is my boyfriend. I love him. I love you, too. Can you just, like…be happy for me?”

Chloe scoffed. “Happy for you? I mean, yeah, I guess I’m happy you’re getting good dick every night. But how am I supposed to be happy if I never see you anymore? Besides, I haven’t even met Dex–”

“Which is exactly why you need to stop talking about my relationship like you know him,” you interrupted her. Your face was more than flushed now; it was hot. Something was bubbling inside you, sharp and mean. 

“You’re right. I don’t know him,” Chloe stood up  from the couch at this point, hands on her hips. She was pissed. Her mouth was starting to do that twitchy thing that only happened when you were in nightclubs and someone spilled their drink on her shoes. “I don’t know him, because I’ve invited both you and him out multiple times, and every time you say no. I have made every effort to try and get to know him, be his…I don’t know, a friend or some shit. And Dex has made zero effort, because he wants you to himself, obviously.”

“That’s not true, Chloe. Dex is shy,” you stuttered, rising from the couch to meet her. “He…he has anxiety, he gets nervous meeting people–”

“Okay, I’m sorry, but it’s not my problem your boyfriend is a fucking weirdo–”

That was the line. You set one boundary, and Chloe had crossed it. Drunk or not drunk, what happened was irreversible. Something snapped in you, and whatever had been bubbling began to spill out. You marched straight up to her, eyes twitching. You were furious. 

“You know what, Chloe? I think you’re just jealous,” you snapped, spit flying from your mouth, only inches from her face. “You’re just jealous because something good finally happened to me. I have a partner who actually loves me, who actually wants to come home to me at night, and you’re mad because you don’t.” 

The second the words left your mouth, Chloe’s face changed. The twitch in her mouth stopped. You saw, in that moment, not the sarcasm and wine-fueled bravado. You saw your best friend. 

“Wow,” she said softly. Then, she nodded, like she had just decided something. “Okay.”

Your stomach dropped. “Chloe–”

“No, it’s fine.” Chloe went to the door, her movements stiff and unsteady as she grabbed her purse and shoved her shoes on. “You’re right. Clearly I’m...I'm just some pathetic, lonely, jealous bitch.”

She yanked the door open, then paused in the hallway, one hand still on the knob. You thought she might say something cruel back, even the score. Instead, she just looked at you.

“I seriously hope he’s worth it.”

Then she left.

You stood, frozen in your spot in the middle of the living room, staring at the door. 

You knew you had fucked up.

Even drunk and defensive, still shaking with anger, you knew that was a fact. You knew those words would hurt her, so you used them. But what she had said about Dex? Chloe had sat in your apartment, laughed with you, then acted like the person you were in love with was some kind of freak. She crossed a line, period. 

You tried to repeat that to yourself as you gathered the dirty plates and empty glasses from the living room with trembling hands. 

You weren’t wrong. Dex wasn't wrong. Chloe was wrong. 

By the time you dumped the wine dregs into the sink and tossed the pizza box into recycling, your anger had already started to blister into something worse. Guilt, maybe. Or hurt. Or worse, clarity.

You turned off the living room lamp, and went straight to bed. You were still drunk enough that the hallway tilted when you walked, but not drunk enough to avoid the hot tears that began streaming down your face as you tucked yourself under the covers. Even as you drifted off into a thick, wine-clumsy sleep, you were still crying. Muffled and pathetic, your face pressed into Dex’s pillow because it smelled like him and because you wished he was there to make it better, like he did for everything else. You wished Chloe hadn’t ever come over in the first place. You wished it really could just be you and him. Forever. 

Hours later, you were brought out of your restless slumber by a sound at the front door. A key sliding into the lock, then the door creaking open. 

Dex. 

You didn’t move, too exhausted, heavy with sleep and a pulsing headache. The bedroom was still dark, but the beginnings of bluish light had crept in under the curtains. Early morning. 

You heard Dex pause outside the bedroom, something soft but weighty hitting the floor. His shoes, probably. 

The mattress dipped behind you, and Dex climbed into bed. You could feel that he hadn’t changed– the cool buttons of his shirt brushed against your shoulder as he settled behind you. He didn’t kiss your cheek or ask if you were awake like he usually did. He just slid his arm around your waist and pulled you back, flush against him with an involuntary grunt. 

“Dex?” Your throat was hoarse, wrecked from crying and sleep.

“Hey, baby. I’m here,” he murmured. There was something off with his voice. It sounded strained, thin. He tucked his face into the back of your neck before you could turn to face him, his breath hot against your skin. Dex pressed his lips against the nape of your hairline. “I’m sorry I’m so late.”

You sniffed. “I missed you. Did…everything go okay? With work?”

Silence. 

“...Yeah. It was nothing.”

You knew that was a lie. But you also knew not to pry. So instead, you intertwined your fingers with Dex’s hand that had found its way beneath the oversized shirt of his you were wearing, resting against your stomach. 

“Okay,” you said, voice hushed. “I’m just glad you’re home.”

Dex gave a shaky exhale. His body stayed curled tightly around yours, tense in a way that didn’t match the soft circles his thumb had begun rubbing against your skin. 

“You fought with Chloe.”

You opened your eyes in the dark. His thumb kept rubbing circles. “How…how did you know?”

“Your voice. You’ve been crying.”

Of course he had noticed. Dex always noticed. You turned your face into the pillow, the cover of it still damp with your tears. “It was stupid. Just…just her being Chloe, I guess. She doesn’t know you.”

Dex’s hand moved up from your stomach to your ribs, holding you more securely against him. “She hurt you, didn’t she?” 

“Yeah, but…I said something really awful to her,” you whispered, shame twisting your organs. “Like, really awful. I’m…I don’t think I’m a good friend.”

Dex was quiet for a moment before he finally said in a low voice, “She hurt you first.”

It should have made you feel better. Dex was right. Chloe said a horrible thing about the man you loved. She took what he couldn’t change about himself and used it as a knife. But, did that give you the right to do the same thing to her? Your best friend? 

“I-I don’t know, Dex.” Your voice had gone wobbly. “Maybe I should apologize.”

