Solo otra fangirl

The second year of trying was harder than the first.

Hope had become quieter.

There were no more whispered conversations about names while lying awake together.

No more debating whether a child would inherit your smile or Harwin's broad shoulders.

Instead, each moon passed with the same silent understanding.

You would wait.

And then...

You would grieve.

Again.

Harwin began counting the days almost as carefully as you did.

Not because he blamed you.

Because he hated watching disappointment steal another little piece of your joy every month.

He noticed how you stopped lingering outside the nursery where the castle kept spare cradles.

How you smiled at babies before looking away too quickly.

How you laughed just a little less.

One evening he found you sitting beside the fire, knitting something no larger than his hand.

He frowned.

"What are you making?"

You looked down.

"I don't know."

He sat beside you.

"You don't know?"

"I started it months ago."

Your fingers trembled over the tiny sleeve.

"I kept thinking perhaps..."

Your voice disappeared.

Harwin gently took the unfinished garment from your lap and set it aside.

Then he gathered you into his arms.

You buried your face against his chest.

"I wanted this so badly."

"I know."

"I feel foolish for wanting it this much."

"There is nothing foolish about loving someone you haven't met yet."

Those words finally broke you.

You cried until your tears soaked through his tunic.

Harwin never once asked you to stop.

The maester visited again before winter.

He was kind.

Too kind.

You had begun to dread kindness.

"My lady," he said gently, "there is still hope."

"But?"

He hesitated.

"The years make it... less likely."

Less likely.

Not impossible.

Not hopeless.

Just...

Less likely.

You thanked him anyway.

When the door closed, you sat in silence.

Harwin knelt before you.

"We don't have to keep doing this."

You looked at him.

"You mean..."

"We don't have to let every month decide whether we're happy."

Fresh tears gathered.

"I don't know how to stop hoping."

He smiled sadly.

"Then don't."

His thumb brushed away a tear.

"But stop letting hope steal today."

That night, you walked the cliffs together.

The sea crashed against Dragonstone below.

"I've been thinking," Harwin said.

You smiled faintly.

"That usually worries me."

He laughed.

"I deserved that."

"You did."

He stopped walking.

"I married you because I loved you."

"I know."

"I didn't marry you because I wanted children."

Your heart tightened.

"I know."

"If the gods bless us with one someday..."

He took both your hands.

"I will thank them every day for the rest of my life."

"And if they don't?"

His answer came without hesitation.

"I'll still thank them for giving me you."

You threw your arms around him.

He held you until the wind turned cold.

Life slowly found its rhythm again.

You stopped counting.

Stopped marking dates.

Stopped letting every moon decide whether the next would finally be different.

Instead...

You lived.

You and Harwin rode together through the hills surrounding Dragonstone.

You read with Rhaenyra beside the fire while Daemon complained that neither of you ever chose books with enough battles.

You laughed more.

Slept better.

You remembered that you had once fallen in love before grief became part of every conversation.

One afternoon, Rhaenyra smiled at you over a cup of tea.

"You look happier."

"I think..."

You considered the feeling.

"I think I remembered how."

She reached across the table and squeezed your hand.

"I'm glad."

"So am I."

Winter melted into spring.

Then summer.

You almost missed it.

The first sign was exhaustion.

The second was that your favorite honey cakes suddenly made you ill.

Harwin frowned as you pushed your plate away.

"I thought you loved these."

"I do."

"They've offended you somehow?"

"They taste strange."

"They're the same cakes."

You looked suspiciously at them.

"They're plotting."

Harwin laughed.

"You've spent too much time with Daemon."

Rhaenyra noticed before anyone else.

She watched you excuse yourself from breakfast for the third morning in a row.

Later that afternoon, she appeared outside your chambers.

"Walk with me."

You followed her into the gardens.

After making certain no one else could hear, she turned toward you.

"When was your last moon's blood?"

Your breath caught.

You blinked.

Then counted backward in your mind.

Your face slowly lost all color.

"Oh."

Rhaenyra smiled.

"Oh?"

"Oh."

The maester came immediately.

You sat beside Harwin, your hands shaking so badly he covered them with his own.

The old man smiled before he spoke.

A genuine smile.

"My lady..."

He looked between the two of you.

"You are with child."

Silence.

Complete silence.

You stared.

Harwin stared.

The maester cleared his throat politely.

Neither of you moved.

Finally you whispered,

"Are you certain?"

"I would stake my chain upon it."

You looked at Harwin.

His eyes were already filled with tears.

"We..."

His voice broke.

"We're having a baby?"

You laughed through your own tears.

"I think we are."

Harwin made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob before pulling you into his arms.

He held you so carefully, as though you were suddenly made of glass.

"We're having a baby," he whispered again.

You had never seen him cry before.

Not like this.

Not openly.

Not without shame.

You kissed every tear from his cheeks.

Rhaenyra was waiting outside.

The moment she saw your faces, she knew.

She laughed with delight.

Then she embraced you both so tightly you could barely breathe.

"I have waited years for this."

You smiled.

"So have we."

Daemon appeared moments later.

He looked between the three of you.

"Someone has either died or become pregnant."

Rhaenyra laughed.

"The second."

Daemon's brows lifted.

He looked at Harwin.

"Well."

Harwin smiled wider than you had ever seen.

"We're going to be parents."

Daemon walked over and clasped Harwin's forearm.

A rare gesture of affection.

"You'll be a good father."

Harwin looked down.

"I hope so."

Daemon glanced toward you.

"I have little doubt."

It was, perhaps, the nicest thing he had ever said.

The moons that followed were filled with cautious joy.

You refused to buy baby clothes.

"It will tempt fate."

Harwin bought them anyway.

Tiny little gowns.

Little blankets.

A carved wooden dragon.

When you caught him admiring a cradle he'd secretly commissioned, he looked thoroughly caught.

"I wasn't hiding it very well, was I?"

"No."

"I wanted to surprise you."

"You have."

He smiled sheepishly.

"I've never been very patient."

"No."

You rested his hand against your growing belly.

"You never have."

The baby kicked.

Harwin froze.

His violet eyes widened.

"Did..."

You laughed.

"She says hello."

"You think it's a girl?"

"I don't know."

"I do."

"Oh?"

"She's already kicking me."

You laughed so hard you nearly cried.

Months later, during a warm autumn morning, labor began.

Harwin was absolutely hopeless.

He paced.

Questioned every midwife.

Asked if there was anything he could do every few minutes.

Finally one of them pointed toward the door.

"You can stop asking."

He looked offended.

"I am being helpful."

"You are frightening everyone."

You laughed despite the pain.

"I think she's right."

He sighed dramatically.

"I have been betrayed."

Hours later...

A baby's cry echoed through Dragonstone.

Harwin stood frozen beside the bed.

The midwife placed a tiny little girl into your arms.

Silver-blond? No.

Dark-haired like her father.

Your daughter blinked up at the world with sleepy brown eyes.

Harwin stared.

"You made her."

You smiled.

"We made her."

He reached out one careful finger.

The baby wrapped her tiny hand around it immediately.

His knees nearly gave out.

"Oh."

Tears slipped down his face.

"Hello, little one."

She yawned.

You laughed softly.

"I think she likes you."

"I already love her."

You looked up at your husband.

"So do I."

Harwin leaned down and kissed your forehead.

Then your daughter's.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke.

You simply watched the tiny life you had dreamed of for so many years sleeping peacefully between you.

It had taken time.

It had taken heartache.

It had taken more tears than either of you thought possible.

But she was here.

And somehow...

Every painful year had led to this tiny hand wrapped around Harwin's finger.

He looked at you with tears still shining in his eyes.

"She's perfect."

You smiled.

"So are you."

He laughed softly.

"I know one of those statements is true."

You reached up and cupped his face.

"They both are."

Outside the chamber, Dragonstone carried on as it always had.

The sea crashed against black cliffs.

Dragons wheeled overhead.

Life continued.

Inside, however, your world had become wonderfully, beautifully still.

For the first time in years...

The waiting was over.

the end......

-------------------------

epilogue...

The news spread through Dragonstone faster than dragonfire.

Harwin Strong had a daughter.

By the time the midwives had finished cleaning the chamber, there was already a quiet argument outside your door.

"...I should go first."

"No, I should."

"You always think you should."

"I am the eldest."

"And?"

"It matters."

"It doesn't."

Joffrey sighed dramatically.

"You are both impossible."

Harwin chuckled from beside your bed.

"They're here."

You smiled weakly.

"Let them in."

The door opened almost immediately.

Jacaerys entered first, trying very hard to appear composed.

Lucerys followed close behind, bouncing on the balls of his feet with barely contained excitement.

Joffrey pushed between them.

"I won."

"You shoved us," Luke complained.

"I was motivated."

Harwin folded his arms.

"Behave."

The three boys immediately straightened.

"Yes, Father."

The title hung in the room.

It was spoken quietly.

Naturally.

No fear.

No hesitation.

Harwin closed his eyes for a brief moment before opening them again.

He smiled.

"Come meet your sister."

The boys approached the bed as though walking toward the most precious treasure in the world.

Your daughter slept peacefully in your arms, completely unaware that three princes were staring at her with open fascination.

Luke whispered first.

"She's tiny."

Jace nodded.

"I was bigger."

"You were not," Harwin said.

"You looked exactly like this."

Joffrey leaned closer.

"Can she breathe?"

You laughed.

"Yes."

"Are you certain?"

"I'm very certain."

He frowned thoughtfully.

"She's awfully quiet."

As if offended by the observation, your daughter let out a loud cry.

Joffrey jumped.

Luke laughed.

"I think she heard you."

Harwin carefully lifted the baby from your arms.

"You may hold her, Jace."

Jacaerys' eyes widened.

"Truly?"

"If you're comfortable."

"I am."

Harwin settled the tiny bundle into Jace's arms.

The prince held her as though she were made of spun glass.

"So little," he whispered.

Your heart swelled.

Luke looked impatient.

"My turn?"

"In a moment."

Jace smiled down at the baby.

"Hello."

She blinked up at him sleepily.

"I'm your brother."

His voice cracked slightly on the last word.

"I promise I'll always look after you."

You covered your mouth to hide your tears.

Luke finally received his turn.

He beamed.

"I can teach her to climb."

Harwin immediately answered,

"No."

"But eventually."

"No."

"When she's older?"

"No."

Luke sighed dramatically.

"You never let me have fun."

"I've seen your definition of fun."

"It was only one cliff."

"It was three."

Joffrey was practically vibrating by the time Harwin placed the baby into his arms.

The youngest prince looked completely serious.

"I have a question."

"Yes?" you asked.

"When she gets bigger..."

He looked around the room.

"...can she play dragons with us?"

Your daughter yawned.

Joffrey nodded.

"I'll take that as yes."

The room erupted into laughter.

Rhaenyra appeared in the doorway just then, Daemon beside her.

She watched the scene quietly.

Three boys gathered around a tiny infant.

Harwin smiling so widely his cheeks must have hurt.

You watching them all with tears in your eyes.

Daemon looked at Harwin.

"I believe they approve."

Harwin glanced toward his sons.

"I was hoping they would."

Rhaenyra walked to your bedside and kissed your forehead.

"She's beautiful."

You smiled.

"So are they."

Rhaenyra looked at her boys.

"They've been counting the hours until they could meet her."

Luke nodded enthusiastically.

"We're going to spoil her."

Daemon muttered,

"That's already begun."

Joffrey looked horrified.

"She's supposed to be spoiled."

Daemon raised an eyebrow.

"I stand corrected."

Later that evening, after everyone had gone, Harwin found Jace sitting alone outside the nursery.

"You should be asleep."

Jace looked up.

"I couldn't."

Harwin sat beside him.

"What troubles you?"

Jace hesitated.

"I was afraid."

"Of what?"

"That when you had your own baby..."

His voice became very quiet.

"...you wouldn't need us anymore."

Harwin's heart broke.

He rested a hand on Jace's shoulder.

"Look at me."

Jace did.

"You were my son long before today."

The boy blinked rapidly.

"You still are."

"I know I'm not—"

"You are."

Harwin interrupted gently.

"Blood is only one way to make a family."

Jace's eyes filled.

"I love your sister because she's mine."

He smiled softly.

"I love you because you're mine too."

The prince threw his arms around him.

Harwin hugged him tightly.

Neither of them noticed you watching from the doorway with tears quietly slipping down your cheeks.

Your daughter slept peacefully in your arms.

And for the first time, every person you loved was under the same roof.

Exactly where they belonged.

--------

Years passed gently.

Your daughter grew with Harwin's fearless grin and your patient heart.

She adored her older brothers.

They adored her even more.

Jacaerys taught her to read.

Lucerys taught her to sail, despite Harwin insisting she was too young.

Joffrey taught her absolutely everything she should never have learned.

Including how to sneak lemon cakes from the kitchens.

You pretended not to notice.

Harwin pretended too.

One spring afternoon, you found all four children asleep beneath an old tree.

Jace had a history book open across his chest.

Luke's boots were muddy.

Joffrey had somehow fallen asleep upside down.

Your daughter was curled against Jace's side with one tiny hand wrapped around Luke's sleeve.

Harwin joined you quietly.

"They've exhausted themselves."

"They're impossible."

"They're ours."

You looked at him.

He smiled.

"I know what I said."

You leaned against his shoulder.

"I used to think the gods had forgotten me."

Harwin kissed your temple.

"They hadn't."

"They were just taking longer than I wanted."

"They were writing a better story."

You watched the children sleeping beneath the afternoon sun.

Three boys who had taught you how to be a mother long before you carried a child.

A daughter who had arrived when you had nearly stopped believing she ever would.

A husband who had never once made you feel that love depended upon blood alone.

Your family had not come together in the way you'd imagined as a little girl.

It had come together in stolen afternoons, scraped knees, bedtime stories, quiet grief, patient hope, and love that grew instead of divided.

You reached for Harwin's hand.

He intertwined your fingers with his without looking away from the children.

"What are you thinking?" he asked.

You smiled.

"That this..."

You looked at the people you loved most in the world.

"...is the shape of home."

Harwin kissed your knuckles.

"I couldn't agree more."

Above Dragonstone, dragons soared through the clouds.

Below them, laughter echoed through the castle.

And beneath the old tree, surrounded by the family you had once only dreamed of, you realized something beautiful.

The gods had not given you the life you expected.

They had given you one far richer.

One built not only by blood—

But by every person who chose, day after day, to call one another family.

The first year of your marriage passed in laughter.

Dragonstone became home far more quickly than either of you expected.

Not because of the castle.

Dragonstone was cold.

Wind howled through the ancient halls. Salt coated every window. The stone seemed to hold winter inside it, even during summer.

It became home because Harwin was there.

Because every morning he kissed your forehead before training.

Because every evening he came looking for you, no matter how late the hour.

Because every night he whispered the same three words before sleep.

"I'm home."

He never said Dragonstone was home.

He always said it while looking at you.

Marrying Harwin meant marrying three little shadows as well.

Jacaerys was nearly always reading.

Lucerys climbed everything that looked remotely climbable.

Joffrey...

Joffrey simply appeared.

One moment he was nowhere to be found.

The next, he was sitting on your kitchen table eating berries he had absolutely not been given permission to eat.

"My prince."

He looked up with stained lips.

"Yes?"

"Where did those come from?"

"The bowl."

"I can see that."

He grinned.

"I was hungry."

Harwin entered the room just in time to hear that.

"So naturally you stole them."

"I borrowed them."

Harwin folded his arms.

"Did you intend to return them?"

Joffrey looked thoughtfully at the handful of berries.

"...No."

You burst into laughter.

Harwin tried not to smile.

Failed.

It happened so gradually that you hardly noticed.

The boys stopped knocking before entering your rooms.

Luke began bringing you seashells after every walk along the beach.

Jace asked your opinion before important lessons.

Joffrey insisted bedtime stories could only be read by "my lady."

Daemon found the arrangement endlessly amusing.

"You've been adopted."

You looked up from the embroidery in your lap.

"I don't believe that's how adoption works."

"It does today."

Joffrey nodded solemnly.

"It does."

Rhaenyra smiled into her tea.

"I warned you."

"You did."

"I believe my exact words were, 'They'll decide you're theirs.'"

"You were correct."

Luke ran into the room at that very moment.

"My lady!"

You looked up.

"I found a crab."

"How wonderful."

"It bit me."

"I'm less surprised."

"It was very rude."

Harwin laughed so hard he nearly dropped the cup he was carrying.

You had expected jealousy.

Not from Rhaenyra.

From yourself.

You expected to resent the easy way Harwin smiled whenever Jace accomplished something remarkable.

The tenderness in his eyes when Luke fell asleep against his shoulder.

The pride that shone across his face every time Joffrey laughed.

Instead...

You loved watching him.

One afternoon, Harwin sat beneath an old tree with all three boys sprawled around him.

Jace was reading aloud.

Luke was absentmindedly braiding flowers into Harwin's hair.

Joffrey had somehow convinced Caraxes' tail—at a safe distance—was waving specifically at him.

You smiled.

Rhaenyra joined you quietly.

"He looks happy."

"He does."

"I worried."

You glanced at her.

"About what?"

"That loving you might make him pull away from them."

You looked back toward the boys.

"He couldn't."

"No."

Rhaenyra smiled softly.

"He couldn't."

After a long silence, she added,

"Thank you."

You frowned.

"For what?"

"For never asking him to choose."

You looked at her in surprise.

"I never would."

"I know."

She reached over and squeezed your hand.

"I know."

Six months into your marriage, you and Harwin began hoping for a child.

At first...

It was exciting.

You laughed over possible names.

Harwin insisted every little girl would somehow inherit your smile.

You insisted every little boy would climb furniture exactly like Luke.

He disagreed.

"They'll climb worse."

"Worse?"

"They'll have my confidence."

"And your common sense?"

He looked offended.

"I have excellent sense."

"You once tried to wrestle a bull."

"I won."

"That is not the point."

The first moon passed.

Then another.

Neither of you worried.

"These things take time," Harwin said.

You nodded.

They did.

A year passed.

Still nothing.

The excitement faded into quiet hope.

Hope became waiting.

Waiting became counting.

Counting became disappointment.

You began recognizing the expression on the maester's face before he spoke.

Not yet.

Try again.

Perhaps next moon.

Always gentle.

Always kind.

Always heartbreaking.

Harwin never blamed you.

Not once.

Not even by accident.

When you apologized after another difficult visit with the maester, he looked genuinely confused.

"What are you apologizing for?"

"I know you wanted children."

"I do."

Your heart sank.

He immediately reached for your hands.

"With you."

He emphasized the words.

"I wanted children with you."

Fresh tears filled your eyes.

"What if I can't?"

Harwin cupped your face.

"Then I still have you."

"It isn't enough."

"It is for me."

You closed your eyes.

"It shouldn't have to be."

He rested his forehead against yours.

"We'll grieve that together if we must."

The boys noticed long before you realized they had.

Children always did.

Jace began lingering after lessons.

Luke stopped asking when there would be a baby.

Joffrey simply hugged you more often.

One rainy afternoon, you found Jace alone in the library.

He closed the book the moment you entered.

"My lady?"

"Yes?"

He hesitated.

"I heard the maester speaking."

Your heart stopped.

"I wasn't trying to listen."

"I know."

"They said..."

His voice became very small.

"...that you were sad."

You sat beside him.

"I am sometimes."

"Because of a baby?"

You nodded.

Jace stared at his hands.

Then quietly asked,

"Are we not enough?"

The question stole your breath.

"Oh, Jace..."

He looked frightened by his own words.

"You always smile at us."

"I do."

"But if you had your own children..."

You wrapped your arms around him before he could finish.

"You are not filling an empty place."

His shoulders trembled.

"You never were."

He hugged you tightly.

"I was afraid."

"Of what?"

"That if you finally had a baby..."

His voice cracked.

"...you wouldn't love us anymore."

You pulled back just enough to look at him.

"I could have ten children."

He sniffled.

"And?"

"There would still only be one Jacaerys."

A tiny smile appeared.

"There would still only be one Luke."

Another smile.

"And only one impossible Joffrey."

Jace laughed.

You kissed his forehead.

"You three taught me how to love children before I ever had one."

His eyes filled again.

"I love you."

You smiled through your own tears.

"I love you too."

That evening, Harwin found Jace asleep in your lap.

You were sitting beside the fire with a book half-open.

Neither of you had moved for nearly an hour.

Harwin leaned against the doorway.

"You'll lose feeling in your legs."

"I already have."

"Then why not wake him?"

You looked down at the sleeping prince.

"He needed this."

Harwin's expression softened.

"He asked if we'd stop loving them."

Harwin closed his eyes.

Pain crossed his face.

"He heard?"

"He heard enough."

Harwin walked over and carefully lifted Jace into his arms.

The boy barely stirred.

"He worries too much."

"So do you."

Harwin smiled faintly.

"I wonder where he learned it."

You reached up and brushed a curl away from Jace's forehead.

"He'll always know he's yours."

Harwin looked at his sleeping son.

"I hope he knows he's yours too."

Your eyes filled.

"I don't deserve that."

Harwin looked at you as though you had spoken complete nonsense.

"You've earned it every day."

Later that night, after the boys had gone to bed, Rhaenyra knocked softly on your chamber door.

She carried wine.

"I brought medicine."

You laughed.

"For what ailment?"

"The sort only friendship cures."

You let her inside.

Neither of you spoke for several moments.

Eventually she said quietly,

"I remember wanting another child after Joffrey."

You looked at her.

"I never told anyone that."

She smiled sadly.

"I know."

"I wanted another baby before..."

Her gaze drifted toward the sea.

"Before Harwin left King's Landing."

You listened.

"I used to think the gods were punishing me."

Your heart ached.

"Then I met Daemon."

A genuine smile crossed her face.

"And I realized the gods weren't punishing anyone."

She reached across the table.

"They simply don't tell us when our prayers will be answered."

Tears gathered in your eyes.

"What if they never are?"

Rhaenyra squeezed your hand.

"Then you will still have a husband who worships the ground you walk on."

You laughed softly.

"And three boys who already think the sun rises because you asked it to."

"I don't know about that."

"You haven't seen the way Joffrey looks at you."

You smiled despite yourself.

"He is very sweet."

"He is completely yours."

The words settled warmly inside your chest.

Not enough to erase the ache.

But enough to make breathing easier.

One evening, months later, you stood alone on the cliffs watching the dragons circle overhead.

Harwin found you there.

He always did.

"You've been quiet."

"So have you."

He stood beside you.

"The maester came today."

"I know."

"He spoke to me."

You turned.

"What did he say?"

Harwin looked out toward the sea.

"He said we should stop making ourselves miserable."

Your eyes stung.

"He said sometimes the greatest act of love is accepting the family you already have."

Silence.

Harwin reached for your hand.

"I don't know if he's right."

You swallowed.

"I don't either."

"But I do know this."

He turned toward you.

"If the gods never give us another child..."

His thumb brushed your wedding ring.

"...they cannot take away the family we've already built."

At that very moment—

"My lady!"

Luke's voice echoed across the cliffs.

You both looked back.

All three boys were running toward you.

Joffrey waving wildly.

Jace trying and failing to stop his brothers from sprinting near the cliff's edge.

"We found dragon eggs!"

Luke shouted.

"They're empty!"

Joffrey corrected proudly.

"They already hatched."

Harwin laughed.

"I see our scholars have arrived."

