“who cares? divine intervention”

Since you arrived at Dragonstone, you grew more and more fond of your arranged marriage. Particularly you grew fond of the man you were to marry. Jacaerys was a kind and patient man. Something you did not think you would be fortunate enough to marry. 

You and he often spent your free moments looking for solitude from the talks of war and politics. Soon, you and he would spend time on a small patch of land separated from Dragonstone, hardly an island. It was only about twenty miles wide if that. But it became your haven. You could spend hours away from the weight of the war. 

You missed your home, but here on the island sand, you found comfort in the presence of Jace and Vermax. And Jacaerys found the same in you. 

That day you had been away from the castle for hours, and you knew sooner rather than later, someone would come looking for you both. You sighed as you tore your eyes from the calming and consistent waves crawling up and down the sands of the beach. You turned to look at your betrothed who lay on the sand with his eyes closed. Desperately trying to push out the fact your time was running slim. 

You sat beside him, running your hand through his hair trying to gain his attention. You lay down, getting closer to him, “My prince.” You whispered teasingly. 

“Mm?” He hummed furrowing his brows but refusing to open his eyes.

You continued to play with his brown curly hair as you smiled softly, “We’ve been out of Castle far too long.” You said begrudgingly. You knew it was time to return though you were not looking forward to the return of somber and formal interaction between you and high lords. 

Jacaerys groaned, “Ah,” he rubbed his eyes before finally and reluctantly opening them, “I can’t find sleep there.” 

You breathed a laugh, “You seem to find it well enough out here.” your fingers finally left his hair as you were about to stand. 

As soon as Jacaerys felt your touch abandon him, he grabbed a hold of your hand and pulled it close to his chest. “Only because you are beside me,” he said with an earnest gaze. 

You understood him. He had an unbearable weight on top of himself, one similar to the one on top of you. You knew he could only find pure comfort in the presence of something… familiar and uncomplicated, love. You thought on it for a moment, wishing to help him. “Perhaps you could sleep beside me tonight.” You said without any real thought of how it might have sounded until Jacaerys looked at you with wide, but excited eyes. “Meaning nothing so bold-” You choked on your own air as you corrected yourself.

“Course you did not,” Jacaerys said quickly with a shake of his head as he sat up. 

You sat quietly for a moment, “What of it then?” you asked.

Jacaerys looked towards you trying to hide a smile, “I cannot promise I won’t feel temptation.” 

You smirked, “Temptation?” You scooted closer to him, “Temptation for what?” You teased. It was not a secret to either of you that you both wished to hold closer intimacy with one another. Though Jacaerys was not a pious man he did take the opinions of high lords and ladies seriously. They already thought lowly of the bastard prince, he would not have them think lowly of their future queen. He wished to protect your character and your reputation. Though you held the opinions of high lords and ladies to almost no value at all, you reluctantly respected his wish. 

“You tease me?” He asked faining offense. 

“Do I?” You pretended to be shocked by the accusation, but soon your facade was wiped away by an earnest smile, “Sleep in a chair beside the bed if you must. I merely wish for you to find sleep.” You said plainly without any hint of lust or jest. Simply wishing to help him in any way you could. 

He held onto your hand slightly tighter, “What if someone were to find out I was sneaking into your chambers?” He asked with a smirk, teasing you back. 

You scrunched up your nose and scoffed as you looked out into the ocean, “Fuck what those high lords and their hypocrisies think.” 

Jacaerys stifled a laugh, “Is that any way for a queen to speak?” He asked as he leaned in closer to you.

You shook your head and smirked, “Not queen yet. Still a Lady, and hardly that.” 

“You are very much a Lady.” He mumbled as his danced over your facial features and down over your body. 

You pushed his shoulder and stifled a laugh, “You’re a dog.” You said scrunching up your nose at him. Feigning disgust, when really you felt butterflies in your stomach. 

He playfully pulled you closer, “And you a wolf.” he said as his eyes sparkled in yours. “May I kiss you?” He asked softly. 

You smiled, “You needn’t ask.” You said as if he asked you a ridiculous question. 

He returned your smile, “I like to hear you say ‘yes’.” He said as he stared longingly at your lips. 

He didn’t move an inch, waiting for your approval. You rolled your eyes and with a smirk, you conceded, “Yes.” And his that, Jacaerys pulled your lips into his with a hand grasping at the back of your head gently. You could not wait until your wedding, so eager for this man to become yours in the sight of the Gods. All you could think of each time your lips met was how rare this kind of love must be. 

Though you could not think of it long, your haven was interrupted by the loud and shrill sounds of a horn. “What was that?” You questioned as you looked over to Dragonstone.

Jacaerys looked over to Dragonstone as well. He knew the horn was to call members of the council together in an urgent meeting. Though it was only used when in times of critical importance. He took your hands and helped you stand, “We’d better get back.” He said, trying to keep you calm, but also trying to return as soon as possible.

“Has something terrible happened?” You asked as Jacaerys ushered you over to Vermax as quickly as he could. 

As Jacaerys helped you climb on top of the green beasted he shook his head, “I cannot be certain.” He spoke honestly, and strapped you into the saddle before he climbed on, “If it has, I promise you will not be affected.” He said in an attempt to comfort any anxieties you might have been feeling. 

You couldn’t understand how that was meant to help, “If you are affected, I am affected.” 

Jacaerys however, did not respond, merely he pulled on the reins of Vermax as he took off into the sky, set on returning to Dragonstone. 

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈

Upon your return, you were rushed into the council chamber. You were told of a vile act that had taken place within the Keep, an attack on the Greens. Normally this would have been a beneficial evil. But this time, the act was so gruesome it was hardly an attack on the Greens' claim, it was an attack on the Blacks’. 

Two men snuck into the chamber of ‘Queen’ Helena’s children. Maester Gerardys relaid the rest of the story to the Queen and the rest of the council, “It is yet unclear how the Keep itself was breached. The boy’s head was severed from his body. Thousands witnessed the procession.” 

You felt sickened by the description of the attack on the babe. You placed a hand on your chest, over your heart. Jacaerys took your hand and held it under the table. Wishing to comfort you while hiding your emotions from the High Lords. 

Rhaenyra shocked spoke with disbelief, “And they are accusing me of having a hand in this?”

Maester Gerardys nodded, “It appears so. There have been messages sent to that effect. Throughout the realm.”

Rhaenyra scoffed, “We must send our own messages, denying this vile allegation.”

“I will do so at once, but I am not sure they will be received in good faith.” The Maester said cautiously. 

Rhaenyra paid no mind to the comment, “And we must double our guard, here and in Driftmark. There will be swift retribution in one form or another–”

“I have seen to it, Your Grace.” One of the lords spoke. The idea made you feel weary. She was right, it did not matter whether she did have a hand in the murder or not. The Greens would blame her for it and would see to it that they were avenged. 

Jacaerys stood from his seat, “Let me fly out on Vermax.” Rhaenyra looked at him with concern. Jacaerys however spoke with courage and ambition, “Rhaenys is needed in the Gullet and I can watch for movements from Kings Landing.”

“No,” Rheynera said quickly with a shake of her head as she turned her attention back to the matter at hand. 

She saw Jace as a fragile and delicate thing, something she could not jeopardize more than she already had. You understood how she felt, she’d already lost one son on dragon's back she didn’t wish to lose another. And if you were honest, you were somewhat grateful for it. 

Though you could see the frustration, and embarrassment grow on the expression of Jacaerys’s face. As he sat back down you placed a hand on the back of his arm, giving it a gentle squeeze. Just enough for him to ground himself back into reality, and know you were with him. 

“It must be said that the damage to our position is immeasurable, at a time when we most need loyalty to our cause.” Some high lord spoke again through the tension building in the room. 

“But it’s a lie.” Rhaeynera scoffed, finding the accusation ridiculous, “Having lost my own son, that I would inflict such a thing on Helaena, of all people. An innocent!” She proclaimed.  

Alfred Broome, a high lord who had grown too comfortable with his position began, “The death of Prince Lucerys was a shock and an insult. A mother so aggrieved might, naturally, seek relief in retribution-” 

As you felt anger rising in your chest, the Queen shot up from her seat and charged towards the arrogant man. “Are you suggesting, Ser Alfred, that my grief drove me to order the decapitation of a child?” She nearly spat her words at him in disgust.

“I merely thought, perhaps, an action taken in haste.” He stammered, 

“Mind yourself.” You said out of near instinct. Your anger had gotten the better of you but it seemed well warranted. 

Her grace stood staring down the overly confident man. However, exhibiting far more strength than you would have had, she sat herself down. 

Once she was sat she looked over towards her husband and uncle, Prince Daemon. You felt weary of the man ever since you had heard the stories of his brutal and seemingly erratic behavior. Daemon now in this council meeting, discussing the beheading of an innocent babe was smirking. 

It made your stomach turn as it did Rhaenyra’s. Her face dropped, and she then dismissed the council meeting. 

Jacaerys angered by his mother’s decision to coddle him, stormed off down one of the halls. Rather than follow after him you allowed him to go his own way, you decided to wait in your chambers for his blood to cool. However, it was not long til you yourself were summoned by the Queen. 

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈

As you walked down the hall towards the council room, you noticed an enraged Daemon storming out of that very room. 

You stuck to the stone wall and kept your eyes on the ground. You never felt particularly welcomed in his presence. As he stormed past you he did not speak a word nor did he look at you at all. 

It was times like this when you wished you were back home in the North. 

As you entered the council chamber, you noticed a broken glass of wine on the floor, and the Queen wiping tears from her eyes. 

You entered the chamber cautiously, “You wished to see me, your grace?” you asked softly, not wishing to upset her further. 

She seemed somewhat startled by your sudden presence. She stood, wiping another tear away. “Our position has been weakened as you know.” She said as she walked towards you, “You are a great asset to us, the greatest we have now.” Her words hung heavy over your head, but you knew it was true. “Send a raven to your brother, Cregan Stark. Please try to persuade him to send more men. We need the North more than ever.” You nodded, and just as you turned your back to her, about to leave she spoke once more “You must know I did not order this.”  

You turned back around to face her, “Never.” You shook your head and spoke with conviction. You stepped closer to her, “I shall send the raven at once. My brother will know this is merely a tragedy and a vile rumor.” 

She took hold of your wrist and hand, gripping onto you tightly, “I depend on you.” As she spoke you could hear the desperation in her voice as it wavered. You could tell her words were true. 

Rhaenyra was gladdened to have you there. You would be Queen one day, you had to witness the hardships of that role. And she was grateful to see you could weather them, and stay loyal to her house.

You bowed your head to her with the utmost respect you could offer, “I’ll not fail you, your Grace.” 

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈ ・ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ꒱꒱

The day was long. 

Daemon had fled Dragonstone on Caraxes. You had no knowledge of where he was to be going when he would return, or what this meant for your soon-to-be husband’s future. The Queen had fled Dragonstone as well. For what purpose you did not know. But you were confident she would return. It was not in her nature, nor her character to abandon her children. 

The castle felt cold and empty. All you could hear was the sounds of whiny children, Joffrey asking for his mother, while Ageon and Viserys cried as their nurses cradled them. 

You could not find comfort in a place like this. It felt eerie and unsettled. Like the ocean before a storm. As you struggled to find sleep you longed for the company only Jace could provide. 