Dex’s arm tightened around you. A reminder that it was him, warm and real and wrapped around you, while Chloe was gone. It was just him. Him and you. 

“Don’t think about her right now, baby,” his mouth moved against your neck, words vibrating against you. “She made you feel bad about us, and you don’t need that.”

You heard a noise from outside, a car passing over wet pavement, the soft hiss of tires floating up through the dark.

“You don’t need her.”

A tear slid silently across the bridge of your nose and into the pillow. 

You should have told him that wasn’t true. That Chloe had been there before him, that friends fought. You should have asked him why he never wanted to meet her. You should have asked him where he had been all night, why he still had his clothes on. Why his voice was changed. 

But you didn’t. You just felt another tear trickle down the same path, but this time it landed on your top lip. Your tongue darted out, tasting it. It was salty. It made you want to speak, so you did. 

“You’re right.”

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It was a thought spoken aloud. Maekar hardly realised his mouth had moved, staring broodingly out across the courtyard.

Your dowry was a hefty one — an armada of newly-built warships and skilled men to man them, as well as the simple prospect of your father's ear and support. In return, your father gained a stronger foothold in the Seven Kingdoms, a relationship with the monarchy and the realm that would benefit both the Iron Bank and his family beyond all sense — but what would there be for you?

You had jewels, and more gold than you could count; you had dresses and slippers and cloaks, and all the amusements you could hope for. There was nothing Maekar could give you that you wouldn't already have; and though you would no doubt be perfectly pleased with strings of rubies or pearls, he simply wouldn't have it — his pride would not allow for it.

Aerys said nothing; it was as if Maekar hadn't spoken at all. Baelor gave a hum, and tapped his fingers against the table. 'Twas Rhaegel who first spoke, soft and song-like.

"Gifts for a young bride," he said, head rocking idly from side to side. He tapped his fingers along the arms of his chair, humming. "Gifts for a girl…"

"What is proper?" mused Baelor, then. He leaned back in his seat and smoothed a hand over his jaw, writings abandoned upon his desk. "I would imagine she is no stranger to all manner of finery…"

There was a scowl upon Maekar's face. "Therein lies my predicament."

"You'll find none of us particularly well versed in such matters," continued Baelor. "I, especially, am… out of practice. Perhaps you might ask mother?"

He thought about it. Yes, it was perhaps the best course of action… It was only his pride which had prevented him from doing so. Running to mother for help with his bride felt entirely juvenile; he'd hoped that his brothers would bear more bounteous fruit.

Aerys remained quiet for a long time. Only the sound of Baelor's quill against parchment was to be heard as he returned to his missives. Then, just as Maekar had given up on the thought altogether, he spoke:

"I do believe us all entirely capable of preparing an assortment that will please Maekar's bride." Maekar perked up, gaze intent. "We shall begin thusly…"

─── ༻⋅☼⋅༺ ───

1. A feast — for what is more suitable for a gregarious young bride than a chance to be celebrated? So says the King and Queen. "My lady," purred Lord Baratheon, seizing your hand in his. "You are entirely radiant this evening, may I say. If you would do me the honour of a dance…"

Within a sennight of your announcement, a feast was prepared by the King and Queen's insistence. A gift, they said, before the wedding proper.

Relatively hasty though its preparation was, it was masterful in execution; the Great Hall was adorned in all manner of ornamentation, from banners and cloth-of-gold wreaths to bouquets of exotic flowers; multiple pigs were put to spit in a crust of herbs and salt, and there were pheasants and beef and goose, and a whole plethora of dishes to go with them. It was a marvellous display of abundance that sent both the serving wenches and courtiers into a flurry of awestruck gossip — even Maekar, dour as he was to endure the court, was exceptionally pleased.

Those seven days allowed the most important lords of the surrounding areas to gather: those from the closest stretches of the riverlands and the Reach, as well as the stormlands and crownlands. All came with their suites in tow, proud and haughty, and the air was abuzz with excitement — a royal engagement, it seemed, was worthy of a spread rivalling that of the King's name-day celebrations. Maekar wasn't particularly overjoyed to see half of their smug faces, but your excitement eclipsed his annoyance.

Dinner (with all its courses and toasting and well-wishes) had not long passed before you were whisked away to dance by Syrah — your betrothed had grumbled, but relented his time with you. It was then that Rhae had decided that she wished to follow, content to be spun and tugged every which way between the two of you. You couldn't remember the last time you'd laughed with such zeal, dizzy with wine and dance.

And then — in the middle of twirling her like a spinning top—

"Lord Baratheon," you said, a smile upon your face. "A pleasure, truly — I missed you at the King's name-day tourney, did I not?"

(Maekar, you found, had very little fondness for the man. Upon reading through the list of guests confirmed to attend, he'd let out a long-suffering groan, and collapsed back in his seat.

"Fucking Baratheon," he'd muttered, staring into the distance. "I'd rather have the Grey Lion at my table.")

The Laughing Storm had come with a retinue twice the size of most others, and was wholly unabashed by the audacity of it; among them was a troupe of Dornish puppeteers, whom he had apparently been hosting in Storm's End for many moons. Apparently, he'd offered their services with all the fawning and praise a man of his status could muster.

(Syrah was incredibly happy to be the one to tell you of his alleged infatuation with one in particular — a pretty girl, you were told, though entirely beneath his station. It did gladden you to know you weren't the only person sending the nobility aflutter with scandal.)

"A fault completely my own. A spin with the guest of honour?" asked the man. You had no desire to be rude, being the lady of the evening; and in truth, you found him entertaining, this Lord Baratheon, with his mischievous eyes and sociable nature. Thus, you allowed him a dance — a single dance, you warned — and urged Rhae back to her father's side.

His teeth were a shocking white when he smiled, sharpened like fangs. And smile he did — laughing raucously as he pulled you straight into the fray, not bothering to wait for the ongoing couples to finish. He spun you so fast the faces around you began to blur, twisting you this way and that. "Had I known a woman so radiant resided in the King's court, I would have stolen you from under your dragon's nose!"

"Lord Baratheon!" you said, a surprised laugh leaving you before you could stop it. "Have you no shame?"