The boys reached you moments later.

Without hesitation—

Joffrey wrapped himself around your waist.

Luke grabbed Harwin's arm.

Jace simply stood beside you.

Close enough that your shoulders touched.

You looked down at them.

Then at Harwin.

Your heart still ached.

It probably always would.

But as Joffrey slipped his little hand into yours and Luke excitedly tried to explain dragon shells over Jace's increasingly exasperated corrections...

You realized something.

The waiting had not stolen your ability to love.

If anything—

It had only made your heart larger.

And perhaps...

Just perhaps...

The gods were not finished with your story yet.

There were certain truths everyone at Dragonstone knew but no one spoke aloud.

Prince Jacaerys had Ser Harwin Strong’s eyes.

Prince Lucerys had his smile.

Little Joffrey had inherited the same determined frown Harwin wore whenever someone challenged him.

The boys were Velaryons by name.

Princes by birth.

Rhaenyra’s sons.

But the resemblance remained.

It followed Harwin through every hall and courtyard like a shadow.

You knew the whispers before you ever knew him.

Everyone did.

You knew he had loved Princess Rhaenyra once.

You knew he had fathered her sons.

You knew that love had ended not because it had disappeared, but because the world had never allowed it to exist honestly.

And none of that frightened you.

What frightened you was the first time Harwin Strong smiled at you and made you wonder whether you might be foolish enough to love him anyway.

You met him in the training yard.

It was not romantic.

At least, not at first.

You had been carrying a basket of linen to the lower chambers when a wooden practice sword flew through the air and landed directly at your feet.

You stopped.

Slowly looked down.

Then looked up.

Prince Lucerys stood across the yard with both hands clasped over his mouth.

Jacaerys stared at him in horror.

Joffrey, much younger and far less concerned, burst into laughter.

Harwin Strong stood between them.

For one moment, no one moved.

Then Harwin closed his eyes.

“Luke.”

“I did not mean to.”

“That does not make it less dangerous.”

“I was aiming for Jace.”

“That does not improve matters.”

You bent and lifted the wooden sword.

Luke hurried toward you.

“I am sorry, my lady.”

He looked genuinely miserable.

You handed him the sword hilt first.

“No harm done.”

Harwin approached behind him.

He was larger than you expected.

Broader.

Stronger.

The sort of man who seemed built to fill doorways and battlefields.

Yet when he looked at Luke, his expression was not harsh.

Only patient.

“Again,” Harwin said.

Luke’s face fell.

“Again?”

“The apology.”

The boy turned back to you.

“I am sorry I threw a sword near your head.”

“Better,” Harwin said.

You tilted your head.

“Though perhaps next time, aim lower.”

Luke brightened.

Harwin stared at you.

Jace tried not to laugh.

Joffrey failed entirely.

You smiled.

“I am only teasing.”

Harwin’s mouth twitched.

“So I hoped.”

He bowed.

“My apologies, my lady.”

“You did not throw it.”

“No, but I am responsible for the one who did.”

Luke looked offended.

“I said I was sorry.”

Harwin placed a large hand on the boy’s shoulder.

“And now you will spend the next hour learning not to release your grip.”

Luke groaned.

You continued on your way.

But before you reached the archway, you glanced back.

Harwin was watching you.

The moment your eyes met, he looked away.

You smiled to yourself.

The next time you saw him, Rhaenyra was with him.

That should have made the moment uncomfortable.

It did not.

Rhaenyra sat beneath a stone arch overlooking the sea while Jace read from a history text beside her.

Luke had fallen asleep with his head in her lap.

Joffrey was nowhere to be seen, which usually meant trouble.

Harwin leaned against the wall nearby.

Not too close.

Never too close.

There was a carefulness between them.

Something warm.

Something wounded.

Something that had learned how to survive by changing shape.

You approached with a book Rhaenyra had lent you.

“Your Grace.”

Rhaenyra looked up and smiled.

“You finished it already?”

“I fear I neglected several duties.”

“A worthy sacrifice.”

Jace lowered his own book.

“That one is boring.”

Rhaenyra looked offended.

“It is not.”

“It has twelve pages about grain taxes.”

“Grain taxes are important.”

“They are still boring.”

You laughed softly.

Harwin glanced toward you.

Recognition crossed his face.

“The lady from the sword incident.”

You looked at him.

“The knight with reckless students.”

Jace made a small choking sound.

Rhaenyra’s smile widened.

Harwin folded his arms.

“I see my reputation has been ruined.”

“It was already rather dramatic.”

Rhaenyra looked between the two of you.

Interest sparked in her eyes.

Harwin noticed.

“Do not.”

“I said nothing.”

“You were about to.”

“I was thinking.”

“That is often worse.”

You hid your smile behind the book.

Rhaenyra turned to you.

“Ser Harwin is an old friend.”

The word carried more weight than it should have.

Harwin’s expression shifted almost imperceptibly.

You understood.

Rhaenyra knew you understood.

For a moment, a strange silence passed between the three of you.

Then Joffrey burst from behind a column wearing someone’s helmet backward.

The moment shattered.

Harwin caught him before he ran into the wall.

Rhaenyra sighed.

“Where did you get that?”

Joffrey pointed toward the courtyard.

“Daemon.”

As if summoned by accusation alone, Daemon appeared through the archway.

He looked at the helmet.

Then at Joffrey.

Then at Harwin.

“I was wondering where that went.”

Rhaenyra stared at him.

“You gave him a helmet?”

“I left it nearby.”

“He is six.”

“He has a head.”

“That is not the same as needing armor.”

Daemon shrugged.

Harwin removed the helmet from Joffrey and handed it back.

“You encourage them.”

Daemon smiled.

“They are princes. Encouragement is useful.”

“Toward running into stone walls?”

“That teaches consequences.”

Rhaenyra pressed two fingers to her temple.

You should have excused yourself.

Instead, you stayed.

And somehow, from that day forward, you found reasons to keep staying.

Rhaenyra was the first to realize Harwin liked you.

Not admired.

Not found pleasant.

Liked.

He began appearing in the library when you were there.

He offered to carry things you were perfectly capable of carrying.

He found reasons to ask your opinion on matters he had never previously cared about.

Whether the western garden needed new roses.

Which wine was best at supper.

Whether boys learned better by praise or discipline.

You answered each question seriously.

Even when you knew he was only asking to hear you speak.

One afternoon, Rhaenyra sat beside you while you embroidered near the fire.

Harwin was across the room helping Luke repair a broken wooden horse.

Rhaenyra watched him for a moment.

Then she leaned closer.

“He is trying very hard.”

You did not look up.

“To fix the horse?”

“To impress you.”

Your needle slipped.

Rhaenyra smiled.

“I thought so.”

“You are imagining things.”

“I have known Harwin a very long time.”

“That is precisely why you should not encourage him.”

“Why?”

You finally looked at her.

The question was genuine.

Not jealous.

Not guarded.

Just curious.

You lowered your voice.

“Because of what came before.”

Rhaenyra’s smile softened.

“What came before does not belong to you.”

“No.”

“But it may hurt him.”

“It already has.”

Her gaze drifted toward the boys.

Jace was now leaning over Harwin’s shoulder.

Luke had abandoned the wooden horse and was attempting to braid a loose piece of Harwin’s hair.

Harwin pretended not to notice.

Rhaenyra looked back at you.

“He loved me.”

The honesty of it settled gently between you.

“I know.”

“I loved him too.”

“I know.”

“You do not resent me?”

You were surprised.

“For being loved?”

“For having his sons.”

You looked toward the boys.

Then back at her.

“No.”

Rhaenyra searched your face as though expecting hesitation.

There was none.

“They existed before I knew him,” you said. “And even had they not, I would never resent children for being loved into the world.”

Something in Rhaenyra’s expression loosened.

Relief, perhaps.

Or gratitude.

“You are kinder than most.”

“I do not think kindness should be rare.”

“No,” she said softly. “It should not.”

Across the room, Luke succeeded in tying a tiny braid into Harwin’s hair.

Jace burst into laughter.

Harwin sighed but left it there.

You watched him.

Rhaenyra watched you watching.

Then she smiled to herself.

Harwin tried to tell you about Rhaenyra weeks later.

The two of you had gone walking along the cliffs.

It was a clear day, the sea bright beneath the afternoon sun.

He had been unusually quiet.

You waited.

Eventually, he stopped beside a low stone wall.

“There is something I must say.”

“You sound as though you are confessing treason.”

“I may prefer that.”

You turned toward him.

Harwin looked toward the sea.

Not at you.

That alone told you how much it cost him.

“The princess and I…”

“I know.”

He went still.

You continued gently.

“I know about the boys.”

His jaw tightened.

“Everyone knows.”

“Yes.”

“But most do not say it so plainly.”

“I thought plainness might be kinder.”

Harwin finally looked at you.

There was no anger in his face.

Only uncertainty.

“You do not mind?”

“Should I?”

“They are mine.”

“I know.”

“And Rhaenyra…”

“Loved you.”

He swallowed.

“Yes.”

You stepped closer.

“I am not offended by the fact that you had a life before me.”

“It was not merely a life.”

“No.”

You glanced toward Dragonstone.

Through the archways, you could hear the distant shouts of the boys.

“It was a family.”

Harwin’s expression broke a little.

“They still are.”

“Of course they are.”

He stared.

You almost laughed from the sheer disbelief on his face.

“You expected me to ask you to turn away from them?”

“I did not know what you would ask.”

“I would never ask that.”

His voice was rough.

“You say that now.”

“I will say it tomorrow too.”

“And when they run to me?”

“I will be glad they have someone to run to.”

“And when people whisper?”

“They already whisper about everything.”

A reluctant smile pulled at his mouth.

“You make it sound simple.”

“It is not simple.”

You reached for his hand.

He looked down at your fingers around his.

“It is simply not something I fear.”

Harwin’s eyes lifted to yours.

“What do you fear?”

The question caught you off guard.

You smiled faintly.

“That you still love her.”

He was silent.

Not because the answer was yes.

Because the truth required care.

“I will always love her,” he said at last.

You appreciated the honesty, even as it stung.

“She gave me my sons.”

“I know.”

“She knew me before…”

“Before what?”

“Before I became a man people only spoke of in whispers.”

You squeezed his hand.

“And now?”

Harwin looked toward the castle.

Toward Rhaenyra.

Toward the life they had survived together.

“She has Daemon.”

There was no bitterness in his voice.

Only acceptance.

“And you?”

He looked at you.

This time, without looking away.

“I think I may have you.”

Your heart stumbled.

“You think?”

“I hope.”

The smile that escaped you made him laugh.

Quietly.

Almost shyly.

You had not known Harwin Strong could be shy.

It made you like him even more.

Daemon was not subtle about his suspicions.

He watched you and Harwin with the sharp amusement of a cat watching two birds attempt not to notice each other.

One evening at supper, Harwin reached for the wine at the same moment you did.

Your hands brushed.

Neither of you moved for half a breath.

Daemon noticed.

Of course he did.

“How touching,” he said.

Rhaenyra kicked him beneath the table.

Daemon looked at her.

“You kicked me.”

“You deserved it.”

“I merely observed.”

“You never merely observe.”

Harwin cleared his throat.

Jace stared fixedly at his plate.

Luke looked delighted.

Joffrey asked loudly, “Are you going to marry Ser Harwin?”

You nearly dropped your cup.

Harwin coughed.

Rhaenyra covered her mouth.

Daemon looked openly entertained.

“An excellent question.”

Harwin gave him a murderous look.

Joffrey turned to you.

“Well?”

You looked at Harwin.

He looked at you.

His ears had gone red.

You smiled.

“I believe Ser Harwin would have to ask first.”

Every eye at the table moved to him.

Harwin closed his eyes briefly.

When he opened them, he was smiling.

“Perhaps I shall.”

Luke cheered.

Jace groaned.

Rhaenyra laughed.

Daemon lifted his cup in salute.

And Joffrey looked entirely too pleased with himself.

Harwin did not ask that night.

Nor the next.

He courted you properly instead.

Or as properly as Harwin Strong knew how.

He brought flowers but crushed half the stems by holding them too tightly.

He offered you books Rhaenyra had chosen because he had no idea what you liked to read.

He tried to write you a poem and burned it before you could see.

Rhaenyra told you anyway.

“It rhymed ‘eyes’ with ‘skies’ three times.”

You laughed until you cried.

Harwin discovered she had betrayed him and refused to speak to her for the rest of the afternoon.

That lasted until Joffrey climbed a tree and neither of them could reach him alone.

You watched them together.

Rhaenyra below, ordering.

Harwin climbing.

Daemon offering deeply unhelpful advice.

The boys shouting encouragement.

And something inside you settled.

This was not a neat family.

Not a conventional one.

But it was real.

And perhaps real mattered more.

Harwin proposed in the training yard.

The same place you had met.

Luke had clearly helped plan it, which explained why a wooden sword lay at your feet when you arrived.

You looked down.

Then up.

Harwin stood in the center of the yard.

Jace, Luke, and Joffrey were hiding badly behind a pillar.

Rhaenyra and Daemon stood farther back.

Rhaenyra looked emotional.

Daemon looked like he had been threatened into attending.

Harwin crossed the yard toward you.

“You arranged this?”

“I had assistance.”

Luke whispered loudly, “It was my idea.”

Jace shushed him.

Harwin ignored them.

Mostly.

He stopped in front of you.

For a man who faced armed opponents without hesitation, he looked terrified.

“I have thought of a hundred things to say.”

“That many?”

“Most were poor.”

“Did they rhyme with skies?”

Behind him, Rhaenyra laughed.

Harwin looked over his shoulder.

“You told her?”

“You would have eventually.”

He sighed.

Then turned back to you.

“I loved once in a way the world would not allow me to speak of.”

The yard quieted.

“I have sons I cannot name as mine before the realm.”

Jace lowered his eyes.

Harwin noticed.

His voice softened.

“But they know.”

Jace looked up again.

Harwin continued.

“I thought perhaps that was the only sort of love I would ever have. Hidden. Borrowed. Existing only in moments I could not keep.”

Your eyes filled.

“Then I met you.”

He took your hands.

“And you looked at everything I believed made me difficult to love and did not turn away.”

You squeezed his fingers.

Harwin drew a breath.

“I cannot offer you a simple life.”

“I do not want one.”

“I have a past that will always walk beside us.”

“I know.”

“My sons will always come first when they need me.”

“They should.”

His expression crumpled with relief.

Behind him, Rhaenyra began to cry.

Daemon handed her a cloth without looking at her.

Harwin dropped to one knee.

You covered your mouth.

“I love you,” he said. “Not as a replacement for what I lost. Not as a comfort after grief. I love you because you are you, and because when I am with you, I do not feel like a secret.”

Tears blurred your vision.

“Will you marry me?”

Luke could no longer contain himself.

“Say yes.”

Jace elbowed him.

Joffrey shouted, “She is going to.”

You laughed through your tears.

Then looked down at Harwin.

“Yes.”

The boys erupted.

Rhaenyra embraced Daemon, who tolerated it with the solemn expression of a man enduring battle.

Harwin stood and lifted you into his arms.

You laughed as he spun you once.

Then twice.

When he set you down, he pressed his forehead to yours.

“You are certain?”

“Yes.”

“Even with all of it?”

You looked past him.

At Rhaenyra.

At Daemon.

At the three brown-haired boys watching with bright eyes.

At the complicated history that would never disappear.

Then back at him.

“Especially with all of it.”

Harwin kissed you.

Not like a man hiding.

Not like a man borrowing a moment.

Like a man finally coming home.

Rhaenyra came to your chambers that evening.

Alone.

She carried a small wooden box.

“I wanted to give you something.”

You opened it.

Inside lay a silver pendant shaped like a tiny dragon curled around a red stone.

“It was mine when I was young,” Rhaenyra said. “Before everything became so complicated.”

“It is beautiful.”

“I thought you should have it.”

You looked up.

“Why?”

Rhaenyra sat beside you.

“Because you love them.”

You knew she meant all of them.

Harwin.

Jace.

Luke.

Joffrey.

Her.

Perhaps even Daemon, in a reluctant and cautious way.

“I do.”

“I was afraid at first.”

Your brows lifted.

“That I would resent you?”

“No.”

Rhaenyra smiled sadly.

“That I would resent you.”

The admission surprised you.

She looked down at her hands.

“You get to stand beside him openly.”

Your heart softened.

“Rhaenyra…”

“I do not wish to be with him now. I love Daemon.”

“I know.”

“But grief is strange.”

“Yes.”

“It can mourn a door even when you no longer wish to walk through it.”

You reached for her hand.

Rhaenyra let you take it.

“I would never ask you to forget what Harwin was to you.”

Her eyes filled.

“And I will never ask him to forget what you are to him.”

The two of you sat in silence.

Then Rhaenyra squeezed your hand.

“The boys already adore you.”

“I adore them.”

“They will need you.”

“I will be there.”

Her face broke into a tearful smile.

“So will I.”

You embraced her.

Not as rivals.

Not as women divided by the same man.

As two women who loved the same children and had learned that love did not always have to become war.

Your wedding was held on Dragonstone beneath a clear sky.

Rhaenyra stood beside you.

Daemon stood beside Harwin, looking as though he had agreed only under threat.

Jace carried the rings.

Luke carried flowers.

Joffrey carried nothing because no one trusted him with anything important.

He still managed to interrupt the ceremony twice.

The first time to ask whether Harwin was crying.

The second time to announce that you looked prettier than everyone else.

Harwin was crying.

You were too.

When the vows were spoken, he held your hands carefully.

Reverently.

As though he knew exactly what it meant to be chosen in daylight.

When the septon declared you husband and wife, Harwin kissed you to the sound of cheers, laughter, and one very loud dragon roar from the cliffs below.

That night, while the feast continued in the hall, you found Jace waiting outside your chambers.

He looked nervous.

“May I speak with you?”

“Of course.”

He shifted from one foot to the other.

“You are Harwin’s wife now.”

“Yes.”

“And he will live with you.”

“Yes.”

Jace lowered his gaze.

You understood before he said it.

“You are worried he will have less room for you.”

His eyes snapped up.

“I am not worried.”

“You are.”

He swallowed.

“Perhaps a little.”

You knelt so you could look at him properly.

“Jace, loving me does not make him love you less.”

“What if you have children?”

The question struck deeper than he could know.

You had thought of children.

Often.

A home filled with them.

Harwin holding a baby with your eyes.

A little girl with his smile.

But you had never imagined your hopes could frighten these boys.

You took Jace’s hand.

“Then those children will be very fortunate.”

“Why?”

“Because they will have three older brothers who already know how to be brave.”

Jace’s eyes widened.

“You would let us be their brothers?”

“You already are.”

His face crumpled.

He threw his arms around your neck.

You held him tightly.

Over his shoulder, you saw Harwin standing farther down the corridor.

He had heard.

His eyes were wet.

You smiled at him.

He smiled back.

And for one perfect moment, neither of you knew how difficult the road ahead would become.

Neither of you knew how many empty cradles you would imagine.

How many disappointed moons you would endure.

How often hope would hurt.

That grief waited later.

For now, there was only a wedding.

Three boys.

A princess who had become your friend.

A husband who loved you without secrecy.

And a future that still felt endless.

You sat on the edge of your bed and scrolled through the texts on your phone. You’d noticed their responses to your texts getting shorter if they weren’t being ignored completely. As you scrolled you realized you were always the one that initiated the conversation, always sent the first message. Maybe you were just annoying them.

All of you had your own rooms, but you were used to them climbing into bed with you or dragging you into their rooms to sleep with them. Jack hadn’t been getting home until midmorning and Robby was closer to midnight some nights. You were already at work in the home office by the time Jack arrived home but he hadn’t popped his head in to say hello once. Hadn’t found you to say goodbye. You’d tried to stay up for Robby one night and woke up on the couch shivering in the chill at the two in the morning, telling you he hadn’t even noticed. A quick glance in his room showed him passed out in his bed. You could have crawled in with him, with either of them, but you weren’t certain they wanted you to anymore.

The last time you’d seen them, Robby had just seemed irritated that you were in his space and Jack hadn’t listened to a word you said before saying “That’s nice, sweetheart. I’m gonna get some sleep.”

So, you decided to stop. Stop messaging them first, stop seeking them out at home, just stop. The days passed and they didn’t seem to notice. You continued taking care of them for a few days, leaving food to make sure they ate, washing their scrubs, etc. You knew these back to back shifts were hard on them but you were hurting mentally and physically and just so, so tired. You knew you should talk to them, make them see you, but you didn’t want to burden them with anything else.

So, you called your best friend and packed your things, biting back your tears as you walked out the door.

Jack was the first to notice that something was wrong.

He came home just after ten from an extended shift. The house was quiet but that wasn’t out of the norm as you shut yourself up in your office to work. He opened the microwave and frowned at finding it empty. You always left them something, worried they wouldn’t eat unless you fed them. He checked the fridge only to find it devoid of a meal as well. Maybe you were annoyed that he hadn’t eaten the meals the last couple of days, grabbing something at work to combat the hollow feeling in his stomach during his long shifts. He grabbed a protein shake, too tired to do anything else.

As he headed for his bedroom, he paused outside your office, hesitating, wanting to see you, wondering if perhaps you hadn’t been up to cooking today. When your condition flared, you didn’t feel like doing much of anything. But if that was the case, you were more likely to be curled up on the couch. He sighed and eventually moved on without knocking. He didn’t want to bother you just to say hello and goodnight. After a shower, he had just enough energy left to collapse into his bed and crash, far too exhausted to realize it was Saturday and you shouldn’t be working at all.

When he woke a few hours later, he went looking for you, wanting to apologize for not eating the meals you’d undoubtedly left him. Besides, he just missed you. These long shifts were killing him. You didn’t answer his gentle knock at your office or bedroom doors. A glance in the garage showed your car was gone. He looked in the kitchen to find no note. He frowned. None of this was like you. He glanced at the time and cursed under his breath. He couldn’t worry about it now. Half an hour later found him standing by the hub talking to Robby.

“I’m telling you man, something’s not right,” Jack said.

Robby huffed. “Why because she didn’t make you breakfast? Maybe she just forgot.”

“Okay, but she didn’t leave a note. She always leaves a note. She knows we worry.”

Dana looked between them as they talked wondering how two incredibly intelligent men could be so fucking stupid. You’d been in her guestroom for two days now and they were just noticing something was up? No wonder you left their asses. Idiots. She made a sound of disgust.

Both men’s heads snapped in her direction. “What?” they asked in unison.

She arched one brow and pursed her lips. “Nothing. Don’t mind me.”

Robby and Jack turned to look at one another and reassess. Dana was your best friend. If she was pissed off at them, that meant you were as well. Shit. “Okay, well what did she say the last time you talked to her?”

“I think she told me to have a good shift,” Jack said with a frown, pulling out his phone. That had been five days ago and he’d responded with a terse thanx. “Uh, Mike, when’s the last time she texted you?”

He pulled out his phone to find much the same scenario as Jack. You usually texted them multiple times a day just to let them know you were thinking of them. “Oh.”

Jack raked his hand through his hair. “Okay, okay. Did anything seem off when you saw her?”

Robby shook his head. “I’ve been too tired when I get home to do anything but shower and crawl in bed. My bed. Figured she’d come to my room if she wanted.”

Jack’s brain short circuited and he froze. “Michael, when is the last time you physically laid eyes on our girlfriend?”