Hoping his blood had cooled enough, you dragged yourself out of bed and sought him out. 

You found him in the first place you looked, the library. He was always in the library. “Jace?” You beckoned out softly as you entered, wrapping yourself tighter in the robe you were wearing. 

Jace was sitting at a desk, holding his head in his hand as his other flipped through the pages of a book, “A child was beheaded. The lords' faith in my mother waivers. And she flees.” He said without looking at you. It was clear he was still frustrated, no angry. 

Though you did not know where the Queen had gone, you knew it had to be a reason of importance. But you could understand Jacaerys’s anger.

You began to step closer to Jace, not intimidated by his anger. “Your position is a difficult one, I would wager.” You leaned against the desk he sat at, “As I imagine her position is also a difficult one. I cannot pass judgment on her actions.” You said softly.

Jace looked up from the book on the desk, “Has this shaken your belief in my mother's claim?”

“No.” You asserted quickly, “Your mother did not want for this. It was clear she rebuked the act with all her heart. Her claim was given to her by birth, no force but death will change that.”

Jace looked back to the book he was reading, “Not all of the realm sees it the way you do.” You could feel the frustration building in him.

“I’ve written to my brother. He shall send us more men. Spread the truth about the murder about the realm.” You said hoping it would ease his mind, though you could see it did nothing. You sighed “You should sleep.” 

Jacaerys scoffed, “How can I? Damon has fled to plot his own war, my mother vanishes from her responsibilities, and now our claim has been weakened by the death of an innocent child.” He rubbed his eyes, “I am alone with these responsibilities with lords who pester me for answers.”

“You are not alone.” You said as you ran your hand through his hair, “The burden is a heavy one, let me hold it with you.” You said as if you were pleading, “I can send ravens and bark at the lords who dare pester you.” Jacaerys did not respond to you, ignoring your words and continuing to read. You removed your hand from him, growing frustrated with him, “And how will reading thousand-year-old histories hunched over a desk in the middle of the night help that?”

“Someone has to do something.” He muttered.

You sighed, “If you insist on it, perhaps you could read in my chambers. Maybe the company would help you feel less lonely. Or I could sleep here-” 

Jacaerys interrupted you, “I don’t feel lonely. I am alone with my mother's war to fight. A letter to the North will do well. But it might do nothing at all. So by all means, sleep, and make yourself easy.” He said, his words dripping with anger and frustration. 

You stood, shocked by his reaction. “My apologies my prince, I merely wished to ease your anxieties.” You said in a mocking tone. 

As you stormed out, Jacaerys knew he had made a terrible mistake. He allowed his anger to take hold of his emotions and lashed out at the one person who wished to make things easier on him. 

You stormed down the hall, wiping a tear from your cheek. Your face was red from a strange mixture of heartache and anger. You thought of how Rheanyra looked after Daemon stormed away. You didn’t know what happened in that room but you could assume. 

Maybe it was true what all those women in the North said. All men are the same, they are all born of the same nature. You felt foolish to have had such hope for Jacaerys. 

But you knew, hot blood has a way of blinding you. You decided it would be best to sleep and wait for you and Jacaerys to calm down.

Once in your chambers, you splashed your face with warm water, washing away your teasers. You then turned to Liana, your Handmaiden. She handed you a cloth to pat your face dry. Once you did, she took the fabric from your hand. You smiled coldly at the girl, “Thank you, Liana.” 

The girl bowed her head to you before leaving your chamber. 

As you lay down in your bed, you tried your best to sleep. You tossed and turned, hitting and folding your pillows in a desperate attempt to get comfortable enough to find rest. The cries of the babes still echoed throughout the castle’s stone walls. 

Frustrated,  you once again tore the blankets off of you. Holding a candle to light your way, you followed the sounds of cries. 

As you entered the babe’s chamber you saw a sleeping boy in one cradle, and a Handmaiden bouncing the other child in a desperate attempt to comfort him. 

“My lady!” The handmaiden called out, surprised by your sudden appearance. “I am sorry, I cannot seem to put him to rest.” She said worrying she’d upset you and your night. 

“Seems like a common problem here.” You said with a weak smile. You set down your candle and walked towards the handmaiden. “I find singing soothes them best.” You suggested softly as you tucked your loose hair behind your ears. 

The handmaiden chuckled, “I’m not much of a singer I fear.” She said as she continued to rock and bounce the child to no avail. 

You stood for a moment looking at the boy. Though he had silver hair, he reminded you of your siblings in the North. “May I?” You asked as you held out your hands towards the babe. 

First slightly unsure, the handmaiden placed the boy in your arms. 

You held him gently as you swayed him back and forth. You began to hum a melody that your mother would sing to you. The hum soon turned into vocalization. The babe calmed in your arms finally. 

He gripped onto a strand of your hair that fell loose over your shoulder. He didn’t pull it, just absentmindedly toying with it. 

This boy must have been Viserys. It could be hard to tell at times, but Viserys had curls, whereas Ageon did not. And Aegon slept much better than Viserys did. As evident from the silver-haired boy sleeping soundly in the cradle and the other in your arms. It surprised you how well Aegon could sleep through such noise. 

You looked back down at Viserys. As he looked up into your eyes you noticed he and Jacaerys shared the same eyes. It made you think of being a mother to the future King, or Queen. And maybe many other princes and princesses. You wondered what those babies might look like. A bit of you, and a bit of him. 

Soon the boy's eyes became heavy and he drifted into a light sleep. 

“Can I get you anything my Lady?” the Handmaiden whispered, not wishing to disturb him. 

“Perhaps a tea for sleep? I can’t seem to find it but I shall see to it that the boy sleeps.” You whispered as you continued to sway the boy back and forth. 

The handmaiden nodded and swiftly but quietly left the chambers. 

As you turned your attention back to Viserys you realized the boy was limp and heavy in your arms. He breathed calmly and deeply, snoring even. ‘Finally’ You thought to yourself. 

You played the babe into the cradle beside his brother. As you looked down upon them you thought back again on your daydream of you and Jace’s children. 

It made you feel excited and hopeful to think of that future. But with this recent turn in the war, and your fight with Jacaerys, you felt doubt. But you were willing to fight for that feeling of hope. 

You ran your hand over the boy's silver curly hair once before you heard the chamber door creek open. You turned towards it, expecting to see a Handmaiden holding a hot cup of tea. Instead, you saw a knight, one you recognized. 

You wrapped your robe around you tighter, “Ser Erryk?” You asked with concern. Though he looked at you with pity, and what was stranger was his eyes didn’t look like his eyes at all, “You’re not Erryk, are you?” You mutter quietly as you hold onto yourself tightly as your anxieties rise. 

Your heart dropped into the pit of your stomach once you saw a cloaked man behind the Knight posing as Ser Erryk. 

Viserys began to stir from his sleep, whining slightly. You took a step back, keeping your eyes on the men in the doorway. You placed a hand on the wooden railing of the cradle holding the two young princes. 

“It’s the real Targaryen boys.” The cloaked man rasped to the Knight. 

With that, the two began to inch their way into the chamber. You moved to block their view of the infants sleeping in their cradles. 

“There's gold, silver, anything you desire I will give. Just leave the babes.” You whispered, not wishing to wake the infants to such a horrific scene. Though your heart began to pound so quickly you thought that alone might wake Viserys. 

The man in the cloak smirked at your attempt to derail their plan as he got closer and closer to you. His filthy hand tore off your mother’s necklace that hung around your neck. He examined it in his hands before placing it in his pocket. “Blood must be spilled.” 

The knight, however, did not find humor or joy in the act he was anticipating. “You’ll take us to the Queen.” He whispered. It was a command, but it felt like a plea. As if this armed intruder had no desire to bring harm to you. But you knew he had the ability and the will to. 

You shook your head, “I’ll do no such thing.” Your eyes were wide and filled with terror.

“You will.” The knight said, again, it sounded like he was desperately pleading with you. 

“The Queen fled Dragonstone this evening.” You said almost mockingly, “Even if she were here, I’d not take you to her.” 

The cloaked man began to walk towards you with a rotten and crooked smile, “You then.” He said with a giddy high chuckle as he raised a dagger towards you. 

You moved away from the children, not wishing to bring that terrible creature near them. The man followed after you, “Please-“ You pleaded quietly as he grabbed hold of you. His stench was thick, nearly choking you as he pressed a knife to your throat. He held one of your hands while your other attempted to pull his knife away from you. “I rebuke the act with all my heart-” You quietly pleaded as you felt the knife begin to drag against your skin, cutting into your throat ever so slightly. 

You squirmed and the cloaked man began to giggly snicker in your ear. But the knight stepped forward raising a hand to the man halting his action. The man’s snicker died out, as though he was upset he was being interrupted. 

“Perhaps-” The knight began, “If you returned to Kings Landing.” The knight was speaking to you, but his eyes stayed on the man, “If you married Prince Aemond, give the North’s power to the Greens.” His eyes then fell onto you, “Then we could spare you.” 

“That wasn’t what he asked for.” The cloaked man barked back to the Knight. The knight however did not respond to the man, only looking at you with pleading eyes. 

With eyes widened and your heart racing. You felt the cold blade beginning to split your hot skin as sweat trickled down your brow. Terrified, and vulnerable. Still, you knew you would never betray the only man you ever loved or the true Queen. “I’d rather you put my head on a spike.” You said, your voice shaking but your eyes did not show fear, but contempt. 

The man holding the knife to your throat grew giddy once more, and the Knight sighed as he grabbed hold of the hilt of his sword. “Then, believe me, I have no choice, " he said with a regretful sigh. 

The knight drew his sword, making you gasp and your eyes grew wider, so wide you thought they might fall out of your head. The knight approached the sleeping babes in their cradle and you squirmed violently in the grasp of the cloaked man. As you did the blade only cut its way deeper into your skin but you did not care. 

“No!” You pleaded desperately. 

“Only one needs to die.” The cloaked man said you could practically hear the grin on his face. “Which will it be?” He asked with a giddy chuckle. 

Tears began to fall from your wide eyes down your red cheeks, “Spare-spare them- take me- me- me-” You desperately and quietly pleaded. The man's giddy chuckle only grew more erratic. 

But the knight did not move, “I cannot.” The knight said with shame as he looked down at the infants in their cradle. 

The man who held you tightly against his blade threw you down onto the ground, “You take care of the woman.” He said with frustration as he made his way towards the babes. 

You stood quickly and grabbed a hold of a golden pitcher within the room. You hit the man over the head with it. Making water splash over him, and the babes waking them instantly. The babes screamed and cried as the golden edge of the pitcher cut the scalp of the man open, and he fell to the ground in pain before he picked himself up and ran out of the chamber disappearing in the shadows of the halls. 

The knight’s large hand rose and fell on your face, knocking you to the ground. It was at that same moment you heard the shattering of glass hit the floor. It was the handmaiden dropping your cup of hot tea onto the ground. “M’Lady!” The woman shouted.

You looked up from the hard ground to the woman, “Find Ser Lorrent!” You called out. You wanted for a moment to call for Jacaerys, but you would never forgive yourself for bringing danger to him. 

As the woman ran down the hall, the Knight begrudgingly grabbed a chunk of your hair as he pulled you off the ground. As he looked into your tear-stained face he noticed the damage he’d already done. 

A bruise to your cheekbone that rose to your eye, and a cut to your lip. You could see the shame in his eyes as he brought his sword to your neck. 