You were not offended. If rumour served, Lord Baratheon had his puppet-girl, and he was no doubt well aware of the might of Maekar's ire. The Laughing Storm seemed to find great glee in stirring the pot, is all.

"Oh, I'm terrible," Lord Baratheon said. He guided you around the other couples at breakneck speed, narrowly avoiding the shoulders of a lord whose face you hadn't the time to register— "When I take Storm's End, my dear, I shall raze it to the ground with my debauchery."

"May your lord father live long, then."

"Ah, a wound from a lady cuts deeper than any sword."

"Well, I hear a mace leaves a terrible mark."

Lord Baratheon's grin turned keen — and he made to spin you once more, hands tightening around you, when—

"Baratheon," said Maekar through gritted teeth, voice hard and forceful. "Allow me a dance with my wife."

Your head was still whirling — the stop was incredibly abrupt — but even then, you could detect the distinct displeasure on Maekar's face. He had never seemed a small man, but beside Lyonel (who was already as big as a man could be) he seemed to loom.

(A dizziness came over you — decidedly not from the dancing.)

You wondered how he'd got there so quickly. The dancing was a good distance from the high table.

"Wife?" Lyonel echoed, smiling lazily. "Why, I seem to have missed the wedding."

Maekar glared.

"But of course, lord dragon," Lyonel continued. He still had a grasp of your hands — as quick and decisive as anything, though, Maekar simply reached over and jerked your wrist away. You tried not to think of how his fingers clasped so easily over the entirety of it, moving you back to your rightful place at his side. "Oh, worry not, my friend. I have no desire to start another war — the ashes of the last have barely settled."

At that, the excitement dimmed, and your smile with it.

You had heard tales of the Blackfyre rebellion from Maekar's own mouth; the rest of the court — nay, the realm — seemed to speak around it, like the very thought of it could fester. It had been years since Daemon Blackfyre fell upon the Redgrass, and yet the scars remained, blackened and rotten. The ghosts of the war roamed, still, among the living, and a celebration of love was certainly not the place to invoke them.

You wished, suddenly, that you hadn't taken Lord Baratheon's hand at all.

Maekar's scowl worsened, his displeasure curdling like sour milk upon his face. He took a daring step forward, placing himself before you in such a way that you were shielded almost entirely — a dog poised to snap its terrible teeth in service. You almost let him. It wasn't the place for it, though, and the repercussions would far outweigh the satisfaction. You couldn't imagine the King or Queen would be very pleased if tensions overflowed — and Summerhall was ever so close to Storm's End, was it not?

You wound your arms around Maekar's elbow.

"Come, my love," you said, your cheek flush against the silken arm of his doublet. His arm tensed beneath you, before relaxing. "Shall we have a look at the puppeteers in the courtyard? I hear Lord Baratheon is very fond of them."

Maekar did not move. His glower was an enduring thing. You were glad to not be on its receiving end.

Lyonel's grin took a cold edge. "Fond is a word for it, I suppose."

"And tell me," you said, "which is your favourite?"

His smile widened — though, perhaps smile was the wrong word entirely. This was a baring of teeth, and those fangs of his seemed more troubling than ever. Lord Baratheon was not fond of any disrespect towards his puppet-girl, it seemed, which was alright with you. You yourself were not fond of disrespect towards your husband-to-be, no matter how slight. Yielding was not an option — you would die, you thought, before rolling over for any man other than your betrothed.

"Story, that is," you added after a long pause. "Your tales and fables are so different from those we have back home."

There was a moment in which Lyonel simply stared. The weight of his gaze was immense; pupils so stark against the blue of his irises that you felt, for a moment, as if you were pinned in place. Maekar had not moved — he simply remained at your side, ever watchful, regarding Baratheon with narrowed, distrustful eyes.

The moment passed. And then, as if the words were cut from him, Baratheon spoke. "Durran Godsgrief, my lady. He who erected the castle at Storm's End against the ire of the gods — we are an ever defiant bunch."

Your smile widened. He would not go quietly, but your point had been made. "Marvellous. Come, my love."

Terse goodbyes were exchanged, before you turned on your heel, and Lyonel Baratheon disappeared into the crowd. You released a breath, your heart thudding in your chest — despite yourself, there was some relief in turning away from him. A dragon you may have had at your side, but facing the stag still daunted.

You could feel Maekar's eyes upon your cheek as you trailed slowly towards the exit, arm in arm.

"I know," you said, pursing your lips. "Far too intrepid of me. I should have smiled and said naught — 'tis embarrassing to have your bride order you about like a stableboy, I am sure."

The next step you attempted was firmly refused — Maekar stood as still as stone, forcing you to turn and look at him.

"Do not deign to speak for me," Maekar said. You peered up at him through the cover of your eyelashes, and met his gaze. To anyone not versed in the peculiarities of him, they might think him angry — eyes narrowed, brow furrowed, his lips turned down at their corners — but you knew better. You could spy that particular shade of scarlet starting at the tips of his pale ears. The bob of his throat beneath his white whiskers. You blinked in surprise. "You held your own. I… appreciate such qualities."

"Oh?" you said. His eyes cut away — found some nondescript point in the distance amongst the crowd — but your hand darted up to the side of his neck, and they returned to you. Your smile had taken on a note of smugness. His skin was warm, pulse skipping under your palm. "Do continue, Lord Targaryen. Which other qualities of mine do you so appreciate?"

Maekar rolled his eyes. His hand engulfed your own as he promptly removed it from his neck, and it remained as such — held surely, tightly within his — as he began to walk once more. "If you want to see these blasted puppets—"

"I shan't embarrass you any longer, my lord," you said airily. "I know your desire for me eclipses all sense."

There was a scoff.

(But he did not deny it.)

─── ༻⋅☼⋅༺ ───

2. A book — for what good is a life without knowledge? So says Aerys.

There was a great thud as something heavy and fabric-bound dropped to the table before you. Your cup rattled gently against its saucer at the disturbance.

"Oh? What is that?"

Maekar didn't answer; he simply groaned as he dropped into the chair opposite you, slumping into the cushions, arms bracketing the headrest. His weary gaze found your window, where the sun was near setting. "My head is addled."