Robby sighed and ran a hand down his face. “I don’t know. Earlier this week? I’ve just been so fried I haven’t been seeking her out. What about you? What’s she been like with you?”

“I haven’t seen her either.” His voice was quiet, worried.

Robby’s gaze sharpened. “Like since when?”

Jack bowed his head as he thought. “Jesus. It’s been a week. At least. She sat at the table with me while I ate but I was too tired to even process what she was saying. I didn’t stress about it because I figured she had you.”

“And I was the same way. Fuck.” Robby’s eyes went wide and he pressed the heels of his hands against his forehead. “Fuck!”

Dana hummed in acknowledgment of their idiocy.

Jack turned to her immediately. “She’s obviously said something to you. What did she say? How mad is she?”

She glanced over the top of her glasses, entirely unimpressed. “Since when has that ever worked with me, Jack Abbot? You want to know how mad she is, try talking to her. If she’ll listen. I’m going home. You two better get your shit together.”

Handoff with Lena complete, Dana grabbed her things and headed out the door without looking back, Robby and Jack’s eyes trailing her as she went.

“Oh, our girl must be furious,” Robby muttered.

“Yeah,” Jack agreed, swallowing the lump in his throat.

Robby left his shift when he was supposed to for the first time in two weeks. This matter with you was more pressing. Your car was still gone. He knocked at your office out of habit as he opened the door. Everything you needed for work was gone. Shit. His footsteps carried him quickly down the hall. He threw open the door to your bedroom to find a neatly made bed. Your suitcase and a large amount of your clothes were missing.

Robby pulled out his phone, nearly dropping it in his haste. He called Jack who answered immediately. “Is she home?”

“She’s gone, Jack.” Robby’s voice broke on the words. “Her office is empty. Half of her clothes are gone.”

“Shit,” Jack said. “Trauma’s coming in. See if you can reach her.”

Robby tried to call first. You sent the call to voicemail three times before he gave up.

Next, he sent you a text. Baby please pick up the phone. I want to talk to you. I need to make sure you’re alright.

I’m fine, came not even a minute later.

He heaved a sigh of relief. At least you responded. I don’t think you are. Please talk to me.

You haven’t cared if you talked to me in weeks. Why should now be any different?

God, you always knew exactly what to say to make your point in the sharpest way possible. Please. He didn’t know what else to say.

I moved out two days ago. You didn’t even notice.

Two days? That can’t be true surely. Jesus. He knew you well enough to know that he and Jack had been horribly wrong. You weren’t pissed. You were hurt. That was so much worse. They’d hurt you. They were going to lose you and they’d deserve it.

I don’t know what I can say to that. There’s no excuse for it. I’m sorry. I love you. I love you so much.

Okay. Goodnight Michael.

No, no, no. That couldn’t be your response. This couldn’t be the end of everything. What the fuck had they done?

Baby please. Just meet us at least. Let us sit down and talk about this. Please.

The two of you will never have the time for that. I can say yes but it will never happen so why bother. I’m done talking.

Please talk to me.

Please don’t leave us.

I love you.

Just give us a chance

All four messages were left on read.

Jack tried next.

Robby hadn’t told him how things had gone until handoff, not wanting Jack to dwell on it all night. While part of him understood Robby’s reasoning, the rest of him was pissed off. If he’d known, maybe he could have gotten you to respond. It wasn’t logical, you weren’t any more likely to talk to him than Robby but Jack couldn’t just give up.

He sent the first text as he walked to the truck.

Honey I am so sorry. Please talk to us.

He tossed his phone on the passenger seat. When he pulled in the drive, he was disappointed to find no response.

I love you. I miss you.

He took a shower to scrub the day away. When he got out, he found that you had responded to his texts with a link. He clicked on it and was taken to a local housekeeping service that did cleaning and laundry. His brows snapped together and a muscle twitched in his jaw.

What’s that?

Figured that’s what you were missing. You can probably find someone to make meals for you too. Or doordash.

Jack scowled. What the fuck? I don’t give a shit about any of that. I miss you. I want you. Not some fucking maid service. Why would you think that?

Are you telling me that you didn’t notice stuff wasn’t getting done before you noticed you hadn’t seen me? It’s been days Jack. Days.

Look I know things haven’t been ideal lately. Mike and I have both been working more than we should have. We just have to get through this and then things will go back to normal.

I don’t want normal.

What?

When was the last time either of you texted me first? Took me on a date? It was a long time before the flu.

Jack frantically scrolled through his texts knowing you had to be wrong. The two of you talked all the time. Another message from you came through.

You just got off shift. You should get some sleep. Goodbye Jack.

Jesus fucking Christ. Now he understood what Robby had been talking about. You were talking like this was over. He wasn’t ready for this to be done. Didn’t think he would ever be.

I’m fine Honey. I’m worried about you and hating myself for fucking this up.

I can’t do this anymore Jack. Not right now.

He tried to text you two more times before switching to phone calls. The third time he called he went straight to voicemail. He raked a hand through his hair and tossed his phone on the bed before dropping back to lay flat. He pressed the heels of both hands against his eyes. How the fuck were they going to fix this?

Two days passed of them trying to call or text and getting no further response from you. They’d managed to learn from Dana that you were staying with her and were ‘doing just fine. Now fuck off’. Jack and Robby stood at the hub just before seven going over the schedule, trying to figure out who would be willing to shift around so they could head over to Dana’s together to beg for forgiveness.

Dana hurried through the bay doors and made her way straight to them. Both of them turned at her unusual behavior. “What’s up with you?” Robby asked.

“I need you both to behave like fucking adults or I’ll get Gloria down here,” she snapped.

Jack’s brows shot up. “Who pissed in your cornflakes?”

“Stow it, Abbot.” She glanced over her shoulder, eyes scanning the department. “Whitaker, grab a chair. Patient being dropped off in the bay.”

Both men straightened at that. “Dana,” Robby said drawing out the word.

She pursed her lips and sighed. “She’s been in a flare for days. Meds triggered an intractable migraine. Neuro told her to come here.”

“Is she okay?” Robby asked then immediately said, “Don’t answer that. Stupid question.”

“How long?” Jack asked already heading for the doors.

She huffed out a breath knowing they weren’t going to like the answer. “Three days.”

Jack stopped and turned back. “Three fucking days? And she’s just now coming in?”

“I can’t imagine why she would be hesitant.” Dana rolled her eyes as she moved past him to meet Whitaker at the door.

“What’s open, Lena?” she called over her shoulder.

“Five is all yours.”

Robby and Jack froze as you were wheeled inside. You had an icepack pressed over your eyes, the elbow of the hand holding it resting on the arm of the chair. You were curled in on yourself and had an empty bucket in your lap. Dana shot them a look as she pushed you past them and into your room.

As much as they wanted to invade the room, to check on you themselves, they waited. Dana emerged nearly twenty minutes later. “I’ve got her in a gown and got an IV started for fluids. She’s checked in and waiting for a doctor. She said you can come in.”

They stepped forward and she held up a hand. “Don’t upset her or I’ll kick your ass.”

Entering the room quietly, their eyes immediately fell on you. You were curled on your side, icepack still laying on your head. They split, each one taking a different side of the bed. Jack sat on a stool and wheeled it to your side, clasping your hand in his. You sucked in a breath at the contact and immediately started to sob.

Robby had pulled a chair up on your other side, placing a heavy hand on your back. “Shh, baby. It’s okay.”

Jack touched the icepack to find it warm. He moved it aside so he could see your eyes. He wiped away your tears with his thumb. “Why are you crying, honey?”

“It hurts.” You practically whimpered the words. “It hurts so bad. Nothing is helping.”

“I know. I’m sorry,” he said.

Before he could say anything else, Dana came back into the room hands full. She sat the tray full of medication aside and hung a bag of saline to run into your IV. “Doc Reynolds sent in the order for a cocktail.”

“What’s he giving her?” Robby asked as he put on his glasses and headed over to the computer.

Dana ignored him and started filling syringes with meds.

“Well?” Jack asked.

Robby glanced over with a frown. “Toradol, Reglan, Zomig, and Decadron.”

“Jesus.” Jack watched Dana inject the drugs into your IV. “Must be particularly stubborn, huh?”

Another tear ran down your face in answer.

Dana glanced at Robby. “You working or calling someone in?”

Robby ran a hand down his face. “Shit. Yeah. I’ll take care of it.”

She nodded and moved to the computer to make her notes.

Robby went back to your side and kissed your temple. “I’ll be back, sweetheart. Just let me get things settled out there.”

“I need to do handoff,” Jack said, looking between you and Robby.

You turned away from him, careful not to tangle your IV. “I’m fine. Just go.”

The pain in your voice pierced through him. “Honey—”

“Go!” you yelled then winced.

Dana’s gaze snapped over to Jack. “You heard her. Out.”

When he hesitated, she said, “Now.”

“We’ll be back,” he said at the door, turning back to look at you. Dana had her hand resting on the side of your face, talking to you in a low tone. He sighed and left the room, sliding the door shut behind him.

“I feel like we just failed a test,” Robby said, voice tired.

“Yeah.”

You didn’t want to be a bitch, to be unreasonable. You knew your temper was shorter because of your migraine, because of the pain that you had been drowning in for days. The truth was you’d been in a flare for two weeks at this point. You’d been careful with your meds but eventually they’d caused the headache you’d had since you left their house. Stress undoubtedly playing a large part in both the flare and the migraine. You’d only admitted to it three days ago. If Dana knew you were going on five days, she’d beat your ass.

But you’d told the neuro the truth. He’d told you if the cocktail didn’t work, they’d have to admit you for stronger meds. You knew that of course, this wasn’t your first trip to the hospital for a stubborn migraine, but you hated it. All you’d wanted from the beginning was to curl up with one of your men and let them take care of you.

You missed them and they always seemed to make everything better. Well, they used to. It’s why you’d told Dana they could come into the room. You’d hoped they’d choose you. Take care of you. Prioritize you. But once again the Pitt won.

It wasn’t rational. They needed to do their jobs. They were attending physicians. Lives literally hung in the balance. But you didn’t want to be rational. You were tired of always being understanding. Of always letting yourself take a back seat. You were tired of always being the second choice.

Your heart ached when you thought about how long it took for them to even notice you were gone. They didn’t need you. Didn’t want you. Not really. You’d been crippled with pain for days and they hadn’t known, hadn’t cared. Had never once asked how you were doing. Dana had told you that you could stay as long as you wanted but you knew you were wearing out your welcome. No one wants a permanent houseguest.

You wondered how much money was in your savings. You didn’t check the balance often as you were afraid you’d spend it, so you left it and just added to it when you could. You’d need enough for a deposit and first and last month’s rent. Jesus, you hated apartment hunting. Hated apartments. You’d gotten used to the quiet neighborhood where you lived now. You didn’t want to think about it right now, it certainly wasn’t helping your headache.

Your head had that floaty feeling that told you the meds were working. Your thoughts were a little slow and time passed in weird increments but you were still aware.

Dana popped back in after almost an hour had passed. “How you doing, doll?”

“It’s definitely better, but it still hurts.”

She pulled you up on the computer. “Instructions here for another round. After that…”

“Yeah, I know.”

She patted your leg. “I’m going to get you some more fluids and something to drink. Need anything else?”

“Another icepack?”

“Sure. I can do that.” Her gaze ran over you as she crossed her arms over her chest. “They’ve stationed themselves in the hallway, you know.”

You frowned at her. You’d assumed they were working. Hell, Jack might have gone home for all you knew. “What?”

“I told them they couldn’t come back in, not after they made you cry.”

“They didn’t. I was crying because it hurt.”

She hummed in agreement. “And then you were crying because they told you they had to go back to work.”

“That’s not their fault.”

“It is. If they didn’t keep picking this place over you, you would be more understanding when they didn’t have a choice. And that’s okay. You’re allowed to be upset. They fucked up.” She sighed. “But they love you. And you miss them. That’s okay too.”

Another tear ran down your cheek.

“Do you want me to send them in?” Her voice had taken on that mom tone of hers that always made you feel comforted.

“Yes, please.”

She nodded once and patted your leg again. She stepped past the curtain and out the door. You heard her say, “I’m getting another bag of fluids. She needs water and an icepack. I’ll let you deliver them. Don’t upset her.” Then she shut the door.

Jack appeared first, cup of water with a straw in hand. “Just chilled. Don’t want to shock your system.”

“Thanks.” You licked your lips before leaning forward to take a sip. You hadn’t realized how dry your mouth was until then.

He sat it on the table when you finished, his hazel eyes running over you. His hands gripped the railing. “How are you feeling? You look better.”

“Still hurts but it’s better. Dana’s bringing me more drugs in a bit.”

Before he could respond, Robby came into the room. “Hey, sweetheart. One icepack as requested.” He snapped it to activate it and kneaded it before handing it over. You pressed it to the back of your neck with a sigh.

“Here,” he said and folded your pillow so it would keep the icepack pressed where you wanted without you having to hold it. Your eyes closed in relief.

“Where are you at on the pain scale?” Robby asked as his fingers found your pulse on your wrist.

You huffed out a breath without opening your eyes. “Already have a doctor, Robinavitch. If you’re going to stay, you can’t doctor me.”

You could feel him wanting to argue without looking at him. Could practically feel it vibrating under his skin.

“Okay,” he said instead, hand shifting to lay on yours instead.

You opened one eye to look at him in disbelief.

A small laugh fell from his lips and he rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “Honey, I would do about anything you asked to keep you talking to me.”

You hummed and closed your eye. They settled to either side of you, each of them holding one of your hands. Jack kissed the back of the one he held, then Robby kissed the inside of your wrist on the other. Your lips twitched in amusement.

“You can talk. I meant it when I said I was feeling better. Another dose should kill it completely.”

“I’m going to lecture about one thing, then I’ll shut up,” Jack said.

You cracked your eyes to look at him.

“I don’t care how upset you are with us, you don’t wait three days to come to the hospital when you’re hurting like this.”

Your nose wrinkled before you could stop it. Damn it.

Robby’s gaze immediately narrowed. “How long?”

“It started before I even left the house.”

“What?” Jack snapped, the sharpness in his tone making you wince. “Sorry, sorry,” he immediately apologized, rubbing your hand with his thumb.

“Your doctor know that?” Robby asked.

“Yes.”

You could tell there was so much he wanted to say but he simply nodded once and said, “Okay.”

“I kinda like the you that’s trying to stay in my good graces,” you said. Guilt flashed through his eyes but you couldn’t bring yourself to feel bad for your words. They’d earned them.

Dana came in and hung another bag of saline. Jack slid out of the way so she could give you the next dose of meds. She looked between the men when neither of them said anything before looking to you in question.

You grinned. “I told them they couldn’t doctor if they wanted to stay.”

She laughed. “Good for you,” she said before putting them out of their misery. “Same meds as last time. If it works, she can go home under supervision. If not, she’s heading upstairs.”

“Thanks, Dana,” Jack said, voice rough with worry.

She gave you a nod and left.

“Don’t you guys need to go back to work?” you asked, trying to keep your voice even.

“Nope.” Robby leaned back in his chair, hand still on yours. “We put in for some of our PTO.”

“And Gloria’s just going to let you do that?”

“She doesn’t have a choice. Told her to get some temps in if she needed,” Robby said. “Neither one of us uses our time. Plus, we’re way over the hours we were supposed to be working the last two weeks.”

Your eyelids began to feel heavy as the new meds swamped your system.

“Hey, open your eyes, baby,” Jack said.

You blinked at him.

“This round working? Can we take you home?”

“Yeah, Jack. Take me home.”

You weren’t certain how much time passed before you became aware of your surroundings again. As you blinked away the slumber, you realized you were in Robby’s bed. Huh. At least you weren’t in the hospital. Seeing a glass of water waiting for you on the nightstand, you pushed yourself up on your elbow. You were halfway done downing it when the door opened slightly, Robby’s head popping into the gap. His concerned expression melted into a relieved smile. “Hey, you’re awake.”

You didn’t answer as you finished your water. You felt so dehydrated which was stupid considering how much fluid they’d given you at the hospital. Robby stepped into the room tapping on his phone which he slid back into his pocket when he saw you’d finished the water. He took the cup from you and set it aside. His fingers instantly found your wrist but he paused, “Can I doctor you for a second?”

“Sure,” you said, a smile teasing your lips.

He’d just finished checking your pulse when Jack stepped into the room. His gaze ran over you, assessing before giving you a bright smile. “Hey, baby. How you feeling?”

“Better. Much better.”

“Good.” He held a fresh glass of water out to you. “Mike said you were thirsty.”

“Thank you.” You took a drink then set the glass on the table. Your attention shifted to Robby who sat on the edge of the bed, fingers still on your wrist. “Will I live, doc?”

He nodded his head but didn’t look at you.

You tilted your head with a frown. “Michael, are you okay?”

“I’m sorry.” The words were quiet, broken. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

Your brow furrowed as Jack sighed. “I thought we were going to give her a chance to get her bearings before we got into this.”

Robby sniffed, finally releasing his hold on you only to wipe the moisture from his eyes. “Sorry.”

“Let me go to the bathroom,” you said and Robby hopped up, offering you a hand to help you out. “We’ll talk when I get back.”

You took your time in the other room, taking the chance to wash your face and feel a bit more human. Despite the obvious pain fatigue, you looked better than you had in days. Finally, you took a breath and stepped back into the bedroom. Both men stopped talking as you opened the door and stood from where they’d been sitting on the edge of the bed.

Robby cleared his throat after Jack nudged him. “I’m, uh, sorry about before. I shouldn’t have—”

“It’s fine,” you said, cutting him off. “I’d rather get the conversation out of the way if it’s all the same to you.”

“Oh, thank god,” Jack said, shoulders dropping as tension flowed from him.

You pressed your lips together to keep from snorting a laugh at the incredulous look Robby gave him. He muttered under his breath while he shook his head. He took your hand and led you over to the chair that sat in the corner of the room. “Sit. We have a couple of questions and then several things to say.”

Your gaze moved between the two of them. “Did you practice this or something?”

“Well, you were asleep for almost twenty-two hours,” Jack said.

You were only slightly surprised by that information. The meds always knocked you out. Usually not quite that long but you’d expected it. Jack sat on the edge of the bed in front of you while Robby stayed standing.

“First, Dana said you were in a flare before the headache. How long?” Jack asked.

You sighed, knowing they weren’t going to like the answer. “A couple of weeks.”

“Jesus, sweetheart. Why didn’t you say anything?” Robby said.

“What was I supposed to say? Hey, I know you’re incredibly busy at the hospital right now and barely have time to sleep but could you take care of me?”

“Yes,” Jack said without hesitation. He slid forward on the bed a bit. “That’s exactly what you should have done.”

You rolled your eyes. “Be serious, Jack.”

“I am.”

His tone was so sincere you could do nothing but look at him.

“I don’t know when you started believing that you were less important than us or our jobs, but you are not. And we’re so incredibly sorry for anything we’ve done that made you feel that way,” Robby said.

Hot tears rolled down your face before you could stop them. He swooped in immediately making hushing sounds as he wiped the tears from your cheeks. “Don’t cry, baby. You’ll get another headache.”

You sucked in a breath and tried to regulate your emotions. “I know.”

“Listen,” Jack said. “Mike and I have talked about this. We don’t want to start over. We all have to much history for that. But we do want to prove to you that you’re still our priority if you’ll let us.”

You thought about it for a moment. You loved these men. Yes, they’d hurt you, but there was reason you’d fallen in love with them in the first place. Maybe you all just needed a reminder of what that was. Finally, you nodded. “I’d like that very much.”

And prove themselves they did. They cut their hours, focused on making your relationship a priority. As Robby said, the three of you were hopefully going to be together long after they retired. It wasn’t long before your relationship was stronger than it ever had been. To the point that, though you maintained your own rooms on the off chance you needed the space, you all slept in Robby’s king-sized bed most of the time, whether he was home or not.

And the next time you had a flare that lasted for longer than a couple of days, they took turns taking care of you the way you always did for them. They loved you, and they never let you doubt that again.

SET AFTER:

The Neurologist - Robby doesn't think much of Jack's friend The Neurologist...

Cuffs - Robby makes a discovery when a pair of handcuffs malfunctions at a crucial time.

Bed Rotting - Robby starts to blow up his life after you return to Seattle.

SET BEFORE:

Divorce Papers - Jack gives a couple of home truths to Robby after he finds out he signed your divorce papers.

A Fucking Nightmare - Robby’s worst nightmare comes true when his ex-wife shows up as a guest at Dana’s vow renewal ceremony.

Regrets - Robby can't help but think about his regrets after seeing his ex-wife for the first time since he signed the divorce papers.

Unread - Robby turns to Jack when you don't respond to his message

The Call - Robby takes the plunge and decides to call you, leading to a surprising revelation.

Shepherd - Robby's world is turned upside down when he receives a call from Derek Shepherd.

Husband Number Two - Robby gets into it with the man vying for the role of Husband Number Two.

Robby doesn’t mean to leave the voicemail.

He’s drunk, lonely, pissed off.

Jack had thought it would be a good idea for him to get out and socialise because apparently, he’s been getting a little ‘reclusive’ lately so they hit the bar around the corner from Robby’s old place.

It’s a mistake, a big one.

Jack thinks he’s doing Robby a favour by coming to this place, but the truth is, he sees the ghost of that first night with you absolutely everywhere. Your teasing smile as you lean over the pool table, lining up your shot. Your eyes never wavering from his as you potted the red. He’d walked you home after you’d hustled him. Then he’d ended up in staying for over twenty-four hours having sex, eating take out and binge watching whatever shows stole your attention on Netflix.

Now he’s outside that same bar, waiting alone for his Uber.

When he pulls out his phone to check where the driver Mickey D is, he finds himself pulling up your Instagram. Despite the fact he’s not picking up your calls, he still checks it obsessively. The grid used to be filled with pictures of your life together, now all he sees is the one you have without him in Seattle.

Acid burns at the back of his throat, bile clawing its way up his oesophagus as he re-reads your last text, another in the string he’s left unanswered.

I don’t understand why you’re not talking to me. What did I do wrong?

You should know what you’ve done wrong, you should know what your absence is doing to him, but the truth is you’re too busy with everyone else in that terrible fucking city to understand that in Pittsburgh, your husband is drowning. It’s just another example of how little he means to you, how unimportant he really is in the grand scheme of things.

When he gets into the condo, he’s greeted by darkness. Light filters into the living room from the moon outside the floor to ceiling windows, illuminating the chair you used to occupy in the evenings as you looked out across the river. There’s no book on the side table anymore, no earrings, you’ve taken out after a long day. There’s just your blanket folded neatly on the cushion, another sign that you won’t be returning anytime soon.

What did I do wrong?

The words echo in his head as he stares at it. Vitriol surges up inside him like a tidal wave, crashing through his body in furious, relentless waves as he tears his phone out of his pocket, dialling your number.

Instead of ringing it goes straight to voicemail, and it just makes those waves pound harder, faster until he’s swept under all over again, bashed against the rocks, a slave to the current. He hits redial three times, listening again and again until he starts to hate the sound of your voice everytime it tells him you’re unavailable.