“Brother!” A voice yelled out. You looked over to the door to see the true Ser Erryk. He drew his sword.

Without exchanging many words, they unsheathe their swords. You took the opportunity to grab hold of the wailing children and run to the door. All you could hear was the sounds of steel clashing and blood splattering the floor. Their identical fighting styles and knowledge of each other’s tactics result in a deadly stalemate at first.

The clash of swords echoes through the halls, as Ser Lorent finally arrives. He did not know who was who, and at such a distance you did not either. 

Ser Lorent kept you behind him, as he watched the battle continue. You watched on in horror holding onto the crying children.

You jumped as you felt hands wrap around you. But as you looked you noticed it was Jacaerys, his expression was one of terror and rage. 

“Jacaerys!” You said with relief, as he pulled you and his siblings further away from the fight.  

He held your face, observing your injuries, “Where are you hurt?” He asked frantically, “Where did he touch you?” He repeated the question several times but you were far too frightened to speak. 

You heard the sound of metal hitting the floor, as you turned you saw one of the knights fall dead onto the floor, and his sword along with him. 

The surviving Knight, you could only assume was Erryk, stepped forward. His eyes were filled with grief and guilt. 

You looked towards him with sympathy, you didn’t know what to say, but you would not have a chance to think of anything before the knight stumbled into the hall. “My Lady,” He said as he turned his sword towards himself, “Forgive me.” He said as he fell onto his sword.

“No!” You screamed out, but it was too late. Erryk lay dead beside his brother.

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈ ・ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ꒱꒱

You spent the rest of the night locked away in your chamber with Viserys, Aegon, and Joffrey. The guard around your chamber was nearly tripled at the command of Jacaerys. 

“We have no idea how they penetrated our walls.” Ser Alfred began. 

Jacaerys marched across the council room, exuding every once of rage he felt, “And where were the members of this council when the traitors threatened their Queen, their Princes, and their future Queen?” He questioned, ignoring Ser Alfred's words. “My betrothed is our stronghold.” He barked at the men in that room. He then marched towards Ser Lorent, stopping inches from his face, “And where were you while the Prince and my Lady were threatened?” His tone was oozing with contemptous rage. 

Ser Lorent looked down like a child who was caught misbehaving, “I was abed-”

“A bed!” Jace shouted, interrupting the Knight. “She could have been killed!” He nearly screamed as he continued to march around the room. 

“It is not the time for blind accusations.” Lord Corlys began, attempting to settle his grandchild’s rage but failing.  

“If I may-” Lady Mysaria began, “The guard has detained someone.” This captured Jacaerys’s attention, “The men whom they have captured are not known to us. However, they were caught attempting to flee Dragonstone in a small boat. With the Ladys necklace.” She said holding up the necklace Jacaerys knew was your mother's. 

Jacaerys felt that cold sting of rage crashes through his chest, he grabbed a hold of his sword as he walked towards the door to the chamber, “I’ll kill him myself.” Jace, his eyes watery with angry tears. 

Lord Corlys, placed a hand on Jace’s chest, stopping him, “I believe it may be best that we approach this with a level head.” He said in a hushed tone. 

“A level head?” Jace scoffed, “He had a knife to her throat!” He barked.

“And he will pay for such an insult.” Ser Alfred said, in an attempt to aid Corlys in calming Jace.

“Insult?” Jace repeated in a mocking tone offended that he would compare what was done to you to an insult. 

“Jacaerys.” Corlys said, redirecting Jace’s attention back to him, “We must first extract all the knowledge they have of the attack. Who ordered it-”

“We know who ordered it!” Jace shouted,

Ser Alfred stepped forward once more, “They paraded the boy throughout the streets after his death. Shouting of the depravity of Rheanyra the Cruel.” Jace turned to face Ser Alfred, he looked at him with contempt. Weary of what he was to say next. “We cannot parade the Lady and her injuries to the public but we can send letters detailing each act- the horror they inflicted-” 

Lord Corlys buried his eyes in his hand.

“No.” Jace asserted, “I will not allow my wife’s honor to be compromised.” He began emotion building in her voice. 

No one said a thing, but they all noticed how he spoke of you as his wife though your wedding had not even been planned yet. 

Despite Jacaery’s anger, Ser Alfred continued, “Will the Lords of Westeros support Aegon once they have heard of their depravity, or will they rather not denounce the Greens?”

“I will not let her be seen as weak,” Jace said, his voice dripping with fury. 

“Not weak. Courageous.” He attempted to rationalize, “She protected the prince and the queen, nearly costing her own life to do so. Her misfortune will do more for our cause than a hundred thousand knights.” 

“I said no-” Jace asserted once more before he was interrupted by a handmaiden.

“I apologize, my prince.” The handmaiden said cautiously, “The Lady has requested such action be taken.” She said weary of how the Prince might receive this information.

“What?” He asked breathlessly.

The handmaiden fidgeted with her fingers, nervously, “She has said, she understands, as a representative of the throne she must make sacrifices-” 

Jace shook his head, and rubbed his brow, “She needn’t sacrifice anything.”

“My Prince, the lady has insisted. She has expressed she will not turn her cheek.” The handmaiden said before turning back to leave. 

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・

In the Dungeon, Lord Corlys entered the cell holding the badly wounded man. 

“I would suggest you speak of whom sent you.” Sitting in front of the man, Lord Corlys intimidated him well enough on his own, he did not need much to convince the man to speak. 

“I was sent by Ser Criston Cole under the order of the King Aegon Targaryen.” The cloaked man said, still holding onto his bleeding scalp. 

“What was the anticipated outcome of this mission?” Lord Corlys questioned.

“Kill the Rheanyra, kill the true born sons.” The man spoke the truth, in a desperate attempt to avoid any more harm. “Arryk muddied it all up. Didn’t know where the right room was. Then didn’t want to kill the boys.” He spoke with haste and fear, “I don’t know any more than that I promise.” With that, Lord Corlys nodded and stood. The man looked up at him with confusion. “Are you going to hurt me?”

“No.” He said calmly, “But I cannot vouch for the Prince.” Corlys said before leaving the cell.

The man’s breathing grew rapid as he saw the prince enter the dungeon.

Jacaerys entered the dungeon, with clenched fists, holding a large Morningstar mace. Jace looked more disheveled than when Lord Corlys saw him in the council chamber. His shirts were unbuttoned and his hair was a mess. His eyes were darker than they normally were. His feet marched along the stone floor as he came into the cell holding the man. 

The man did not plea, he only gritted his teeth knowing what was to come. Jacaerys clenched his jaw as he looked down at the man. He thought of the injuries he saw on his betrothed. The cut on her upper lip, the bruise on her cheek, the cut on her neck, and the bruising on her wrist where the man held her against him. The rage grew inside of him. His nostrils flared as he breathed in and out. 

The man began to cry as he stared up at Jacaerys. It only made the rage within Jace grow. How dare this man cry after what he had done. 

Jace could no longer hold in his fury, he swung his mace over his head and down onto the man’s already cracked skull. 

He brought the mace down onto the man, again, and again, and again until the man’s groaning, whimpering, and twitching ceased. 

Jace breathed heavily, exhausted by emotion and physical exertion. His face was covered in blood splatter and sweat. 

He stood tall over the man, dropping the mace down onto the man's skull before turning and leaving the cell. 

Lord Corlys watched as Jace said not a word and left the dungeon. 

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈ 

Afterward, word traveled quickly of what the Prince had done to the man in the Dungeon. 

It took no time at all for you to have heard of it from several handmaidens. Though it made you feel a certain comfort you still wished Jacaerys would see you, would apologize to you. You valued that much more than violence. 

But it would not be long for that either. As you sat by the fire, you watched over the children sleeping in the well-guarded chamber with you. You jumped slightly once you heard the chamber door open softly. Despite you knowing how well you were guarded now you still were on edge. Though your anxieties dissolved once you saw it was your betrothed. Deshovled, with what looked like blood splattered onto his shirts. 

Jace had washed his face but had not the patience to change before he could see you. 

“You saved my brothers.” Jacaerys spoke gently despite his gruesome appearance, “You showed the realm your heroic bravery.” He said as he approached you. He tried to move your hair to see the cut on your neck, “Show me please.” he said softly but you moved your head so he could not look. 

You didn’t look at him, still holding resentment. “Tis nothing.” You spoke dismissively. 

Jacaerys got onto his knees, placing his hands on your lap, “I must beg for your mercy.” He bowed his head in shame, “My behavior was abhorrent.” he said shaking his head. You still said nothing. Jace looked up at you, “Speak, please. Plainly, even if they are words meant to hurt me I just wish for you to speak.” He pleaded.

So, you did. “You made me feel useless, unwanted.” You said looking at him with hurt eyes, “I only wished to comfort you. And you pushed me away.” You sighed, “I am not a hero, and I am not brave, Jacaerys. I am hurt and far from home.” 

He took in your words for a moment, nodding, “You alone have given us the North, you have saved the Prince and the Queen.” He spoke calmly, “And you have made me a true man and bewitched me, mind and body. I want no one else, and our house could not survive without you.” He took hold of your hands and looked at you with eyes that spoke of the love and devotion he felt toward you, “I was an arrogant fool to make you feel otherwise. Blinded by my own anger towards matters that were not caused by your hand.” You saw his eyes begin to tear up, “I could have lost you. It was so narrowly avoided. I imagined it when I saw those men who attacked you. Losing you… You are my way of life, without you, I could not go on.” He said before sniffing and swallowing whatever emotion was consuming him, before he looked back to you “If I have proven unworthy, I will see to it you have safe passage to the North. No action will be taken against your house.-” He began but you interrupted his ridiculous words. 

You scoffed, “I am not going to leave you over an argument, Jacaerys.” You placed a hand on his cheek, “I said I loved you and I meant it.” 

“I will live to earn your forgiveness.” He said gripping onto your hand tightly. 

“You have it you fool.” You said stifling a laugh. You found it hard to hold resentment toward him any longer. 

He smiled softly at you, and then he ran a hand gently over your hair, “May I?” He asked and you nodded. 

He moved your hair to see the cut on your neck. He grimaced at the sight, not out of disgust but out of anger for what they had done. 

“I said it was nothing.” You said trying to comfort him.

“It is something.” He insisted. 

You pushed your hair forward covering the mark, “The maester said it will scar, but can easily hidden.” 

“You’ll not hide anything.” Jacaerys said as he placed a hand on your cheek, “You did not have to send those letters.” He said shaking his head. He felt shame for allowing such a thing to happen. 

You shook your head, “I couldn’t lay back and make myself easy.” 

“You did much more than that,” Jace said sternly, he would not allow anyone to make you think otherwise. 

You looked at his disheveled appearance, “Is it true what they said?” You questioned softly, “You-You killed the man who did it?” He looked at you with conviction, “I will not allow someone to threaten harm to my wife and live.” 

“Your wife?” You asked with a smile,

“You are quite nearly that.” he smiled back.

Jacaerys has been going mad. The Lady Y/N has been gone for hours, and every second more that the Prince was ignorant of her fate was a second closer to him flying off in search of her. She’d volunteered to fly to Rook’s Rest and face Cole’s army herself. Her dragon, Silverwing, is the largest dragon with a rider second only to Vhagar, but she’s been gone too long for the prince’s liking. He’d begged her not to go, begged his mother to send him instead, and neither had listened. He couldn’t deny the logic of the choice, but the longer she stayed at battle, the more images of her broken and bloody flooded her betrothed’s mind. 