Ironically, as the wedding neared, your time was spent further and further apart; dress fittings, invitation writing, and all manner of arrangements needed your input. Maekar was similarly engaged with the wedding tourney, which was looking to be a grander and grander affair by the day. In the two days that had passed since the engagement feast, you'd spent perhaps an hour together, and had missed his little ones entirely, occupied with their lessons as they were. You were trying very intently to not let it irritate you.

"Not particularly fond of flower arrangements and table settings, my love?"

He shot you an unimpressed look, before his eyes fluttered slowly shut.

"Yes, well, I feel the same," you said, setting aside the parchment you'd been scrawling upon. "In truth, your mother has been doing most of the work — her, Aelinor, and Alys — and still, I find myself weary. "

A tut. "I cannot look upon another ceaseless list. I despise half the cunts on them."

A soft laugh left you — and, using his lethargy to your advantage, deftly slid over and tucked yourself into his side. He blinked at the press of your weight on the cushions beside him, gaze firmly tacking you in place. "What is it?"

"Must there be something wrong for me to sit at my husband-to-be's side?"

He scoffed, though it was fond. He returned to rest once more. "There usually is."

"How terribly you lie."

For a while you sat like this, side by side, fatigued by the sheer volume of things which must be done for any respectable wedding. Every time you blinked, you swore you saw bunches of peonies and lilacs, heard Queen Myriah's voice — now, which will go most with your dress? It would be best for Lord Lannister to sit near the dais. And where shall the minstrels play? Yes, yes, that sounds adequate.

It seemed strange to imagine a time after this. A quieter time, in Summerhall, where your husband and children would be your most pressing company. Rhae with her birds, Daella with her sewing. Daeron and his wine, and Aegon's mischief. You hid a smile — or, rather, were in the process of hiding a smile, when a grumbling snore snapped you from your reverie.

You blinked. "Maekar?"

There was a grunt, but he remained as he was — softened by not-quite-sleep, splayed over his seat like a great, big cat. Suddenly, you were overcome with a terrible wave of affection, and, grinning, reached over to brush his hair back. The circles beneath his eyes were darker than usual, you noted. Sullen grey against his pale complexion, the lines and wrinkles beneath caused by more than age alone.

"You poor man," you crooned. "How horribly they've run you ragged."

His usual response — an abashed sort of annoyance that would have him swatting away your hands or chastising you for treating him like a child — was markedly absent. Instead, he pressed his head deeper into your hand, and you knew then that he was more spent than you'd thought. It was with this knowledge that you reached over and cupped his whiskered jaw, pulling him slowly to face you, his exhalations hot against your palm.

Maekar's eyes opened, just slightly; half-lidded and heavy, so dark their violet appeared more indigo. The weight of his gaze was a dizzying thing. It halted your heart in your chest and seized your impulses. If he would have requested something of you, in that moment, you did not think yourself strong enough to deny him.

"Shall I leave?" you asked quietly.

A frown. "No."

"I'd rather you sleep in a bed, my love. Your old bones are not what they used to be."

He turned his face away to give a loud yawn — and yes, he must be tired indeed to not rise to your provocations. When he turned back, it was with a wave of his hand towards the table. Towards that mysterious package, which had quite honestly escaped you. "A gift for you, by way of Aerys."

Quirking an eyebrow, you turned towards it, your question finally answered. There was little doubt of what it was; 'twas rectangular in shape, clearly, and if you knew anything about Maekar's elder brother, it was his fondness for reading. You leaned forward to peer at it.

(A large, warm hand fell from the headrest to your back.)

The fabric was a deep, warm red, brocaded with what appeared to be orange and yellow silk, and tied into a large knot at its top. You tugged at it gently, and undone it came; and what sat beneath was a thick, tall tome, suitably dusty and worn. You flipped to the first page.

Chronicles of the History of Westeros Vol. I, by Archmaester Aren.

You hummed, hauling the book onto your lap. "Fitting."

"Knowledge is next to godliness, he says."

"I suppose I cannot disagree." The pages were rough beneath your fingertips, and smelled, as all old books did, of dust. It was a comforting smell, familiar.

"He says it might bring comfort. To — familiarise yourself with your new home."

"That is… kind of him." It was. Aelinor and Myriah did not need to make implications of Aerys' aversion to people, for you saw it easily. He did not enjoy gatherings or feasts or any such occasion that would require conversation of him; he preferred the library, and his study, and — if anything — the company of maesters. You turned another page, idly beginning to read.

"In the year 49 AC, Rhaena Targaryen wed Androw Farman, the second son of the Lord of Fair Isle. It is said the Queen in the West's choice in husband was borne not of love for him, but for her husband's sister, Elissa—"

The leather of the chair creaked and squeaked, suddenly, as Maekar began to move — further and further down, groaning all the while, before his head took its place upon your lap, right below the book. You paused.

"Comfortable, are we?"

A grunt. "You may continue."

With a shake of your head — and a grudging laugh — you did exactly that.

─── ༻⋅☼⋅༺ ───

3. A companion — for what is more enduring than the bond between two living things? So says Rhaegel.

The next day saw you sitting across from Queen Myriah and her ladies-in-waiting, reviewing — for the nth time, it seemed — the meals for the celebration. If you'd thought the engagement feast grand, the wedding was looking to outshine it; mostly because of Myriah, you thought, who was most pleased to see her youngest son marrying again.

("If only Baelor would allow himself the pleasure," she had sighed once. "Alas.")

The menu was ever-growing; roasted boars, pheasants baked in a crust of herbs and Dornish lemons, beef stewed in a rich, savoury gravy, and numerous dishes to compliment them. There would be bread baked with the Reach's finest grain, and cakes and sweets abound, and fiery peppers stuffed with cheese from Dorne, and the most excellent wines… And then there was the wedding pie, of course, which would be filled with birds — most likely doves, according to Myriah, though the fowlers had noted a strange influx in jays…

Once the menu had been sent away to both the King and Maekar for approval, you deflated in your seat. Myriah shot you a fond look over her chalice.

"I fear I will never be able to repay you, my Queen," you said. "Had I tried my hand at organising any of this alone, I would have run it into the ground."