“You want to know what you did wrong Viv.” He spits into the answering machine, bitterness twanging on his tongue. “You left me, and the worst part is you keep leaving me.” He collapses into your chair, yanking the blanket out from underneath him as he watches the torrid river heave, the choppy grey water crashing against the embankment threatening to destroy everything in it’s wake. “It’s like you’re stabbing a scalpel into my damn chest everytime you go back to Seattle, like you’re cutting my heart out and tossing it into the medical waste because it isn’t good enough for you, because I’m not good enough for you. And I can’t do that anymore Viv…. I can’t… so… don’t bother coming back. Just stay out there, doing what you do best. Don’t come back to Pittsburgh. This isn’t working, we’re not working.”

He passes out after that, spends the night in your chair, your blanket draped over him. The scent of your perfume still clings to it, the same wildflowers and blackberries that will haunt him for the rest of his life.

When he wakes up, it’s with a crick in his neck, a throbbing headache that comes with too much whiskey. His phone is still clasped in his hand, the screen showing twelve missed calls and too many texts to count. He doesn’t read them, he simply clears the screen before turning the device off and climbing into bed with the TV playing in the background for company.

It stays that way for a month until the divorce papers arrive. They’re handed to him in the middle of his shift by a process server. He feels a sickening sense of vindication when he opens the envelope and sees that your details are already filled in.

This…. this was always inevitable.

He was just too dumb at the time to realise that he doesn’t get to have good things, that just like everyone else in his life who was supposed to love him, you were always going to leave.

Like My Work? - Tip your friendly fan fic writer here! Or be a sweetheart and drop me comment or reblog.

Because Spencer had mistaken your politeness for encouragement.

Daryl had been away on a run with Rick and Aaron for nearly two weeks, and though he had left with his usual grumble and a promise to be back before you had the chance to miss him too much, you knew better. You missed him the moment he walked through the gates.

Besides, there were some things easier dealt with when your boyfriend happened to be terrifyingly competent with a crossbow and a permanent scowl.

You hadn't told him. Partly because you didn't want to worry him, and partly because you knew exactly how he'd react.

The mere thought of Daryl discovering another man had been making you uncomfortable was enough to picture the storm cloud that would settle over his face, so you tried to handle it yourself before he arrived.

"Spencer, seriously, quit it. I'm not interested."

"Not interested right now?" he'd asked hopefully.

"No. Not interested. Period."

And he smiled. Actually smiled.

As if his persistence would somehow change your mind.

"I get it, you're difficult."

"No, Spencer, you're being difficult. I don't want you." you pause between every word like you're speaking to a toddler.

His expression changed to something like disappointment for only a second before that easy smile returned, making your skin crawl for reasons you couldn't explain.

"Guess I'll keep trying then."

You'd stopped even replying to his greetings after that, not wanting to give the man any reasons to think he had a shot with you.

When Daryl arrived, you took a mental note to explain him everything. How annoying Spencer had been these last couple of weeks, how scary it was starting to look for you. But you waited the first day to pass, enjoying a peaceful time with him before throwing the bomb when things were calmer.

The next day, you woke up earlier than him, it had rained the night before, leaving the air cool and smelling faintly of wet earth. You had changed into one of Daryl's old shirts, the oversized sleeves hanging past your wrists, curled them up to make him breakfast, while your head wondered how you'd approach the subject without him storming out of your house immediately and stamping his fists directly onto Spencer's nose.

A knock woke you from your thoughts. You sighed deeply.

"Come on, I know you're home." the known voice said from the other side of the wall.

You closed your eyes.

Of course ignoring him had apparently encouraged him. Wonderful.

"Can we just talk?" his voice called through the door. "You've been avoiding me.". No shit.

You remained frozen on your spot. Then came another knock. Louder this time.

"Seriously?"

You were just beginning to gather your voice to yell at him to leave when footsteps sounded behind you and strong arms slid around your waist.

You nearly jumped out of your skin before a familiar warmth pressed against your back.

"Who the hell's bangin' on your door?"

"Good morning, sleepyhead." you dodged the question, turned to face him and press your lips to his. "Missed you so much these days."

"I missed ya too."

He wore only a pair of overused sweatpants, his exposed chest was marked with scars colored differently, some old and some new ones, his hair was a mess, falling over eyes still heavy and swollen with sleep, and there were faint marks from the pillow pressed against one side of his face. Confusion had settled into a frown as he glanced toward the front door and then back at you.

The knock came again. Daryl frowned.

"Seriously, hun, who's that?"

You stiffened, and immediately, he noticed.

"Who is it?"

"Promise you won't get into a fight for this."

That answer earned you a look.

"The hell's going on?"

"Spencer's been bugging me like an asshole but's gotten worse now. He's been knockin trying to get me to talk to him."

"He's-" Daryl looked between you and the door. "He's been coming to your place?" you nodded.

"I told him with all the letters I wouldn't want him painted gold but he won't listen."

Daryl's eyes darkened.

"That little prick–"

"Y/n?" Spencer called from outside.

Silence. You felt Daryl go completely still.

"Daryl?"

His head turned very slowly toward the front door.

"Daryl–" you repeated weakly.

"Sweetheart."

Another knock interrupted you.

"I know you're in there!"

Daryl released you with alarming slowness, you had witnessed walker hordes that looked less threatening. He wasn't angry at you, not even close.

But there was a very particular expression on his face that usually preceded somebody making poor life choices.

"Daryl."

"Mhm."

"Behave."

"Mhm."

"That wasn't convincing."

He pressed a kiss to your forehead so absentmindedly it nearly distracted you from the fact that he was marching toward the front door with absolutely no shirt on. He opened the door.

Spencer's confident smile vanished so quickly you wished you had recorded to replay it later.

Because as the door opened and he expected you, finally deciding to give him a chance or invite him in, stood instead Daryl Dixon, looking thoroughly unimpressed with existence itself, broad-shouldered and shirtless, like he owned the place.

And behind him, visible over his shoulder, stood you. Wearing one of Daryl's shirts.

Spencer blinked.

Daryl blinked back. Then, with all the warmth of a man discussing the weather, he asked.

"Can I help ya?"

The poor fool actually opened his mouth.

"I uh... I was looking for–"

"For my girl?"

Daryl's eyebrow lifted, he sounded calm — which made things worse.

"She's busy, pal."

Spencer's eyes widened.

My girl. The words settled warmly in your chest despite the embarrassment threatening to kill you.

"Didn't know y'all were together."

Daryl's expression got heavier.

"Well, now ya do." The message was, thankfully, finally received.

Spencer muttered something that sounded like an apology before retreating down the street with remarkable speed.

Daryl watched him until he was far enough, then closed the door, turned around and looked at you smiling like a child who just got cotton candy.

Merle snorted.

"Didn't ask? What are you? Thirteen?"

Daryl's jaw tightened. "Shut up."

"Nah, you gon' listen." He sat down heavily beside him, cracking open a beer. "You waitin' on a woman that ain't even thinkin' 'bout you no more."

Daryl's eyes narrowed.

"Don't."

"I'm just sayin'."

"Don't."

"World ended, baby brother. Rich folks got themselves bunkers and private compounds. Hell, if she made it, she probably snuck herself into some fancy-ass shelter with enough food to feed the next generation and a bunch of rich people drinkin' wine and bitchin' 'bout the apocalypse."

"Shut the hell up."

Merle raised his hands dramatically.

"What? You know I'm right."

"Nah, I know yer an asshole."

Merle scoffed. "Boy, I been tellin' you since day one. She was slummin' it with ya."

Daryl stood immediately. "Watch yer mouth."

"Or what?"

"Or I'm gonna forget you're ma brother."

Merle simply laughed.

"You think I don't remember? Every damn night after work you'd disappear with some rich brat you met on the side of the road. Thought you'd gone stupid."

"She ain't no brat."

"Oh, come on. You really thought y'all had a future?"

Daryl didn't look mad, he looked sad. Even his family replicated what your parents tried to glue to your heads. You didn't belong together.

Merle noticed, and for some miracle, his expression softened slightly.

"Ain't sayin' she didn't love ya" he admitted quietly. "Girl gave ya Ben, didn't she? That's somethin'."

Daryl's eyes dropped.

"Yeah."

"But if it weren't for that boy, she'd've left years ago." And there it was again.

"Look, I'm just sayin'... maybe if she made it, she had to make choices that didn't envolve you."

Daryl swallowed. He knew there was some sense to Merle's line if thought. You were stupid rich, but still, he never heard from you about a plan B bunker casually there to be lived in, he figured that's something he'd know at some point, still, he wondered. But ever stopped looking. Not even when Merle called him a fool, or after the trailer was overrun and they were forced to leave.

When he joined Rick's group, he never mentioned you, not once. He felt like explaining it out loud made your absence real, and that made him stupidly vulnerable. So nobody knew. Nobody knew he had someone, maybe thinking if him too. Nobody knew he had a boy, old enough to be in high school, if fate had been kind.

Nobody knew that every time Carl laughed, Daryl's chest tightened with memories of a little boy who used to sit on his shoulders and tug on his ears.

When Sophia disappeared, Daryl made it a personal quest, he had to find that girl. Every time he faced Carol's despair from losing her only child, he'd think if you, what if you'd been though something like that and he wasn't there for you?. And the thought made him shiver.

No one knew his real reasons behind it. He was pure if heart enough to be this invested if he didn't have kids too, but all that crossed his mind was you and Benjamin, and how he had to cling to hope that if he could find this little girl, then maybe he could find you too.

He'd considered, many times, to open up about his past to Carol. When he saw her mourning someone that she wasn't sure was really gone, he saw himself on her, he wanted to approach and say he understood the feeling better than anyone could. But before he could wonder more about tearing down his walls, the barn happened, and the girl appeared. Lifeless, her body only moving by command of that devious infection. And Daryl build his walls right back up.

He recalled feeling physically sick, not only because Sophia was gone, but because a terrible thought had wrapped itself around his heart and squeezed hard. What if that was what waited for him? What if after years of searching he found you or Ben like that? Would he even survive it? For the first time since the world had ended, he was afraid of hope itself. Because hope implied answers, and answers had the power to destroy him.

The weeks that followed only taught him that monsters had always worn human faces long before the dead began walking. They had built more than a shelter, but a home, at the prison, and before he could stop to breathe, once again the world crumbled beneath his feet, and he felt stupid for ever hoping again. After the governor's attack, he got separated from everyone, stranded with Beth Greene.

Daryl found himself in the strange company of someone too young and too stubborn to accept his usual grunts as conversation. Beth had a gift for prying into people's souls while smiling sweetly enough that refusing her felt almost cruel. What began with innocent questions eventually became more personal, until one evening she casually asked whether he'd ever been married. Daryl had answered with the first thing that came to mind. "Sorta."

The answer immediately fascinated her. She laughed, insisting that "sort of married" wasn't an actual category, and spent the next ten minutes pestering him with increasingly ridiculous theories. By the time he surrendered, he'd found himself smiling. And then, quietly, with the fire crackling between them and the stars spread overhead, he told her everything. About you. About the rich girl with the broken-down car who had changed his life. About Benjamin. About the breakup neither of you had wanted. About loving each other anyway. Beth listened with tears shining in her eyes and the kind of hopeless romantic expression only she could wear without embarrassment. "You've been in love with her for fifteen years?" she'd asked in disbelief.

Daryl had looked away immediately, embarrassed. "Closer to sixteen now, ain't never let go." Beth had laughed softly and shaken her head.

"Oh, Daryl, that's the saddest and sweetest thing I've ever heard." He'd scoffed, muttering that she was crazy, but she simply smiled and asked the question he'd spent years avoiding.

"Do you think they made it?"

The answer had come before he could stop it. "Have to." His voice had broken around the words. "Don't know how not to."

And as if the world kept pulling distasteful jokes with him. He lost Beth too. After that, Daryl it felt like a piece of your memory had gone with her, because for the first time since the world shifted completely, someone else had known about you. Someone else had known learned your name, and Ben's. She had known about the life he'd lost, about the love he carried around like an old wound, and somehow she'd made him feel less alone with it.

So when he carried her lifeless body out of that hospital and heard Maggie's screams echoing around him, something inside him broke all over again. Sitting outside afterward, his face buried in his hands, tears streaming freely while the others grieved around him, Daryl found himself thinking of you as he always did in moments of unbearable pain. And despite the pain, despite the losses, the growing certainty that the world was cruel beyond reason, one stubborn, irrational part of Daryl Dixon refused to let go.

They spent more time wandering than he could count, after going though extreme hunger, they were forced to eat dog and found some kind of shelter. That's when they found out they were being chased by a man who allegedly wanted to help, Daryl was already too scarred to trust that easy, but something that came out of that man's mouth broke his brain entirely.

The man was tied to the pillar, explaing his mission and the story of his community, when he mentioned a name. Deanna.

"What's that you said just now?" Daryl grunted, his heart beating rapidly to his ears.

"Uh-um that we're all assigned functions by our leader, she uh-"

"Yeah, I got that part, what's her name?" Daryl cut him impatiently

"Deanna."

"And the place is called?"

"Alexandria."

Daryl's breath broke rhythm, he turned to Rick and said in a whisper "We gotta check this place."

"Why?"

"It's- uh... It's a long story."

"Might be an important one to make it worth putting ourselves on risk for." Rick impatiently added.

"Trust me in this." Daryl pleated. "Please."

Rick reluctantly agreed. He trusted Daryl's instincts, afterall. He turned to the tied down man on the pillar and cut the cord, his pupils staring straight into the stranger's.

Benjamin inherited his father's eyes and your smile. At thirteen, he had already grown tall enough to tower over you when he remembered to stand straight, though he slouched with the same unconscious stubbornness Daryl had carried. Watching them together sometimes felt surreal. There were moments when your son laughed exactly like his father, or furrowed his brow in concentration while tying a fishing hook, and you would have to blink away tears because life was cruel enough to separate you from the man you loved, yet kind enough to leave pieces of him scattered all over your child.

Every year without fail, by the end of Ben's birthday parties, you followed the same ritual. Friends and relatives would leave, Benjamin would disappear upstairs to unwrap and play with his gifts. You and Daryl would find yourselves sitting together with the remains of cake and half-empty beer bottles, catching up in that comfortable, familiar way that had somehow survived everything life had thrown at you.

Eventually, after enough alcohol had softened the sharper edges of caution, one of you would ask.

"So..." you'd say, pretending not to care. "Are you seeing anybody?"

And Daryl would always huff softly into his bottle.

"Nah."

Then, after a beat "You?"

And the answer was always the same. "No." Of course it was no. You tried to date once or twice, so did he. But nobody lasted or stuck, no once fited like he did.

Neither of you commented on the absurdity of it. You simply let the conversation move on, discussing work, Benjamin, or whatever movie he'd recently forced the two of you to sit through. Yet somewhere deep down, you kept expecting things to change. Surely one day Daryl would meet somebody. Surely one day you'd wake up and discover that all those years of loving him had finally faded into something manageable. But it never did.

And perhaps that should have told you something. Benjamin's thirteenth birthday had ended like every birthday before it. His friends had gone home. The house had quieted.

There was something weirdly comforting in the routine of cleaning together. It felt like playing house. Daryl washed while you dried. You moved around each other with the ease of people who had spent years sharing kitchens and bathrooms and sleepless nights. Every now and then your hands brushed, and neither of you seemed particularly eager to pull away.

While you kept drying dishes, Daryl had taken another trash bag to gather the paper plates with excessive frosting left. Somewhere in between that task, he simply stopped to watch you, you felt his gaze burn to your back and turned to look, his eyes softened immediately when he realized you'd caught him, his ears adorably turning pink.

And instead of looking away, he smiled. In that moment, you didn't see your ex boyfriend, or your son's father. It was the smile of the twenty-year-old mechanic who had stopped his motorcycle beside your broken-down car because you'd looked miserable.

And, perhaps because alcohol had loosened the restraints adulthood had taught you so well, perhaps because Benjamin was fully grown, your parents were old and life suddenly felt too short, or perhaps simply because you were tired of pretending, you found yourself smiling back in a way you hadn't in years.

Neither if you intended it, it was the lie you'd told yourselves. But none of you mattered when the distance between you grew shorter every second that passed, until you were getting pinned to the balcony with Daryl's tongue slipping into your mouth, getting betrayed by your own desire when a small moan escaped your mouth.

"You wanna go upstairs?" you whispered to his ear, you were already a mess. Daryl only stared at you, quietly asking "Are you sure?" before he captured you wanted this as much as he did, then nodded.

He carried you bride-style up to your room, making you giggle childishly, feeling like the honeymoon you'd never had. He locked the door of your room, crawling on top of you, and stopped for a second to glare at your face before he captured your lips again.

Daryl cherished your body in a way he never had before, he was always the type to worship you during sex, but this one was nothing like the times before, it was teeming with pulled back desires, years of yearning and the fact that he was knowing your figure all over again, after nearly a decade only dreaming to touch you like that again.

His hands were rougher now, calloused by the hard nature of his job, but every touch seemed stupidly gentle at the same time. You let him do whatever his mind came up with, sharing the moment until the black sky outside started to fade into different shades of orange. When you finally woke up, unsure of when you went to sleep, Daryl was still there.

You got up carefully not to wake him, and made breakfast for the three of you. When Benjamin came down the stairs, you and Daryl were having breakfast together, giggling like teenagers, and he avoided asking questions as to why was his dad there so early – and wearing the same clothes he had yesterday – contented by his presence, he simply stated a "Good morning, dad!" and you smiled at the scene, feeling a piercing pain to your heart you didn't allow yourself to have that for so long.

"Ben, do you have your bags packed, honey?" you asked as he stuffed a spoonfull on pancake to his mouth, and the boy only nodded.

"Bags?" Daryl asked confused

"Yeah, we're enjoying his summer vacation to take a little trip to my aunt Deanna's place in Virginia, Benjamin had never met this part of my family yet, my folks thought it was about time."

"Mhm" he nodded, trying to hide the disappointment, part from being set aside on a family plan, part from the fact you still listened to your parents.

"I'm sorry, I was going to tell you yesterday but- we uh- got distracted." you blush a little, remembering what exactly got you distracted from conversation. "You're welcome to come with us, though. If you want" you added. "My parents aren't going."

"I'm stuffed at the shop." he seemed genuinely upset.

"I figured. We won't be long tho, maybe just a week or two and then we'll be right back."

You sent Ben to pick up his bags as you packed your own. On his way out, Daryl stole a kiss from you, leaving you flushed as he whispered something along the lines of "I'll be waiting for you."

And that was the last conversation you remembered having with Daryl. When the world caved and you couldn't leave Alexandria safely with a 13 year old to care for, you settled right there for the next two years, raising your child and mourning once again what your relationship could've been, but this time fearing you would actually never have a chance in love again.

You had a bitter feeling in your gut that what you've had was it. That when you finally had to balls to do what you wanted, to give you and Daryl the chance you deserved, the world itself wouldn't let it happen. You felt guilty at times, that your ex crossed your mind far more than your own parents did. But then again, you were grateful for the life they gave you, but no money in the world lived up to how much Daryl made you feel loved, in ways your family never did.

You were grieving the rest of your youth, your freedom, so many things all at once. Grieving a future you hadn't even lost yet, but one that suddenly felt doomed by those two bright lines. You felt stupid. Reckless. You fucked up.

The test trembled between your white-knuckled fingers as you stared so hard as if you looked long enough, the lines would disappear. The house around you had gone silent in that eerie upper-class way expensive homes often did, where every room was too large and too polished to feel lived in.

Daryl stood awkwardly in the doorway, dirt on his boots and oil beneath his fingernails from the afternoon working in, looking painfully out of place beneath the warm yellow chandelier light spilling down the hallway. He had been twenty-one years old and already carried himself like someone much older, shoulders permanently braced for impact, hands roughened by work, eyes too guarded for a man that young, but the second you looked up at him with tears threatening to spill over, he hovered over you protectively.

"S’okay,” he murmured, pulling your head gently against his chest, unsure of what else he could possibly say. “We’ll figure it out.”

Despite everything people assumed about Daryl Dixon, despite the cigarettes and the silence and the rough edges that made strangers dismiss him before he even spoke, his first instinct had always been loyalty. “Ain’t runnin’ from it.” And you knew him well enough to know he meant it.

The worst night came over dinner, when you decided you wouldn't scape telling your parents.

The dining room had always felt more like a museum exhibit than a place where families gathered. The crystal glasses sparkled beneath the light, silverware had been arranged with military precision, and your mother had insisted on using the good china as though appearances could somehow soften the conversation you knew was coming.

Daryl showed up in a white button-down shirt you'd bought him. He looked uncomfortable from the moment he stepped through the door, tugging absentmindedly at the sleeves and clearly wishing he could disappear into the floorboards. You had squeezed his hand beneath the table when he sat beside you, and though he hadn't said anything, his fingers intertwined yours immediately.

Your mother barely touched her food.

Your father, on the other hand, seemed to have rehearsed every word.

"So," he began, carefully setting down his wine glass, "have the two of you given any thought to what exactly comes next?"

You frowned. "Dad–"

"No, sweetheart, I'm asking a reasonable question. Your finals have deadlines. Your entire life had a clean trajectory."

"Our lives still do." you replied quietly. Your father sighed heavily.

"You were supposed to travel. You were supposed to get internships abroad. You had opportunities most people would kill for." His eyes drifted toward Daryl. "And now?"

The room went silent.

Daryl lowered his gaze to his untouched plate.

"Harold..." your mother whispered softly.

"No, Mary, she deserves honesty." He turned back to you. "Do you know how much money we spent making sure you had every advantage? Private schools. Piano lessons. Ballet. Tutors. Summer programs. Years of preparation."

You sat quietly, you knew that.

"And for what?" he asked quietly, disappointment proving far crueler than anger. "To throw it all away?"

Your mother quietly dabbed at her eyes with a napkin.

"Please don't do this."

"I am doing this because I love her." His gaze moved toward Daryl again.

"We tried to warn you about your little forbidden adventure, but life had it's own way of sobering people up."

You felt Daryl's hand tense around yours.

"Sir–"

You father interrupted him sharply. "Tell me honestly, son. What exactly are you offering her? Because I fail to see how changing oil and repairing engines compensates for everything my daughter's giving up."

"Dad!" you snapped.

But Daryl simply sat there. He sat through every word with his jaw clenched so tightly you thought his teeth might crack from the pressure. He never defended himself, raised his voice or begged. He simply endured it because you were pregnant, exhausted, and scared, and somewhere in that silence he had decided your comfort mattered more than his pride.

"Darling," he continued, softening his voice. "You'll have all our support raising this child. But–" he glanced at your boyfriend again, sharpening his tone once more. "don't you think, for a second that I'm being conniving of this." he pointed between you.

The months that followed were ugly in ways neither of you had expected. Not because of the baby, but because the world around you made it painfully clear how little faith it had in the possibility of people like you surviving together.

Benjamin was born during a thunderstorm after nine painful hours of labor. It felt like the weather itself mimicked your screams with thunder shaking the hospital windows. Even against your parents’ wishes, Daryl stayed beside you the entire time.

The gentle nurse who spoke to you afterward admitted she had never seen a man more terrified in her life than when he heard you screaming in pain.

Once the baby was finally placed against your chest, Daryl felt his entire world change. He muttered something under his breath while staring down at the tiny screaming infant wrapped in blue blankets, looking stunned in the purest sense of the word. Your son had his eyes.

For a while, the two of you tried. God, you tried harder than most people ever knew. Daryl picked up extra work wherever he could find it, often coming home with grease on his hands and exhaustion dragging beneath his eyes so heavily it aged him years overnight, while you balanced college classes with motherhood and constant battles against your parents’ disappointment.

