Soup, Sex And Sun Salutations

The gates of the Red Keep creak open allowing the flag bearers at the front of your group entry so they may announce your arrival.

"Lord Cregan Stark, Warden of The North, and his lady wife Princess Y/N Targaryen." You and Cregan ride in time with eachother and pull your horses to a stop just beyond the gate. He slides off the saddle before making his way to you to place his large hands on your waist and lift you from your own. You grunt as your boots meet the dirt of the courtyard and squeeze his arm in silent thanks before turning to see the group gathered to greet you.

"Daughter." Your mother Rhaenyra says with a warm smile that crinkles her eyes.

"Mother." You respond, walking to her where she meets you half way, embracing her in a crushing hold.

She pulls back and holds your face letting her eyes remember the face she hasnt seen in years. "It has been so long."

"I know, the journey is difficult- and long. Even by dragon. And is a miracle that Cregans duties have allowed him to come here." You turn slightly to face him. Hes stood behind you, slightly awkwardly for the Warden of the North, you think, but you dont blame him- he sticks out like a sore thumb here.

"Lord Stark, I trust the journey went well by all accounts." Rhaenyra says.

"Aye Your Grace. Your daughter is right, the journey is not forgiving, but she is tough."

"It would be quicker if someone would ride Cannibal with me." You jest and he just grunts.

"Come, let us get you inside."

The Red Keep was different than you remembered. Granted it had been many, many years since you had last been here, but it lacked the soul you recalled thrumming through every hall so vividly. Your grandsire had summoned the whole family here in celebration of his nameday. Instead of a grand tourney or hunt he had one wish: a dinner with his family. You were prepared to make the journey alone but Cregan had insisted on accompanying you after ensuring all his duties could be handled in his absence and truthfully you were thankful for his presence.

The staff showed you to your old bedroom where your belongings were already being unpacked by the handmaidens. You were thankful that your room seems to have been left untouched and didnt match the drab interior of the rest of the castle.

"Thank you, leave us." You softly receiving a sea of nods from the maids before filing out of the room. After the tell tale click of closing doors you walk over to your bed and flop down on your back with a huff.

Cregan leaves his place by the window and sits on the mattress next to you. "How are you feeling, love?"

You huff again. "Relieved. Stressed. Suffocated. Warm. Im feeling everything." He chuckled and laced his fingers with yours, bringing your hand to his lips and kissing the back of it tenderly. "And- gods-"

"You know you can speak your mind around me, wife." His voice is lower than usual as he watches you turn over the thoughts in your mind.

"Is it wrong of me to say I miss Winterfell? I have not even been here an hour and- I dont know. I am so happy to see my family again, but this place, its so different." You fiddle mindlessly with his wedding ring as you finally air out your feelings.

"You have lived in the North for a while now, I like to think it has become a home to you. It is normal to miss it." You hum, sitting up on your elbows to look at him properly. The movement causes a strand of hair to fall into your face which he swiftly tucks back behind you ear, leaving his hand there to stroke over the soft strands. "And this place did not give you the fondest of memories. I do not blame you for feeling stressed." It was no secret you struggled with your station. And then to add the constant insults and threats about your parentage, from your own family no less, it was no surprise you became overwhelmed and shut yourself away. You were thankful that Winterfell had lifted that stress from your shoulders.

"And its so warm." You say with a pout and headbutt his side.

He chuckles softly. "Aye, it is."

Viserys greets you with a hug and a pleased sigh of your name. "My word, you have grown so much. You look well, im glad the North is treating you as such."

Your heart hurts at his words. You wish you could say the same to him but time has not been kind to your grandsire. "Cregan takes good care of me, and the food up north is hearty."

He smiles, revealing a few decaying teeth but they do not dampen the sincerity of it. "And you are happy?"

"More than I have ever been."

"That is all I could hope for." He looks to Cregan who stands just behind you. "And Lord Stark. I am very appreciative that you made the journey here in spite of your duties. And equally for your care of my granddaughter."

"Of course, Your Grace." He nods politely. The Kings attention is whisked away somewhere else leaving you to look around the candle lit hall. Your eyes land on Alicent and Cregans follow. "Do you wish to greet her?"

"Not particularly, but it might be a matter of just taking the bull by the horns." You finish your glass of wine in one big gulp. "You must do your best to hold your tongue."

"Mm." He grumbles.

The dinner came and went without trouble. For once your family seemed to behave and refrain from sending eachother ceaseless insults over the meal. You enjoyed watching Cregan speak with Jace. Despite their differences they had formed a sort of friendship through Jaces occasional visits to the north, and it warmed your heart to see him fit so seamlessly into this part of your life. Aside from one unsavoury comment from Aegon about northerners prowess in a certain area, the evening went smoothly.

You ended the night with your head rested on Cregans chest in a bed that was far less cozy than your one back home. But you didnt mind, the wine moving through your veins settled you into a deep sleep as soon as you were in his arms.

The sun filtered through the net curtains far too easily, waking you much before you desired. The first thing you felt was your husband turning in the bed with a sleepy groan followed by a gruff, "Mornin'.”

"Morning my love." You kissed him softly noting the way his stubble felt against you. "Did you sleep well?"

"No." His voice is muffled by the pillow he buries his head in. Your lips move over his cheeks, down his neck and over the muscular plains of his shoulder. "Do not start something you cannot finish."

"I think you know full well that I can finish it." You say with a teasing lilt to your voice. You squeal when Cregan grabs your wrist and moves himself on top of you, brushing his nose against yours. You lift your head to kiss him deeply, whining into the kiss and fighting against his hold on your arms desperate to get your hands on him.

"Youre trouble, wife." He groans against your lips.

"You wouldnt have me any other way." He kisses your smiling mouth and finally releases your hands in favour of gripping harshly at the fat of your ass. He grinds his hardening cock against your cunt forcing you legs open wider to accommodate him which you do without complaint.

"I need you," You say between kisses. "Please Cregan."

"Shh, you have me." He blindly pulls up your night gown over your hips while his mouth works over the peak of your nipple through the silken fabric. He sits up slightly, fisting his leaking cock before lining it up with your entrance. As much as you loved foreplay, there was something so special about desperate, needy sex on a quiet morning- all hands and teeth and groping. He pushed into you slowly, the stretch sending a thrum of pleasure through you and only made you need him more.

He thrusts his hips deeply, the thick patch of hair surrounding his cock rubbing deliciously against your clit. Your nails dig into his broad shoulders and pulled him closer needing his body pressed up against yours, needing to feel all of him. His mouth moves back to your chest which was now exposed by the flurry of movement and nibbles gently sending your hands flying to his hair and pulling at his long hair. He smiles as you whine and tug harder, growling against your tits and picking up the pace of his hips.