"How often must I tell you?" she replied, tutting. "Myriah. I have all sons, you know, and each daughter I have gained has been more lovely than the last. Cassella — more wine, if you will."

You watched her as her cup was filled. They said that Baelor took after his mother most, and this was true. He had her dark hair and sallow skin, and kind smile. Rhaegel had her hair, but his father's colouring; Aerys, similarly, looked Daeron's twin, but thinner. But Maekar had a certain softness to his face that came by way of Myriah — it was not obvious, and he would no doubt scoff if you told him, but you could see it. When his mind was away and unencumbered, he took on a particular lightness; his frown eased, his scowl softened, and Myriah's likeness shone through.

"I am gladdened," you said eventually. "Braavos is a long journey, and… well, I shan't see my own mother as often as I would hope."

Her eyes raised to you again, knowing. "Many say the worst of marriage is the troubles that come after; the disagreements, or the coldness of the marriage bed, or love — which is oft slow to grow. But for us — for the women, who leave our homes and everything we know behind — this is our burden."

You had come to terms with this, perhaps even before you'd stepped foot upon Westerosi soil. It was the fate of any woman who was to marry; you shed your identity, your home, your culture, and adopt those of your husband. It was expected of you — not by Maekar, perhaps, but by the very world you inhabited. You could not prevent your living in Westeros, or the distance that would surely grow between you and your family, or the mannerisms and habits you would no doubt adopt — but you would treasure that which you could keep. Your songs and tales and traditions. Your Braavosi tongue. Your strange, eastern quirks. This, you swore.

You opened your mouth to say something — an agreement, maybe, or a gentle prise into Myriah's own troubles — but before you could, the doors to the Queen's solar were knocked upon.

"A courier from Prince Rhaegel, Your Grace."

Myriah raised an eyebrow. "Oh? Yes, allow him entry."

The courier was a young man, and in his arms a simple wooden box. There was a lid atop it — and as he sat it down (not on the table, mind, but on the floor) you swore it jostled itself.

"Your Grace, my lady," said the man, finally bowing low. He wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead. "A gift by way of Prince Rhaegel for Prince Maekar's bride. There is a note…"

You met Myriah's gaze, eyes wide. "For — for me?"

"One of the more delightful aspects of marriage. The husband may get the dowry, but the wife gets the gifts," the Queen said, smiling. A small piece of parchment was proferred from the messenger's pocket, and with some hesitance, you took it. "And my sons are particularly welcoming."

You opened the note, and looked upon Rhaegel's looping hand.

Companionship is a gift most treasured, read the note. Thus, it is my gift to you! Delight in her! She is named Chestnut for her coat, and is blessed with a kind and generous temperament.

"Oh, gods," you breathed, a smile growing on your face. "Rhaegel, he—!"

The box gave another rumble — and yes, it had moved by itself. This time, the top went flying off, and there was a startled little yip! from its interior. Gasping, you stood, and chanced a look inside.

"Oh, gods," you repeated. "My Queen — Myriah, look at her!"

Chestnut was small and plump — belly still round with milk — with fur a deep, red-brown, and floppy ears, and a little pink nose. When you reached inside she greeted you with all the unguarded enthusiasm of a pup, nudging at your hand with a wet snout, and peering up at you with dark, shiny eyes. She could not have weighed any more than a feather pillow. Her cold little paws dug gently into your skin as she pushed herself up to nudge at your cheek.

"How darling," cooed the Queen. She chuckled, then. "The first of many children, I hope."

Your smile was blinding. "Oh, Maekar will be delighted."

─── ༻⋅☼⋅༺ ───

4. A symbol of unity — for what is a marriage, if not this? So says Baelor.

Maekar was decidedly undelighted with Chestnut.

He had given Rhaegel multiple firm and unyielding no's, apparently. He had little fondness for the pup; she annoyed him, making a habit of chasing playfully after his boots as he walked, curling up at his feet, and clambering into his lap whenever he sat (despite the fact that he always very promptly removed her). Her nose — which she greatly enjoyed shoving into the nearest face — was irritatingly cold, and she required far too much attention for any one creature, according to him.

Chestnut was not happy about this, being that she was entirely enthralled by him, but she did not take his rejection personally.

Between your chastising and the children (who were incredibly fond of Chestnut, in that simple, enamoured way that all children are fond of small, fluffy creatures), Maekar begrudgingly accepted Chestnut as the newest member of the household.

You doted on her. She ate only pheasant poached in beef broth — shredded for her convenience, of course — and carrots and peas and pumpkin, when the kitchens allowed for it. Every day you brushed her lovely brown fur and took her for walks around the gardens; every night she curled up upon a pile of pillows at the foot of your bed, though she had a great fondness for trying (and failing) to hop in beside you.

Rhaegel had been right — during such an overwhelming period, what balm soothed better than a companion? And overwhelming it was, despite how much had already been accomplished. Your family would arrive in less than a week, and their apartments were prepared; your dress had been fitted, your wedding jewels sourced, and all the great lords and ladies of the realm were trickling, slowly yet surely, into the Keep.

You would soon be a married woman — it was hard to conceptualise, even now, even with the long and arduous journey you'd taken to it. You thought deeply on this as you pet the downy fur between Chestnut's ears, gazing intently into your fireplace.

This would be the rest of your life. Summerhall. Children and Chestnut. Keeping the house as Maekar's wife. Spending your days horse-riding and reading and tending to all those things a woman usually tends to. And, of course, the… the marriage bed.

Your cheeks were suddenly hot. Chestnut gave a gentle grumble, and you realised suddenly that you'd stopped petting her. A grievous mistake, to be sure.

"My apologies, little princess," you teased quietly. "I shan't stop again, if I can help it—"

There was a sudden, swift knock on the door. You cast Chestnut a sorry glance as the guardsman cleared his throat.

"'Tis the Crown Prince, my lady."

You pushed yourself up from the floor with such force, you almost tripped over your hems.

Baelor?

It seemed you were seeing more and more of Maekar's brothers these days — which, to be sure, was not unappreciated, nor totally unexpected — though they did seem to come at the most unanticipated times. It was terribly late. Night had fully come, and you were but half an hour from bed.