You were exhausted all the time, surviving on burnt coffee, interrupted sleep, and a stubborn love that refused to die even when life gave it every reason to.

But eventually the pressure became unbearable.

Your parents escalated from disapproval to ultimatums, threatening to cut you off completely — tuition, housing, every safety net you and your son had left.

You and Daryl had your final fight the night your son turned three, screaming at each other in the apartment kitchen while the little boy slept in the next room. You knew in that moment that you would remember the look in his eyes for the rest of your life, the exact moment Daryl realized you were drowning beneath expectations you could no longer carry.

“Ya think I wanna be the reason your whole damn life falls apart?” he snapped, voice raw with frustration and heartbreak tangled together. “Think I don’t see what this is doin’ to you?”

“It’s not you." you cried back immediately.

“But I’m in your way."

“Daryl.”

“Yer family’ll never see me as one of ‘em, and they already said they’ll cut you out if ya stay with me.” He cupped your cheeks, taking a deep breath before continuing, calmer now. “I don’t want Ben to have a life like mine.”

"He won't, he has you. You're nothing like your dad."

"He deserves better than me."

The sentence shattered something inside you.

"No." you whispered fiercely. "Daryl, don't you dare." He only smiled sadly.

"He got opportunities here." the last words barely rose above a whisper.

"He got schools. College. A house. Stability."

"And you!"

His face crumpled.

"And I love him enough not to gamble with his future."

You let out the most heartbreaking sob he had ever heard. Because loving someone wasn't always enough to survive the machinery of the world crushing down around you.

And because, as you looked at the man you loved with all your heart, you realized with unbearable clarity that neither of you was trying to leave. You were trying to save each other.

Daryl pressed his forehead against yours and finally let the tears fall. "I love you." he whispered shakily. "So much."

You broke completely.

"I know."

"No." his voice cracked. "Need ya to know that. Need ya to know I ain't stoppin' because I don't love you."

"I know."

"Ain't ever gonna stop."

You separated officially a month later. There were nonstop tears, shaking hands, and promises to stay kind to each other for your son’s sake, and somehow, against all odds, you managed it. You became good coparents. Great ones, even. Better friends than lovers by the end of it, as you liked to lie to yourself.

Daryl stayed involved no matter how far life dragged him, showing up for birthdays with awkwardly wrapped gifts and scraped knuckles, teaching your son how to fish before he learned long division, how to track deer prints through mud, how to throw a punch without breaking his wrist, how to survive disappointment quietly.

Unfortunately, cars appeared unimpressed by wishful thinking, and the Georgia heat had begun slowly dismantling all the effort you'd put into your appearance that morning. By the time you heard the low rumble of a motorcycle approaching in the distance, you had already composed three separate speeches in your head regarding the unfairness of the universe.

The motorcycle slowed as it approached your stranded vehicle before eventually pulling a few feet ahead of you. You braced yourself for either an overeager man who would mistake basic politeness for encouragement, or a well-meaning retiree determined to explain your own car to you while addressing you exclusively as sweetheart.

You weren't ready to face the rider who removed his helmet, revealing slightly overgrown dark hair and eyes so startlingly blue that they nearly distracted you from the fact that he was, quite frankly, unfairly handsome, not like the men you were used to, there was nothing polished about him. His clothes were worn, his boots scuffed, and the leather vest hanging over a faded shirt suggested a man far more interested in practicality than fashion, yet the overall effect was annoyingly attractive in a way the carefully groomed men who attended your father's charity dinners couldn't dream to be. He looked first at the smoke escaping from your engine, then at you, then at your shoes, and though the corner of his mouth twitched faintly, his expression remained overall unreadable.

"You break down?" he asked.

You glanced pointedly at the engine.

"Nah, I like to stand beside highways in expensive shoes and contemplate my terrible decisions."

To your surprise, amusement softened his features, and the small smile that appeared transformed his entire face in a way that felt almost unfair.

"Weird pick for a hobbie."

There wasn't a trace of mockery in his voice, only quiet humor, and immediately you felt a twinge of guilt for your sarcasm. "Sorry," you sighed, brushing a strand of hair from your face. "It's been a day."

He simply grunted, then, without fanfare or unnecessary questions, he stepped forward and peered beneath the hood. You watched him for several moments before raising an eyebrow.

"Shouldn't you ask before touching things?"

"If ya want I'll just take off and leave ya where you are." He grunted.

"Sorry, do your thing."

"Mhm."

After another few moments spent muttering incomprehensible mechanical phrases beneath his breath, he straightened and wiped his hands against a rag he seemed to have produced from nowhere. "Radiator's shot. You ain't drivin' this."

You stared blankly.

"Wonderful. That means absolutely nothing to me."

"Means no driving. Car bad." he repeated as if speaking to a toddler.

"Ah," you nodded solemnly. "now you're speaking my language."

To your immense satisfaction, a small grin showed. Brief and quiet, gone almost before it arrived, but unmistakably there. And suddenly you found yourself absurdly pleased with the idea that you'd managed to make this handsome stranger smile.

"I got a shop in town," he offered after a moment. "Can have it towed there. Fix it up."

You blinked. "You own a repair shop?"

"Mhm."

"Ya stop to rescue strange women on the side of the road often?"

His shoulders lifted in a shrug. "You looked miserable." The simplicity of the answer caught you entirely off guard, you were expecting something along the lines of "Only the pretty ones" – you got that often. But there was something deeply refreshing about a man whose motivations appeared to begin and end with simple kindness rather than the expectation of reward. You glanced down at your ruined afternoon, your ridiculous shoes, and the expensive car currently attempting to expire, and despite everything, you smiled.

"Well," you said softly, "I appreciate your concern for miserable women, uh–" you stopped, realizing you hadn't asked for his name.

And for the first time since he'd stopped, the stranger smiled fully, the expression warm and so stupidly beautiful.

"Daryl."

You smiled back.

"Daryl" you repeated, already suspecting that your busted radiator might end up being the luckiest disaster of your life. You presented yourself too, motioning your hands to shake his. His hands were calloused and permanently stained from keeping them on engines so often, and yet the contact of his skin to yours so slightly made you shiver.

The tow truck took about an hour to arrive, by the time it did, you'd be lying to yourself if you said you didn't feel a sting of disappointment from having to say goodbye to the redneck you'd practically just met.

During the waiting time, he sat with you on the sideway, mostly just listening to you, at least at first, then gradually revealing small details of himself. You found out he had a brother, and that overall, your lives were very different. As your car was getting towed, you handed him a small paper with your number written in tidy handwriting to which he took in suspicion.

"What's this?"

"My number?..." you answered, unsure, and suddenly embarrassed. "I don't suppose your shop operates entirely on telepathy? So you call me when it's done." you nervously added.

"Oh–" understanding dawned across his features. "right, yeah, I'll call." he lifted the small piece of paper and awkwardly scratched his neck, and to your immense delight, the tips of his ears turned pink. Suddenly that intimidating, broad-shouldered biker looked shy. The sight was so endearing you nearly smiled yourself silly.

"I hope so."

Neither of you knew then that the repair would only take three days. That you'd spend those three days thinking about a man you'd known for less than two hours, and by the third day, you had become thoroughly annoyed with yourself.

It was absurd, really. You found yourself wondering ridiculous things while sitting through meetings and answering e-mails. Had he always been so quiet, or had you simply done enough talking for both of you? Did he smile like that often? Was he thinking about you too? Most embarrassingly of all, after you picked up his call letting you know that your car was ready, you caught yourself changing outfits twice before reminding yourself, quite sternly, that you were only picking up your car. Nothing more.

The bell above the door jingled softly as you stepped in, and immediately you were struck by how perfectly the place matched its owner. It wasn't polished or modern, and it certainly lacked the sleek professionalism your father would have preferred, but it felt lived in. Tools hung neatly on pegboards, old photographs occupied the walls, and somewhere in the background, classic rock played softly enough that it blended with the hum of the ceiling fan.

When your eyes found him you automatically smiled. Daryl was bent over the hood of a truck, sleeves rolled up, grease smudged across his forearms, entirely absorbed in whatever he was doing. You doubted he had even heard the bell. Which meant you had several uninterrupted seconds to appreciate the view.

"Daryl." you greeted nervously.

He looked up, then smiled.

Not the polite little smile he'd given you on the side of the road. Not the amused smirk that seemed to appear whenever you said something ridiculous, this one happened before he could stop it, and the sight of it softened something inside you immediately.

"Hey."

"Hello to you too." you couldn't help but to smile back.

He wiped his hands on a rag, though the effort seemed largely symbolic considering the amount of grease currently decorating him. "Car's ready."

"I had hoped so! Otherwise this would've been a very expensive social call."

That earned a quiet snort.

"Thought I would understand if you called just to see me." you half-joked, his ears turning pink again.

"Ya very convinced for someone I found basically abbandoned on the side of the road." this time, you were the one who laughed.

As Daryl disappeared into the office to retrieve your paperwork, you found yourself wondering whether he seemed disappointed, the thought appeared out of nowhere and settled itself squarely in your chest. Because suddenly it occurred to you that this was it.

You'd pay him, drive away, and if it depended on life's odds only, you'd most likely never see him again. The idea left a strange heaviness in your stomach.

Daryl returned with the keys in one hand and several forms in the other. He explained what had been wrong with the car, and you nodded along with all the enthusiasm of someone pretending to understand a foreign language.

"So she's healthy again?" you asked.

"Mhm."

"And she won't explode?"

His mouth twitched. "Shouldn't."

"Excellent. I've always hated surprises."

He smiled again.

God.

The full transaction lasted less than five minutes, still, neither of you moved, a strange reluctance hung in the air.

Daryl shifted awkwardly, and you adjusted your purse strap.

"Well–"

"I uh–"

You overlapped eachother. You both smiled awkwardly.

"Ya can go first." he motioned for you to say. The poor man looked genuinely uncomfortable, as though he wanted to say something and had absolutely no idea how, perhaps that was what gave you the courage.

"Can I ask you something?"

His eyebrows rose slightly.

"Mhm."

"You don't... happen to drink whiskey, do you?"

The question seemed to catch him entirely off guard.

"Huh?"

"As a thank-you," you clarified quickly. "For rescuing miserable women stranded on highways and saving their outrageously expensive cars." Immediately, he shook his head.

"You ain't gotta do that."

"I know."

"Really."

"I know."

"So don't."

You smiled.

"Daryl."

"Mhm?"

"I'm asking because I want to."

If he was a cartoon, his head would've shaped into a question mark, because men like Daryl Dixon didn't spend much time being pursued.

The tips of his ears burned hot again, and to your immense delight, he looked down. He was adorable.

"Just a drink?" he asked quietly.

You smiled.

"Just a drink."

It turned out that "just a drink" became one too many.

And then dinner.

Because once Daryl relaxed enough to stop worrying about saying the wrong thing, you discovered that beneath the shyness and quiet grunts lived a man with a dry sense of humor and a kindness so effortless that it almost hurt. He listened when you spoke. Really listened. He remembered things you mentioned in passing. He laughed softly at your jokes, even the terrible ones, and whenever you caught him looking at you, there was always that same expression in his eyes.

Like he couldn't quite believe you were real. By the time the bartender announced last call, neither of you had noticed the hours passing.

Outside, the air had cooled considerably, and the streetlights cast soft pools of gold onto the sidewalk.

"Thanks." Daryl murmured as the two of you lingered beside his bike.

You blinked.

"For what?"

He shrugged.

"Tonight."

It was palpable neither of you were eager to say goodbye. You stood there smiling like idiots, no one willing to leave first.

"You know," you said softly, "for a man who can rebuild an engine, you're surprisingly bad at this."

His brow furrowed.

"Bad at what?"

"Taking signs."

And with it came the most endearing blush you'd ever witnessed. "Never said I was good at it."

"No?"

"No."

You stepped closer.

"So what exactly are you waiting for?" he swallowed dry. Then, with all the caution of a man handling something precious, Daryl reached up and brushed a strand of hair behind your ear.

His fingers trembled slightly, and your hands traveled one to his arm and the other to the nape of his neck, pulling him in to close the distance you couldn't wait for him to do so anymore.

His lips were warm, a little dry, tasting faintly of beer and whiskey. One hand settled lightly against your waist, hesitant enough that it made your chest ache, and you found yourself smiling against his mouth because somehow, impossibly, the intimidating mechanic with the beautiful eyes seemed far more nervous than you were.

When you finally pulled away, Daryl looked slightly dazed. His cheeks were red and eyes impossibly soft.

"You got any idea what you're doin' to me?"

You smiled innocently.

"No."

His laugh was soft and helpless.

Despite everything people assumed about Daryl Dixon, despite the cigarettes and the silence and the rough edges that made strangers dismiss him before he even spoke, his first instinct had always been loyalty. “Ain’t runnin’ from it.” And you knew him well enough to know he meant it.

The months that followed were ugly in ways neither of you had expected. Not because of the baby, but because the world around you made it painfully clear how little faith it had in the possibility of people like you surviving together.

Your parents looked at Daryl the way people looked at storms rolling over the horizon when they'd just planned to go out: dangerous, inconvenient. Your mother cried quietly over dinner while your father spoke in measured, humiliating sentences about ruined opportunities and "so much wasted potential", about all the money spent on private schools, ballet classes, and piano lessons just to watch you throw your future away for some mechanic from the “wrong side” of town who barely spoke in complete sentences.

Daryl sat through every word with his jaw clenched so tightly you thought his teeth might crack from the pressure. He never defended himself, raised his voice or begged. He simply endured it because you were pregnant, exhausted, and scared, and somewhere in that silence he had decided your comfort mattered more than his pride.

Your son was born during a thunderstorm after nine painful hours of labor. It felt like the weather itself mimicked your screams with thunder shaking the hospital windows. And against your parents’ wishes, Daryl stayed beside you the entire time.

The gentle nurse who spoke to you afterward admitted she had never seen a man more terrified in her life than when he heard you screaming in pain.

Once the baby was finally placed against your chest, Daryl felt his entire world change. He muttered something under his breath while staring down at the tiny screaming infant wrapped in blue blankets, looking stunned in the purest sense of the word. The baby had his eyes.

For a while, the two of you tried. God, you tried harder than most people ever knew. Daryl picked up extra work wherever he could find it, often coming home with grease on his hands and exhaustion dragging beneath his eyes so heavily it aged him years overnight, while you balanced college classes with motherhood and constant battles against your parents’ disappointment.

You were exhausted all the time, surviving on burnt coffee, interrupted sleep, and a stubborn love that refused to die even when life gave it every reason to.

But eventually the pressure became unbearable.

Your parents escalated from disapproval to ultimatums, threatening to cut you off completely — tuition, housing, every safety net you and your son had left.

You and Daryl had your final fight the night your son turned three, screaming at each other in the apartment kitchen while the little boy slept in the next room. You knew in that moment that you would remember the look in his eyes for the rest of your life, the exact moment Daryl realized you were drowning beneath expectations you could no longer carry.

“Ya think I wanna be the reason your whole damn life falls apart?” he snapped, voice raw with frustration and heartbreak tangled together. “Think I don’t see what this is doin’ to you?”

“It’s not you." you cried back immediately.

“But I’m in your way.”

“Daryl—”

“Yer family’ll never see me as one of ‘em, and they already said they’ll cut you out if ya stay with me.” He cupped your cheeks, taking a deep breath before continuing, calmer now. “I don’t want our son havin’ a life like mine.” a tiny pause. “He has opportunities here.” the last sentence was barely above a whisper.

You let out the most heartbreaking sob he had ever heard, simply because loving someone wasn’t always enough to survive the machinery of the world crushing down around you.

You separated six months later. There were nonstop tears, shaking hands, and promises to stay kind to each other for your son’s sake, and somehow, against all odds, you managed it. You became good coparents. Great ones, even. Better friends than lovers by the end of it, as you liked to lie to yourself.

Daryl stayed involved no matter how far life dragged him, showing up for birthdays with awkwardly wrapped gifts and scraped knuckles, teaching your son how to fish before he learned long division, how to track deer prints through mud, how to throw a punch without breaking his wrist, how to survive disappointment quietly.

Your son adored his dad with that fierce, uncomplicated love children reserved for fathers who made them feel safe, and Daryl loved the boy with a devotion so profound it terrified him.

You kept your relationship heartfelt, every time you asked him how he was doing it was genuine, and vice versa. Every year since your son turned four, you sat on the corners of his birthdays enjoying to catch up with eachother, slipping curious questions like "Are you seeing anyone?" after some alcohol kicked in and the answer was always no, of course it was no.

Truth be told, you kept expecting something change and finally get over eachother, but you weren't really willing to let go, some time after his 13th birthday party ended, you caved in, had a relapse, snuck out with Daryl like a teenager and had sex on his trailer. The next morning you came back home with the bitter taste you weren't allowing yourself to have more of him purely out of cowardice, that you should face it like an adult and allow yourself to be fully happy for once.

Then the world ended.

You had taken a trip with your son to visit your aunt Deanna miles away from where Daryl lived, the true love of your life, if you were honest enough to admit it. You were ready to be back and tell him how sorry you were that you didn't try harder, you didn't push more and you didn't face your folks for him. And then you grieved him again. So much harder this time. You spent two years believing Daryl Dixon was dead.

Alexandria smelled like fresh bread and woodsmoke the afternoon everything changed. The gates opened to receive Aaron back with another group of survivors. You'd grown fond of him in these years and he treated you and your son like his own family.

Aaron walks in first, dirt-streaked clothes and a tired look on his face. You were halfway through unloading crates with your son, he was talking about his last hunting trip when he suddenly froze mid-sentence beside you. Almost sixteen now, he towered over you already — all broad shoulders and long limbs, his sharp blue-gray eyes mirroring his father’s so painfully that sometimes you had to look away not to cry.

The abrupt tension that overtook him made you glance to where his eyes layed immediately. Then you understood why. It felt like a mirage. You had dreamed of this moment so many times before that your first instinct was to believe this was just another cruel fantasy made up by your brain, that it would disappear the second you blinked.

But it didn't. He didn't.

A group of strangers entered through the gates alongside him, people you had never seen before. They looked exhausted, starved, worn down by the world. And right in front on them, Daryl.

He stood only a few feet away near the gate. A crossbow hung oven one shoulder and he looked older now, older than you'd expect someone to age in two years. His hair was long, streaked faintly near the temples, his gaze was harsher and his face was scarred in ways visible even from a distance. Grief had settled like concrete into the lines of his face the way exhaustion settles into old soldiers.

But his eyes were exactly the same. And they locked onto you so intensely you felt it burn.

A woman with snow-white hair stood beside him saying something he clearly wasn’t listening to, because he had gone completely still. Completely, horrifyingly still.

For one suspended second, neither of you moved. The noise around you faded strangely, like the entire world had inhaled and forgotten how to exhale again.

The crate slipped from your hands and hit the pavement hard enough to crack open one corner, canned food spilling across the ground, but neither of you cared because Daryl’s expression had already begun collapsing into something raw and disbelieving and dangerously emotional. You watched his gaze move frantically over your face like he was trying to confirm you were real before running to your encounter, he hugged you tighter than he ever did "You're alive." he kept repeating hoarsely, over and over like he genuinely could not process it. “Jesus Christ, you’re alive."

When he finally opened his eyes to look behind you, he shifted his gaze to your son. The boy stared back at him in stunned silence, every feature unmistakably Dixon beneath the years neither of them had shared together, and Daryl looked like someone had physically struck him across the chest.

The woman beside him glanced between all three of you once before realization visibly dawned across her face, then spread silently through the rest of the group nearby.

Daryl Dixon had a son, a nearly grown son. And somehow none of them had ever known. He'd mentioned having lost people, they all did, but nothing ever specific.

“Holy shit,” a tall, muscular redhead muttered somewhere behind them, not even trying to lower his voice, and nobody corrected him.

Daryl broke from your hug, finally took one shaky step forward, then another.

His breathing looked uneven now, chest rising too sharply beneath the worn fabric of his vest, and you realized with sudden overwhelming clarity that this man had mourned you. Deeply mourned you. Somewhere out there in the brutality of the apocalypse, Daryl had believed you were dead all these years, and whatever walls he had built around himself afterward were cracking apart in real time right in front of everyone.

His voice broke the second he spoke your son’s name.

He blinked rapidly, clearly trying not to look emotional in front of an entire audience, but his composure failed almost instantly. “Dad?”

The sound that escaped Daryl after that barely qualified as human. He crossed the distance in seconds.

And when he wrapped his arms around his son for the first time in two years, holding him so tightly it looked almost desperate, the entire courtyard fell silent around them because nobody there had ever seen Daryl Dixon unravel before. Not with tears visibly gathering in his eyes while his son clung back just as fiercely, laughing shakily despite himself because he could barely breathe beneath the force of the embrace.

When they parted he held you again, afraid that if he let go maybe you'd vanish on thin air. And just like that, the pain of the years apart disappeared between you. There was no more space for it. You had spent years regretting letting him go after believing the two of you had been permanently separated forever.

Now, standing in his arms again, you could physically feel the love that had lingered there all this time. Quieter now. Older now. Reshaped by time and grief and survival. But still there.

One little stall selling painted glass birds had caught your eye while your fellow ladies chatted amongst themselves. You had wandered only a few paces, stopping to admire how the afternoon sun caught the tiny wings.

When you turned your ladies were gone.

“So strange…” you murmured to yourself, standing on your toes to try and get a better look. There were too many people.

A fishwife shoved past you carrying two buckets. A butcher dragged a squealing pig through the crown. Merchants shouted over one another.

“Fresh bread!”

“River trout!”

“Fine Dornish silks!”

You hurried in the direction you thought your party had gone. Only to find yourself somewhere entirely different.

“…Gods.”

Your heart began to pound. Every street looked the same. The towering walls hid the Red Keep from view, and the city swallowed every landmark you’d thought you’d remembered.

You stopped beside a fountain, turning slowly. “I was just…” you whispered helplessly. “It was this way… was it not?”

A whistle echoed somewhere nearby, then shouting.

“Move aside! Gold cloaks coming through!”

The crowds parted almost immediately.

Men in dark armor trimmed with gold strode though the street with practice confidence, their golden cloaks billowing behind them.

At their head rode a broad shoulder knight atop a dark bay horse. Even seated in the saddle he looked imposing.

His armor was immaculate despite the dusty streets, polished until it caught the sunlight. A trimmed beard framed a stern face weathered by years beneath the sun, while sharp brown eyes swept over the bustling marketplace with quiet authority.

The commander. You know him at once from whispered conversations, you’d overhead since arriving.

Ser Luthor Largent. Commander of the City Watch.

He noticed you almost immediately. Perhaps because every other noblewoman hurried from the streets with their escort.

You stood completely alone.

His horse slowed and the men behind him halted without question. Ser Luthor studied you for a long moment before speaking.

“My lady.” His voice was deep and calm. “You appear rather lost.”

Heat rushed to your cheeks. “I…” You attempted a smile that quickly faltered. “Perhaps only a little.”

“A little?” he questioned.

“I do know I am somewhere in King’s Landing.”

One corner of his mouth twitched upward. “That is quite the remarkable deduction, my lady.”

You couldn’t help smiling despite your embarrassment. “I became separated from my fellow ladies.”