The Prince and the Queen stand on the balcony off his chambers. Queen Rhaenyra has tried calming her son, but to no avail. The sun nears the horizon, setting the sky on fire in shades of gold and red, but Jacaerys only watches for signs of his betrothed. 

“I’m going after her,” Jacaerys blurts out, unable to contain himself any longer, pushing off the stone half wall. 

“No,” the queen says firmly, moving to block her son’s path. Ever since the death of Prince Lucerys, the queen has kept her eldest son close, refusing to send him out on dragon back. 

“She should have been back by now! I will not just sit here and await news of her fate,” the prince argues, his voice strained and fraught. The Queen’s heart aches at the panic in her son’s eyes. 

“Y/N is a fierce dragon rider. I am confident she will return soon,” she says placatingly, reaching up to cup his cheek, but Jacaerys pushes her away. 

“No, I can’t just sit here. She’s to be my wife; I’m meant to protect her, not sit safely by in a castle while she risks her life protecting my birthright!” The prince exclaims and pushes through the doors to his chambers, but a dragon’s shriek stops him in his path. He whips around, his eyes scanning the skies for the sight of his betrothed. And then he sees her. 

Jacaerys sprints through the halls of Dragonstone, his steps echoing against the stone as he makes his way out of the castle. He should feel relieved, but the prince cannot shake the fear clutching at his heart. 

As Jacaeryrs reaches the mouth of the Dragonmount, all his fears come to the forefront. Y/N isn’t in the saddle; instead, she’s clutched in the silver claws of her dragon, her arm hanging limply down. Silverwing sets her down gently before landing herself, and Jacaerys swears he can see the sadness in her massive silver eyes. “No, no, no,” Jacaerys mutters, dropping to his knees next to her body, tears blurring his vision as he pulls her body to him. Her clothes are covered in blood and singed, an arrow lodged in her shoulder, and a gash on her side. Her silver hair is dark with ash and crimson, but breath still moves through her lips shallowly, a small beacon of hope. Without any thought but her care, he scoops her into his arms, cradling the body of his betrothed to his chest and running as fast as he can back to the castle. 

“Call the master!” He bellows to the first guard he sees, his voice fraught and cracking, the princely tone he maintains forgotten in his panic. “Hold on, my love.”

As he pushes his way through the doors of the castle, the Grand Maester and the queen, followed by Ser Lorrent, rush towards the pair. “Help her!” The prince shrieks at the maester, all manners forgotten, and his expression is wild with fear. Used to such behavior, Grand Maester Gerardys simply nods and inspects the body in the prince’s arms. 

“We’ll take her to her chambers. I’ll meet you there,” he says and turns, hurrying off to gather supplies. Ser Lorrent steps forward, his arms outstretched, to take the girl from the prince, but Jacaerys pushes past him, following after the maester up to the stairs and hurries to her apartments. 

As they reach her chambers, the prince lays her down gently on her bed, not caring for the state of her bedclothes. He stays close to her side as the maester gathers his things, watching her closely to make sure she stays breathing. Soon, Geradys comes to her side. “Excuse me, my prince,” he says softly to the young prince, but he doesn’t seem to hear. Rhaenyra steps forward, her hand wrapping around her son’s shoulder. 

“Darling, let the Grand Maester work,” she says softly, pulling Jacaerys back a few steps. Rhaenyra tries to coax him away to wash and change, as he is now covered in his betrothed’s blood, but he refuses. 

“No, I won’t leave her,” he says, pulling against his mother. 

“We won’t; just give him space, my darling,” she coos, pulling him to her and wrapping her arms around her darling son, whose body is shaking. He relents to his mother’s pull, allowing him to be held like a child as he watches the maester struggle to keep the love of his life in the world of the living. 

Nearly an hour later, the maester turns to the prince and queen, blood staining his front and hands and his eyes weary. “I’ve done all I can, your Grace, my Prince. It is up to her spirit and the gods now. But she is a fighter, if ever there was one,” the Geradys says, his eyes soft for the Prince of Dragonstone. The Queen thanks him, but Jacaerys isn’t listening, moving forward numbly. He kneels next to the bed, his shaking hands reaching for hers, the ash and blood washed clean by the maester. He presses a gentle kiss on her skin, gripping her hand tightly between his own. 

“Y/N, my love,” the Crown Prince whispers, reaching up to brush a strand of silver hair from her brow. “You have to fight. Please, you can’t... I can’t lose you as well, please. Kostilus, māzigon arlī naejot issa. Ko-Kostilus,” he begs, his throat closed tightly as tears slip down his cheeks. Please, come back to me. 

***

It’s a full day before Y/N wakes, and Jacaerys has refused to leave her side. Late afternoon light shines into the room, beams of light cutting the air and washing it in an amber glow. Amethyst eyes flutter open, blinking in the brightness of the room. 

“Jace?” She mutters; her voice is rough and her throat is burning. 

“Y/N!” Jace gasps, jumping up from his seat in the center of the room to kneel at her side, gingerly taking her hand in his. “You’re awake!” he laughs in relief, his vision blurring with tears of joy. He drinks her in, her weary smile, and the lilac swirls in her eyes he thought he’d never see again. 

“How long-?” She begins groggily, attempting to sit up by the wound in her abdomen, causing her to grimace. Jacaerys gently pushes her back down to the pillows.

“Don’t move, my love. Silverwing brought you back one evening past. You were,” the prince swallows, his throat constricting at the memory, “badly wounded. Gods, I feared you’d not wake.” He reaches for her, his calloused hand cradling her head. 

“I’m afraid you’re stuck with me, my prince,” she smiles. Even wounded and weak, her humor remains. Jacaerys laughs through his tears, moving to sit on the bed and covering her face in kisses, making her giggle until it causes too much pain in her stomach. 

“What happened?” Jace asks, sitting back and holding her hand tightly. 

“Aemond was there, and Aegon. It was a trap,” she sighs, grimacing. “We were engaged with Sunfyre when Vhagar appeared... I had to fly close to the ground to get out from between the pair, and their archers took advantage.” 

“Gods, I will kill both of them for laying a hand on you,” the prince says, his voice crackling with anger.

“I’m alright, Jace,” she coos, reaching up to cradle his beautiful face in her hands. His anger subsides at her touch, her gentleness soothing the fires raging inside him. 

“You’re wounded; you nearly died. If you’d arrived minutes later, you would have been passed by the time you returned to me. My love, Icouldn’t bear it if you-”

“Jace-”

“Promise me. Please just promise me you’ll be more careful,” the prince implores, his amber eyes fierce and wide. 

“I promise, Jace. I do, and I will,” she says earnestly, their eyes locked for a long moment. “Come here,” she whispers, pulling on his hands to bring him closer. “Lay with me?” 

“I don’t want to hurt you.” 

You try to focus. You don’t think so. You manage to piece together the right sounds to tell him this time. 

Sirius nods. His fingers twitch beneath your head in a lazy scratching motion. “Sweet. I wasn’t in the room when you fainted, but it looks like you might’ve fallen back down onto the couch and then the floor, so we should be good.” 

You take a few deep breaths. Your body feels like you’ve just woken from a deep, disorienting sleep, and somehow also run a marathon while doing that. “Thanks,” you say. 

Your boyfriend rolls his eyes and moves your head into his lap, brushing a strand of hair from your forehead. “Don’t mention it, sunshine. All in a day’s work.” He grins when your lips twitch tiredly. “Just take it easy. We’ll get you some water when you’re ready, okay?” 

You hum, letting yourself relax while he’s watching over you. Sirius has helped after you’ve passed out in public and once while crossing the street, so you know he’s more than capable of looking after you here in your home. Slender fingers tunnel into your hair to scratch soothingly at your scalp. 

“So,” he says casually, “do you come here often?” 

An amused exhale comes out your nose. You must make a funny face, because Sirius’ brows furrow. 

“What?” 

“I’m trying to decide if saying something about falling for you would be too cheesy.” 

He laughs, a surprised, barking thing. “Hey, cheese is welcome. I thought you had hit your head for a second there.” 

“Sorry…if you say your thing again, I can try to flirt better.” 

You hum weakly, letting your head rest back on the pillows as the smell of weed and Bobby’s cologne filled your head. Your eyes stray to the fan overhead, the blades pass by slowly as you count the seconds while Bobby slowly kisses his way up your legs, easing them over his shoulders.

“You with me?” He pauses above your covered cunt, taking a slow drag from the blunt before parting his lips and letting the hot smoke breeze over the wet fabric of your panties, making you jolt.

“Mm- Y-yeah,” you stutter over the fuzziness in your brain that comes from the pleasant buzz of cannabis. Bobby’s hand grasps yours, lifting the camera with a practiced ease.

“Keep me in focus.” The words are murmured into the skin below your belly button, igniting that familiar fire in your navel and causing the hairs on your neck to stand up.

At your nod, Bobby takes another hit of the blunt before leaning down. His lips meet the puffy folds of your cunt and with a slow exhale, the smoke glazes over your panties again. It’s punctuated by a slow lick that spreads the wet patch on your panties.

His nose nudges your clit and he chuckles at the pleasured noise that drips from your lips. The soft buzz of the camera lets him know your zooming in, soaking in the heated, fuzzy look in his eyes and the way he’s sitting open-mouthed against your pussy.

The smell of your arousal is much stronger when he’s this close. And it mixes with the smell of weed in a way that Bobby salivates. His impatience starts bleeding through his high mind and finally, Bobby hooks a finger through the crotch of your panties, tugging them to the side to reveal your dripping folds.

It’s a pretty sight, the puff of your folds, the glistening slick of arousal, the choked sound you make as the cold air hits your exposed pussy. He almost wishes he had the camcorder with him so he could immortalize this forever.

Bobby takes one more slow drag from the blunt, eyes meeting yours over the camera. With a nip to the meat of your inner thigh, Bobby slips the blunt into your hand, right in the small gap between your index and middle finger. Ash falls off the edge of it, scattering over your skin.

Your wince turns into a choked moan when Bobby’s mouth finally greets your pussy. His tongue is heavy with saliva and heat as he greedily tastes you for all your worth. He swaps between suckling at your clit and slipping his tongue between your folds. It’s a vicious cycle that leaves you feeling floaty and loose.

You legs give weak twitches when Bobby’s tongue glazes over your clit, tightening around his head to bring him closer when he pulls away to breathe. The camcorder shakes in your hands and Bobby notices.

He pinches your thigh as he withdraws from you slightly. “C’mon baby, keep the camera still. Like I showed you.” He licks his lips, groaning at the sweet taste of you as he watches you readjust the camera. When he’s satisfied with the angle, he lays back down, kissing your clit sweetly like he was rewarding you.

“Fuck-” You moan as he slips his tongue back into your folds, his calloused thumb doing figure eights over your clit as his other hand massages your thigh.

The dual stimulation continues and he gets lost in it, eyes shutting as he continues to make out with your pussy. At a certain point your hips start grinding against his face and hand, desperately chasing that high that you’ve been needing since Bobby proposed this idea.

His thumb leaves your clit, his index and middle finger accompanying his tongue in your aching walls. Bobby effectively swapped places with his mouth and fingers, lapping at your clit as his fingers leisurely take you apart from the inside out. Every stroke and curl makes your breath hitch and whine as you do your best to keep the camcorder stable.