But it was the Crown Prince. You'd be a fool to turn him away.

Baelor Breakspear looked entirely perfect in your doorway. To be sure, you'd never seen the man with a hair out of place; fatigue did not seem to plague him, despite rising earlier and sleeping later than most. He went to great trouble, you thought, to maintain such a manicured facade. You may have spent most of your time in the Kep besotted with Maekar, but you had noticed much of Baelor, too. He diffused even the most tense of moments with practiced ease; he greeted everyone with the same regal graciousness; he even took great care to enjoy things with just the right amount of zeal, never too little or too much. The Baelor in Maekar's war stories seemed another animal entirely.

You smoothed your skirts. "My Prince."

"My lady," said Breakspear. His hands were clasped politely behind his back, eyes fixed on you. It was another thing you'd noticed about him — the man gave his full, undivided attention to whomever he was speaking. It was incredibly nervewracking. "If I may…"

"I — I apologise. If I had known you meant to visit, I might have…" You trailed off. You weren't sure what you might have done. Prettied yourself up? Prepared a platter of tea, so he could hum just-so, regardless of whether he liked it or not?

"Please, accept my gravest apologies. I understand this is hardly the best time, but I feared this would be the only moment I might catch you alone."

He stepped further into the room, that gentle smile of his on his face. This close to the fire, his eyes seemed to sparkle. One a dark, impenetrable brown. The other, blinding blue.

"Alone?"

"Mm." You hardly noticed you'd moved, naturally following Baelor's lead as he moved throughout the room. As you sat upon the chaise, he came to kneel before you, smoothing a hand over Chestnut's head. You had more than half a mind to urge him up. To have the Crown Prince kneeling before you, no matter the reason, was less than appropriate. "I see my brothers have been far more punctual with their gifts than I."

"She is delightful." Your voice came quiet. Heat rolled off him in waves, and you could feel it against your knees, though no part of him truly touched you. His head was bowed, his profile illuminated in fiery orange. You watched him for a moment as he indulged the pup, open affection blooming upon his pretty face. You could see Maekar in him, sometimes. "And Aerys' gift was well-appreciated."

He made a humming noise, and — as if you'd come to some unspoken, mutual agreement — you let silence trickle in. For a few moments, everything was quiet between you. The fire crackled, and Chestnut snored her little self away, and Baelor breathed slow and steady, and no words were said.

It was a mindless, tired huff from Chestnut that seemed to rouse Baelor from his thoughts.

"My apologies. I shan't keep you long," he said, then. "'Tis better late than never, I suppose, where gifts are concerned."

You felt your cheeks warm. It wasn't that you hadn't expected it, but — but Aerys and Rhaegel both had had their gifts delivered. You had thanked them, of course, but they were not present to watch as you opened the boxes and undid the knots; they did not place themselves at your feet, or examine your every move meticulously. "I am flattered, my prince, though it really isn't necessary — I have more than enough. Maekar makes sure of it."

(Of course you wanted a gift. Only fools did not want gifts. But it was unladylike to not show a small bit of hesitance, you told yourself.)

Baelor's eyes flickered up to you. "A marriage is a means of giving," he said. "From husband to wife, and wife to husband, and family to family. It would do me a great honour if you would accept my gift."

"I — I will, of course. I only…" You shook your head. "I shall, my prince."

"In quieter company, I would insist you call me Baelor. We are to be family, after all." He lifted that large hand from Chestnut's head, then, and reached inside the inner pocket of his doublet. You watched intently as he pulled something out — and, confusion furrowing your brow, you bowed your head to look at it.

'Twas clearly a dagger for its shape and size, curved like the tooth of a great beast. It was contained within a scabbard of gold, embedded with jewels and smooth, coloured glass, the metal engraved masterfully with all manner of ornamentation. The pommel appeared to be a simple, dark green — but when Baelor proffered it gently to you, and the firelight shone upon it, you realised it was completely transparent. A great chunk of some precious stone, faceted with 8 faces.

"My prince — Baelor — this is…" Your gaze flickered between the knife and his eyes, which remained fixed on the blade in your hands.

It felt… strange, in some way, to accept it. You were no stranger to jewels or gold or pretty things, but even you could tell that there was some otherworldly weight to this strange little dagger. It was not simply a knife — Baelor was handing you something bigger, something heavier, and you were wholly ignorant to what it was.

"Go on," Baelor said, then, quiet. "Unsheathe it."

You were helpless to deny him, a slave to both his whims and your own curiosity. The scabbard was cool in your hands, the engraving rough and textured when it brushed over your skin. You slid the knife from its holder and watched, fascinated, as the gold of the blade shined in the light. So polished was it that you could see yourself, wide-eyed and lips parted, in its gleaming surface. You didn't want to touch it. You'd never seen something so perfect — completely flawless, save for a thin line of engravings down the centre. With a squint you tried to read the script, but it was foreign to you.

"Before Aegon conquered Westeros," Baelor murmured, "and before my father united it, Dorne was a kingdom proper. There were the First Men and the Andals, of course, but there were Rhoynar, too. They fled to Dorne when their homeland was taken, and brought with them all manner of traditions."

"Your mother's people," you recalled. "House Nymeros Martell; of the line of Nymeria. She married Mors Martell, and they united Dorne."

"Precisely."

The sharpened edge shimmered in the firelight. "I do not recall the Rhoynar being a particularly violent people."

A low laugh. "Yes, well. It is not the most convenient blade, I must say, for its use was largely ornamental. It stood as an assurance, from husband to wife — from… family, to wife. Protection, wealth. A symbolic tool with which to ensure her safety and prosperity."

A marriage is a means of giving. From husband to wife, and wife to husband, and family to family.

You'd known it. Felt it even while ignorant, the severity of the blade in your hand. The promise it bore. You swallowed, and it was sticky in your throat. "I… I would hope to have no need of it, Baelor."

He hummed. For the first time since meeting him, he looked more his age than ever. There were lines beneath his eyes; a solemness that presented itself in the corners of his lips. His hand moved unconsciously upon Chestnut's head. The grey in his hair shone like silver.