“I gather as much.” He responded. He swings easily from his saddle. Up close he seemed even taller if that was even possible. His cloak settled heavily behind him as he approached, removing one leather glove. “You are no common merchant’s daughter.”

“No.”

“The embroidery on your gown gives you away.”

You glanced down. Your traveling gown bore your father’s sigil stitched in silver thread across your sleeves as typical of a daughter of a noble house.

“I am the daughter of Lord—”

He nodded before you finished. “I know of your house, my lady”

That surprised you, “You do?”

“Your father arrived yesterday.” He replied.

“Do you mayhaps remember every visiting lord that comes to King’s Landing?”

“I tend to make it my business.”

Of course he did. He commanded the safety of the entire city.

“You are fortunate.” He paused looking around the crowded streets. “There are worse place in Flea Bottom to lose one’s way.”

Your stomach dropped at hearing where you were. You heard the tales of Flea Bottom and were told to stay far from there. “This is Flea bottom?”

He raised an eyebrow. “You did not know?”

“I thought I was near the Street of Silk at least.” You said sheepily.

One of the Gold Cloaks behind him let out an unmistakable snort. Ser Luthor cast him a look. The man immediately found the ground suddenly fascinating. Luthor returned his attention back to you.

“The Street of Silk is several turns away.”

“…Oh.”

“You wandered quite far it seems.” He spoke.

“Yes. I noticed.”

Another faint smile touched his lips. “So, you did.”

For a moment neither of you spoke. The noise of the city rushed around you. Finally, he inclined his head. “If you permit it, my lady…”

He offered his arm to you. “I shall return you safely to your father’s apartments.”

You looked at the offered arm. At the commander standing so patiently before you. “I would be most grateful.”

Your fingers rested lightly against the leather covering his large forearm. His armor was warm from the afternoon sun.

Without another word he began guiding you through the city and up to the red keep. His men followed several paces behind.

You discovered quickly that Ser Luthor knew every inch of King’s Landing. Every alley, every shortcut, and every merchant greeted him with respectful nods. He acknowledged each with a brief inclination of his head.

“Do you know everyone?” you asked.

“Not quite everyone.”

“It certainly seems that way.”

“I know enough or who matter.”

A little boy darted between them carrying stolen apples. Before anyone else could react, Ser Luthor reached out, caught the child gently by the shoulder, removed two of the apples from beneath the boy’s tunic, and handed them back to the furious fruit seller.

He looked towards the boy giving him a stern look, “No more stealing today. Do you understand?”

The boy nodded miserably and Luthor released him from his grip. With that the child sprinted away.

You asked, “You let him go?”

“I did. He was hungry.” The fruit seller grumbled but accepted the two silver coins from the commander in exchange for a couple of the apples.

“Why did you pay for them?”

“The city is quieter when hungry boys become honest ones.” He replied.

You stared up at him with that answer. “You are kinder than your reputation lets on.”

“My reputation?” he asked.

“They say the Commander of the Gold Claoks is stern and does not falter.”

“I am.”

“But they also seem to neglect the fact that he is also generous.”

“I try not to advertise it.”

You laughed softly. His eyes flickered towards you then. It was the first time you saw genuine amusement there.

“You laugh easily, my lady.”

“I’ve always been told that is one of my better qualities.”

“I would agree.”

The words came so simply and so matter-of-factly. Yet they sent warmth rushing to your cheeks that you had hoped he did not notice.

By the time the familiar banners of the Targaryen’s came into view, servants were already searching the street in a panic.

“There she is!” you heard your father say. Your father came rushing through the courtyard before dignity could stop him. “My sweet girl!”

He pulled you into a fierce embrace. “Seven save us! We feared—”

“Do not worry. I am well, Father.” You looked toward Ser Luthor. “The Commander found me.”

Your father’s expression transformed immediately. He released you before bowing respectfully. “Ser Luthor.”

“There was no harm done to your daughter, my lord.”

“You have spared me a terror I shall never forget.” A Lord though he was, your father clasped the commander’s forearm with heartfelt gratitude. “I owe you and thank you greatly.”

“No debt exists, my lord. It was my duty to make sure she was brought back to you safely.”

“Nonsense. There most certainly does.”

Your father looked towards the keep up to where your apartments were located. “You must allow me to thank you properly.”

“There is no need.” Ser Luthor said.

Your father was not having it. “But I insist.” He smiled broadly. “You will dine with us tonight and I will not have any more disagreements about it.”

Ser Luthor hesitated, “My duties—”

Your father cut him off before he could finish. “They can survive for one evening. I will ask Prince Daemon to approve this.”

At this point you found yourself speaking to the large knight standing next to you. “I would very much like to thank you as well. Please.”

For the first time since meeting him Ser Luthor looked almost uncertain, but only for a heartbeat. Then he inclined his head.

“I would be honored.”

Dinner passed in easy conversation. Your father asked endless questions about the city and Luthor answered each patiently.

“The crime has lessened this year.”

“And the prince supports your patrols?”

“He supports results. Prince Daemon was the one who gave me this Gold Cloak and I do not try to disappoint him.”

“And the people? Do they also agree?” your father asked.

“They tend to complain less when they feel safe.”

You watched him far more than you contributed. How carefully he listened before speaking. How respectfully he addressed your father despite their different stations. How his laugh—rare though it was softened his entire face. At one point he caught you looking.

Your eyes met then. You looked away first.

Gods… how embarrassing.

That night, long after the candles had been extinguished sleep refused to come.

You laid there staring at the carved canopy above your bed. Your maid thought you restless from the fright. She was wrong. Every time you closed your eyes you saw golden cloaks sweeping through the marketplace. Brown eyes meeting yours.

“You laugh easily.”

“I would agree.”

You remembered the warmth of his arm beneath your hand. The quiet confidence that followed him like a shadow. The way everyone in the city seemed to trust him.

You smiled in the darkness. It was ridiculous, you had known the commander for scarcely half a day. And yet… The handsome commander of the Gold Cloaks had become the only thing occupying your thoughts.

Somewhere beyond your chamber window, the bells of King’s Landing rang in the late hour.

You wondered if Ser Luthor was still awake. Whether he had already returned to patrolling the streets. Whether he had already forgotten the young noblewoman who had gotten hopelessly lost amongst painted glass birds and winding alleys.

You rather hoped he had not.

The Red Keep was infinitely easier to navigate than the street of King’s Landing. That did not make it any less lonely though.

Your father had spent nearly the entire morning preparing for his audience with Queen Rhaenyra. Every ribbon upon his cloak had been straightened twice over, every word of his oath rehearsed until even you could have recited it to her.

“It should not be long,” he’d assured you.

It had nearly been two hours at this point. You had watched squires hurry through corridors carrying messages. Lords in rich velvets passed one another with carefully measured smiles. Ladies whispered behind jeweled fans while servants moved as silently as ghosts.

You had explored nearly every gallery that was open to visitors over the last few days. Admired tapestries depicting Aegon’s Conquest. Paused before narrow windows overlooking Blackwater Bay. Counted the dragons carved into the stone columns simply to pass the time.

By the time you reached one of the long galleries overlooking the inner ward, you rested your forearms upon the stone balustrade with a sigh.

“I should really have brought a book.”

Below, knights crossed the yard. Stableboys hurried after horses. Gold Cloaks entered through one of the gates.

Your attention drifted lazily across the courtyard until one familiar figure appeared.

Black armor edged with gold and a heavy golden cloak. His broad shoulders that seemed impossible to mistake. Ser Luthor.

Your heart gave an entirely unreasonable leap. He crossed the courtyard with purposeful strides, disappearing through one of the council entrances.

“He’s here…” You smiled to yourself before quickly looking away, as though someone might accuse you of staring.

It had been four days since you saw him last. Four days since he’d escorted you safely back to your family. Four days of finding entirely too many excuses to wonder what the commander of the Gold Cloaks might be doing.

You wondered whether he remembered you at all. Surely, he met dozens of noble ladies. Surely you had been nothing more than another duty for him.

You sighed softly, “Foolish girl.”

Not terribly far away, Ser Luthor emerged from a chamber, the heavy oak door closing behind him. His conversation with Prince Daemon had been…productive.

Daemon has wanted additional patrols around the harbors after rumors of the greens coming in by ships. Luthor had given his reports. The prince had argued and Luthor argued right back.

The meeting had ended precisely as most conversations with Daemon did—with mutual respect from decades of friendship that was hidden beneath sharp words.

He rolled one shoulder as he walked the corridors. Then he slowed.

Something made him glance toward the gallery above. A familiar laugh, one that was soft and warm. His eyes lifted to the sound.

There you stood near the balustrade, sunlight spilling through the tall windows behind you. You were the vision of the Maiden herself, he thought to himself.

You were looking out over the courtyard completely unaware he’d seen you. For reasons he couldn’t entirely explain and yet his feet changed direction.

You had nearly convinced yourself to continue wandering when a familiar voice sounded behind you.

“My lady.”

You turned so quickly your skirts swirled around your ankles.

“…Ser Luthor?”

He inclined his head. “It is good to see you again, my lady.”

“And you!”

Gods. Was that too eager? Judging by the faint smile that touched his lips…perhaps not.

“I trust you’ve managed to avoid becoming lost again?”

You laughed then. “Sadly, I have remained entirely within the Keep to avoid such things.”

“A wise precaution.” He said with a smirk.

“I thought it would be.”

For a moment neither of you spoke. It wasn’t an uncomfortable silence, but merely quiet.

“I hope,” he said at last, “That your stay has been pleasant.”

You nodded, “It has.” But then you hesitated. “Although I confess I have grown rather bored as of late.”

He looked a bit confused by that. “Bored?”

“My father has attended meetings nearly every day.”

“The affairs of lands and kingdoms are rarely exciting for those waiting outside of the room.”

You realized you nodded in agreement a bit too quickly. You tried to change the subject hoping you haven’t proved yourself boring to him as well.

So, you blurted out, “I’ve begun naming the ravens.”

One of his eyebrows rose. “You’ve named the ravens?”

“Yes. There are six I see most often lately.”

You two slowly began to walk down the hallway relishing in each other’s company.

“I should like to know what you named them.”

You wrung your hands together before you spoke, “Well there is Lord Peck.”

Ser Luthor blinked. “…Lord Peck?”

“Yes. He is the one who seems to carry himself most importantly. There is also Lady Feather. She is a very distinguished bird.” You couldn’t help but giggle then. You drew another rare smile from him.

“You truly do laugh easily.” He spoke.

“You remembered.”

“I remember many things. Especially the sound of a lovely lady’s laugh.”

The words settled warmly inside your chest.

He looked toward one of the open archways leading outside. “Have you had a chance to visit the gardens?”

“No, I have not actually.”

His gaze returned to yours then. “If it would please you?”

He offered his arm once more. “I could show them to you.”

Your answer came before propriety had the chance to interfere. “I would like that very much.”

The gardens were unlike anything in your father’s lands. Stone pathways wound through flowering hedges. Roses climbed up white trellises. Lavendar swayed in the breeze while bees drifted lazily from blossom to blossoms. Somewhere nearby water trickled from a marble fountain.

“It is beautiful.”

“Many princesses from prior years favored this place.” Ser Luthor said.

“I can understand why. I would too if I had a garden like this.”

You both walked side by side beneath flowering trees. Neither of you felt rushed to fill the silence. It surprised you how comfortable the quiet could be when enjoying someone’s company.

Eventually curiosity won.

“May I ask you something?” you asked.

“You may.”

“Were you always commander or did it take years for you to get to?”

A soft chuckle escaped him. “No. I have only been commander over the last few years.”

“Huh. I cannot imagine anyone else doing it.” You admitted.

“I began as any other gold cloak, but I have the pleasure of having Prince Daemon to be the one to give me this cloak nearly twenty years ago.”

“I’m sure that was an imposing sight a younger you with Prince Daemon.”

“One could say that. I was also considerably less patient then.”

“I find that difficult to believe.” You jested.

“I assure you, it is true.” He spoke.

“Well, you are patient now.”

“So, I’ve been told.”

“By everyone?” you asked.

He looked sideways at you.

“Only by one lady in particular.”

Heat blossomed across your cheeks hoping he was meaning you. You lowered your eyes with a smile trying not to make it obvious.

The gardens eventually gave way to a stone overlook. The wall overlooked the cliffs below. Far beneath, waves crashed against black rocks. Beyond stretched Blackwater Bay, glittering beneath the afternoon sun. Ships dotted the horizon with various colored sails.

The sea breeze tugged gently at your hair.

“It feels…” you searched for the words. “Peaceful here.”

“It is.” He agreed.

You rested your hands upon the weathered stone. “I think this may be my favorite place in King’s Landing.”

“It is mine as well when I can get the chance to see it.”

You looked up to him. “Do you come here often then?”

“Not usually. Being commander, I do have more time to patrol all over King’s Landing. So, whenever I get a chance to come see the gardens I try to. Just for a few moments of quiet. King’s Landing truly never sleeps.”

For several moments you simply watched the sea together. Then, quietly you gave yourself enough courage to finally admit your thoughts.

“There is something I’ve wished to tell you, Ser Luthor.”

He turned towards you. His brown eyes are fixated on you now. “What would that be?”

You swallowed. “I fear it may sound terribly foolish, but I believe I must get this off my chest.”

“I do not think it would be possible for you to sound foolish.”

You laughed nervously while wringing your hands together. “I’ve scarcely stopped thinking about you.” You blurted out.

There was a long stretch of silence between you two.

Gods. Perhaps you should not have said it, but you only continued. “I know we have met only briefly.”

Your words tumbled over one another again. “And perhaps it is terribly improper and perhaps I ought not say such things. But after you found me and after dinner and now seeing you again…”

You looked down at your hands. “I simply wished you to know how grateful I am.”

Before you could continue, he broke the silence. “You’ve been thinking of me?”

You nodded once right away. “I have.”

A long silence followed this time. It wasn’t awkward or uncertain. Only thoughtful.

When he finally spoke, “I had hoped I was not alone in my feelings.”

You looked up quickly. Almost shocked that he said that. “What?”

“I’ve though of little else these past four days.” He admitted.

Your breath caught. “You have?” you asked taken aback.

“I have found myself wondering whether you had returned back to your home.” He smiled faintly. “And whether you’d become lost again.”

You laughed through your surprised “I have not thankfully.”

“I wondered whether I’d imagine how easily conversation came between us and I wondered whether inviting you to see the gardens today was inappropriate.”

“I am glad you invited me.” You said with a smile on your face.

“So am I.”

The breeze stirred between you. He took one step closer as if the breeze was pushing him towards you. It was close enough that you could see the flecks of gold hidden in his brown eyes.

“I am no prince,” he said quietly to you.

“I know.”

“Nor am I some great lord and my life belongs largely to this city.” He added.

“I know it is.” You said reassuringly.

“And still…” his gazed searched yours hoping it would reveal what he was looking for. “You’ve occupied my thoughts from the moment we parted.”

Your heart felt impossibly light now.

“So we have both been equally distracted.” You quipped.

“It would seem so.” He agreed.

For a moment neither of you moved and then very gently he lifted one hand. Not to seize yours, but only to brush a loose strand of hair back behind your ear that the wind took. His fingers barely grazed your skin.

“If this is unwelcome, my lady you must only say.” He said comfortingly.

“It isn’t.”

His eyes searched yours one last time. Giving you every opportunity to step away.

You didn’t. Instead, you closed the small distance left between you. You stood on your tiptoes to reach up to his face and as he leaned down, he kissed you and it had been impossibly soft. Barely more than a brush of his lips against yours.

When he drew back, you found yourself smiling before you even realized it.

“So…” you whispered.

“So.”

“I believe,” your smile widened. ‘I shall be thinking of you even more now Ser Luthor.”

A quiet laugh escaped him. “I am afraid the feeling is mutual my lady.”

Behind you, the sea continued its endless song against the cliffs, and for the first time since arriving in King’s Landing, the great city no longer felt quite so overwhelming.

You had only been in the capital for three days when you first crossed paths with him.

The training yard rang with the crash of steel. Knights shouted. Wooden practice swords splintered and sweat gleamed beneath the afternoon sun.

You leaned against the stone balustrade overlooking the yard, your chin resting upon folded arms.

“A touch high!” Ser Criston barked.

Two young squires hurried to obey.

You watched with idle amusement until another voice drifted upwards.

“Again.” It was deep and calm with an air of certainty.

Your eyes found its owner almost at once.

He stood taller than nearly every other man in the yard, large enough to make the younger knights seem like boys besides him. His dark curls clung damply to his brow after training, and there was something effortless in the way he moved.

Strength without showing off. Confidence without arrogance. He carried a practice sword as though it weighed nothing.

One of the squires rushed forward with water.

“Thank you.” Even his thanks came easily.

You smiled faintly to yourself. A pleasant face, you thought. That was all.

Then one of the pages darted around the corner far too quickly. “My lady!”

The boy collided squarely into you.

“Oh!”

The force knocked the basket of embroidery thread from your hands. Spools scattered down the stairs like brightly colored coins.

“Oh, Seven save me. I am so sorry!” the boy squeaked, immediately dropping to his knees.

You laughed before he could burst into tears. “Tis alright. It is only thread.”

Several spools continued bouncing down into the training yard below. Straight toward the enormous knight. The spools struck his boots, he blinked and looked down.

He bent down to retrieve one. Then another and then looked up to where you stood. Your eyes met and for a heartbeat neither of you moved. His expression was one of complete confusion. Then something shifted, as though the world had quietly forgotten to turn.

You offered an apologetic smile. “I fear my embroidery has declared war upon you, ser.” You yelled down to him.

His mouth twitched like it wanted to smile. “It has surrendered quickly enough I must say.”

His voice carried upward far easier than it should have. He gathered every spool with surprising care before climbing the stone stairs two at a time up to you.

The page beside you had gone positively pale. “I shall collect them, ser.” He squeaked out.

“I already have.” He replied to the boy. He reached the landing now.

Gods. He was even bigger up close. Not merely tall but built like the towers of the Red Keep themselves. His hand dwarfed the delicate silk. He stopped before you and bowed. “My lady.”

You dipped your head politely. “My thanks.”

He held out the basket with the recovered threads. “I believe these are yours.”

“They were.” You accepted it carefully. “Though I confess they looked happier rolling down the stairs.”

A quiet laugh escaped him. It was fake or forced, but honest. “I have seen stranger things happen in this castle.” He spoke.

“So have I,” you replied. “And I have scarcely been here three days.”

That won another smile from him. One that transformed his entire face to warmth. Which made him dangerously handsome.

He cleared his throat. “I do not believe we’ve met.”

“No. You are correct ser.” You spoke.

“But as you say you are newly arrived.” He pronounced.

“I am.”

A small pause then he spoke again. “I am Ser Harwin Strong.”

Strong. Of Harrenhal. The Son of Ser Lyonel Strong who is apart of the King’s small council. You inclined your head. “I know who you are.”

Something almost bashful crossed his feature. “And yet my lady I do not know your name.”

You smirked. “I wondered how long that would trouble you.”

His ears turned ever so slightly pink. You nearly laughed then. “I am Lady Y/N of House Arryn.”

Recognition flashed immediately. “Princess Rhaenyra’s cousin.”

“The very same.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you favor your aunt Lady Aemma.”

Your smile softened then. “I have heard that since I was old enough to walk.”

“I meant no offense my lady.”

“I took none ser. It just a normal occurrence for me is all.”

After that another silence settled. It was almost a comfortable silence which is rather odd for two strangers.

A horn sounded below, calling the men back to training. Harwin did not move. One of the younger knights shouted from the yard. “Strong!”

He didn’t answer. Instead, his attention remained fixed entirely upon you. “I ought to return.” He finally said.

“So, you ought. There are more men down there I would say need a proper fight.”

He smiled then and then nodded, but yet he still did not move.

You raised an eyebrow, “Ser Harwin?”

He blinked as though waking from a dream. “Forgive me.”

He bowed again, “My lady.”

You watched him descending back to the training yard. Halfway down he glanced back and caught you watching him. He smiled at you and then continued back to his training.

“You’ve been staring.”

You nearly jumped. Rhaenyra leaned against the opposite pillar, an apple already half eaten.

“I was not!” you proclaimed.

“You were. I do not see how you can deny it.”

You rolled your eyes at your cousin. “I was merely observing.”

“You mean observing Harwin Breakbones.”

“So that is what they call him?” you asked.

She only grinned. “They do.”

You looked back toward the yard where Harwin was already sparring again, sword moving with astonishing speed for such a large man.

“I can see why.” You admitted.

Rhaenyra followed your gaze. “He is a good man.”

“So, he seems.”

You caught from the corner of your eye your cousin studying you. “What is it?”

“Tis nothing.” She tried to say.

“You are lying. What is it.”

She bit into her apple to hide another smile. “It is only…”

“Rhaenyra…What is it?”

“I do not think Ser Harwin has heard Ser Criston call his name once since you arrived.”

Sure enough—

“Strong!”

No answer. Again. “Strong!”

Harwin was still looking toward the gallery. Towards where you and Rhaenyra occupied.

Ser Criston finally sighed loud enough for half the yard to hear. “Seven hells, Strong!”

The practice sword struck Harwin squarely across the shoulder. The yard erupted in laughter. Harwin scarcely seemed to notice. Because he was still smiling. At you.

Rhaenyra burst into delighted laughter beside you. “Oh, cousin.”

You looked at her innocently. “Now what?”

It had just been a day since you got that raven from Maekar.

In his letter, he told you that, despite the best efforts of the maesters, they were not sure how long Baelor still had. His words were but mere ink; you still felt his sorrow through them.

You remain the only one I have informed, but rumours spread like wildfire. By the time the Stranger comes for my brother, the whole realm will already know me as kinslayer.

So you prepared for the worst.

You called for the handmaids and ordered the discreet preparation of mourning clothes for Maekar and the children when they got back. The letter had just arrived, but it must have been days since your husband wrote it: Baelor might already be dead. It was strange to live in that space of not knowing.

Not even a full day had passed when there was another raven; you had just gotten back from praying at the sept. You expected it would be the one carrying the news of the crown prince's passing. It must have happened soon after Maekar wrote his first letter to you, then.

You took a deep breath before you opened the parchment...

...and almost dropped it when you saw: Prince Baelor lived. They'd stay in Ashford for as long as the maesters thought it was necessary, then make for Summerhall.

'The Mother is merciful!' you exhaled, holding the parchment to your chest.

Many weeks later, Maekar returned with the procession from Ashford.

Once you made sure Baelor and his wife were comfortable in the guest wing, you and your husband returned to your chambers. Maekar collapsed into the armchair the moment you closed the doors, like the weight of the past few weeks had finally caved him in.

'I should've listened to you,' he muttered.

You squeezed his shoulder as you stood next to him, reaching for the the wine carafe. You poured out two cups and handed him one.

'You warned me of Daeron and what he might do. None of this would've happened if I hadn't had to go looking for him. What a fucking disarray,' he grumbled, more to himself.

'This family is doomed,' he said after a moment of consideration, as he downed his cup.

You leaned against the table, watching him.

'You speak of doom–yet your sons live, and your brother too.'

'I have to send Aerion away,' he said, and you could see in his eyes that it grieved him. Aerion had caused him so much pain, and still, there was an unwavering fatherly affection in his heart.

'It is for the better. You will see,' you tried to console him. And you believed it; that this might yet set Aerion on a true path.