"Daughter, I-" Your mothers voice rings out through the room and both you and Cregan freeze. So lost in the feeling of eachother, you hadnt heard the doors open- only becoming aware the intrusion when she called out to you.

"Gods! I- I am so sorry," Rhaenyra covers her eyes and spins around lightning fast giving you a chance to separate from your lover and pull the covers over anything indecent. She speaks again, still facing away with a hand firml over her eyes. "I am so used to just- walking in. I forget that now my daughter is a woman grown. Please, forgive me."

Your cheeks couldnt be hotter as you stutter over your words. "I- Is everything okay?"

"Yes, nothing urgent. I was simply going to ask if you wanted to join me for a walk in the gardens. But it seems you have already decided your morning plans."

You let out an anguished whine and bury your head in your hands.

"Im sorry, im sorry," Your mother fights a smile as she moves towards the exit. "I will leave you to your… relations."

And with that she exits your bedroom leaving you a puddle of embarrassment next to your husband who sports a slight blush of his own.

"I can never look her in the eyes again."

"Come here." He pulls you into his side and rubs over your back. "It could be worse."

"Could it?" You query.

"Yes, but ill spare you the thoughts." He kisses your forehead softly and smiles, settling back into the bed bringing you with him. The warmth of his embrace somewhat scrubbed the mortification from your body. You were grateful you had found eachother, even more grateful that you were betrothed.

"My lady," she said, lowering her voice despite the fact that the room was empty, "they say the King has moved the new queen into his own chambers."

Lady Merryweather looked up from her plate. "Into the royal apartments?"

"So they say."

"Don't be ridiculous."

The maid shook her head. "It came directly from the King's steward. Her things were moved yesterday evening. All of them."

For a moment Lady Merryweather simply stared. Royal wives were not housed in the King's chambers. They maintained households of their own, separate apartments, separate servants, separate lives. That was how such arrangements had always worked. The suggestion that Maegor Targaryen of all people had ordered his newest bride to reside with him permanently was so unusual that it bordered upon improper.

Yet as the day progressed, the story only gained strength. By midday, ladies were whispering about it in the gardens. By supper, lords were discussing it openly over cups of wine. Every servant seemed to possess a new detail, and each detail appeared more unbelievable than the last.

***

The young queen Y/n, meanwhile, gave no indication that she knew she had become the center of court gossip.

She entered the Great Hall beside her husband that evening wearing a gown of soft green silk embroidered with golden roses. The contrast between them was striking enough to draw attention even without the rumors. Maegor looked every inch the cruel warrior king of the songs: broad-shouldered, stern-faced, and imposing even while seated. Beside him, his bride seemed almost delicate, though not fragile—the Tyrells rarely were. There was a brightness about her that reminded many courtiers of Highgarden itself.

As she took her place at the royal table, one of the servants approached to pour wine. The man's hands shook badly enough that a few drops splashed onto the tablecloth.

Y/n immediately smiled. "You needn't look so frightened. I promise I won't tell anyone."

The servant flushed crimson. A few nearby lords chuckled.

Unfortunately, the King had heard. That made the laughter die almost instantly.

The poor servant looked ready to faint. The lords sneaking glances at the king’s reaction.

For a heartbeat nobody spoke. Then, to the astonishment of every person present, Maegor glanced toward his wife and said, in a voice dry enough to draw several startled looks, "That depends entirely on whether you spill mine as well."

The hall fell silent.

Not because the remark was particularly amusing. But because the King—Maegor the Cruel—had made a joke.

The servant blinked. Y/n laughed without restraint. And, after the briefest hesitation, so did Maegor; the sound was rough and short-lived, but real enough to leave half the room staring in disbelief.

***

Later, many would struggle to remember what had been said during the rest of the meal. They would remember that moment, however. They would remember the way the King looked at his young wife when she spoke, the way his attention seemed to return to her no matter where it wandered, and the peculiar ease that existed between them. It was not the sort of affection sung about by bards. Maegor Targaryen was not a man made for other than war-songs. Yet there was something undeniably different in the way he treated her.

The realization spread through the court slowly at first and then all at once. By the end of the week, no one doubted it any longer.

The King might have taken many wives.

But only one of them lived in his chambers.

***

The King was practically profoundly smitten with his new wife. The others however, were not. 

The confrontation came sooner than it might have otherwise, perhaps because there was only so much resentment that could accumulate before someone finally spoke it aloud.

Queen Y/n had spent her morning in the gardens and was returning to the royal apartments when she encountered one of Maegor's other wives in a long gallery overlooking Blackwater Bay. Rain lashed against the windows beyond the arches, turning the sea into a grey blur. It was not a place where people generally lingered, which made it all the more apparent that Alys had been waiting for her.

At first, Y/n noticed nothing unusual. She offered the same warm smile she offered everyone.

"Good afternoon."

The response was polite enough. "Your Grace."

Yet there was something in Alys’ voice that caused her smile to falter. Before she could continue on her way, the older queen spoke again.

"Tell me, does he still insist that you remain in the royal apartments?"

The question seemed innocent enough, though the tone was not. Y/n hesitated. "I live there, yes."

"I know you’re staying there."

Something sharp flashed briefly across the woman's face. "The entire castle knows."

Y/n stared at her, confused by the hostility. She had never exchanged more than a handful of words with this woman before. "Have I done something to offend you?"

For a moment Alys simply looked at her. Then she laughed softly and shook her head, as though confronted with something both absurd and exhausting.

"That is precisely the problem."

"I don't understand."

"No," the woman replied. "I don't believe you do."

She moved toward one of the windows, her skirts whispering across the stone floor. Outside, thunder rolled over the bay. For several moments she said nothing, and when she finally spoke again, the anger in her voice had given way to something far wearier.

"Do you know how many nights I have seen the King in the last two moons?"

Y/n blinked. "No."

"Two."

The answer hung in the air between them.

"He visited for supper once. He spent a night in my apartments. Two times." Alys let out a breath that sounded dangerously close to a laugh. "And before you tell me that such things are not your fault, I know that already."

Y/n had been about to do exactly that.

"I never asked for—"

"I know."

"He chose—"

"I know."

The older woman closed her eyes briefly before continuing. "Do you imagine any of us are angry because we believe you forced him? Have you truly not understood?"

She found herself suddenly wishing she were anywhere else.

"No."

Alys studied her face for a long moment, searching perhaps for arrogance, or triumph, or the satisfaction of victory. Whatever she sought, she clearly did not find it.

"Gods," she murmured. "You really don't."

"Understand what?"

"That half the court thinks you have enchanted him."

Y/n nearly laughed, assuming it a joke, but the other woman's expression prevented it.

"Enchanted him?"

"Or bewitched him. Or poisoned him. The theories grow more creative every week."

"That's ridiculous."

"Of course it is."