"You will have no need of it," he promised. "Not only do I swear it, but your betrothed unmistakably does. 'Tis simply an old custom — one even my mother may scorn as blasphemy, though I have always held great fondness for it, regardless."

His voice had taken on an edge of something soft. Wistful. That cloak of composure was wearing away, eating itself from the inside, and you were helpless to do anything but watch.

"And what does it say here — along the middle?" You looked up from the knife. He was already watching you.

"Love comes with a knife," he said. "Not some shy question, and not with fears for its reputation."

"Oh."

"A union of love is a wondrous thing," Baelor continued. His stare filled you with a graceless sort of nervousness. What did he see when he looked upon you? A wide-eyed girl, her emotions written on her face? Ignorant and green, puzzled by his gift, and his proximity, and the softness in his voice when he spoke to her? "A divine blessing. There exists no man more deserving of it than Maekar. It… goes without saying that I wish you both the best."

You cleared your throat in a poor attempt to steady yourself.

"Thank you, Baelor." The dagger was heavy in your hand, and you met your own eye in its reflection. "I do not think I can ever hope to repay this kindness."

"Repayment is not necessary, my lady." With a final pat to Chestnut's head, he stood, and in the midst of your musing, you had only the mind to sit, peering up at him. "..In truth, I had once hoped to bestow such a gift upon my late lady wife, but was dissuaded — such customs are frowned upon in the Faith, you see. I have… I have always carried the regret with me. The simple sight of your approval is gift enough."

A wave of sorrow overcame you. Even the heir to the throne, it seemed, could not have the freedoms he desired. You stood, and the movement seemed to sober your companion — he stood straight, suddenly, a warm chuckle rumbling in his throat.

"Forgive the ravings of an old man, if you will, my lady," he said, watching you from beneath his eyelashes.

"You do yourself a great injustice, Baelor, speaking of yourself like that."

A smile. "You are too kind. It relieves me to know that you are marrying Maekar. He… requires some patience." His hands were clasped again. The facade returned with vigour, as perfect as ever. "As you well know, he can be… waspish, at times."

"Yes," you said, quickly sheathing the dagger once more. It felt wrong to even set it down; you grasped it tightly in both hands as you walked Baelor slowly to the door. "His greatest charm."

"I am glad you think so."

Needing no command, the guards opened the door as you neared.

"Well, then," Baelor said, giving you one last smile. "The gods give thee good night, my lady. I apologise again for disturbing you."

"'Twas no disturbance, my lord. I shall treasure your gift for as long as I live. Thank you, and — and good night."

His eyes remained on you for only a second longer — and then he nodded politely, and turned on his heel. The moment his eyes left you, you felt your breath return. In truth, you hadn't realised it had left.

For a moment, you stood in place. A strange sort of sadness pulled at your gut, but you could not linger on it; it was late, and you would be married in only a few days, and your bed was calling.

You peered down at your gift, glinting even in the low light.

Love comes with a knife. A smile pulled at your lips. You liked that.

─── ༻⋅☼⋅༺ ───

5. A tooth from an old dragon, conquered and made humble.

"If the winds hold, my family might arrive tomorrow," you said.

Since becoming engaged, you had taken many meals in Maegor's Holdfast; as time passed, the table only grew more and more full. Aerion and Daeron had arrived from Summerhall only the day prior — the former, you were markedly ignoring —, and Aemon three days before from the Citadel. Between Maekar's brood, Rhaegel's children, and the excitement of the gathering, there was not a dull moment at the table.

It was no small wonder that you felt, for the first time that night, you were getting a proper word in with your husband.

(Betrothed, you reminded yourself. Not-yet-husband.)

"My father is kind," you added, peering up at him. "You needn't worry, my love."

"Worry?" Maekar gave a sharp laugh, rife with disbelief. "I do not fear your father, girl. We are peers, or have you forgotten?"

"Your age?" you asked breezily. "No, of course I haven't."

"…How you test my patience."

"You would be ever so bored without me."

The wedding ceremony was to be held in two days, and a full sennight of tourney-games and revelry were to follow. A raven had been sent ahead of your family, and they weren't far from the Western coast. The idea of seeing them after so long away was a nerve-wracking one. It was the melding of your two selves: the girl you were with your family, and the woman you were in the Keep. The eldest daughter and eastern lady.

You closed your eyes, resting your head against Maekar's shoulder as you walked.

"The maester says the sun should hold," you said, stifling a yawn. "Your gods must be awfully fond of our union."

"Hm."

"I do wonder what my bride's cloak will look like," you added. "Father is — yawn — partial to Qartheen silk, though I prefer its Braavosi counterpart, and mother has never known a day of subtlety in all her years—"

Another yawn cut you off — louder, this time, and so entirely mighty that it stopped you in your tracks. When it was finished, you blinked up at Maekar, eyes watering. "I shall sleep for ten days and ten nights when this is over."

He snorted at your declaration, nudging you back beside him. "Had you nothing to spend your time doing, you'd be irate."

In silence you left Maegor's Holdfast and crossed its lengthy drawbridge. With a nod to the Kingsguard posted at its end, Maekar turned you towards the wing which housed your quarters.

"You have been training hard," you said suddenly, voice quiet. His arm tensed as you ran your hand from his elbow to his bicep, smoothing your palm over him. You chanced a glance up at his face, and found his jaw hardened. A smile tugged at your lips. "I hope you do not wear yourself out too much. I worry, you know." A pause. "We will have to consummate our marriage, of course, and at your age—"

There was a loud groan, but he was smiling, despite himself. It was helpful in its own way; as you entered the wing, and began up the stairs towards the next floor, almost everyone you passed had no desire to stop and talk. The uncharacteristic happiness upon your beloved's face turned away even the most terrible of drivellers. "Do you only know how to jest when it comes to my age?"

"I fear you may already know the answer to that, my love."

Before long, you were turning the corner towards your apartments. The hallway filled you with a sense of nostalgia. It wasn't so long ago that you were coming to this place for the first time, stepping upon these floors, ignorant of the future that awaited you in the Red Keep; learning the bricks and rugs and tapestries, until, one day, you knew them intimately.

Within a few days, you'd most likely never return to these quarters again — no, if you were to visit the Red Keep again, your quarters would be in the Holdfast, shared with your husband.