'Aegon's gone off, and I do not know where,' Maekar continued.

'He must be with the hedge knight. And from what your brother's told me, it sounds like he's in good hands. You will find him soon enough; he'll be right till then.'

Maekar looked at you, astonished.

'I'm stunned by you both. How can you think it's right for him to roam the country in rags, sleeping in ditches?'

'You wouldn't have been able to stop him,' you reached out to graze his cheek with your hand: an endearing gesture that you hoped would anchor him.

'Don't you remember? You just said you should've listened to me. You will see I'm right again,' smiling, you stroked the scars under his eyes that had already begun to heal. They were not there when he left, so they must be from the trial.

'Whatever you say, woman.'

'You will see,' you repeated as you lifted the goblet to your lips.

He pulled you closer then, still sitting, so that his forehead was resting against your abdomen.

'I should've had you there, too. Bad things happen when you're not there,' he whispered, closing his eyes as you brought your hand to caress his hair.

'Do not dwell on it,' you said softly, brushing his silver strands.

How things could change with time. When you first arrived at his court, you knew it was expected of you to be like a mother to his children and a lady of the house. The prince was famous for his prickliness, and you weren't sure exactly what to expect. But you weren't one to stand in an open field when it thundered, and soon realised that was something the stern prince admired in you.

With time, you saw something other than respect glint in Maekar's eyes when he met with your defiance. Each time you shot down one of his laments or held his gaze during a disagreement, you saw it. A split second, and you could've missed it, but there it was: like a spark in the shadow of your fire, waiting to meet it.

That's how he was looking up at you now; in the privacy of your chambers, his cold front peeled back, and you could see how everything weighed on him. With his eyes, reverent on you, he was asking for an answer only you could give.

You slowly raised your cup to your mouth, taking a sip and savouring the rich tang, as you held his gaze. You watched as his eyes flicked to your lips, still wet from the wine.

A small, wicked smile tugged at your lips.

'You want a taste?'

He nodded slowly as you slid into his lap to kiss him.

As his mouth met yours, he snuck his tongue against your lips, licking the remains of the wine with a contented hum. The alcoholic flavour, mixed with the taste of him on your tongue, sent a warm jolt into your stomach.

He kissed you hungrily, and when you broke away from him, he chased your mouth with such eagerness that you had to push at him until his back met the armchair with a dull thud. One hand on his heaving chest, the other reaching for your goblet, you kept your eyes on him as you took a small sip from your cup–this time, holding the wine in your mouth instead of swallowing.

After placing the cup down carefully, you reached for his face and leaned over him, lips meeting his. You dribbled the wine into his waiting mouth and felt him harden under you as he took it. Some dripped onto your jaw and neck, and he was on it immediately, not wasting a single drop, licking your skin greedily.

'Did you miss me?' you asked breathlessly as you clung to his shoulders.

'What kind of question is that?' he grunted as he covered your throat with his mouth, 'I lay sleeplessly thinking of you. How you should be there with me...'

He grabbed your hair to bring your face to his. You smirked at the sensation of his fingers tangling with your strands at your nape. The pleasant feeling went straight into your groin; he spoke the next words against your lips, hot breath mixing with yours:

'How I should be fucking you instead...'

Taking your jaw between his thumb and index finger, he tilted your head so he could lick up a stray drop of wine running down your jaw.

'I'm never leaving your side again,' he grumbled against your skin.

'Whose idea was it, I wonder...to spare me from this miserable circus...' you panted, feeling yourself get wetter with each kiss he planted on you. You began to rub against his thigh, and the feeling of your briefs sliding against your slick centre made you lightheaded.

'Shut me up next time I get ideas like that,' Maekar said, and you felt his hands at the back of your dress, untying the knots with fast moves and stripping you.

You moved to help him out of his shirt and trousers, and pulled him with you to the floor. You felt a thrill as he hiked your chemise up and stared at the dark spot on your underwear.

He hooked his fingers and slid it off, throwing it to the side. Then, wasting no time, he buried his face between your legs and took a deep inhale of your pussy.

'Maekar...' you sighed, head thrown back, waiting for his tongue. He gave it to you, with his hands holding your thighs in place on his shoulders as he licked you.

He was unyielding. Even when you started to whine and shake, when the feeling started to become too much, and your hips unintentionally began to buck away from his mouth from the overstimulation, he held your legs tighter around him. Nowhere to withdraw, you just took it; until he made you come on his tongue, while you cried out his name, writhing on the bedroom floor.

Once your breathing settled a bit, you pushed yourself up and guided Maekar to lie down on the tiles. With your hand on his wide chest, you could feel his heartbeat against your own skin, and you thought of how you'd missed him. You were rarely apart this long, but when everything at the trial went awry, he had to stay away for many more weeks than initially planned. Thank the Gods, it was all over now.

You climbed on top of him, and then, before you could react, his hands tore your thin chemise in one swift move; the sharp sound of the fabric filled the room.

'Maekar!' you cried, but he was already fondling your now free breasts. The tattered silk hung on your shoulders.

'What? I'll get you new ones,' an inviting glint in his eyes.

Smug bastard.

You knew what he was trying to do. His eyes were on you, with an anticipatory look, questioning you. What will you do now?

You raised your hand, and the next moment, a stinging pain burned your palm as it connected with his cheek.

'Argh...' he groaned, as he snapped his face to the side from the impact.

He turned back to look at you, but you landed another slap as soon as his eyes met yours.

Chest heaving, he grabbed your hips and drove into you without hesitation. He got you so wet with his mouth, but you still had to adjust to his size as he began to fuck up into you.

Sweat covered your skin as the sound of your ass meeting his groin filled the room.

'Do it again,' he hissed between his teeth. It wasn't an ask, but a command.

So you did, delivering another smack across his cheeks as you rode him. Pain mixed with pleasure; his and yours. The skin on your hand was on fire now, but each time you landed another slap, his cock got harder inside you until he couldn't hold it back anymore and came, filling you to the brink.

It seemed that he was mistaken to assume she would’ve taken to her own bed like she had the last time he left the castle. Grey Wind curled up at the door when Robb reached his room and opened the door, the sweet flowery scent swirling around him like some sort of invisible magic, warmth caressing his face. His lady, who was perched on the window seat and watching the stormy sky turned her head like she snapped out of a haze, a gasp leaving her.

“You’re back!”

He didn’t even notice the smile pulling at his lips.

“And you’re awake.” He closed the door behind him as she darted across the room and flung herself into his arms, coaxing a chuckle out of him. He lifted her, earning a surprised yelp before he carried her to bed, both of them falling on the mattress with him on top of her.

Her giggle echoed in the room, sweeter than any melody he had ever heard. He couldn’t help but dip his head to kiss her, a sigh leaving her lips when he pulled back to feast his eyes on the sight of her beautiful face.

“Good evening, my lady wife.”

“Good evening, my lord husband,” she played along, tracing the direwolf clasp of his cloak. “I thought you’d be back earlier.”

“So did I,” Robb admitted. “Why are you awake at this hour?”

She pouted. “Sleep evades me.”

“Nightmares?”

“I had a nightmare, but it’s gone now,” she said after a beat while he absentmindedly played with her hair. “I’m glad you’re back.”

“I’m glad to be back,” he murmured, stealing a kiss from her before his lips trailed down her neck, her sweet scent luring him but she held her breath.

“Robb, we—um, we cannot, I got my moon blood.”

He grinned against the soft skin of her neck.

“A man who’s afraid of getting his sword bloody is no man at all—” he was cut off when she smacked his shoulder with a gasp, laughter rumbling deep in his chest.

“Don’t say that!”

“It’s an old northern proverb.”

“It is not an old northern proverb!” she whined, pushing at his shoulder again when he lifted his head to smirk down at her.

“Aye, it is.”

“It’s not.” She scrunched up at her nose in the most adorable manner. “Proverbs are supposed to be wise.”

“It is very wise,” he argued. “It’s applicable to every moon. What is that if not wise?”

She looked like she was trying her hardest to fight back her laughter, yet a giggle escaped her before she took a deep breath.

“It’s rather uncomfortable,” she admitted, her voice quiet as her smile faded. “The cramps.”

That was enough to make Robb snap out of it.

“You’re in pain?” he asked, his gaze darting over her face. “Did you take any remedy? I can wake Maester Luwin—”

“No,” she cut him off, her hand cradling his cheek as he turned his head to kiss her palm. “No need for that, my love.”

“But are you certain?”

“I am.”

“Is that normal?”

“Very much so, I’m afraid,” she said and swallowed thickly. “Will you just…will you just hold me?”

Robb could swear his heart melted inside his chest. He stared at her for a brief moment, warmth filling his veins before he gave her a chaste kiss on the lips.

“I’ll hold you until the end of time if you wish it so,” he told her as he got off of her to take off his cloak. “Just let me change first.”

It didn’t take him long to change into loose breeches, deciding to forego his nightshirt as usual due to the heat of the room. It was rather hot if he had to admit, yet his lady was not used to the cold of the north, and she liked it that way. Raindrops started pattering on the window, wind outside getting stronger as he slipped into bed, pulling his lady close to him so that she could curl into his side to rest her head on his chest. He nuzzled into her hair, her scent the only remedy that could soothe the ache of being apart from her for days.

“I missed you,” she whispered into the silent room and Robb pressed his lips on top of her head.

“I missed you too,” he muttered. “How was it? Here?”

“Um—” She cleared her throat. “Nothing of importance took place.”

“Bran is still…?”

“Asleep,” she finished his sentence for him. “But Maester Luwin says he will wake up, we just don’t know when.”

He heaved a sigh, exhaustion creeping up on him slowly. “And Rickon?”

“He loves taking care of Frost, you should see him. Every morning we bring her breakfast, he finds it hilarious.”

He huffed out a laugh.

“Better than nightmares, I suppose,” he said. “What was yours about, by the way?”

“Oh, I…” she trailed off. “I don’t remember exactly, but it was painful.”

He let out a hum, his arm tightening around her waist as he kissed her forehead.

“I’m here,” he murmured. “I would never let anything bad happen to you, I swear it.”

Her whole body tensed up, and she went quiet before she pulled away from his grip so that she could sit up in the bed. The room was rather dark; his lady must’ve blown out the candles before, and since the flames in the hearth were the only source of light, he could only see the glimmer in her eyes, rather than her whole expression.

Her voice was calm when she spoke: “Robb?”

“Hm?”

“Would you kill someone for me if I asked you to?”

The lightning flashed outside, illuminating her beautiful face for a brief moment before the darkness claimed the room again, followed by a loud boom. Despite the exhaustion, Robb felt a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, how did she not know?

The whole north knew at this point.

“Of course.” He frowned when the thought hit him. “Has someone offended you in my absence?”

“No,” she was quick to assure him. “Not at all. I was just thinking about the nightmare, if someone hurt me—”

“That’d be the last thing they ever did before I sent them to the gods, old or new.”

“No matter who?”

“No matter who,” he swore as he reached out to drag his knuckles over her arm before he grinned. “Except your moon blood; that I cannot kill. I can put it to sleep for nine moons though.”

It took him a mere second to understand she was in no mood for a jest, even before she let out a shaky breath like she was on the verge of tears. Robb cussed at himself under his breath and sat up while she sniffled so that he could pull her into his arms. She buried her face to the crook of his neck as he cradled her head with one hand, the other rubbing her back.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered to her temple. “I’m sorry, my love. Was the nightmare that bad?”

She nodded and sniffled again.

“Someone—” She gulped. “Someone hurt me. And I bled out. Alone.”

“That will never happen,” he cooed at her. “I’d never let that happen, lamb. Just a nightmare, it’s not real.”

A curt laugh escaped her and she took a deep breath.

“No,” she murmured after a beat. “No, it’s not real. Just a nightmare, nothing more.”

Though it had taken his lady a while to go to sleep, the next day she woke up in better spirits. The storm continued outside, and Robb’s morning wasn’t so busy for once, so he was able to convince her to stay in bed and have breakfast there. It was rather cozy; the sound of the wind and rain locked away outside while the hearth warmed up the room, Grey Wind taking a nap at the foot of the bed. His lady was wrapped up all snug in his robe while Robb rested his head in her lap, holding one of the ledgers that she had asked him to check above his face, but he could barely focus with the way she was absentmindedly playing with his hair.

It felt so peaceful that Robb wanted to stay like this forever.

“So what do you think?” she urged him and he tried to focus on the numbers on the page.

“I think it looks great.”

She gave him a bright smile, and—much to his displeasure—stopped playing with his hair so that she could grab the pair of earrings that he had forgotten to give her last night off her nightstand.

“They’re so pretty,” she chirped. “I cannot wait to wear them tonight to dinner!”

He blindly reached up to put her hand back in his hair, coaxing a laugh out of her before she buried her hand into his curls and ran her nails over his scalp, making him close his eyes with a sigh.

“Lord Mollen doesn’t like my idea,” she told him, causing him to open his eyes again to look up at her. “Lady Lynara told me as much. Neither of them think it wise.”

“What they think isn’t of importance.” Robb turned the page. “It’s for a good cause, and you want it done, so it will be.”

She shifted her weight as if she was too excited to sit still.

“Thank you!” she said. “I’ll imply it in a polite way tonight if she asks again, let’s see how she will react.”

He stole a glance at her. “Are you sure you can attend dinner tonight? We can eat here if you’re still in pain.”

“No, it’s better now,” she said. “It’s bearable.”

Robb frowned. “Is it ever unbearable?”

“Sometimes, but this is not an appropriate topic for a lord and lady to speak of, you do realize that?”

“We’re man and wife now, we can talk about such things,” he said. “For example, is it as painful as—”

“I’m going to stop you right there because I think you’re going to compare it to something men go through during sparring,” she said. “Yes. It’s more painful than that. Any of that.”

“Any of that, really?”

She puffed up her cheeks and looked up at the ceiling like she was straining her mind for the right words.

“Imagine somebody sets a sword on fire.” She held up a fist, mimicking holding a sword before she slammed the imaginary sword into the mattress. “Then drives it down your spine!”

Robb blinked up at her.

“…I don’t want to imagine that.”

“And while you’re trying to breathe, someone else shoots an arrow through your stomach.”

“That’s—”

“And then they twist both the sword and the arrow, and then yank them both out.”

“Why do I feel like you’re enjoying this very vivid description?”

“And there’s blood everywhere but it matters not, because you’re still expected to attend feasts and jousts and such,” she mused. “And dance and make small talk and smile and entertain people.”

He made a face. “How do women not walk around screaming?”

“Not from a lack of desire to do so, I’ll tell you that much,” she said airily as if they were talking of the weather. “My septa used to say—”

“M’lady?” Her maid knocked on the door. “A raven from Dorne has arrived.”

“Come in Kyra!” she called out and the maid opened the door, then came over to the bed to hand her the scroll, then scurried out of the room while Robb turned his attention to the ledger. His lady broke the unfamiliar seal—it probably belonged to her mother’s house in Dorne—then skimmed the lines.

“Silas?” he asked and she shook her head.

“Perce,” she muttered. “Silas wrote to me the moment he set foot in Dorne.”

“How was their trip?”

“Well, Cliff is an excellent sailor so it—oh he has to be jesting!”

That was enough to pull Robb’s attention away from the ledger.

“What’s happened?”

She threw her head back in exasperation, then frowned down at the scroll.

“Perce wants me to ask Silas about his new lady on my next letter.”

“Hold on.” Robb sat up with a smirk. “Silas has a lady?”

“Mm hm.”

“Already?” he asked. “They’ve been there for what, two weeks?”

“Three.” She pursed her lips. “A young widow, whose husband died under…questionable circumstances.”

“Did they check for a dagger in his chest or was that too questionable?”

“Perce says Silas goes to her castle each night.”

He let out a laugh. “So she’s his mistress?”

“It sounds to me that Silas is her mistress, to be completely honest,” she muttered, her eyes darting over the lines. “Unbelievable.”

“Is it though?” he wondered aloud, earning a slight shove at his arm. “I’m surprised that you’re surprised, Silas is very fond of ladies.”

She opened her mouth to answer, but there was another knock on the door. Robb pushed himself off the bed to make his way there, assuming that it was either Jon or Theon, but instead, it was his youngest brother. Rickon’s eyes widened when he saw him.

“Robb, you’re back!”

“I am,” he said with a small chuckle as Rickon clutched at his leg in an attempt to hug him. “Missed me?”

“A little, but it was only for a week.”

“It was.” Robb ruffled his wild curls. “Are you hiding from Maester Luwin?”

“No.”

“Rickon, if you stuffed a dead crow in your septa’s pillow again just because she hit your knuckles—”

“I did not!”

“Then did you need me for something?”

“Um, not you.” The little boy walked past him to step inside, making Robb look over his shoulder. “Good morrow!”

Robb tilted his head in confusion.

“Good morrow to you too my sweet!” His lady crossed the room, then crouched down to Rickon’s eye level. “How did you sleep?”

“I had a dream with—with me and Shaggy, and we were on a mountain, and then Shaggy was going after another wolf, but then it wasn’t a wolf, because it turned into a bird!”

His lady gasped. “That sounds like a very interesting dream! What sort of bird?”

“A blue one—can we give Frost breakfast, please and thank you?” 

“I was away for a week and he says please and thank you now?” Robb asked, getting a reprimanding glare from his lady while Rickon nodded.

“We say please and thank you to ladies,” he pointed out in a very proud manner, and Robb stifled a laugh.

“Do you know what those words mean?”

“I do!”

“Of course he does,” his lady said. “And we can give Frost breakfast after I get ready, thank you for asking so nicely.”

“Wait,” Robb said, the smile wiping off his face in a second. “Now?”

“It’s her breakfast time,” Rickon told him and Robb shook his head.

“You’re nearly a man grown, you can feed her by yourself.”

“But we do it together!” Rickon argued. “We go to the kitchens and get carrots and apples and go to the barn to feed Frost first, and then Silk.”

“Rickon my sweet, can Robb join us today?”

Rickon looked up at the ceiling with a dramatic sigh while Robb frowned at him.

“What, you have to think?”

“He can,” Rickon muttered. “I guess.”

“I appreciate the sacrifice, Rickon.”

“But you cannot leave the castle in this attire,” his lady told his little brother, motioning at his clothes. “You need a cloak, there’s a storm outside. How about Robb takes you to your room so that you can get your cloak, and then we’ll go to the kitchens?”

“Okay!” Rickon rushed to his side. “Let’s go.”

“He knows where—” Robb started, but gave Rickon a little shove when he sunk his teeth into Robb’s hand, tugging at his sleeve. His lady gasped.

“Robb, don’t push him like that!” she chastised him and Rickon gave him a big grin.

“Aye, don’t push me like that!”

“You’re fine,” Robb deadpanned. “You’re more wolf than child.”

His lady shook her head and pointed at the door. “Out.”

“You heard her, Rickon.”

“I’m talking to you!” she insisted. “Go make sure he has a cloak on, and I’ll meet you in the kitchens.”

“Fine, fine…” Robb muttered and grabbed his own cloak to put it on. “You can stay, Grey Wind.”

The direwolf only plopped on his back when his lady approached as if he was asking for belly rubs, and Robb closed the door with a sigh.

“Come on.” He gently pushed Rickon, who wasted no time to jump and grab his arm to hang from it, his cackle echoing in the hallway.

“Onward!”

 “See what I meant?” Robb grumbled as he made his way down the hallway, swinging his arm while Rickon cheered. “More wolf than child.”

Much to his displeasure, he barely had any time to see his lady after their little visit to the barn. He went to Bran’s room, but he was soon pulled away from there when Maester Luwin reminded him that there were many scrolls that he had to reply to; a lot of ravens had arrived in Winterfell in his absence from different parts of the north. At least the storm had passed, so once he managed to find some free time, he joined Jon and Theon in the yard to spar with them while his lady attended to her own duties.

But there was something off.

He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but there was something off. 

Perhaps it was because of people’s criticism of her new plan while he was away, or the nightmares keeping her up last night, but judging by how curt her smile was while she was talking to others when he caught a sight of her on his way to the rookery, Robb could swear she wasn’t her happy self in the crowd of ladies surrounding her.

After an hour of sparring, he decided to catch his breath and grab some water while Theon stretched, and Jon sat down beside him on the bench to sharpen his sword.

“I’m so glad to be back,” Theon said. “I don’t like Castle Hornwood.”

“Why not?”

“Everyone is so quiet there.”

“It was a nice change,” Jon said with a grin and Robb scoffed.

“Nah, I missed home too.”

“You missed your lady,” Theon corrected. “More than you missed home. You kept sulking.”

“Aye, you did.”

“I was right to do so, because apparently she—” Robb paused when he saw Lady Jorelle crossing the yard. “Give me a moment. Lady Jorelle?”

She spun around on her heels as he made his way to her.

“Hello.”

“Hello, my lord,” she said. “Welcome back.”

“Thank you,” he said. “I uh…this is going to sound rather strange, but is my lady wife alright?”

She blinked a couple of times, then raised her brows. “Hm?”

“Has something happened while I was away?”

She frowned and looked up as if she was trying to remember, then shook her head.

“Nothing happened,” she said, her voice calm. “Why?”

“She seems rather distressed,” he said. “And she mentioned some people disagreeing with her about her plans for mothers and children for the winter. Has someone disrespected her in my absence? Because she refuses to tell me, but I’d like to put an end to it if such a thing took place.”

“And admirable thought,” she said. “But nothing took place, I assure you. If anything, it was a rather dull week.”  

Robb bit inside his cheek, then gave her a curt smile and nodded.

“Thank you,” he said. “I’d better leave you to it then. I appreciate your help.”

“Of course,” Jorelle said and curtsied, then went into the keep while Robb returned to the corner Jon and Theon were watching him from.

“What was that about?” Theon asked and Robb ran a hand through his hair.

“My lady is distressed, and I do not know why.”

“Well, her family is away,” Jon pointed out. “And then you went away. Can’t be easy, being alone in a new place.”

That could explain the nightmare, now that he thought about it.

“But Silas will visit often, he said so himself,” Theon said. “A couple moons after the honeymoon, he said.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” Robb said with a shrug. “Silas is rather busy in Dorne with a lady.”

Jon’s head shot up from his sword. “Silas has a lady?”

“Aye, a mistress.” Robb grinned. “A young widow who killed her husband, apparently.”

Theon let out a laugh, and Jon stared at Robb in silence for a couple of seconds, then took a deep breath.

“He—how do you know this?”

“Perceon sent a raven to my lady.” Robb gulped down his water, then put the flask to the side. “Are you ready?”

Jon swallowed thickly, then feigned a cough.

“You go ahead, I’ll uh…” He motioned in the direction of the Godswood. “I’ll find Ghost.”

“Now?” Robb asked but Jon ignored him, making his way through the yard to go into the Godswood. Robb turned to Theon to see whether he knew what was happening, but Theon held up his palms with a shake of his head.

“You two know direwolves better than I.”

Robb looked over his shoulder, then heaved a sigh and grabbed his sword.

“Very well then,” he said. “Come on. I haven’t sparred in days, I must catch up.”  

Eventually, he had to go back to his solar to hold audience with some of his vassals, but once Lord Poole left and someone knocked on the door, it wasn’t yet another vassal but his lady wife who peeked her head in.

“Am I interrupting anything?”

“Never,” Robb said, a smile pulling at his lips as he stood up. “Come in!”