"Then why would anyone believe it?"

The woman gave her a look that seemed almost incredulous.

"Because the alternative is stranger."

That answer only deepened her confusion. "What alternative?"

For the first time, genuine bitterness entered the woman's voice.

"That Maegor Targaryen simply prefers you."

Silence followed.

Y/n found herself unable to answer. She had never considered the situation in such terms. The King spent time with her because they enjoyed one another's company. He sought her out because they talked. Because they laughed. Because he seemed less burdened when they were together.

She had never viewed it as a competition.

The other queens clearly had.

"You think I wanted this," she said quietly.

"I think you benefited from it."

The words stung more than she expected.

"I never wished to take anything from anyone."

For the first time, the older woman's expression softened. Not entirely. There was still hurt there, and resentment, and years of disappointment that had little to do with the girl standing before her. Yet some of the anger faded.

"That," she said at last, "is why it's difficult to hate you as much as I would like."

Despite herself, the younger queen smiled faintly.

The woman stared.

Then, to both their astonishment, she laughed.

It was not a particularly cheerful laugh, but it was genuine.

"There. That's exactly what I mean."

"What?"

"You're impossible to quarrel with."

The younger queen's smile widened. "I've been told that before."

"I have no doubt."

For the first time since the conversation began, the tension between them eased, if only slightly. Neither became friends that afternoon. Alys didn’t forget the reasons for her unhappiness. Yet when they eventually parted ways, the older queen left with the uncomfortable realization that the King's favorite was not cruel, manipulative, nor ambitious.

She was simply kind.

And that, perhaps, made the entire situaton worse.

***

Later in the evening, when the sun had already set, Y/n found herself in front of the hearth; waiting for her husband. The first indication that the King had returned was the sound of voices outside the royal apartments.

Y/N looked up from her embroidery as the doors at the far end of the chambers opened. Through the gap she caught a glimpse of several councillors hastily departing into the corridor, all of them wearing the same expression men tended to wear after meeting with Maegor Targaryen for too long. One looked pale. Another appeared offended. A third looked as though he intended to spend the evening praying.

The doors shut behind them. And a moment later Maegor entered.

He looked irritated, but not unusually. Merely the sort of irritated that suggested someone at court had spent several hours testing the limits of his patience and survived only through extraordinary luck.

Y/N set down her embroidery.

"Who was it this time?"

"What?"

"Who annoyed you?"

"No one."

"You have that look."

"What look?"

"The one where half the realm is fortunate to remain alive."

The King's mouth twitched—barely. It was enough for Y/n.

She rose from her chair and crossed the room. Up close she could see dust still clinging to his cloak.

"You went riding."

"After court."

"And then attended council."

"Unfortunately."

"There should be laws against making a man do both in the same day."

"There should be laws against councillors."

Y/N laughed.

"There already are."

"Clearly not enough."

He removed his sword belt and laid it upon a nearby table. The sound of steel against wood echoed briefly through the room.

Most people found Blackfyre intimidating.

Y/N mostly found it inconvenient; the sword took up an unreasonable amount of space.

"You're avoiding my question."

"I answered your question."

"No. You said 'no one,' which means someone."

"I dislike how well you know me."

"You love how well I know you."

A look passed over his face. Not embarrassment, Maegor Targaryen did not embarrass easily. But there was a particular expression he occasionally wore whenever she said something dangerously close to the truth.

He ignored the comment.

"Lord Rosby."

"Ah."

"There is no 'ah.'"

"There is absolutely an 'ah.' Every time Lord Rosby leaves court, you spend the evening glaring at furniture."

"I do not glare at furniture."

"You threatened a chair last month."

"I threatened the man sitting in it."

"That is not how I remember the story."

His wife was grinning by then.

Maegor eyed her suspiciously.

"You enjoy this."

"Immensely."

"Mocking your husband, your King?"

"Only when he makes it easy."

The King stared at her for several seconds.

Across Westeros, men had lost tongues for less. And Y/N merely waited.

Finally he reached forward, caught a loose curl near her temple, and tucked it behind her ear.

The gesture was so casual that neither of them seemed to notice it.

Had anyone else witnessed it, they would have talked of little else for a week.

"You are insufferable."

"So I've been told."

"Repeatedly."

"Mostly by you."

"With good reason."

"Yet here we are."

His hand lingered briefly against her cheek before falling away. And for a moment neither spoke.

The silence was comfortable, as it usually was between them.

Outside their chambers, Maegor Targaryen was a force of nature. Lords feared him. Enemies cursed his name. Mothers frightened unruly children with stories about him.

Inside these rooms, however, there were moments when he simply looked tired.

Not weak, never weak. Just tired.

Y/N reached for his hand.

"Did you eat?"

The question immediately narrowed his eyes.

"Yes."

"You are lying."

"I am not."

"Maegor."

"I had wine."

"Wine is not food."

"It contains grapes."

She closed her eyes.

When she opened them again, he was watching her with obvious amusement.

"That argument has never worked."

"It may one day."

"It won't."

"We disagree."

"You are impossible."

"So I've heard."

"From me."

"Frequently."

A servant entered a few minutes later to announce supper. The poor man looked terrified simply to be in the same room as the King.

Y/N waited until he left before speaking again.

"See?"

"What?"

"He looked as though you might bite him."

"I have never bitten anyone."

She raised an eyebrow.

Maegor considered.

"Recently."

That earned a startled laugh; a genuine one. The kind that filled the room.

For a moment he simply watched her. Not speaking, not moving. Just watching.

There was a reason he returned here every night.

A reason he found himself seeking her out after council meetings and dragon rides and endless arguments with lords who mistook stubbornness for wisdom.

The world expected things from Maegor Targaryen: Strength. Violence. Authority. Cruelty.

Y/N expected him to eat supper. Strangely, that was harder to resist.

"You are smiling," she informed him.

"I am not."

"You are."

"I think you need spectacles."

She laughed again.

And though the realm would never have believed it, Maegor the Cruel found himself laughing too.

***

The comparisons to Aegon and Rhaenys—Maegor’s father and aunt/stepmother— began after the harvest feast.

Later, many would claim they had seen the resemblance long before then. They would insist the signs had always been obvious. Yet if asked for a specific moment, most found themselves returning to the same evening.

The feast had been a grand affair, crowded with visiting lords and ladies from across the realm. Bards played from a raised gallery while servants hurried between tables carrying wine and roasted game. At the center of it all sat King Maegor, his queens distributed throughout the hall according to rank and custom.

At least, that had been the intention.

By the time the first course arrived, Y/n had somehow ended up beside him.

No one was entirely certain how. Just that one moment she had been seated three places away; the next she occupied the chair at his right hand, apparently after a minor noblewoman requested permission to move elsewhere. The explanation sounded suspiciously convenient.