“Bobby- I’m gonna-” You keen, lips parting for a stilted moan as his fingers speed up. The strokes turn quicker, his saliva drips down your clit and spills into your hole.

He mumbles something against your overstimulated bundle of nerves, tongue flattening against it as he curls his fingers against that spongy spot in your velvety walls. He murmurs vague pieces of praise that leaves your feet curling and back arching as you cum with a loud whine.

Bobby withdraws his fingers, licking them clean before he leans back in to lick you clean. Sweat drips down your back and your thighs are sticky with cum and spit. You vaguely register Bobby’s warm hands taking the camcorder from you, his spit soaked fingers snatching the blunt from you.

He places the blunt in his lips, freeing his hand to massage your ass slowly. Bringing you down from your high.

Blinking quickly, your flushed cheeks are hot to the touch and your eyes are fogged from the weed and now that pretty post orgasmic glaze. You register Bobby more clearly now, his blue eyes and dirty blonde hair. He’s sat up, your thighs resting at his hips. He cradles the camera in his other hand but he watches you patiently.

When a bit more clarity hits your eyes, he smiles, taking the blunt out of his mouth and leaning forward to press a soft kiss to your lips. The taste of your cum sits on his tongue as he moans against you, smoke filling both of your mouths as he hips twitching as he grinds his dick against your pussy. The cloth drags on your overstimulated clit and you whine agaisnt Bobby’s lips as he pulls away.

He had reached that age now where he thought he was entirely self-sufficient, convinced he could do everything on his own without needing anyone. Which meant that lately, things had become… difficult.

Not that Harry was difficult for the sake of it. He wasn’t the kind of child who argued just to hear himself speak, nor did he go out of his way to cause trouble. It was simpler than that, and somehow more complicated. He hated being told what to do. Hated the feeling of someone deciding something for him before he’d had the chance to think it through himself. 

Even the smallest instruction could set something off in him, not anger exactly, but resistance.

So it usually went something like this:

Remus, last week, standing in the doorway with that endless patience of his, telling Harry to go brush his teeth. Harry, sprawled across the sofa, eyes glued to the muggle television, refusing outright because he would do it after the programme ended. Remus insisting, gently at first, then more firmly, because it was bedtime. Which, apparently, was a personal offence to the eight-year-old. 

“I will. After this.”

“You said that ten minutes ago, Harry.”

“Because it’s not finished yet.”

Remus pushed off the doorframe then, walking a little further into the room. “It’s getting late.”

“I’m not tired.”

“That’s not the point.”

“It is the point,” Harry argued, finally looking at him, brows pulled together. “If I’m not tired then I don’t need to go to bed yet or brush my teeth!”

Remus exhaled slowly, the kind of breath that said he’d already had this conversation in his head three different ways. “You still need to brush your teeth before it gets too late.”

“I’ll do it after,” Harry insisted, turning back to the television.

And when Remus didn’t drop it, when he stepped in and reached for the remote to switch it off, that was when it turned.

“I’m not a baby, I don’t need a bedtime!”

Which, of course, spiralled from there. Harry stomping down the hall, muttering under his breath like he’d been personally wronged, the bathroom door shutting a little harder than necessary. Remus left standing in the sitting room, rubbing at his temple, somewhere between tired and faintly exasperated.

Or yesterday:

Sirius had taken it upon himself to teach Harry how to tie his shoelaces properly instead of the mess he kept making. It should have been simple. 

“Right, we’re fixing this.”

“It’s fine,” Harry said immediately, trying to pull his foot back.

“It’s not fine, it looks like a ball of yarn not a shoe lace tie,” Sirius replied, not even looking up as he undid it. “Hold still.”

Harry yanked his foot away properly this time, scowling down at him. “I said I can do it.”

Sirius looked up then, one brow raised, something almost amused flickering through his expression. “And I said let me show you, you stubborn little—”

“I don’t need help!” Harry kicked his shoe off entirely, sending it skidding across the floor, and folded his arms like that was the end of it.

“Alright,” Sirius said finally, leaning back on his heels. “Walk around barefoot then, see how that goes for you.”

So really, none of this was new.

Which was probably why neither you nor Sirius had thought much of it when you first brought up the hair.

It had been getting ridiculous. Thick, dark, constantly falling into his eyes no matter how often he shoved it back. You had meant to deal with it earlier in the week, but time slipped, and now Remus was at Hogwarts for the day, which left you and Sirius to handle it.

Right now, you were sitting on the edge of the sofa, scissors resting loosely in your hand, while Sirius leaned against the armrest beside you, both of you attempting to reason with the small, furious boy standing in front of you.

“It’s not even about making it short,” you said, keeping your voice steady, not pushing. “Just enough so it’s out of your eyes.”

“It is out of my eyes,” Harry insisted.

“Harry,” you said, keeping your voice calm, measured, like you hadn’t been at this for nearly two hours. “You can’t even see properly, your fringe is in your eyes.”

“I can see just fine,” he said quickly, already pushing his hair out of his face again, fingers dragging it back in a way that lasted all of two seconds before it slipped forward and fell right back into his eyes.

Sirius let out a quiet breath that might have been a laugh if he wasn’t trying so hard to stay out of it, shoulder still braced against the wall, arms loosely folded like he’d decided observation was the safest option for now.

You tipped your head slightly. “You’ve done that five times in the last minute.”

Harry blinked at you, immediate and defensive. “Because it keeps falling.”

“Yes,” you said gently. “That’s exactly why we should trim it, love.”

He huffed, shoving it back again with more force this time, like he could make it stay if he just tried hard enough. “I don’t mind.”

Sirius snorted under his breath. “We do.”

Harry turned on him instantly. “You don’t have to look at it, Padfoot.”

Sirius glanced at you, one brow lifting in silent are you hearing this, and you bit back a smile, reaching out without thinking to brush the hair away from Harry’s face yourself.

“It’s my hair,” he said, quieter now, but firm in a way that mattered more than the volume.

You softened immediately, letting your hand fall. “Yeah. It is.”

“And we’re not saying it isn’t,” you went on, keeping your voice even, calm. “We’re just saying it needs a trim. Not short. Just enough so it’s not in your eyes all the time.”

Harry shifted his weight, clearly working through that, like he was trying to find the exact point where he could disagree.

“I can just move it,” he said after a second, demonstrating again, pushing it back with exaggerated care. “See? I can do it.”

“It falls straight back,” Sirius pointed out.

“Only because I stopped holding it.”

“You cannot hold your hair back all day, Harry.”

“I could if I wanted to.”

Sirius opened his mouth, then stopped himself, pressing his lips together as he glanced at you instead, silently asking for backup.

You stepped a little closer to Harry, lowering your voice just slightly. “You shouldn’t have to, though.”

It gave him pause. Not enough to agree, but enough that you could see him turning it over, weighing it in that stubborn, careful way of his where he refused to give in too quickly, even when something made sense. For a moment, it almost looked like he might meet you halfway.

Then his attention shifted.

You saw it in the way his eyes flicked past your shoulder, something quick and intent, and by the time you turned to follow it, it was already too late. He moved fast, slipping around you before you could reach for him, darting across the room.

“Harry—”

“I’ll just do it myself.”

Your stomach dropped as he reached the side table and grabbed the scissors, fingers curling around them without a second thought.

Sirius swore under his breath and pushed off immediately, all restraint gone in an instant. “No, no, no, absolutely not—”

“I know how,” Harry insisted, already backing away again, holding them awkwardly but tightly, both hands wrapped around the handle.

“You do not know how,” Sirius said, slowing his steps, palms half-raised now, like he was trying not to spook him into running. “Give those here before you take your ear off!”

“I’m not going to cut my ear off,” Harry snapped, offended. “I’m not stupid.”

“No one said you were stupid,” you cut in quickly, moving with Sirius but a step ahead, slower. “But those are sharp, love. Really sharp. You could hurt yourself without meaning to.”

“I won’t,” he said, stubborn, tightening his grip. “I’ll be careful.”

Sirius dragged a hand down his face, muttering something under his breath that sounded like a prayer for patience. “That’s what everyone says right before they do something incredibly stupid.”

“I’m not everyone.”

“No, you’re a bloody eight year old!”

You shot Sirius a look over your shoulder. “You’re not being helpful.”

He winced slightly, then leaned in just enough to murmur, low and quick, “I’m trying, sweetheart. He’s just making it really difficult to be a patient parent.”

Despite everything, your hand brushed briefly against his wrist, grounding, a small squeeze that said I know. He turned his palm just enough to catch your fingers for a second before letting go again.

Then you stepped forward, all your attention back on Harry.

“Come here,” you said gently, holding your hand out, not for the scissors yet, just for him. “We’re not taking them off you by force. Just come here and we’ll talk.”

You crouched down slightly, bringing yourself level with him, careful not to move too fast. “We decided it needs cutting, love. It;s for your own good. We all love you so much and want you to be able to play outside freely without your hair getting in the way.” you said. “Now, what we didn’t decide is how your hair is cut.”

Harry frowned, thrown off just enough to hesitate.

You softened your voice even more. “If you want a say in it, you can have one. We can show you how much we’re cutting. You can tell us if it’s too short. But you don’t get to do it alone with scissors like that, alright?”

Harry looked down at them, then back at you, clearly torn.

For a moment, it almost worked. And then his grip tightened again.

“No,” he said, louder now, frustration bubbling back up. “I said I’ll do it myself.”

“Harry—”

“No!” His voice cracked this time, sharp and sudden, eyes bright with something that had nothing to do with hair anymore. “Just leave me alone, I can do it, you don’t have to do everything for me—”

—and then the air split with a sharp crack of the magic of Apparition.

The three of you turned instinctively.

Remus stood just inside the doorway, coat still hanging off one shoulder, eyes moving quickly over the scene in front of him, taking it in piece by piece; Harry, red-faced, clutching scissors, Sirius, halfway across the room, tense and ready to intervene,  You, crouched, hand still half-extended.

“…Alright,” Remus said slowly. “I feel like I’ve walked into something.”

Harry’s entire posture shifted in an instant. The anger didn’t disappear, but it broke, softened at the edges as he turned and ran straight across the room.

“Remmy—”

He collided with him, wrapping his arms around his waist, voice rushing out all at once.

“They won’t leave me alone, they keep trying to cut my hair and I said I don’t want them to and they won’t listen—”

Remus steadied himself automatically, one hand coming up to the back of Harry’s head, fingers threading gently through his hair as he looked over at you and Sirius.

Sirius lifted both hands. “In our defence, he was about to give himself a butchered fringe.”

“I was not!”

Remus exhaled quietly, looking down at Harry. “Let me see, pup.”

Harry pulled back just enough for Remus to tilt his chin up, brushing the fringe away from his eyes. It fell straight back again.

“…I’m afraid it does need some cutting,” Remus said, mild but certain.

Harry’s head snapped back like he’d been betrayed, not clinging to Remus anymore, frustration flaring right back up. “No, I’m not letting you do it either.”

Remus’ expression didn’t change. “Harry, give me the scissors.”

“No.”

And then, very clearly and sternly, Remus said, “Harold James Potter.”

Harry froze like he’d been hit with a spell, staring at him in pure offence. “That’s not my name, Romulus.”