She stepped inside and closed the door behind her.

“I know you’ve been busy, but I sent the ledgers with Kyra, and I wanted to ask—”

“They’re over here,” Robb pointed at the top of the pile. “I’ll be done with them by the dinner time, is that alright?”

“More than alright!” She beamed while he rounded the desk to lean back to it, then grabbed her hand to pull her closer. A giggle climbed her throat and she stepped into his embrace, heaving a sigh when he cradled her cheek in his palm and brushed his lips against hers.

“Do you have much to do?” she asked, playing with the laces of his shirt and he nodded.

“A little,” he admitted. “But stay.”

“Gladly,” she said. “I miss you during the day.”

“I miss you too,” he said, caressing her cheekbone. “And are you feeling better? Last night…”

“Oh.” She paused, looking down at the floor before she raised her gaze to his again. “I’m sorry about that.”

“Don’t,” he said in a haste. “Don’t apologize for it. I just want to make sure you’re alright, that’s all.”

“I’m alright,” she assured him. “It was just a nightmare, nothing more.”

“And is…” Robb trailed off. “Is someone driving a burning sword down your spine and shooting arrows into your stomach?”

 That coaxed a laugh out of her, the pleasant sound echoing in the room.

“No.”

“No urge to walk around screaming at people?”

“Aside from very specific people, no,” she said. “But ask me again after dinner. I have a feeling the urge will be back then.”

“We can take our dinner in our bedchambers.”

“You just came back,” she reminded him. “We cannot do that I’m afraid. Your vassals want to see you.”

“And I want to see my wife.”

“I’m right here.”

“Aye, but you’re dressed.”

Her jaw dropped and she pushed at his arm. “Robb!”

“What?” He gave her a mischievous grin. “Would you rather if I were dishonest?”

“I would rather if you weren’t so—” she started, but was cut off when someone knocked on the door.

“Lord Mollen, m’lord,” the footman at the door announced and his lady rolled her eyes at the name.

Ah.

The infamous Lord Mollen who did not approve or like her plans.

When the footman opened the door to let him in, his lady made an attempt to step away no doubt to leave the room, but Robb was quick to grab her wrist to tug her back to his side, making her head shoot up.

“You’ll stay,” he muttered and turned to the man. “Lord Mollen. Good afternoon.”

Lord Mollen lingered in his spot, his eyes darting between him and his lady before he bowed his head.

“My lord,” he said. “If you’re busy, I can come at another time.”

“We’re not busy.”

“But the lady—”

“My lady wife will remain here.”

She looked like she was fighting off a smug smile but managed to school her expression into composure.

“Hello Lord Mollen,” she said. “How wonderful to see you. I’ve had the chance to talk to Lady Lynara the other day.”

“She mentioned it, my lady,” Lord Mollen said. “That was actually what I wanted to talk to you about, my lord. This…carpenter business.”

Robb gave a short nod. “I’m listening.”

Lord Mollen cleared his throat.

“It’s clear that your lady wife has a soft heart for children,” he started, “And may the gods grant you both many.”

A shadow crossed his lady’s face, but it was gone as quick as it came.

“However,” the man continued. “Expecting the carpenters to teach the craft to absolute strangers on top of their usual work has caused some unrest between them, at least in my castle. Most of them teach their own children their craft.”

“Orphans don’t have fathers who can teach them anything, Lord Mollen,” she said. “And those carpenters will be compensated for their work. Surely adding one more apprentice cannot hurt. Or do they fear competition?”

Lord Mollen turned his glances to Robb as if he expected him to step in, but Robb stayed quiet for a deliberate couple of seconds before he pushed himself off the desk.

“The question was directed to you, my lord.” He went back to take his seat behind the desk, so that Lord Mollen would have to address his lady while Robb was still present and could glare at him without her noticing. “Not to me.”

“No,” Lord Mollen answered in a rush. “Not competition, but they find it rather trivial. All that work for toys for children, who will mostly come from mountain clans. We have our own people to worry about for the winter, and while I’m sure it’s normal to give such instructions back in the south, in the north—”

“Lord Mollen, there must’ve been a misunderstanding in my absence,” Robb cut him off. “Which is expected, seeing that this is rather new for everyone. But from now on, you can safely assume that whatever instructions my lady wife gives, as polite as she makes them sound, come from me.” He crossed his arms over the desk and leaned forward, his jaw clenched. “And I do not give trivial commands.”

Since his lady was still leaning back to the desk, he couldn’t see her face, but Lord Mollen’s discontent was clear as day. Silence fell upon the room, and Robb let the veiled threat linger in the air without another word while Lord Mollen gulped, then took a deep breath.

“A misunderstanding indeed,” he said, and bowed his head. “I’ll make sure they follow your command, my lord. My lady.”

“Have a nice day, Lord Mollen!” his lady chirped while she walked him to the door, then closed it behind him once he left. Robb threw his head back.

“That prick…” he grumbled while his lady stood there for a moment, her hand still on the handle.

“Do you have some free time?” she asked after a beat, leaning back to the door. Robb ran a hand through his hair.

“I’m supposed to hold meetings with four more people until dinner.”

She let out a hum like she was lost in her own thoughts before she shrugged and bolted the door.

“They’ll wait.”

“What’re you—?” Robb was cut off when she flung herself into his arms for a kiss, letting him pull her into his lap with a squeal. He grabbed the side of her neck to tilt her head, the feeling of her melting under his touch intoxicating as ever when he deepened the kiss, the fire of desire coming to life with a stir.

Gods, it had been so long…

His lips trailed down the column of her throat down to her bosom, her lovely scent filling his lungs, her skin softer than the silk of her pretty gown. Her fingers buried into his curls with a gasp to tug at the roots, drawing a moan out of him as she shifted in his lap, the mere friction against his hardness enough to drive him mad. He blindly reached down to push her skirt up, but she grabbed his hands to entwine their fingers, trying to catch her breath, her lips swollen with his kiss.

“Robb, we cannot do that—”

The sound that left him sounded awfully like a whine. “But…”

“Not that.”

“Does my wife mean to torment me, then?”

A giggle climbed up her throat and she sunk her teeth into her bottom lip, looked over her shoulder at the door, then turned to him again.

“No,” she said, “my husband misunderstands me.”

He could’ve come up with a retort if all the blood in his body hadn’t gone south, but any hope of even half a thought disappeared from his mind when she easily slid off his lap to kneel before him, the realization knocking the breath out of his lungs.

Your handmaiden was quick to notice when you didn't request cloths for your blood.

Though you'd been told many times that you'd bear children one day–your late mother and your family's septa prepared you according to the best of their abilities–all the lessons were of little use in that moment when your mind tried to understand: you were with child.

You waited a few moons before telling Baelor, who was elated. From then on, he tried to return from his work earlier than usual to check on you.

Anticipatory nerves filled you, mixing with dread. You both awaited the day dearly when the babe would make you feel its first movements, and were at the same time frightened.

But of what? Baelor had 2 heirs already, so the child born didn't need to be a boy. And the Red Keep had the best maesters and midwives in the whole realm; there was nought to worry about regarding that.

One night, while dining with the queen, she grew quiet as she observed you.

'What troubles you, good daughter?' Queen Myriah put her utensils down and clasped her hands in front of herself.

You looked at her like a shy kid; you weren't even sure yourself, but you tried. Told her about the fear–the uneasy knot in your stomach when you woke, the one that wouldn't let you eat till midday. You told her that some nights, you didn't get much sleep, though you knew you should.

'I know it. The feeling,' she said, smiling sympathetically, as she reached for your hand across the table, 'all mothers do. Do not feel that you have to hide that.'

You smiled at her, appreciating her kindness. But while it eased your mind for that night, the dread did not go away. As the end of your term neared, you tallied the moons over and over again, and the thought you initially tried to ignore began to roar at you now.

The conception must have been on or around your wedding night.

Around the time you brought your secret to Baelor.

Around the time you last saw your sworn knight.

Around the time you lay with him, for the last time.

The moment you realised, you felt a strong kick in your side. You cried out, prompting your handmaiden to hurry to you with a worried look on her face.

How could it have happened? Did the moon tea not take? It should have kept you from conceiving at all during those few days.

'Oh my sweet...' tears filled your eyes as you held your hand where your stomach still ached.

Everyone, including Baelor, thought your nerves were due to the nearing of the birth. You dared not confide in anyone this time.

Your son was born on a winter night: as you first held him, exhausted from labouring, you were amazed at the softness of his little hands and the warmth that radiated from his small body. Your own skin was clammy and cool against his; it was like he tried to give you what little he had. So small, and already looking out for you.

You recalled that hours before, while you were still labouring, you cried for your own mother like a child searching the keep. For a moment, you felt that if you called for her badly enough, she'd appear to you. But you knew it was impossible; you remembered, holding your own babe now, that she had been long gone.

Right then, as if the child in your hands felt your sorrow, he began to cry.

'Shhhh,' you soothed him weakly.

'He looks so much like his mother, Your Grace,' the young midwife said, beaming at you.

There was an air of relief in the room: while the birth of a prince was cause for celebration across the realm, the bedside of the mother was all the more filled with fear. Only when the child finally arrived, were those in the room able to breathe calmly.

'Yes, he does, doesn't he?' you smiled, as you rocked the boy in your arms.

The next moment, the doors swung open, and Baelor stepped inside. He nodded quickly to the midwives, but his eyes were then back on you. He hurried to your side and cupped your cheek, his calloused but tender hands grounding you.

'My love,' he wanted to kiss you; you could tell. But he held himself back, searching your face instead to make sure you were all right.

You leaned into his touch, and he moved closer so you could rest your head on his shoulder. To rest; it was all you wanted. And you knew he'd give it to you; give you his arm to lean on and his spirit to stay lit if you needed to drift off. In fact, you heard your son quiet down as Baelor began to sing to him in a low voice:

'Drakari pykiros Tīkummo jemiros Yn lantyz bartossa Saelot vāedis...'

'It gets easier with time,' said Queen Myriah, giving your arm a comforting squeeze as the handmaid carried your son off to be nursed.

She saw how it affected the both of you. The boy clung to you, like he was scared you'd disappear the moment he couldn't see you.

You too felt dread fill your chest when someone else held him, and couldn't wait for him to be back in your arms. When he was, you inspected him obsessively, watching his eyes, nose, mouth, and the way his hair was coming in. He chuckled sweetly, seeing the serious focus in your eyes, and reached his hand out to grab at your nose. When he did that, you snapped out of your fervent examination, and his giggle made you ease a little.

You felt guilty for it, though he couldn't have known why you searched his features so much. Every day he grew a bit bigger, and you feared that one day his looks would favour someone other than Baelor.

But the more you looked, the more you just saw your own blood in him.

Hair the colour of you and your lord father's; eyes dark and keen like your late sister's; mouth that curved like your mother's did once. He smiled back at you, amused at your furrowing brows.

Poor boy; he must have felt your unease. Was that why he fussed so? Able to tell her mother's worry, penetrating the walls and tying him to her with an invisible, quivering thread?

The only time you felt peace with him in someone else's arms was when Baelor carried him. Somehow, the unease did not come then, and the boy did not fuss either.

Could that have meant something, you wondered?

But likewise, there were nights when the uncertainty swallowed you whole like a dark pit.

Only the Gods truly knew one's sins, you thought to yourself. Perhaps your penance was never being sure of the truth, for the rest of your life. It was high treason to pass off a bastard as a prince's trueborn son, but the truth was, you couldn't even know for sure that you were doing so. The nights when you were with your lover, then Baelor, were too close to each other.

You had almost driven yourself to madness when one day, months later, your son uttered his first word.

Having just visited Baelor in his office, you were preparing to leave to let him work. You were facing away, and your son was staring back at Baelor over your shoulders. It was then that you heard his voice in your ear, small, hesitant...

'Ke...Ke...' the little prince raised his finger and pointed at Baelor.

'Kepa,' he said, and you felt your heart skip a beat.

You whipped around and saw Baelor's smile beaming back at you with so much happiness that it could've made you cry right there.

Years passed, and the young prince grew.

While all seemed to think he favoured his mother's beauty, it was Baelor's poise they saw in him, too. The boy admired him greatly; you sometimes caught him straighten his back when he noticed Baelor watching over the training grounds.

'The Young Prince wants to be like his father. There isn't a better example for a young man, I say,' your handmaiden whispered to you, smiling over her embroidery.

You saw the training grounds from your window: your son was adept, which made Baelor proud. He called the boy Lord Commander as a jest, to the child's delight.

You smiled. The bond between them was dear, and your handmaid was right. You couldn't have wished for a better father for him.

It all started with hushed whispers in the corridors.

No one believed anything could be as terrible again: the Great Spring Sickness was what made a king of Baelor, but dark was the day that brought the crown to him. No merriment accompanied him when he took the throne; the new king had just buried his two young sons next to his old sire.

And just when you thought you put those days behind you; just when you believed you could begin to heal. Wind carried news of another sickness–surely it couldn't get as bad again?

Focus turned first to supplying King's Landing with enough food, now that the ship routes had to be cut off. The council feared a famine, but it would soon get much worse. The population had already dwindled from the previous plague, and then, one day, people began to die again.

The Red Keep's doors were closed off. No one was to leave, and no one was to enter; the streets were eerily quiet as you watched them from the windows. The maesters toiled day and night, and you, unable to visit the Sept, prayed in your room.

One morning, your handmaiden swung your doors open.

'The Master of Coin,' she gasped, and covered her face as she wailed.

'What of him?' you hurried to her. She was shaken, trembling. It took a while before she was able to say it: the Master of Coin had fallen ill the night before and was dead by the morning.

In later years, the maesters came to call it the Second Spring Sickness, but during those days, it was your hell. You held your son close, visions of Valarr and Matarys' fates flashing in your mind... Poor boys were with their mother now. Your son was the king's heir, and he was even younger than either of them when they passed.

But one morning, he wouldn't wake as you shook him, and when you placed your hand against his temple, you pulled it back fast. His skin was on fire; you screamed for the Grand Maester. They had to pull you off the bed by force.

Nights passed in uncertainty. You stayed collapsed in front of the large oak doors to the bedchamber, which was locked from the inside. Your handmaiden begged you to leave; to go to bed, like the maesters suggested, but you couldn't get yourself to leave the floor. You watched the light of the candles that streamed through from under the doors; behind them was your son...

Baelor came the minute he found out; he, too, stayed, head hung as he sat on a bench. His hand dangled by his side, holding yours. He had tried to ask you to sit next to him, but again, you refused. It felt like if you tore your eyes away from the only tether you still had to your child–the soft candlelight that snuck through the gap near the floor–you'd lose him forever. He got you to agree to sit on a blanket at least; the two of you clung to each other as you waited for word from inside.

Four tense nights had passed when the maester finally stepped out. You stood immediately; the man's face looked more weary than you'd ever seen.

'The Young Prince lives,' he said, and a heavy weight fell from your chest.

'I was able to bring his fever down... but Your Grace,' he said, looking between you and Baelor. His face was white as ivory.

'Oh, forgive me, my king. I cannot say if he wakes up. It is safe now, if you wish...' he bowed deeply, not knowing what else to say.

Sitting by the bed, you watched your son's small chest rise and fall weakly.

His cheeks were red from the days-long fever; his hair stuck to his forehead. You brought a hand over his face, smoothing away his curls. Then you reached for a cloth that was drenched in water and brought it to his lips. They were chapped.

Baelor hung his head across from you, on the other side of the bed.

You weren't sure how long you had been sitting like that, in silence. Food was brought in for you, but neither of you ate. The next morning, news came that the ship routes were open again. The council was still assessing the total loss of life in the city.

'I cannot leave him,' Baelor finally said.

You knew what he meant; he'd have to return to his duties soon.

'My last son...'

Your heart clenched at his words. Perhaps the Gods were punishing you. But why would they take your child? The only one who was blameless in it all? And why would they hand Baelor more bodies to bury? How many children could he lay to rest before it broke him?

And then, the thought that hadn't visited you for years came. It was right that it poked its head one last time; perhaps the Gods were punishing you. For your sins years before. For tricking your husband.

Baelor's words broke the silence between you.

‘Even if I may not be the sire...'

You thought you were imagining things for a second, as your ears began to ring. You looked across the bed at him; he was watching you too, eyes calm but woeful.

His large hands rested over your son's, covering them.

'Even if I may not be the sire... will you let me bury him as a Targaryen?’

You hadn't cried for days. The heaviness behind your eyes suggested you wanted to, but it all just ended up culminating in a throbbing headache as you kept awake, sitting on the castle corridor's tiles.

But as Baelor spoke those words, all your anguish from the nights, or perhaps all those years, spilt from you.

You buried your face in the silk of the bed, sobbing, as you held his hand that reached across to you.

You weren't sure when you got onto the bed, but that's where you lay as the sun's rays woke you the next day.

You had a vague memory of Baelor pressing a soft kiss to your temple and covering you with his cape. He must have gone back to meet the council. Ah, yes. The city was recovering from the sickness. You did not want to open your eyes.

As you willed yourself to fall back asleep, you began to feel like you were lying within a boat across the sea.

That's when something tugged at your consciousness, grasping at you, pulling you back awake. Words...

'Mother...'

Faint, weak.

'Mother?'

Again, a soft whimper from your left...

The realisation hit you like a lightning strike.

You could feel the heat of the sun hitting your bare skin even at this early hour in King's Landing.

Stirring, you hugged the cool bedsheets to your body, hoping the feeling of them might lull you back to sleep. But the air was already heavy with summer's warmth; you decided to just rest your eyes instead.

Baelor had suggested you go to Summerhall, where it was more pleasant at this time of year. You would be able to rest better there, he said. And he was probably right, but the idea of going to bed and waking without the feeling of his body next to yours...

That you might feel the first flutters of your child without him by your side...

The thought broke your heart. So you stayed in King's Landing.

A sweet warmth rose in you, and you placed your hand under your heart; you were not so far along, but the curve of your belly swelled a little more day by day.

Suddenly, you felt a hand over yours and Baelor's stubble against your shoulders. You smiled as he held you close, even despite the heat.

'Good morning, my love,' he murmured against your skin.

'Mmmm,' you turned your face so you could kiss him. There was something nice about waking early because of the summer: you could spend some more time together before Baelor had to leave to tend to his duties.

Some of these mornings were spent slowly, sunbathing together; he called for fresh fruit, and you broke your fast together.

Other times, he devoured you instead.

Those days, you could feel his passion even before you opened your eyes; he only reached over, and you already knew he woke up with his cock hard.

At first, he tried to hold back, afraid he'd hurt you or the babe. But you wanted him, too: seeing him desire you like that ignited a need that you suspected was enhanced by your pregnancy. You won't hurt me, you said to him, as you begged him to fuck you.

This morning, his hand gently caressed the small mound under your heart.

'How are we today?' he asked softly.

'Resting so well. Still no sign from the babe,' you shifted your head to see him, 'It's strange. Shouldn't it be...'

'I'm sure it's alright. It's early still,' he reassured you as he kept stroking your belly with his knuckles, 'Don't worry.'

You sighed, knowing he was right, but you couldn't help it. In some ways, you knew you wouldn't truly relax until you brought the child into the world. Baelor must have seen that in your eyes because he planted a kiss on your lips.

'What can I do for you?' he breathed softly.

He took his fingers and, with a featherlike touch, he ran his fingertips along your side; you slept naked because of the heat, and your skin felt especially sensitive these days. You shuddered.

'Hmm...' you sighed softly. It escaped your lips without warning: you couldn't help it when he caressed you like that. His fingers were barely touching you–just the tips of them glossing over your body–but the light tickle woke a hungry feeling in you.

'Is that good?' he asked of you, and you nodded. His hand ran along your spine, and your body trembled under it.

He'd do this for as long as he could, watching and marveling as your body, out of your control, chased the movement of his hands like the disturbed surface of water. He'd listen as long as he could to your sighs that grew from pleased to desperate; he denied you his full touch as long as he was able to.

It amazed you when you first realized what this did to you. He barely had to touch you, and by the end, you were writhing and moaning from just the soft brush of his fingertips on your skin. When he couldn't hold back any longer, he spread your legs and stared at the wet mess your cunt had become.

Perhaps it was the pregnancy that made you more sensitive; you couldn't know. You pressed your thighs together as you felt the slickness grow between them now.

Baelor pressed his mouth to your ears.

'What am I going to see when I open you up?'

His knuckles were brushing from your waist back up to your neck. You whined softly at the sensation.

'I'm already soaked for you–' you uttered, fingers digging into the pillows. You could feel his hardness pressing into your back; he hid it better, but this had an effect on him too. It was only a question of time when he broke.

'Don't even have to touch you to make you act like this,' he whispered in your ear.

His hand trailed lower and lower, then rested on your backside.

You angled yourself, beckoning him to feel between your legs; he moved his fingers there. You were drenched, and his fingers running against you made an obscene sound. You could feel his hot breath against your neck as you pushed yourself to him.

'Is that all you'd like?' he inquired, already knowing the answer.

'No...'

'What else then?'

'You...' you could barely form the words. Heat rushed to your cheeks when you thought of how quickly he could undo you.

'Ask nicely,' he put up a good fight, but you could hear that his breath was ragged, and he was pressing his hips to you. You loved knowing how much he, too, needed you.

'Please fuck me, Baelor,' you breathed, 'make me yours again...'

He tore himself away from you, rolling you onto your back. Hovering above you, he kissed you greedily. Then, he moved his mouth lower until he reached your breasts, and when he took them in his mouth, you let out a cry. You were so sensitive, dull pain mixing with pleasure. He stayed like that for a while, licking and kissing your nipples, making you sob when his teeth grazed your hard peaks.

When he had had enough of teasing you, he straightened up and ran his hand over your belly. You knew he was looking at it; the evidence of what he'd done to you. His caress was gentle and so soft, but the desire in his eyes and his painfully erect length gave away how turned on he was by the sight of his pregnant wife.

You conceived that day in Ashford, when he finally came back to you; you were so caught up in relief and spending all your attention on nursing him back to health, you didn't even notice. After a few weeks at Ashford, you all went to Summerhall for Baelor to finish his recovery. It was there that you realized, but you dared not tell him till more time had passed and you were back in King's Landing; you did not wish to tempt fate.

In truth, you were still scared sometimes that you'd wake from a dream.

But as you lay there under the gaze of your husband, you couldn't think of that now. His eyes shifted lower from your belly to the sight of your glistening cunt. You held your breath as he leaned down, and when you felt his stubble between your thighs, you threw your head back.

The teasing from earlier and the combination of his tongue on you had you rutting on his face soon, and with your release still on his beard, he flipped you around so you were on your knees now.

He already knew you liked to be taken this way; passionate, sweet, devoted at first, then rough. You knew he wouldn't get as harsh now that you were with child, as before: when he'd grab your neck as he pumped into you from the back; when his fingers would tangle in your hair, holding you in place for him; when his hand would meet your ass in loud strikes. You loved knowing that the man who held you tenderly could also treat you like that.

Now he held back, but still gave you what you wanted. He fucked you from behind slowly, hands digging into your ass. You hoped they would leave a mark; you loved the signs on your body that you were his. The proof of his claim on you in your womb; the marks of his fingers digging into your ass that he'd kiss afterwards. They would never be enough for you.

He soon came spilling onto your stomach, and you thanked the summer heat for rousing you and gifting you these hours before everything else-duty, the Realm, and business called.