“ i’m not afraid to look like an Idiot. ,,

He tasted of wine and warmth and the quiet possessiveness that never quite left him, even in the soft hours after the children were meant to be asleep. “Hmm, shut that mouth and take it.”

You made a small, breathless sound when his lips trailed to the corner of your mouth, then lower, along the line of your jaw. His hand splayed possessively over your hip, thumb stroking idle circles that made your pulse skip.

“Fuck me,” he murmured against your skin, voice rough with want, “you’re still the most beautiful thing I have ever known.”

“Maekar!” You gasped in mock scandal, eyes flying open even as a helpless smile tugged at your lips. “Language. There are impressionable ears in this keep.”

He only huffed a quiet laugh and claimed your mouth again, kissing you until your thoughts scattered and the world narrowed to the solid weight of him, the heat of his chest against yours, the way his arms locked around you like he meant to keep the rest of the realm outside the bed curtains forever.

That was when the soft scrape of bare feet on stone reached you.

A small shadow hovered at the edge of the bed, clutching a wooden dragon, the one Maekar himself had carved years ago for him. Aerion’s hair was mussed from sleep, his lower lip caught between his teeth.

“Mommy,” came the little voice, thin with worry, “I am afraid of the dark. Can you come sleep with me?”

Maekar’s arms tightened around you at once, a low grumble of displeasure vibrating through his chest.

He lifted his head just enough to glare past the curtains, still half-draped over you like a dragon guarding its hoard.

You turned your face toward your boy, soft smile already forming, only for Maekar’s gruff imitation of a child’s plea to tumble out first.

“Mommy,” he mimicked in a deep, aggrieved rumble, arms locking tighter, “I am afraid of the dark. Can you come sleep with me?”

A soft laugh escaped you despite yourself. You flicked the tip of his nose the moment the words left his mouth.

“Oh, hush, you impossible man.” Then, gentler, to the small figure at the bedside: “Oh, my sweet boy…”

You shifted, ready to throw off the linens, but Maekar’s hold only hardened.

“Woman,” he growled, low and final, “you are not leaving this bed.”

“You are insufferable, Maekar.”

“You are my woman. My wife.” His head settled heavily on your chest, eyes still fixed on Aerion with pure parental outrage. “See what your spoiling has caused. Go back to bed, boy.”

Aerion’s lower lip trembled, but his chin lifted with the same stubborn set his father wore. “Please, mommy.”

You reached out, brushing a lock of hair from his forehead, voice warm and firm all at once. “My sweet boy, you are grown now. You must start being independent. The dark is only dark, and your dragon will keep watch.”

Aerion’s eyes widened, pure betrayal shining in them as he pointed an accusing finger at the large man currently occupying the entirety of his mother’s arms. “No! Daddy is bigger than me. Why should he get to keep you? He’s bigger than me, he should be independent too!”

Maekar’s only answer was a deeper glare and an even tighter embrace, as though the very suggestion might somehow pry you from his side.

A bright, helpless laugh tumbled from your lips before you could stop it, soft and fond and utterly undone by the sight of your third son standing there in his little nightshirt, wooden dragon clutched to his chest like a shield, solemnly declaring that his father ought to be independent too.

Aerion’s whole face lit up at the sound. The worried crease between his brows vanished. He beamed so brightly the dim chamber seemed warmer for it, small shoulders straightening with pure, triumphant hope.

You reached up, carding gentle fingers through Maekar’s hair even as he continued to glare daggers over your chest. “It is only until I know he is safe and asleep,” you murmured, voice low and coaxing against his ear. “Just a little while, my love. Then I will come straight back to you.”

Maekar’s answer was a deep, rumbling growl that vibrated straight through your bones, half protest, half pure possessive displeasure. His arms tightened once more, as though he might simply refuse to let the world or his own son claim even a single heartbeat of you.

Yet when Aerion padded closer, bare feet whispering on the stone, Maekar did not stop you from shifting the covers. He only pressed one last, lingering kiss to the hinge of your jaw, silent promise and soft warning both, before reluctantly loosening his hold enough for you to slip free.