No one commented, no one needed to. As the King certainly did not object.

The evening continued peacefully enough until a Reach lord, emboldened by wine and poor judgment, began complaining about the expense of maintaining roads near Highgarden.

"What use are half these improvements?" he demanded loudly. "The Reach managed perfectly well before."

A few nearby lords nodded.

Y/n laughed lightly. "That is because Highgarden has never had to survive your horse riding."

Several people chuckled.

The lord himself even smiled.

Unfortunately, another man at the table decided to contribute.

"Well," he said, swirling wine in his cup, "the Reach has always enjoyed certain advantages. Beautiful weather. Rich fields. Beautiful daughters."

His gaze lingered a fraction too long on the queen.

The hall grew quieter almost immediately. They knew the remark was not quite improper. It was the sort of statement that could be dismissed as harmless if one wished.

The King did not appear inclined to dismiss it.

"Careful, my lord."

The words were spoken calmly. With Maegor, that was somehow worse than yelling. 

The nobleman immediately paled.

"I meant no offense, Your Grace."

"No." Maegor took a sip of wine.

"But you seem determined to discover how much you may say before you give one."

Silence descended upon the table.

The lord muttered an apology. And the conversation moved on.

Yet the moment lingered, people remembered it.

Because the King had defended his wife. Any husband might have done that, but Maegor the Cruel was not just any husband.

People also remembered how quickly he had noticed, how quickly he had reacted. How little tolerance he possessed for anything directed toward her.

***

By the following morning, half the castle had heard the story.

By the end of the week, the details had grown considerably more dramatic. In some versions, the unfortunate lord lost his tongue. In others, he was fed to Balerion.

The reality mattered far less than the conclusion everyone reached.

The King protected her. And everyone knew it.

***

A second incident followed only days later.

This time it occurred during court.

The throne room was crowded when the doors opened unexpectedly and Y/n hurried inside, looking faintly embarrassed.

Several petitioners turned to stare.

The queen stopped halfway across the room.

"Oh."

The King looked down from the Iron Throne.

"What?"

For a moment she seemed to remember there were hundreds of people watching.

"My book."

The throne room fell silent.

"Your... what?"

"The book I left here yesterday."

A lesser woman would have fled.

Y/n, however, simply pointed.

"It was beside your chair."

Several councillors looked horrified.

The King looked confused.

Then, to the astonishment of everyone present, he leaned slightly to one side.

There it was.

A small leather-bound volume.

"That one?"

"Yes."

A pause.

"You're interrupting court for a book."

"I was halfway through it."

The silence somehow deepened.

Then Maegor handed the book to a nearby guard.

"Give it to her."

The guard obeyed immediately.

The queen smiled.

"Thank you."

"Leave."

"Yes, Your Grace."

As she departed, the court remained silent for several seconds after the doors closed. After a minute, one petitioner gathered enough courage to continue speaking.

Yet the damage had already been done: the story spread through the Red Keep before sunset.

Not because the incident was particularly important, but because everyone understood the same thing: no one else in Westeros could have interrupted King Maegor's court over a forgotten book and walked away smiling.

No one except her.

***

The feast had been thrown to celebrate the 8th year of Maegor’s reign.

The feast had been pleasant enough. That alone was unusual enough to remark upon.

Y/N sat beside her husband at the high table, listening with half an ear as a singer from the Reach performed an old ballad about Garth Greenhand. The hall glowed with candlelight, gold reflecting from polished goblets and jeweled gowns. Lords laughed. Ladies whispered behind painted fans. Somewhere below the dais, a drunken knight was attempting to convince a group of equally drunken companions that he could defeat a lion with nothing but a dagger.

Y/N had been laughing about precisely that when Maegor returned his attention to her.

"You are encouraging him."

"I am not."

"You laughed."

"Because it was amusing."

"It will be considerably less amusing when he attempts it."

She smiled over the rim of her wine cup. "And how many lions have you fought, Your Grace?"

"A disappointing lack."

"What a tragedy."

"I know."

For a moment she simply looked at him.

Most people would never have believed it; not if they saw him sitting the Iron Throne. Not if they heard the stories. Not if they witnessed the way grown men fell silent when he entered a room.

But here—beneath the warmth of a hundred candles—there were traces of another man.

Not a gentler man, and certainly not a kinder one.

But a man she doubted anyone else ever saw.

"You are staring."

"You have something on your face."

"I do not."

"You do."

His eyes narrowed.

Without warning she leaned forward and brushed her thumb against his cheek.

"There."

The expression on the face of the lord seated opposite them was worth the effort alone.

Y/N bit back a laugh.

Maegor noticed.

"Do not start."

"I haven't said anything."

"You were about to."

"Perhaps."

"You were."

The corner of her mouth twitched.

The King sighed.

Around them, the feast continued.

At the far end of the hall, Tyanna of the Tower watched. Her expression revealed nothing, as usual.

Y/N smiled at her when their eyes briefly met.

Tyanna inclined her head politely. Nothing more, nothing less.

Y/N thought little of it; she always tried to be kind to the other wives. Although her effort was rarely returned.

A servant approached the high table carrying a fresh flagon of wine. Y/N barely glanced at him. Why would she? There were dozens of servants moving through the hall, it was nothing unusual.

The man poured for several nobles before reaching the royal dais.

And suddenly something felt wrong. She would later struggle to explain it; Perhaps it was the way the servant moved. Perhaps it was the look in his eyes. Perhaps it was simply instinct.

Whatever the reason, she looked up. She found the servant staring directly at her.

Not at the King. At her.

The realization struck a heartbeat before he moved.

The wine flagon crashed onto the table.

Someone screamed.

Steel flashed beneath candlelight.

For one frozen moment Y/N saw everything with impossible clarity—the knife emerging from the servant's sleeve, the sudden terror on the faces of the nearest guests, the muscles in the man's arm as he lunged forward.

Pain exploding through her shoulder.

She gasped.

The force of the blow threw her sideways.

The hall vanished into chaos in mere seconds: People were shouting. Chairs overturned. A woman screamed somewhere nearby.

And Y/N heard none of it clearly. All she could focus on was the burning pain in her arm and the warmth spreading rapidly beneath her sleeve.

Blood.

The thought arrived distantly.

I'm bleeding.

Then she looked at Maegor.

The King had already risen. No. Not risen. Exploded.

One moment he had been seated beside her.And the next he was on the assassin.

The servant never had a chance. Maegor seized him by the throat and slammed him into the table with such force that dishes shattered across the floor. The knife skidded away. Wine splashed over white linen.

The assassin struggled—briefly.

The King tightened his grip.

The man's face began turning purple.

"Maegor—"

The words escaped before Y/N could stop it.

Maegor looked toward her. And for the first time since she had known him, she saw genuine fear—not anger. Not rage. Fear. 