"Need I remind you," Maekar continued, "you are the one marrying me."

You rolled your eyes as you came to a stop at your door. Your guard lingered at an appropriate distance, as usual — thus, you found no shame in turning to your husband-to-be, smoothing your hands up his arms until they rested upon his shoulders. Your smile was sharp when you purred, "Oh, I need no reminding."

His ears were reddening — and no matter how hard he tried to grimace, you could see the pleasure behind it. "You are terrible."

"Yes, very. Have you anything else to say before I retire, Maekar?"

You were not expecting a yes — thus, you began to turn towards your door, hands sliding from him. Usually he left you with a very stilted goodbye, as if he were embarrassed by the mere prospect of dropping you at your own door — sometimes, if he'd been at the wine, or was in a particularly good mood, he'd stand and dawdle, clearly not wanting to leave, but unable to open his mouth and ask it of you. Mostly, the idea of showing any public displays of affection seemed to fill him with equal parts embarrassment and hunger. It was an incredibly entertaining thing to witness.

"Wait," he commanded.

Your brow raised. "Hm?"

"I… have something, for you," he said, the words coming out begrudging. He was glaring again, that way he did when he was embarrassed, hand fishing in the pouch at his hip for something. "…If you would accept it."

"Oh?" You were reminded of Baelor's gift, only the night prior. You had told Maekar of the knife the morning after, and he had already known of it; albeit, he did not seem entirely pleased. Acceptive, perhaps — happy to have indulged his beloved brother, but annoyed at the prospect of you being the recipient. You wondered if it had bothered him enough to…

He said nothing more. From the pouch at his hip he withdrew an even smaller silken bag, a silvery grey in colour and tied shut with thread-of-gold, and held it out. He watched you intently, that frown still on his face, as you took it in hand and tugged it gently open.

At first, you were unsure of what it was, bundled up and dark as it was; but it poured out into your hand, cold and heavy, and you realised, then.

A delicate chain of blackened silver, studded with bloody garnets along itself. Hanging heavily at its centre looked something like a metal tooth, dark like burnished steel. You brought it closer to yourself, eyes searching. It was not smooth, but marred by marks and striations; it had not been treated gently, clearly.

You recognised it, somehow, despite the plainness of it — looked upon it, its particular shape and size, the weight of it, the colour.

A tooth, you realised. A tooth from an old dragon. Your throat suddenly tightened.

"Where did you take this from?" you asked, eyes trained upon it. You could hardly raise your voice above a whisper. "Your shoulders, or your spine?"

"The shoulder." You realised how close he was, then; whether he had moved, or you had, you didn't know. You were both staring at the necklace in your hands, knowing it meant more than he could perhaps ever say aloud. His head was bowed towards you — his entire self, really, the whole bulk of him arched towards you like a flower towards the sun. "From the face of the right pauldron."

Light caught on the shimmering facets of the garnets. It was stunningly beautiful. Delicate and feminine and yet, intense in its ferocity. Fire and blood. Unbowed, unbent, unbroken. A token befitting the wife of the Anvil of the Redgrass Field.

You looked up at him through your eyelashes, and found his gaze scalding. "And now your armour is missing a tooth."

His jaw clenched. "It has found a more deserving place."

You held the necklace out, and with no further prompting he took it in his hands. You turned your back to him, and lifted your hair from your nape; and you felt the heat of him as he stepped closer to you, chest to your back. With a delicateness at odds with the size of him, his hands came to your front, fingers brushing against your clavicle. The chain was cold as it settled against your skin. Cold, but familiar, hanging about your neck as intimately as any other part of you.

You had no looking glass to see how the necklace pressed against your collarbones, the tooth hanging low upon your bosom; but you turned and met Maekar's eyes and saw the hunger in them, a reluctance in him to turn his gaze from you. Pleasure stirred something terrible in your stomach. You liked when he got like this — when he was left unguarded, unsure of what to do with all he felt, powerless to do little other than stare and frown and grit his teeth. The power of it was intoxicating.

You did this. You put this gleam in his eye and this flush upon his cheek. 'Twas you who walked arm in arm with him, and you who whispered in his ear, and you who drew those laughs from him, and you who could test and push his patience.

"Of all the gifts that I have received, this I shall cherish most," you whispered. "I — I shall never take it off."

"Hm." That pleased him. You could see it on him, clear as day; self-satisfaction pulled at the corners of his mouth, puffed his chest out.

"I am only ashamed that I have nothing to give in return."

"Seven hells, woman. Were the warships not enough?"

You said nothing, gazing down at the tooth against your skin. After a pause, Maekar exhaled.

"…The only thing I require of you is your happiness," he muttered. "'Tis gift enough."

The tooth was warmed against you. You remembered your hands drifting over them in Maekar's tent what felt like an age ago. He had been fearsome. Terrifying. A man hardened by blood and bone, and you had set your hands upon him and tied your pretty green ribbon around him. And he had looked at you like he was looking at you now, this man who had crushed and killed more than you could fathom — who was spoken about in perpetual buts.

A great warrior, but a terrible speaker.

A magnificent fighter, but easy to anger, and quick to annoy.

An asset on the battlefield, but not in court.

A mind for the war tent, but not for the solar.

You felt such an urge to touch him, then, that you had to dig your fingers into your palms, anchoring yourself to the pinching pain that came with it. He was yours. He was yours, all of him, and yet you could not touch him until you had wed. You had no personal qualms with having your way with him — but with the most important people in the realm gathered, the embarrassment of such a tryst would displease your mother and father-in-law. And they did say that patience was a virtue…

"You say that you are unlearned in the ways of love," you could only say, swallowing your desire, "and that you are prickly and mannerless — but I have seen more gentleness from you, Maekar, than from most men. More love, more affection…"

He blinked down at you. No words escaped him. His astonishment almost looked like disgust — lips parted, brow furrowed — but that dumbfounded silence spoke more than any words could.

"Two days," you said, squeezing your palms tighter. The weight of the tooth rose and fell with your breathing, and you took comfort in its heft upon your chest. "Two days, and then... and then I shall be able to kiss you as I want to now."

“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.