Aerion’s small hand found yours at once, warm and trusting, and the wooden dragon bumped against your hip as he tugged you toward the door with quiet, victorious urgency. Behind you, Maekar’s growl followed like a shadow, low and continuous, the sound of a dragon who had temporarily lost his hoard and was already counting the minutes until it returned.

You guided Aerion down the quiet corridor, his small hand warm in yours, the wooden dragon bumping softly against your side with every eager step. The night torches burned low, casting long golden pools across the stone, and the keep felt hushed and safe around the two of you.

His chamber was small and familiar, tapestries of ships and stars, a single shuttered window, the bed piled high with soft furs. You helped him climb in first, then slid beneath the covers beside him, tucking the blankets snug around his narrow shoulders. Aerion immediately burrowed closer, the carved dragon clutched between you both like a shared secret.

For a moment he simply lay there, breathing in the quiet. Then his voice came, soft and hopeful in the dark.

“Mommy… will you tell me a story?”

You smiled, brushing a curl from his forehead. “Of course, my brave boy. What sort of story shall it be?”

He thought hard, nose scrunching. “A scary one. But with a happy ending. And swords.”

“Very well.” You propped yourself on one elbow, voice dropping into the low, dramatic cadence reserved for the best tales. “Once there lived a fierce lady knight, strong and clever and never afraid of the dark. One night a terrible basilisk crept into her castle, its eyes glowing like green fire, its scales black as pitch. It meant to steal her youngest son away…”

Aerion’s eyes went round. You sat up a little higher, one arm sweeping wide as though drawing a blade from thin air.

“But the lady knight would not allow it!” You rose onto your knees in the bed, imaginary sword flashing in great, heroic arcs. “She charged down the corridor, slash! clang!, driving the beast back with every strike. ‘You shall not have my boy!’ she cried, steel ringing against scales. The basilisk hissed and lunged, but the lady knight was faster. She leapt, spun, and with one final mighty swing,” you brought the invisible blade down in a decisive arc that made the covers flutter, “she sent the creature tumbling into the shadows, never to return!”

Aerion giggled, pure delight bubbling up as he clutched his dragon tighter. “And then she hugged her son?”

“And then,” you said, settling back down beside him with a soft smile, “she gathered her son close, tucked him safely into bed, and promised that as long as she lived, no darkness, nor any beast within it, would ever touch him.”

You pressed a gentle kiss to his temple. Outside the chamber door the keep remained quiet, and somewhere down the hall a certain gruff dragon was almost certainly still counting the minutes until his wife returned.

Aerion’s small arms wound tightly around your neck the moment the last words of the story faded. He pressed his face into the curve of your shoulder, the wooden dragon caught awkwardly between your bodies, and held on as though the entire keep might vanish if he loosened his grip even a little.

“Promise,” he whispered, voice already thick with sleep. “Promise you won’t leave me, Mommy. Not ever.”

You stroked slow circles over his back, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing begin to deepen. “I promise, my sweet boy,” you murmured against his hair. “I will always be here when you need me. Always.”

His fingers curled into the fabric of your nightgown, a soft, trusting hold that slowly relaxed as the last of his fear melted away. Within moments his body went heavy and warm against yours, the even rhythm of sleep claiming him at last. The wooden dragon slipped a little in his slackening grasp, but he did not stir.

You remained still for a long while, listening to the quiet of the chamber and the soft, steady sound of your third son’s breathing, the promise still warm on your tongue.

You waited until Aerion’s breathing had deepened into the slow, even rhythm of true sleep before you carefully eased his arms from around your neck. The wooden dragon remained tucked against his chest as you drew the furs higher, brushing one last soft kiss to his temple. He did not stir.

The corridor outside was cooler, the torches burning lower still. You moved quietly, bare feet silent on the stone, and turned toward the chamber that belonged to your firstborn.

Daeron’s door stood slightly ajar. Even before you reached it you could hear him, small, broken whimpers that caught in his throat, the restless shift of limbs against the sheets. Your heart clenched the moment the sound reached you.

You slipped inside.

He lay tangled in the covers, hair damp against his forehead, brow furrowed deep even in sleep. Another soft, wounded sound escaped him, and you knew at once what plagued him. The same dreams that had haunted him since he was barely more than a babe, shadows and fire and things too heavy for a child’s mind to carry alone.