His gaze dropped immediately to the blood staining her gown.

Something changed in the hall, it seemed to grow colder, heavier.

The assassin made a choking sound.

Maegor turned back toward him.

"You touched her."

The words emerged so quietly that only those nearest heard them.

The man tried to speak.

The King slammed him against the table again.

"You touched her."

"Husband."

Y/N's voice was stronger this time.

The King's head snapped around.

"Are you hurt?"

The question sounded absurd.

She was covered in blood.

Yet the desperation in his voice caught her off guard.

"It's my shoulder."

"Maester!"

The roar echoed through the hall.

Several people physically flinched.

"MAESTER!"

A terrified elderly man appeared almost immediately.

The assassin was dragged away by guards. Breathing, for now.

Y/N suspected that was intentional on Maegor’s part.

Maegor never once removed his gaze from her: Not while the maester examined the wound. Not while the hall slowly emptied. Not while servants started scrubbing blood from the floor.

"Your Grace," the maester said cautiously, "the blade did not go deep."

"Are you certain?"

"Yes."

"Absolutely certain."

The old man swallowed.

"Yes, Your Grace."

Only then did some of the tension leave Maegor's shoulders. Not much, but enough.

***

The walk back to the royal apartments passed in near silence.

Y/N walking beside him. Maegor staring out the windows.

The sight would have terrified anyone else.

His face revealed nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Which meant he was furious.

When they finally reached their chambers, the maester resumed treating the wound while Maegor paced.

Back and forth. Back and forth. Like a caged dragon.

"You're making him nervous," Y/N said eventually.

The maester looked horrified.

Maegor did not even glance at her.

"Good."

"I wasn't complimenting you."

"I know."

The maester finished bandaging her shoulder with shaking hands.

The moment he stepped away, Maegor crossed the room.

"Does it hurt?"

"A little."

His jaw tightened.

"A little?"

"It's a stab wound, not a paper cut."

That almost earned a smile, almost.

Maegor sat beside her. And for a long moment neither spoke.

Then he reached for her hand. The gesture was so rare that it startled her more than the attack had.

He kept his grip careful.

"I'm all right."

"No."

The answer came immediately.

"I am."

"No."

"Maegor."

His eyes lifted to hers.

"You were hurt and frightened."

The simplicity of it caught her off guard.

Not you were attacked.

Not he touched what was mine.

You were hurt and frightened.

Y/N felt something tighten painfully in her chest.

"Anyone would have been."

"I should have seen him."

"You couldn't have."

"I should have."

The words were flat. Final—the voice of a man already blaming himself.

She shifted closer to him, her knee touching his thigh.

Ignoring the protest from her shoulder.

"Look at me."

His gaze met hers.

"It wasn't your fault."

The expression on his face suggested he disagreed profoundly.

"It happened because of me."

"No."

"Yes."

"No."

The word came sharper than intended.

For a moment even Maegor looked surprised.

Y/N took a breath. Then another.

"It happened because somebody chose to hurt me."

Silence.

"He wasn't aiming for me."

"He stabbed me."

"He wanted to hurt me through you."

Maegor looked away.

Which told her she had struck the truth.

***

Hours passed.

The wound was cleaned.

Fresh clothes arrived.

Servants came and went like frightened ghosts.

The King remained beside her the entire time.

Then, well after midnight, a knock sounded at the chamber door.

A guard entered. Pale, very pale; the sort of pale men wore when they had drawn the shortest straw in Westeros.

"Your Grace."

"What?" Maegor almost growled.

The guard swallowed.

"The prisoner has confessed."

Silence filled the room.

Y/N felt Maegor go still beside her.

"To whom?"

The guard hesitated. The kind that announced absolute disaster before a single word was spoken.

"Speak."

The man nearly jumped.

"It was... Queen Tyanna."

For a moment nothing happened. The fire crackled softly in the hearth. Rain tapped against the windows.

Y/N stared.

Surely she had misheard.

Tyanna?

Tyanna?

The woman she had greeted at feasts? The woman she had smiled at? The woman who had shared her husband's table?

Slowly, she turned toward Maegor.

The King's face revealed absolutely nothing. That frightened her more than anger ever could.

"Leave us."

The guard fled.

The door closed.

Silence returned.

Y/N watched her husband.

He did not move.

Did not speak.

Did not blink.

At last she reached for his hand.

His fingers closed around hers immediately.

The grip was almost painful.

"Maegor."

No answer.

"Maegor."

This time he looked at her. When she noticed the expression in his eyes, her blood ran cold.

Not because it was cruel. But because it wasn't; it was wounded, betrayed. Furious beyond words.

And beneath all of it, still fixed stubbornly in place, was the same terrible fear he had carried since the moment he saw blood on her gown.

"You were supposed to be safe here," he said quietly.

Y/N's breath caught.

Not how could she do this.

Her. Y/n. His wife.

She was a part of his household, part of him. One of the people under his protection. And one of his own had betrayed them

The realization hit her all at once.

This was no longer about an assassination attempt.

This was betrayal, the kind that cut deeper than any blade.

And judging by the look in Maegor Targaryen's eyes, Tyanna of the Tower had just signed her own death warrant.

***

The Red Keep did not sleep that night.

Neither did the King.

Word of Tyanna's betrayal spread through the castle with astonishing speed. Before dawn, servants were whispering about it in kitchens, guards were discussing it along the battlements, and frightened ladies were exchanging theories behind closed doors. No one knew precisely what would happen next.

No one doubted that something would.

Tyanna of the Tower had attempted to murder the King's favorite wife. Perhaps even the King's beloved wife, though few dared speak those words aloud.

Either way, everyone understood the same thing: Maegor Targaryen would not forgive it.

And Y/N found that she did not particularly care what the rest of the castle was saying.

She was tired. So tired.

The maester had given her milk of the poppy for the pain. Not enough to make her unconscious, merely enough to dull the sharpest edges of it. Even so, exhaustion weighed heavily upon her. Every movement pulled unpleasantly at the bandage wrapped around her shoulder.

The wound itself was not severe. The day, however, had been.

Outside the windows, rain drifted across Blackwater Bay.

Inside the royal apartments, only the fire spoke.

Maegor sat in a chair near the bed, and he had occupied it for hours. His position hadn’t changed once: one arm rested across the armrest. The other remained loosely folded across his chest. The shadows cast by the fire sharpened the hard lines of his face until he looked less like a man and more like one of the old Valyrian statues carved from black stone.

Watching. Always watching.

Y/N shifted beneath the blankets.

Immediately his attention moved toward her.

"Does it hurt?"

The question had become familiar over the last several hours.

She smiled faintly.

"No more than it did the last time you asked."

"You are lying."

"I am not."

"You are."

The certainty in his voice made her laugh softly.