Sirius made a strangled noise, turning away abruptly with his hand over his mouth. You pressed your lips together, shoulders shaking despite yourself.

Remus crouched down slightly, bringing himself level, his voice calm but firm in a way that cut through everything else. “Give me the scissors.”

Harry hesitated. You could see it. The argument sitting right there on his tongue, the instinct to push back and refuse again. But something in Remus’ tone held.

Slowly and reluctantly, Harry held them out.

Remus took them without a word, setting them on the table behind him before straightening again.

Harry stood there, shoulders tight, hands empty now, gaze fixed stubbornly somewhere near the floor.

Remus watched him for a second, not rushing it. “Alright,” he said at last, voice even, calm in that way that always seemed to reach deeper than the rest of you could manage in moments like this. “We’re going to take a breath.”

Harry didn’t respond, but you saw the way his chest rose a little too fast, the remnants of the argument still sitting under his skin.

Remus’ tone softened. “You’re not in trouble for being upset. You are, however, in trouble for how you handled it.”

That got a reaction. Harry’s head lifted a fraction, not quite meeting his eyes.

“We don’t shout like that,” Remus continued, steady, not unkind. “And we don’t grab things that can hurt us because we’re angry. Do you understand that?”

“…Yes,” Harry muttered, the word small, more breath than voice.

Remus nodded once, taking it in, though he didn’t move on from it just yet. “Good. Then there’s something else you need to do.”

Harry shifted where he stood, shoulders dipping slightly, like he could already feel what was coming.

He hesitated for a second, then looked up, a little uncertain, and started, “I’m sorry—”

“Nuh uh.”

The interruption was quiet, but immediate. Harry blinked, thrown off, the rest of the apology catching awkwardly in his throat.

Remus crouched down properly this time, bringing himself level, his voice still soft but carrying that tone that meant he expected to be listened to. “Not to me, pup.”

Harry frowned faintly, confused. “But I—”

Remus shook his head once, not dismissing him, just redirecting. “Before you apologise, I want you to think about it for a second.”

There was no frustration in his voice, just patience.

“When you say sorry,” he continued, “it’s not just words you say to make things stop or to get out of trouble. It’s something you mean. And to mean it, you have to understand what you’re apologising for.”

Harry’s gaze dropped, considering that, his fingers fidgeting faintly at his side.

“You were upset,” Remus went on, gentler still. “And you’re allowed to be upset. No one’s cross with you for that. You didn’t do anything wrong by feeling that way.”

“But,” Remus added, “the way you handled it? Shouting, grabbing the scissors, speaking to them the way you did… that’s the part that matters.”

Harry swallowed.

“So no,” Remus said quietly. “You don’t owe me an apology for being upset. That’s not something you have to say sorry for.”

“But you do owe one,” he finished, tipping his head just enough to guide Harry’s attention without touching him. “Just not to me.”

Harry’s shoulders sank a little more, understanding settling in properly now.

Remus’ expression softened, not unkind. “To Dovey and Padfoot. You gave them quite the tough afternoon, didn’t you, Harry?”

Harry didn’t answer this time. He just stood there for a moment, small in a way he hadn’t been ten minutes ago, all that defiance draining into understanding.

Slowly, he turned.

You were sitting on the sofa now, not quite where you’d been before, the adrenaline of the moment ebbing out of you in waves. Sirius had dropped down beside you at some point, close enough that his shoulder pressed into yours, his head tipped slightly toward you as your fingers absentmindedly threaded through his hair, smoothing it back in a slow, grounding rhythm.

He’d gone quiet too. No sharp remarks or teasing, just watching.

Harry looked at you both, and whatever he’d been holding together slipped a little.

His eyes were glassy behind his glasses, lower lip caught briefly between his teeth like he was trying very hard not to let it wobble. It hit you all at once, that shift from stubborn to small, from defiant to uncertain, and your chest softened so quickly it almost hurt.

Sirius made a wounded sound under his breath before you could even move, and then he was already leaning forward, arms opening without hesitation.

“C’mere,” he murmured, voice gentler than it had been all afternoon.

Harry didn’t need to be told twice. He crossed the space between you in a few quick steps, the last of his hesitation melting away as he went, and then he was there, folding into Sirius without quite looking at him, pressing his face into the front of his shirt.

“S’rry,” he mumbled, the word muffled and  swallowed by fabric. “Didn’ mean— I jus’—”

Sirius let out a quiet breath, one hand coming up immediately to the back of his head, holding him there. “Hey,” he said softly. “It’s alright. Easy.”

Harry shook his head against him, words tangling together. “Wasn’ s’pposed t’ yell. I jus’— you weren’ listening an’—”

“We were,” Sirius said, not correcting him harshly, just easing the edge off it. “We just didn’t agree, that’s all. Happens sometimes.”

Harry huffed a small, shaky breath, still tucked against him.

Sirius’s thumb brushed slowly over the back of his neck, grounding and familiar. “You don’t have to fight us every time something doesn’t go your way, you know that, right?”

There was a quiet, reluctant nod against his chest.

“Good,” Sirius murmured. “That’s all we wanted.”

After a moment, Harry pulled back just enough to look at him, eyes still a little bright, then glanced sideways at you like he wasn’t entirely sure how to bridge that distance next.

You didn’t make him work for it.

You opened your arms slightly, a small, welcoming invitation, and he stepped into it without hesitation, climbing up onto the sofa beside you and leaning into you in the same way, pressing his face into your shoulder.

“‘m sorry,” he said again, quieter this time, the words still slightly muffled. “Didn’ mean t’ shout at you.”

Your hand came up immediately, cupping the back of his head, pressing a soft kiss into his hair without thinking. “It’s alright, love,” you murmured against him. “We know you didn’t mean it.”

He nodded faintly, still tucked close, and for a moment the three of you just stayed like that, the earlier tension dissolving. Across from you, Remus watched, the corner of his mouth lifting just slightly.

Eventually, Harry pulled back, just a little, enough to look between all three of you again. His fingers twisted briefly in the hem of his sleeve, nerves creeping back in.

He glanced at Remus last.

“Remmy,” he said, quieter now, almost careful. “Can you… cut my hair?”

Remus raised a brow slightly, waiting.

Harry huffed a small breath, adding quickly, “Just a little. Like… a tiny bit. Not loads.”

Sirius huffed out a quiet laugh beside you, shaking his head as his hand found Harry’s shoulder again, squeezing lightly. “A tiny bit,” he echoed.

You smiled, brushing Harry’s fringe back one more time, gentler now. “We can do a tiny bit.”

Remus nodded once, warm, steady. “That sounds perfectly reasonable.”

Harry let out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding, some of the last tension leaving his shoulders.

Remus moved then, stepping forward to the sofa and sitting down beside you, close enough that your knees brushed. His hand reached for the scissors where he’d set them aside earlier, turning them once between his fingers before glancing back at Harry.

“C’mere, pup.”

Harry stepped forward, calmer now, and let himself be guided as Remus gently settled him between his knees, one hand resting lightly at the back of his head to keep him steady without holding him in place.

“Alright,” Remus murmured, already smoothing his hair back with careful fingers, assessing it properly. “We’ll take a little off here. Nothing drastic.”

“A tiny bit,” Harry reminded him, tilting his head slightly.

Remus huffed a quiet breath that might have been a laugh. “Yes, a tiny bit.”

Sirius shifted beside you, leaning in just enough that his shoulder pressed properly into yours this time, his head tipping briefly against it as he watched, something softer replacing the earlier tension. Your hand found his hair again without thinking, fingers threading through it in slow, absent strokes, and he let out a quiet, content sort of sigh.

Harry sat still, surprisingly so, eyes flicking up every now and then as Remus worked, careful and precise, each small snip measured.

“There,” Remus said after a moment, pausing to brush the loose strands away from his forehead. “Better already.”

Harry blinked, pushing at it experimentally, and for once, it stayed out of his eyes.

“…Oh.”

Sirius grinned. “Miracle, that.”

Harry shot him a look, but there was no real bite to it this time.

You watched them, the three of them, the ease that had settled back in like it had never left, and felt something warm and steady settle in your chest.

Parenting was hard. It asked for more patience than you ever thought you had, more restraint than felt reasonable some days, a constant balancing act between holding on and letting go. It was long conversations that went in circles, small battles that somehow turned into something bigger, the quiet, exhausting work of meeting him where he was even when he made it difficult.

But it was this, too.

The way he always came back after pushing away. The way he trusted you enough to soften, even if it took time, even if it came out awkward and quiet and a little unsure. The way the three of you met him there, every single time, steady and certain, no matter how many arguments it took to get there.

And really, you would do it all over again without hesitation. Every stubborn refusal, every raised voice, every drawn-out discussion that tested your patience, if it meant this in the end. Harry safe. Harry loved. Harry right here, exactly where he was meant to be.

Remus brushed the last loose strands from his forehead, studying his work for a moment before his hand settled briefly at the back of Harry’s head, warm and grounding.

“Done,” he said softly.

Harry blinked, reaching up instinctively, fingers brushing over his fringe. It stayed out of his eyes, this time. His face lit up bright, the kind of smile that took over his entire face, wide and unguarded and so full of delight it almost startled you.

He twisted where he sat, looking between you and Sirius, eyes shining behind his glasses.

“How do I look?” he asked, unable to keep it in, the excitement slipping through despite himself. 

Sirius went still beside you, a heavy lump catching in his throat at the question, the answer sitting there, heavy and obvious. It was brief, almost imperceptible, but you felt it in the way his shoulder went just a little more solid against yours, in the inhale he didn’t quite manage to hide.

Sirius had wanted to say, You look just like your father, Harry.

Your hand came up to ruffle Harry’s hair just slightly, careful not to undo Remus’ work, and you answered instead, “You look lovely, Harry.”

Sirius swallowed, his expression softening as he let out a breath. “Yeah,” he added, his voice a little rougher than usual, but warm all the same. “You do.”

Harry beamed at that, the smile somehow brighter, if that was even possible.

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You adjust the angle of your hands instead, shifting slightly over bone and cartilage, trying to find some better position, some better leverage, like maybe all that stands between this woman and another few minutes of life is a matter of inches.

“Call it,” Robby says.

“One more round.”

You are already pressing down again when you say it. Your voice comes out breathless, raw around the edges. Somebody at the head of the bed is squeezing another bag of fluid. Someone else is reciting numbers you are no longer taking in. The nurse nearest the cart glances toward Robby and then away just as quickly.

“We’ve been at this for thirty minutes.”

“I know.”

The words leave you sharper than you mean them to. You still don’t look at him. You are staring at your hands like if you focus hard enough, if you do not let your eyes leave the task in front of you, then nobody can make you quit yet.

“Just one more. Her rhythm was changing.”

“Her rhythm was V-fib for twenty minutes before it went flat.”

That one lands. You hate that it does.

Your arms keep moving for another few compressions before the sentence catches up to you properly. Your elbows start to lock. Your shoulders ache from effort and from refusal. The woman’s skin is cool in a way that does not belong to somebody who had been talking less than an hour ago.

Robby steps around the table. You can feel him there even before you look. The shift in the room gives him away. It always does. Attention folds around him without anyone meaning it to. He stops across from you with his arms crossed and his expression already set in that closed-off, unmovable way that means he has made a decision and will not be moved from it.