It broke your heart.

You crossed the room without a word and sank carefully onto the edge of the bed. One hand found his, small and warm and tightly curled, and you stroked your thumb across the back of it in slow, steady circles. Your other hand brushed the hair from his brow, gentle as a whisper.

“Shh, my love,” you breathed, voice barely more than a breath. “I’m here. You’re safe. The dreams cannot keep you.”

Daeron’s whimpers quieted by degrees, though the tension in his small body remained. You stayed exactly where you were, heart aching, watching over your firstborn as the night pressed close around the both of you.

You leaned down and pressed a lingering kiss to Daeron’s forehead, letting your lips rest there a moment longer than necessary, breathing in the familiar scent of him, warm skin and the faint trace of the lavender the maids sometimes tucked into the bedding. Only when his breathing had evened into something closer to true rest did you rise and slip quietly from the chamber.

Aemon’s door was next.

You eased it open just enough to peer inside, and caught him in the act. The candle flame vanished with a sharp little puff of breath. In the sudden dark a small shape dove beneath the covers in a frantic rustle of linen, leaving only a tell-tale book abandoned on the edge of the mattress, its pages still open.

A soft, knowing smile curved your mouth.

You crouched low, voice dropping into a deep, rumbling growl that filled the quiet room.

“I am the great dragon of the night,” you intoned, claws of your fingers curling against the floorboards. “I hunt for children who refuse to sleep… children who read by candlelight long past the hour they should be dreaming. Those children must climb onto the bed… and then they vanish. Forever.”

A long, dramatic pause.

From beneath the covers a pair of wide eyes peeked over the edge of the blanket.

“Mommy?”

You lunged.

Aemon’s startled squeak turned into helpless, delighted laughter as you pounced, fingers finding every ticklish spot along his ribs and under his arms. He thrashed and giggled and tried to squirm away, but you were merciless, growling dragon-like nonsense between bursts of his bright, breathless laughter until the whole bed shook with it.

You finally relented, collapsing onto the bed beside him in a warm heap of soft laughter, both of you breathless. Aemon’s cheeks were flushed, hair sticking up in every direction, and the abandoned book had been kicked halfway to the floor in the scuffle.

You reached over and gently tugged the covers up around him again, smoothing them with a mother’s practiced hand. Your voice softened, though a thread of fond amusement still lingered in it.

“Now then, my little night-dragon…” You brushed a stray curl from his forehead. “Why are you still awake?”

Aemon’s laughter faded into something quieter. He tugged the covers up to his chin and looked at you with wide, earnest eyes.

“I couldn’t sleep,” he admitted in a small voice.

You tilted your head, fingers still gently smoothing his hair. “Why not, sweetling?”

He was silent for a moment, lower lip caught between his teeth. Then, so softly you almost missed it:

“I just… wanted you.”

Your heart melted. Before you could answer, Aemon sat up a little straighter, expression suddenly solemn, as though he were about to make a formal declaration before the entire court.

“Mommy… can I marry you?”

The question hung in the quiet chamber, perfectly serious.

A deep, familiar voice answered from the doorway before you could.

“No.”

You both turned.

Maekar stood there, bare-chested, hair still mussed from the bed he had been forced to abandon. His violet eyes were serious, though a faint, reluctant warmth flickered in them as they moved from his second son to you.

“She is my wife,” he said, the words low and final, as though the matter had been settled long ago and required no further discussion.

You rolled your eyes at the pair of them, the fond exasperation of a mother and wife who had heard far too many claims upon her in one night.

But something darker flickered across Maekar’s violet gaze, something heated and intent that made your pulse skip. You knew that look. Knew exactly what it meant.

You turned back to Aemon, leaning down to press a soft kiss to his forehead. “Sleep, my little night-dragon,” you whispered. “I’ll be right down the hall.”

You stayed until his breathing evened and his small hand finally loosened its hold on the covers. Only then did you rise.

Maekar was already moving.

He crossed the chamber in three long strides, caught you around the waist, and in one smooth motion hauled you up and over his shoulder as though you weighed nothing. A startled breath left you as the world tilted. One of his large hands settled firmly across the backs of your thighs to keep you steady.