Laughing turned out to be a mistake.

The movement tugged painfully at her shoulder as she winced.

Maegor was on his feet before she could stop him.

"There."

"I merely moved."

"You winced."

"Because I laughed."

"You should not laugh."

The absurdity of that statement earned another smile.

"What a miserable world that would be."

His expression suggested he was unconcerned with the state of the world's laughter.

Y/N sighed.

"Husband."

The title made him pause.

She had discovered long ago that it was the easiest way to capture his attention.

Not Your Grace.

Not Maegor.

Husband.

The word affected him differently.

She wasn't entirely certain why, perhaps neither was he.

"Come here."

A small frown appeared.

"I am here."

"No. You're pacing again."

"I am sitting."

"You were pacing."

His frown deepened.

Y/N patted the edge of the bed.

"Come here."

For several seconds he simply looked at her.

A king being ordered about in his own chambers—a ridiculous sight.

Yet, he crossed the room.

The mattress dipped beneath his weight.

"There."

"There."

"You are impossible."

"So I've been told."

"Repeatedly."

"Mostly by you."

That earned the faintest twitch of amusement; the closest thing to a smile most people ever received from Maegor Targaryen.

Silence settled between them.

The sort shared only by people who no longer felt obligated to fill every pause with words.

Eventually Y/N broke it.

"Did you mean it?"

His gaze shifted toward her.

"Mean what?"

"What you said earlier."

The fire crackled softly.

Outside, the rain continued.

For a moment she wondered if he would pretend not to understand.

Instead he asked quietly, "Which part?"

"You were supposed to be safe here."

The memory lingered between them.

Y/N watched something change in his expression.

Not much. Enough for her.

"Yes." The answer arrived immediately, as though there had never been any question about it.

She looked down at her hands.

The bandage covering her shoulder suddenly felt heavier.

"I've been thinking about it."

"That sounds dangerous."

She rolled her eyes.

"I'm serious."

"So am I."

"You are not."

"I am."

The familiar rhythm of their conversations settled around them briefly before fading once more.

Y/N moved her gaze towards the fire.

"You blamed yourself."

"I did."

"It wasn't your fault."

"It happened in my hall."

"That doesn't make it your fault."

"It happened under my protection."

The answer was simple. Matter-of-fact, as though that explained everything. And maybe, to him, it did.

Y/n looked at him. Really looked.

When people looked, most saw only the warrior, the conqueror, the king, the monster.

Y/N had seen those things too. She was young, but not foolish enough to pretend she hadn’t known those things about him.

Maegor could be cruel. Terrifying. Merciless.

And she knew it better than most. But she also knew this.

Hours had passed since the attack.

The realm still turned. Councillors waited. Prisoners still required judgment.

Yet he had remained here—beside her. Watching over her. Making sure she was alright.

As though the rest of Westeros could wait. As if the King wasn’t needed currently.

The realization settled unexpectedly heavily in her chest.

"Maegor."

"Hm."

"You were frightened."

The words escaped before she could reconsider them.

Silence followed.

Not offended silence, not angry silence.

But the silence of a man who had been caught against his will.

Slowly, he looked away from her.

The sight would have been terribly amusing under different circumstances.

Maegor Targaryen had never feared battle. Never feared dragons nor armies.

Yet apparently he disliked discussing his feelings. Maegor the Cruel was apparently like all men in that sense.

"I was not frightened."

"You were."

"I was not."

"You were."

"No."

The exchange felt comfortingly familiar.

Y/N smiled.

"You looked terrified."

"I did not."

"You did."

"I looked angry."

"You looked terrified."

"I am beginning to regret teaching you confidence."

A laugh escaped her.

A quieter one this time, safer.

"You didn't teach me confidence."

"No?"

"No."

"What did I teach you, then?"

She considered.

Patience.

Strength.

Stubbornness.

How to survive court.

How to argue with a king.

How to stop fearing the man everyone else feared.

The answer that emerged surprised even her.

"You taught me that I don't have to be afraid of you."

The room grew still.

Maegor's expression became unreadable.

For a long moment neither spoke.

Then, quietly:

"You never were."

The certainty in his voice stole her breath.

Not you should not have been.

Not I wish you weren't.

You never were.

As though the possibility had never existed. As though hurting her had never once crossed his mind.

Y/N suddenly found herself unable to look away.

The fire still burned. The candles shortened as the night settled around them.

***

After a while exhaustion began winning its inevitable battle.

Y/n’s eyelids grew heavy and the pain in her shoulder dulled.

The night softened around the room’s edges.

"You should sleep."

The words came from Maegor—orders more like.

She smiled sleepily.

"So should you."

"I will."

A lie. A terrible lie.

She knew it.

He knew it.

Neither acknowledged the fact.

Y/N shifted her weight carefully beneath the blankets, moving closer to him. Close enough that she could rest her head against his chest.

For a brief moment she felt him go still. Then one of his arms settled around her—careful. Protective.

The same way he had touched her wound, and the same way he held her hand: As though she were something precious.

Her eyes drifted shut before she could realise. The last thing she heard was the steady rhythm of his breathing.

When sleep finally claimed her, Maegor remained awake still.

Listening until her breathing deepened, and he was certain she was asleep.

And only then did he allow himself to look down at her.

A pale bandage peeked from beneath the blankets.

A reminder.

A mark.

Proof.

His jaw tightened instantly.

Across the castle, Tyanna of the Tower sat imprisoned beneath layers of stone.

Awaiting judgment.

Awaiting him.

The thought should have satisfied him. It did not.

As Maegor brushed a loose strand of hair from Y/N's face, he swore to himself, to Y/n, that he would make Tyanna pay. 

She stirred slightly but did not wake.

For a long moment he simply watched her.

The way he had watched her at feasts.

At court.

Across crowded halls.

The way he had watched her since the day she entered his life and somehow made the world quieter.

A dangerous thing.

Loving anything was dangerous. Loving someone was worse. Because enemies could hurt someone. 

His gaze lingered on the bandage. The room seemed colder suddenly.

Outside, thunder rolled over Blackwater Bay.

Slowly, Maegor's hand moved to the back of her head. Steady, as though reassuring himself she was still there. Still breathing. Still his.

By morning, all of Westeros would learn what happened to those who harmed Y/n.

But that was tomorrow.

Tonight, there was only the sleeping girl in his arms and the terrible certainty settling deeper into his heart with every passing moment.

The realm called him Maegor the Cruel.

They weren’t wrong.

For if anyone ever tried to take her from him again, he suspected they had not yet seen just how cruel he could be.

Barely touching, honestly. Just tracing the same absent path from his stomach to his collarbone, then back again, as though some part of her needs to keep confirming he’s there.