“The dissection was too extensive,” he says. “The bleed was too fast. There was nothing more to do.”

“You don’t know that.”

His eyes lift to yours for the first time in the last minute. “Step back from the table.”

You keep your hands where they are.

There is blood on the sheet. Blood on your wrist. Blood drying dark at the edge of one glove. You can hear your own breathing under the monitor, under the suction, under the noise of the bay outside the curtain. Your chest feels too tight to hold all of it.

“Robby—”

“Step back.”

The room stills around the order.

You don’t know what finally does it. His tone, maybe. Or maybe it is the look on the nurse’s face when you glance up and find her standing there with the next thing already in her hands and nowhere to put it because there is no next thing anymore. Maybe it is the woman on the bed herself, who does not move beneath your hands no matter what you do.

Slowly, you let your arms fall.

The absence of motion feels obscene.

You step back from the table because he told you to, because someone had to be the one to stop, because your body has reached that ugly point between exhaustion and disbelief where following an order becomes easier than fighting it. Your hands hang uselessly at your sides.

She had been awake when they brought her in.

That is the part of this your mind keeps circling back to with a kind of sick insistence. Not the open cavity. Not the sound the monitor made when the rhythm changed shape and then lost it altogether. Not the smell of cautery and blood and antiseptic clinging to the trauma bay. Just her face. Pale and frightened and trying so hard not to show it. The way she had looked from the gurney to you as they rolled her through the doors, eyes glazed with pain and still searching for someone to answer her.

She had told you her name.

As if that mattered.

As if you could keep hold of it for her.

As if there was some dignity left in being known when your body had been torn open from the inside.

You had leaned down so she could hear you over the rush of the bay and said it back to her, and for half a second she had looked less afraid.

Then, just before they pushed the sedation, she had caught your wrist with surprising strength and asked if somebody would call her kids.

You had said yes without thinking.

Of course you had.

“Time of death,” Robby says, glancing toward the clock on the wall, “22:14.”

The monitor answers him with its long, unbroken tone.

Nobody says anything after that.

The room has that terrible, familiar quiet to it now. Not silence. It is never silence in the ED. There is always noise somewhere. Phones ringing at the desk. Shoes against linoleum. A paramedic giving report in the next bay. Someone laughing too loudly at something down the hall because life keeps happening even here. But inside the trauma room, there is that suspended sort of stillness that settles when a body becomes a body again and everyone standing around it has to remember what comes next.

One of the nurses lowers her eyes to the chart in her hand with far too much concentration. Another moves toward the back counter to busy herself with wrappers that do not need gathering yet. Nobody looks directly at you.

You tug your gloves off one finger at a time because your hands have started to shake.

“Are you crying?”

Your head comes up too fast.

Robby is looking straight at you, not cruelly, that would almost be easier to absorb. There is no contempt in his face, no overt softness either. Only hard steadiness that makes everything he says sound like fact whether you agree with it or not.

Your eyes sting all at once. You hadn’t even realized it had gotten that far. Everything had felt too hot, too pressurized, too tight in your throat to separate one sensation from another, and now a tear slips over before you can stop it.

You wipe it away with the back of your wrist so quickly it smears.

“No.”

His gaze drops briefly to your face again, then back up. “You’re crying in my trauma bay.”

“I’m fine.”

“You are standing in the middle of my trauma bay in tears,” he says, flat and matter-of-fact, “and you are not useful to me right now. Step out.”

Your mouth parts. Nothing useful comes out of it. You hear yourself say, “I just need a minute.”

“I don’t have a minute.” His voice is not loud, but it sharpens enough to make you tense.

“There’s a man in bay three who has been waiting twenty minutes. I need doctors who are present. Not standing over a body feeling sorry for themselves.”

Heat rushes through you so quickly it makes your face burn.

“I’m not feeling sorry for myself.”

“Then what would you call it.”

The answer swells up in you so fast it almost chokes you. You can feel every pair of ears in the room pretending not to listen. Your throat tightens until speaking hurts.

“I would call it that she came in conscious, Robby.” Your voice catches in the middle of his name and you hate yourself for that more than anything. “She told me her name. She asked me to call her kids and I told her I would, and I think I’m allowed a second to—”

“You’re not.” The words are immediately thrown back.

You stare at him and he doesn’t look away.

“I’ve watched you do this since your first week here,” he says. “Every bad outcome. Every patient that doesn’t make it. It’s all over your face. You carry it around the department for hours after the fact, and I’ve let it go because you’re a good resident. Technically, you’re very good.”

The bay feels colder all of a sudden.

“But this is a problem.”

You do not move.

His eyes flick over your face in a way that makes you feel exposed in the ugliest way, not seen but rather assessed.

“You are too emotional for this environment.”

There it is.

Not because the sentence is especially dramatic. It isn’t. He says it as evenly as he says anything else. That is what makes it worse. It does not sound like anger or frustration or something thrown out in the heat of the moment. It sounds considered. It sounds like a thought he has had before and finally decided to voice.

The woman on the bed lies between you, silent and still and covered now to the chest.

You swallow around the ache in your throat. “That’s not fair.”

“Maybe not.”

He reaches for the next chart from the rack beside the door.

“But it’s true. You need to decide whether you can do this job or you can’t, because I won’t have you falling apart every time we lose someone. It’s not fair to the patients, and it’s not fair to my staff.”

“Robby—”

“Get some air.”

He says it like an order, not a kindness.

“Come back when you’ve got yourself together. I won’t have you in here like this.”

Then he turns and leaves.

The doors swing shut behind him with a soft mechanical hush.

For a moment, you can’t move.

The room blurs strangely at the edges. Someone passes you on the way to the sink. Someone else starts quietly discussing postmortem tasks with one of the nurses. Life resumes in pieces around you, practical and necessary and horribly normal.

You pull the second glove off and let it drop. Then the first. You don’t look to see where they land.

The walk out of trauma feels longer than it should.

The hallway beyond is all fluorescent light and polished floors and people moving too fast for your thoughts to keep pace with. You keep your chin up because there are only so many humiliations one person can survive in ten minutes and you’ve already endured enough for the night.

Past the nurses’ station.

Past two med students huddled over a chart.

Past a family clustered near the vending machines with the same pinched look everybody gets when they have already been waiting too long and know they will be waiting longer.

Nobody stops you. Nobody says your name. If anyone notices your face, they’re kind enough not to point it out.

“Too emotional for this environment.”

The sentence follows you all the way to the elevator.

You jab the call button and stare at the numbers above the doors with fixed intensity that comes from trying not to shatter in public. Your jaw aches from the force of holding it together. Your eyes burn. You can still feel the woman’s pulse under your fingers from earlier, back when there had still been one to feel, faint and racing and there.

You shut your eyes.

You need to decide whether you can do this job or you can’t.

The elevator opens with a soft chime. You get in before anyone else can.

The ride up is mercifully empty.

You press the button for the roof and lean back against the wall, arms folded tight over yourself like you can hold your insides in place if you just press hard enough. The mirrored panel opposite catches your reflection and you have to look away. Your face is blotchy already. Your hair is half falling out of its tie. There is dried blood near your cuff. You look exactly how you feel, which is never a good sign.

By the time the doors open again, the pressure behind your eyes has turned blinding.

The roof is cold enough to make your lungs seize on the first breath.

The night air comes hard and sharp off the city, smelling faintly like rain on concrete and the exhaust from the streets below. Pittsburgh spreads out beneath you in layers of yellow-white lights and dark buildings and distant traffic.

Somewhere down there, people are ordering takeout, walking their dogs, kissing on couches, sleeping through the night. The thought makes something in your chest twist.

You walk to the ledge at the far end of the roof and brace your forearms against it.

The first sob catches so hard it hurts.

Then another one follows.

And another.

It all leaves you in one brutal rush, like your body had only been waiting for privacy before it gave up the effort of restraint altogether. You bend over the ledge with your face in your hands and cry with all the gracelessness grief ever demands from anyone. Your shoulders shake, your breath stutters, your nose starts running and you wipe at it angrily with your sleeve and only make yourself cry harder because what else is there to do.

She had asked about her kids.

That keeps returning, cruelly intact.

Not whether she was going to die. Not whether she would be okay. Not even whether she was in the right place. Her kids. She had been terrified and in agony and bleeding out from the inside, and she had still thought first of them.

You had said yes.

The city below you gleams wet and indifferent.

You stay there until the worst of it empties out. Long enough for the cold to creep in through your scrubs and settle against your skin. Long enough for your face to go numb beneath the sting. Long enough that your sobs lose force and degrade into those ugly, hitching breaths that never quite feel satisfying.

Eventually you straighten.

Your palms rest flat against the ledge. Your eyes are swollen and your throat feels scraped raw. You stare out at the skyline and try to match your breathing to something steady.

The door behind you opens.

“I’m fine,” you say immediately, voice rough. You don’t turn around to see who it may be. “I just needed air. I’ll be back down in a minute.”

The footsteps that cross the roof are unhurried. There is a slight unevenness to them that your body recognizes before your mind does.

You close your eyes briefly. Of course.

“I’m serious,” you say, still facing forward. “You don’t have to stand here. Just tell whoever sent you I’m coming back down. I just needed five minutes.”

“Robby told me,” Jack says, “that a certain resident needed some air.”

His voice sits low in the night, roughened by sleep and age and that ever present rasp he seems to carry around even when he’s trying to be gentle. It lands somewhere under your ribs and stays there.

You laugh once, short and miserable. “That sounds like him.”

Jack comes to stand beside you at the ledge.

He doesn’t crowd you. He never really does. He just settles there near enough that the heat of him cuts through the cold a little, his forearms coming to rest against the ledge next to yours. You keep your face turned out toward the city because looking at him right now feels like a bad idea.

“I’m okay,” you say.

It sounds weak even to your own ears.

You try again. “Seriously. I just needed a minute.”

He is quiet for a beat. Then, “What did he say to you?”

Your throat tightens all over again.

“Nothing.”

Jack turns his head. You can feel it without seeing it. “Don’t do that.”

You let out a breath that almost shakes. “I’m not doing anything.”

“Yeah, you are.”

His tone stays calm. That somehow makes it harder.

You keep your eyes fixed on the city. “He’s tired. We all are. It was a bad case.”

“What did he say.”

When you still don’t answer, Jack shifts closer and lifts a hand to your jaw.

The touch is gentle. Warm. Calloused in a way that feels grounding instead of rough. His fingers turn your face toward him with barely any pressure at all, but you follow it anyway because resisting takes more strength than you have left.

The look on his face nearly undoes you.

It is not pity. Thank God for that. You think pity from him would kill you outright.

It is concern. His brows have drawn together, as his eyes move slowly over your face, taking in the tear tracks, the red rimmed eyes, whatever else is left of your attempt to pretend you were coming back downstairs like nothing happened.

“What,” he says quietly, “did he say?”

You hold his gaze for maybe two seconds before your chin starts to tremble.

“That I’m too emotional to be here.”

The sentence breaks in half on its way out.

Jack says nothing.

The silence gives you room to keep going and you almost wish it didn’t.

“He said he doesn’t think I can do the job if I fall apart every time we lose someone.” Your laugh comes out wet and ugly. “Which I wasn’t even doing, not really, I just…” You swallow hard. “She came in awake.”

Jack’s hand stays at your jaw. His thumb shifts once against your cheek.