“I want another,” he declared, voice low and rough with certainty as he carried you from the room, the door swinging shut behind you both.

Your bright, helpless laughter spilled out and echoed down the quiet halls of Summerhall as Maekar carried you with single-minded purpose, each long stride a clear declaration of intent. You knew exactly what that promise meant, knew the heat in his blood and the determination in the strong arm locked around your thighs.

Still laughing, you braced your hands against his bare back and asked, voice soft with hope and amusement both, “Do you think the gods might grant us a little girl this time?”

Maekar’s answer came without hesitation, low and absolute, the words vibrating through his chest and into yours.

“Then I’ll keep trying until I give you one.”

You barely had time to draw breath before Maekar’s shoulder met the closed doors of your chambers. He set you down only long enough to press you back against the wood, one powerful thigh sliding between yours as his hands dragged the soft fabric of your nightshift higher and higher, bunching it at your waist.

His mouth found the side of your neck at once, open, hungry, almost reverent, trailing wet heat along the sensitive skin just beneath your ear. A low, broken sound escaped him, something closer to a growl than a word, and you felt the tremor that ran through his entire body as he pressed closer still.

He loved you so fiercely, so completely, that language had long since failed him. Every urgent kiss against your throat, every desperate grip of his hands on your bare hips, every ragged breath he spilled against your skin was the only way he knew how to say it.

Maekar’s mouth never left your neck. His lips brushed the sensitive skin just below your ear as he spoke, the words rough and low and thick with hunger.

“I’m going to fuck you so full you’ll feel me for days.”

The promise vibrated against your throat. His hands tightened on your hips, dragging you harder against him, the hard length of him pressing insistently through the thin barrier of his own clothing.

He rolled his hips once, deliberate and slow, letting you feel every inch of what he intended to give you, then again, deeper, more demanding, as if already imagining the way he would fill you.

Maekar dropped to his knees without warning.

He shoved your nightshift higher still, hooked one of your legs over his shoulder, and buried his face between your thighs like a man who had been starving for the taste of you.

There was nothing gentle about it, only raw, desperate hunger.

His tongue dragged through your folds in long, greedy strokes, then focused on the sensitive peak, sucking hard enough to draw a sharp cry from your throat. He growled against you when your hips jerked, the sound vibrating through your core as he licked and devoured, determined to wring every last drop of pleasure from you before he took his own.

Only when your legs were trembling and your fingers were tangled desperately in his hair did he rise.

He manhandled you across the chamber with effortless strength, spinning you and bending you forward over the edge of the bed. The nightshift was shoved up around your waist, one large hand pressed between your shoulder blades, pinning you down, while the other guided himself between your slick folds.

He thrust into you in one deep, claiming stroke, filling you completely, and a low, broken sound tore from his chest.

Then he fucked you from behind, hard, relentless, each powerful snap of his hips driving him deeper, the slap of skin against skin loud in the quiet chamber. His grip on your hip was bruising, possessive, as though he meant to imprint himself on every part of you.

Maekar’s hips snapped forward again and again, the wet, filthy slap of skin against skin loud in the quiet chamber. Each powerful thrust rocked you hard against the mattress, the ropes of the bed creaking in protest beneath the force of him.

Heat poured off his body in waves.

Sweat slicked the hard planes of his chest where it pressed to your back, and the scent of him, salt and skin and raw, masculine need, filled every breath you took.

His teeth were bared, a low, animal sound tearing from his throat as he drove into you without mercy. The thick length of him stretched you open on every stroke, the drag and burn of it so intense your fingers clawed at the sheets.

“Fuck, look at you,” he snarled, voice rough and broken, hot against the damp skin of your neck. “Taking me so deep. My wife. Mine.”

He leaned over your back, one hand fisting tightly in your hair until your scalp prickled, the other gripping your hip hard enough that you felt the imprint of every finger. He pounded into you harder still, the head of his cock dragging over that perfect, aching spot inside you with every brutal snap of his hips.

“Gonna fill you until you can’t walk straight. Until every fucking soul in this keep knows who you belong to.” His breath scorched your ear, teeth grazing, then biting down just hard enough to sting. “Say it. Tell me you’re mine while I fuck another babe into you.”