Rafe lies flat on his back, one arm bent beneath his head and the other curled around her waist. His hair has fallen loose across his forehead, parted at the side and usually gelled neatly away for work in a style that makes him look more responsible than he has ever felt. 

Tonight it’s soft and messy from her hands and Banks’ damp little fingers and the bath water their son deliberately slapped into his face.

He’s been staring at her for several minutes.

She knows because even half asleep, she can feel it: the weight of his attention moving across her face, pausing at her mouth, dropping toward the hand on his chest, then climbing back again. 

Rafe has never known how to look at her casually. Even now, married, exhausted, with baby shampoo dried somewhere near his shoulder, he watches her like she may reveal something if he’s patient enough.

“I can feel you thinking,” she murmurs, words blurred against his skin.

A quiet laugh moves beneath her cheek. “Can you?”

“Always.”

His fingers flex at her waist. “Thought you were asleep.”

“Trying.” Her mouth curves without opening her eyes. “You’re being loud.”

“I’m not saying anything.”

“Your brain is.”

That gets another breath of laughter from him. She smiles properly then and tips her chin onto his sternum, blinking up through the dim room. He looks tired too, though it sits differently on him – jaw shadowed, mouth soft, eyes still irritatingly awake.

“What?” she asks.

Rafe studies her face for another second, suddenly serious enough that her hand stops halfway over his ribs. “I want another one.”

Her brows draw together. “Another what?”

He gives her a look. “Baby.”

She blinks.

Rafe’s thumb moves once beneath the hem of her sleep shirt, slow over her side. “I want another baby.”

For a moment, all she can hear is the faint mechanical hum of the monitor on her nightstand and Banks breathing through it in damp, congested little puffs. 

Her body feels abruptly less tired and more aware of itself, every inch of her warm against Rafe’s chest, every muscle still carrying the long day.

“Really?” she asks, and the word comes out smaller than she means it to.

His gaze flicks over her expression, searching. “Yeah.”

“I thought we were waiting.”

“We were.” His mouth shifts, almost apologetic, though Rafe has never worn apology gracefully. “I know we said we would.”

“Because we had the first one while our frontal lobes were still developing.”

“We turned out fine.”

She stares at him.

“Okay,” he says. “You turned out fine.”

Her laugh escapes before she can stop it, quiet enough not to wake the tiny dictator down the hall. Rafe smiles and brings his hand up, brushing a piece of hair away from her cheek.

“Business is good,” he says, softer now. “House is good. We’re married.”

“Newly.”

“Still counts.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Banks tried to bite you today.”

“He missed,” Rafe shrugs. 

“He didn’t miss me.”

Rafe’s mouth twitches. “We make good kids.”

“We’ve made one.”

“Yeah, and he’s great.”

She looks down at him, at the stubborn hope he’s trying and failing to hide behind the jokes, and something low inside her loosens. The life around them is loud and unfinished and constantly sticky. 

They’re twenty-four years old with a mortgage, a toddler, and a marriage still new enough that she occasionally catches herself staring at his ring. And yet.

Her hand slides up into his hair, pushing it away from his forehead. “You really want another baby?”

Rafe leans into her palm before he can pretend he doesn’t. “With you?” His fingers tighten at her waist. “Yeah, baby. I do.”

Her smile spreads slowly, helplessly, and Rafe watches it happen like he has won something. 

She nods once, then again because the first doesn’t feel big enough. “Okay.”

His brows lift. “Okay?”

“Okay.”

The grin that breaks across his face is young and bright and so pleased it makes her chest ache. He rolls them before she can protest, pulling her beneath him with a muffled laugh, his mouth landing against her cheek, her jaw, wherever he can reach while she tries not to laugh loudly enough to wake Banks.

“Quiet,” she whispers, shoving at his shoulder. “You’ll wake him.”

Rafe lifts his head, hair falling into his eyes. “We’re having another baby.”

“Not tonight if you wake the current one.”

That sobers him immediately. He glances toward the monitor, then back at her. “Right.”

She bites down on her smile.

Rafe lowers his voice to a whisper. “We’re having another baby.”

And this time, when he kisses her, she can feel him smiling too.

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“I’m sleeping here.” Daeron mumbles hiding his face in your pillow as he holds it close to his chest. “Night.”

“No you’re not, fuck off.” Maekar says, wanting one night of having the bed to himself. Not having slept alone in years, him using it as an excuse to sleep in the middle of the bed. “Daeron.” Maekar whisper shouts lightly shaking the boy who fell asleep as soon as he finishes speaking. The boy clearly not having slept properly in days. “For fucks.” Maekar mumbles to himself, grateful that no one can see the soft smile on his face. “Good night.”

-

Aerion

“Why are you in my bed sweetheart?” You ask doing a double take when you see your 5 year old sat on your bed. You having just gotten Aemon to sleep. Maekar having left early today to deal with a minor lord causes issues.

“I’m sleeping in here.” Aerion say the hood of his dragon snug falling into his face, your boy looking adorable.

“Why? Are you alright?” You ask, under the impression that you would have at least one night on your own.

“I’m fine.” He says snuggling up in bed with is toy dragon being used as a pillow. Daeron having picked out brightflame for his brother when Aerion was born.

“Then why aren’t you in your own bed my little dragon?” You ask climbing into bed with him, not being surprised if you wake up to your two eldest in bed with you by morning.

“Kepa say I take care of you.” He responds hiding his smile in his dragon, knowing Maekar didn’t mean it like that.

“Did he?” You ask raising an eyebrow at the boy who adores his father. The boy wanting to be just like him when he grows up.

“And while Kepa gone we can cuddle and read dragon book all night.”

“Can we now?” You ask with a light laugh, pulling your little boy into your arms, making him giggle while you press kisses all over his face.

-

Daella

“Fuck off daeron.” Maekar groans when he hears stumbling and someone clambering into bed. You having been up with Aegon the boy having a nightmare, unaware that you would be staying with your eldest.

“Im not Daeron.” Daella grumbles climbing into bed with her father, arms full of all the toys she refuses to sleep without.

“Sorry darling, I just hear someone stumbling into bed and assume.” He says softening at the sound of his daughter, the girl unable to do anything wrong in his eyes. “Where is your mother?”

“Sleeping in Daeron chambers with him, he doesn’t feel very well.” She explains making her way into her father’s arms wanting a cuddle. Her snuggle bear between them. “So she said I could sleep in with you instead.”

“Why were you in Daerons chamber anyway?”

“I heard him say he was scared to sleep so I brought him snuggles bear so he could sleep with us.” She says sounding adorable in her little voice. Liking to help you look after her big brother.

“That’s nice of you.” Maekar says kissing the top of his little princess’s head.

“I know.”

-

Aemon

“When will father be back?” Aemon asks you sat on the bed massive book in his lap while you get ready for bed behind the divider.