“She told me her name,” you say, and now that you’ve started, it all spills too fast to stop. “She asked me if someone would call her kids before we sedated her, and I told her yes. I said yes like I could promise that, like I could promise anything, and then she was gone ten minutes later and he just called it and moved on and I know we have to move on, I know that, I know how this place works, but he looked at me like I was weak for even caring and I—”

The rest crumples in your throat.

Jack doesn’t let you finish.

“C’mere,” he murmurs, and he draws you into him before you can decide whether to resist.

You go without meaning to.

One second you are standing stiff and shaking beside him, and the next your face is buried against his chest and his arms are around you properly, one across your back and the other up at the base of your skull, broad palm resting there like he means to keep you together by sheer force of will.

The second his hand touches the back of your head, whatever was left of your composure gives out.

You grip the front of his shirt and cry into him like you have nowhere else to put it.

Jack just holds you.

He does not shush you. He does not tell you it’s okay when it very plainly isn’t. He does not offer some empty reassurance about how you did your best and that’s all anyone could have done. He seems to understand, maybe better than most people would, that the wrong words right now would make it worse. So he says nothing and lets you shake against him until the force of it starts to ease on its own.

His chest is warm beneath your cheek. You can smell soap and coffee and that faint musky cologne he wears too sparingly to ever name but that always somehow clings to him by the middle of a shift. His hand keeps moving once every so often against the back of your head, not enough to soothe in any obvious way, just enough that you know he is still there.

By the time your crying slows to uneven breaths, your fingers are bunched in his shirt.

You loosen them immediately, mortified. “Sorry.”

Jack huffs softly above you. “No.”

The one word is almost enough to make you laugh.

You pull back just far enough to look at him. His hands stay where they are for a moment, one at your back, one still cupping the base of your head. He studies your face with that same awful steadiness from before, except there is warmth in his eyes now that Robby’s had lacked entirely. Anger, too, though it sits lower.

“She had two kids,” you say, because it is somehow the only thing left that matters.

Jack’s expression shifts.

“Both their names were on her intake form.” Your voice trembles again, quieter this time. “She wrote them herself. She made a point to spell them out. Like she wanted to make sure nobody got it wrong.”

For a second, Jack doesn’t say anything. He just looks at you.

Then his hand leaves the back of your head and comes up to brush beneath one of your eyes with his thumb, wiping away a damp line you’d missed. He does the same to the other side, slow and unhurried.

“I’ll make sure somebody talks to her husband before the shift ends,” he says.

You blink. “Okay.”

“I’ll do it myself if I have to.”

Something in your chest loosens a little at that. Not much. Just enough to hurt differently.

“Okay,” you say again.

Jack lets his hands settle fully around your face then, palms warm against your chilled skin, thumbs resting near your cheekbones. He tips your head back a fraction so you have to look at him properly.

“You belong here.”

Your eyes sting all over again.

“I mean it,” he says. “Don’t let him put that shit in your head.”

You try to laugh and only manage a watery sort of exhale. “I’m trying not to.”

“Try harder.”

That gets the ghost of something out of you. Not a full smile, but close enough that his mouth softens in answer.

“She asked you to call her kids because she trusted you,” he says. “Patients know when somebody gives a damn. They know.”

His thumbs brush once more beneath your eyes.

“That doesn’t make you weak. It makes you the kind of doctor people remember when the rest of this place starts to blur together.”

You have to look away for a second because the alternative is crying all over again, and you are beginning to suspect you may never stop if given enough encouragement. Your gaze lifts to the dark stretch of sky above the hospital, then drops back to him.

“I don’t know what to do with it,” you admit.

“With what.”

“All of it.” Your throat works. “Them, after. The ones we lose. The things they say before. The families. I don’t know where I’m supposed to put it.”

Jack is quiet for long enough that you think he might not answer.

Then, “You don’t put it anywhere.”

You look back at him.

His expression has gone older somehow. More tired. Like the answer costs something to say aloud.

“You carry it,” he says simply. “That’s the job.”

The cold wind curls over the roof and tugs at the ends of your hair. Somewhere below, a siren whines past the hospital and fades.

“I don’t want to carry it like this.”

“No one does.”

His hands slide from your face to your shoulders. He squeezes once.

“But if you stop feeling it entirely, that’s when I’d worry.”

The words settle deep.

Not because they solve anything. They don’t. The woman is still dead. Her kids are still about to learn something that will split their lives into before and after. Robby still said what he said. The shift still waits downstairs, unfinished and unforgiving.

But Jack says it like somebody who has learned to live with the weight rather than outrun it. Like somebody who knows exactly how much it costs and still thinks it is worth paying.

You draw in a slow breath.

The air still bites, but it fills your lungs a little easier this time.

Jack watches you do it. “There you go.”

You roll your eyes weakly. “Don’t.”

“What.”

“That.”

A corner of his mouth turns. “You want me to stop encouraging you to breathe now?”

You lean your forehead briefly against his chest again, more from embarrassment than despair this time. “I hate you.”

“Sure you do.”

His chin dips to the top of your head for a moment. You feel the shape of a kiss there a second later, absentminded and so gentle it nearly hurts.

You stay like that longer than you mean to. The city stretching below. The roof cold underfoot. Jack standing steady in front of you like he has nowhere else he needs to be for these few minutes, even though you both know that isn’t true.

Eventually he eases back enough to look down at you.

“You coming back?”

You think about it honestly.

Your eyes still ache. Your face probably looks terrible. The thought of stepping into trauma again makes something inside you flinch. But beneath all of that, under the humiliation and the grief and the rawness of being spoken to like that in front of a full room, there is still the sharper thing that got you through med school and internship and every impossible shift before this one.

You are not done.

“Yeah,” you say.

Jack studies your face like he’s checking the answer for cracks. Then he nods once.

“Good.”

He turns toward the door and holds it open for you.

The warmth of the stairwell meets you first, then the fluorescent light, then the familiar smell of hospital air. You step through and start down the stairs beside him, not saying much. There doesn’t seem to be any need for it.

By the time you reach the floor again, the ED has swallowed up the roof and the quiet and those five stolen minutes like they never existed. The board is still full. Somebody is calling for respiratory. A child is crying somewhere near triage. Whitaker rushes past with a portable monitor tucked under one arm and barely spares you both a glance.

You fall back into step because there is nothing else to do.

At the desk, Jack peels off toward another bay with a brief hand at the back of your shoulder as he passes.

You make it three steps toward trauma before Robby appears at the end of the hall.

He is flipping through a chart as he walks, glasses low on his nose, expression as impassive as ever. If he is surprised to see you back, he does not show it. He comes to a stop in front of you and looks up.

“You good to rejoin us?”

The question is so infuriatingly clinical that for a second you cannot answer.

Jack, who had gotten halfway down the corridor, stops.

You see the moment he decides to turn around.

You also see the moment Robby notices him doing it.

“I’m fine,” you say before either of them can speak.

Robby gives a short nod and starts to move past you.

“Hey.”

Jack’s voice cuts through the hallway cleanly.

Robby stops.

A few heads lift at the station. Nothing dramatic. Just that subtle turning of attention that happens in a place where everyone is always listening for the next bad thing.

Jack comes back toward the two of you, slower this time. There is no rush in him at all. That should probably scare people more than shouting ever would.

“What,” Robby says, not looking especially bothered.

Jack stops beside you, close enough that the line of his shoulder almost touches yours. “You wanna explain to me why she came upstairs crying?”

The air around the three of you changes, and you almost instantly regret telling Jack anything, you should have known he wouldn’t have shame in telling him what he did was wrong.

Robby’s eyes flick briefly to your face, then back to Jack. “Because she got attached to a patient and picked the middle of my trauma bay to fall apart about it.”

You feel yourself go rigid.

Jack’s jaw tightens. “That right.”

Robby closes the chart in his hands. “I don’t have time for this.”

“Make time.”

The station has gone very still behind you.

Robby regards him for a moment. “I said what needed to be said. We were in the middle of a shift and she was no longer useful in the room.”

Jack’s laugh is short and humorless. “Useful.”

“That’s the job.”

“No,” Jack says. “The job is keeping people alive when you can and treating them like human beings when you can’t. That includes your residents.”

Robby’s face does not change, but his eyes harden slightly. “If she wants to be here, she needs to learn how to function.”

“She was functioning.”

“She was crying over a dead patient.”

“She was crying over a dead mother who asked about her kids before you put her under.” Jack steps a little closer. “You think that’s a some flaw?”

A muscle shifts in Robby’s jaw.

“No,” he says. “I think dragging that kind of emotion through every bay in the department is a liability.”

“Bullshit.” The word drops bluntly between them.

You glance at Jack despite yourself. He is looking at Robby now with of cold clarity you don’t often see from him unless something has truly gotten under his skin.

“You don’t get to talk to her like that because you’re tired,” Jack says. “And you sure as hell don’t get to decide she doesn’t belong here because she still has a pulse.”

Robby’s expression shutters further. “This is between me and my resident.”

Jack does not even blink. “Not if you’re saying shit like that to her, it isn’t.”

Somewhere behind the desk, someone pointedly starts typing very loudly.

Robby looks past Jack to you then, as though you are suddenly the only person in the conversation worth addressing.

“Are you able to continue your shift?”

The professionalism of it is almost funny.

You square your shoulders. “Yes.”

“Good.”

He turns to leave again.

Jack lets him get two steps this time.

Then, “You owe her an apology.”

That finally makes Robby stop in earnest.

He turns back more slowly than before. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

Robby’s mouth flattens. “I am not doing this in the middle of the department.”

Jack folds his arms. “Should we go somewhere quieter, would that suit you?”

For one absurd second, you think Robby might actually laugh. He doesn’t. But something unreadable flickers across his face.

He looks at you. Really looks this time, something more difficult to parse. You don’t know what he sees there. You don’t know if he sees anything at all besides another problem waiting to be solved badly.

When he speaks, his voice is lower.

“I shouldn’t have said it like that.”

It is not much. It is nowhere near enough. But it is also probably the closest anyone in this hospital will ever get to hearing Robby say he was wrong.

The words catch you off guard anyway.

He adjusts his hold on the chart. “Take five more minutes if you need them. Then I want you back in three.”

You nod once.

Robby leaves before either of you can answer.

The tension goes with him in increments.

Jack exhales through his nose and looks down the hall after him like he is still considering whether to follow. Then he glances at you.

“You okay?”

You let out a tired breath that almost resembles a laugh. “I think so.”

“That was a terrible apology.”

“It was,” you agree.

“But?”

You look toward trauma, where the doors are swinging open and shut around the blur of another incoming patient. “But I heard it.”

Jack watches your face for a second, then nods.

“Alright.”

He gives your shoulder one last squeeze before stepping away. “Go be too emotional somewhere productive.”

This time you actually laugh, small and startled and real.

Jack’s mouth tips faintly at one corner like he’d been aiming for exactly that. Then he turns and heads back into the noise.

You stand there for one more second in the middle of the corridor, breathing.

Then you straighten your scrub top, wipe once under your eyes in case there is anything left there to betray you, and push back through the trauma doors.

The shift is still waiting.

So are the patients.

So are all the impossible, unfinished things that will remain impossible and unfinished long after tonight is over.

You go anyway.

Because the truth, ugly and inconvenient and still intact beneath everything Robby said, is that he was wrong about the part that mattered.

You do belong here.