He didn’t slow.

Every stroke was deep, punishing, claiming, his body moving over yours like a man possessed, teeth still bared, the wet sounds of your joining obscene and constant, the words spilling out of him in a relentless, heated stream as the whole world narrowed to the overwhelming heat and friction and the raw, consuming way he took you.

Your moans fractured into soft, broken mewls as the relentless drive of his hips stole every coherent thought.

The wet, rhythmic slap of skin filled the chamber, louder now, raw and desperate as heat bloomed low in your belly, sharp and overwhelming, and the words he demanded spilled from your lips without hesitation.

“I’m yours,” you gasped, voice high and trembling. “Yours, only yours. Maekar...”

A savage sound tore from his throat.

He fucked you even harder.

The pace turned punishing, almost frantic, deep, brutal strokes that forced the air from your lungs with every thrust. His grip on your hair tightened, pulling your head back so he could watch the way your body took him. Sweat slicked the places where his chest met your spine.

The bedframe groaned beneath the force of him as you felt every thick inch of him, the stretch and friction so intense it bordered on too much, and still he drove deeper, chasing the promise he had made, determined to leave you wrecked and full and marked as his.

Maekar’s voice was rough, almost broken, as he leaned over you again.

“Do you want another babe?” he demanded, the words punched out between deep, driving thrusts. “Tell me.”

“Yes...” The answer tore from you in a high, helpless cry. “Yes, Maekar, yes...”

Something in him shifted.

The punishing edge softened all at once, though his hips never stopped their steady, deep rhythm.

He released your hair and slid that hand around to cradle the side of your face instead, turning your head so he could press open-mouthed kisses along the curve of your neck.

Soft.

Reverent.

Almost aching.

He still snapped his hips against yours, full, claiming strokes that filled you completely, but the hunger had turned tender, every thrust now laced with the quiet intensity of a man who loved you beyond reason.

His lips trailed warm and lingering over your skin, murmuring your name between kisses, as though the only thing that mattered in the world was the way your body welcomed him and the promise you had just given.

Maekar’s mouth never left your neck as he continued to move inside you, deep, steady, relentless. The tenderness in his kisses only sharpened the way every stroke dragged over that perfect place within you, building the pressure higher and higher until it broke.

You came undone with a broken cry, walls clenching tightly around him. He groaned against your skin but did not stop. He simply held you through it, hips still rolling, drawing the pleasure out until you were trembling and oversensitive, then he kept going.

A second climax tore through you sooner than the first, sharper, your fingers twisting in the sheets as soft, helpless sounds spilled from your lips.

Maekar’s hand slid down your stomach, fingers finding the swollen peak of your pleasure and circling in time with his thrusts, coaxing a third wave that left you shaking and gasping his name.

Only when you were boneless and wrecked beneath him, body fluttering around his cock with every lingering aftershock, did his own control finally shatter.

His rhythm faltered.

A low, guttural sound tore from his chest as he buried himself to the hilt and spilled into you in long, pulsing surges, hot and deep and endless, filling you exactly as he had promised while his mouth pressed one last open, trembling kiss to the side of your throat.

Maekar stayed buried inside you for a long moment after the last pulse of his release, his breath warm and uneven against the damp skin of your neck.

Then, with exquisite care, he eased free and gathered you into his arms as though you were something infinitely precious.

He carried you the short distance to the head of the bed and laid you down among the tangled sheets. His hands were gentle now, so gentle, as he smoothed the nightshift back down over your body, then reached for the soft cloth kept near the washbasin. He cleaned you with slow, reverent strokes, murmuring low, wordless sounds whenever you shivered under his touch.

When he was satisfied, he discarded the cloth and climbed in beside you, drawing the covers over you both. One strong arm slid beneath your shoulders. The other curled around your waist, pulling you flush against the solid heat of his chest. His fingers combed lazily through your hair, untangling the strands his earlier grip had left mussed.

He pressed soft, lingering kisses to your forehead, your temple, the corner of your mouth, each one quieter than the last. His violet eyes, no longer fierce, held only a deep and open tenderness as they traced your face in the low light.

“My wife,” he whispered at last, the words barely more than breath against your lips. “My heart.”