“I’m not sure, tomorrow I think.” You say removing your jewelry after getting changed. “Why?”

“Just wanted to know.” He say flipping a page, looking forward to Maekar getting him the sequel. “Can I sleep in here tonight?”

“Of course you can.” You say coming out from behind the divider and blowing out some of the candles.

“Thank you.”

-

Aegon and Rhae

“No it’s my turn!” Egg shouts at his younger sister, it being his turn to sleep in bed with you the night before Maekar came home. His having to be away for a few days to deal with a lord and you letting the children sleep in with you while he was away. “You get tomorrow!”

“But Kepa will be back tomorrow!” Rhae shouts back, not finding it fair as she had to share with Daeron. Your eldest needing comfort after a dream.

“So!”

“Both of you enough!” You snap just wanting to go to bed, you being frustrated with all the arguments. “You can either both sleep with me or neither of you can!”

“Sorry muña.” They both say quickly, looking at the floor in embarrassment. Both just wanting to cuddle with you.

The sun is blazing hot above the three of you, and despite that— and the added weight of three heavy bags and a beach umbrella— Jason doesn’t break a sweat.

On his left arm; a bright pink bag packed with tinfoil-wrapped sandwiches and cold cans with perspiration clinging to the metal. Next to the pink, is a blue one with the towels, and the last is your white tote-bag (also on his left arm), where you carry all of your stuff. On his right arm, he carries the umbrella.

You had tried to grab something, but Jason just took it back without a struggle while you pulled and tugged. He just raised his brow like are you really trying?

You obviously let him win.

Damian is walking further ahead, inspecting the beach with sharp eyes. He’s dressed in a bright green swimsuit you bought him and a white shirt. Jason is practically the same, except his swimsuit is a boring dark red and his shirt is sleeveless.

The wooden pier feels hot under you, despite wearing flip flops. And pesky grains of sand are stuck to the soles of your feet and slowly rising up your ankles. But you don’t mind, it all fades away the second the scent of sea salt hits your nostrils.

You eye Jason’s bulging biceps and moisten your lips. He flexes them once, rearranging the weight of the food bag. You’re positive you’re going to faint— and not because of the heat.

You quickly set up camp near the shore, and you’re grateful that it’s practically empty. While Jason has gotten more comfortable about his scars around you (and Damian), he’s not exactly ready to parade them around.

Damian crosses his arms and stares at the beach umbrella, a blue-and-white striped thing you bought for only ten bucks.

“You set it up quite poorly, Todd.”

He huffs. “Then why don’t you do it yourself?”

“I would.” He sniffs. “But I’m going into the water.”

You bend over and begin rummaging through the white bag while the other two bicker. You straighten up with a smile.

Both of their faces fall when they see what you have in your hands.

“Please no,” Damian says.

Jason pats his back. “You can’t fight her, kid.”

“But surely—”

Jason slowly shakes his head.

Damian sighs and looks down at the sand. “Fine. But if it gets into my eyes I’m reporting you to Father.”

You grin and click the bottle open. The younger boy looks positively terrified.

It takes two eternally long minutes, according to Damian, to soap him up with white sunscreen. His taut back, his arms, white streaks on the smooth apples of his cheeks, and more gentle touches wherever scars are. He grumbles something and rushes off toward the water.

You and Jason watch him dive in headfirst. Slowly, you turn to him. “You’re not escaping, mister.”

You get rid of your shirt and shorts, standing only in your bikini.

Jason’s jaw drops slightly, but he catches himself almost instantly.

“Well,” he says after a beat, “that hardly seems fair.”

You raise an eyebrow. “To who?”

“To me, obviously.”

He turns around and you squirt a fat dollop of cream onto your palm, applying it directly to the middle of his back. Then you start rubbing it in with slow, soothing motions as your fingers coat the scars and place a kiss under his ear— where the cream hasn’t reached yet.

He goes still for a moment. You pretend not to notice.

Jason turns around again, and you have to go slightly onto your tiptoes to reach his shoulders and arms. You take your sweet time with his biceps, rubbing and admiring them.

Jason snorts. “I’m going to start charging you for staring.”

You roll your eyes. “You're enjoying this.”

“Maybe a little.”

His laughter dims a little when your attention drifts lower, lingering over old scars and hard muscle alike. The quiet is comfortable, with only the soft sand of lapping waves crashing against the shore and the occasional squawk of a seagull.

But then comes his face, and his smile slips away when you tell him to crouch down.

You’re far more careful here, using only the pads of your fingers to spread the sunscreen without risking getting any in his eyes, nose, or mouth. You’re so focused that you don’t notice where his eyes have strayed.

To be completely fair, Jason really tried not to look. He stared at the thin strings of your bikini, but his gaze followed the red downward...

And yeah. Oh.

“That’s it!” You smile proudly.

Jason realizes he’s somehow fallen onto his knees. The burning sand scratches at them, and his skin feels slightly sticky and warm with sunscreen. He’s only half-aware.

“Jason?” You gently lift his chin. “What’s wrong?”

What’s wrong? The sun is right behind your head, a halo of gold crowning you. You’re looking at him with those eyes and wearing that bikini. And he knows it’s not a coincidence that it’s the same shade of red as his suit and swim trunks.

“Oh,” he says. His wide green eyes staring up at you, loose strands of hair falling on his forehead.

Your smile widens. “Oh?”

“You planned this.”

“I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about.”

“Liar.”

You sink to your knees right in front of him, and link your hands behind his neck. “I knew you’d love this bikini.”

Jason shakes his head once and kisses you anyway. It’s slow and hungry, like eating a juicy peach and trying to get all of the flavour right against your taste buds.

Your lips are sun-chapped but taste like those artificial strawberries— probably from the ice cream you and Damian got at the pier earlier. Sweet, his sweet girl.

He groans and his hands fall to your waist. Big, rough hands that rub against your soft skin, brushing away the scratching sand. You lean further into him.

“This is disgusting.”

It’s practically impressive how quickly you and Jason separate.

Still panting on your knees, coated in hot sand and streaks of Jason’s sunscreen smeared across your chest and thighs.

Damian is drenched, looking like a very angry cat. “Are you two finished being embarrassing?”

Jason smirks. “No promises.”

Damian looks personally offended. “Unbelievable.”

You smile apologetically. “Sorry?”

He huffs. “I may forgive you if you come into the water with me.”

You get up, briefly clutching Jason’s shoulder so you don’t lose your balance. He smirks again.

“You stay.”

Jason snaps his eyes toward Damian.

“Stay here and take care of the fort.”

Jason raises an eyebrow. “That's your job, Robin.”

“I'm delegating.”

“Pretty sure that's not how that works.”

“Father delegates constantly.”

Jason opens his mouth, pauses, then sighs. “Fair point.”

You smile Jason goodbye and grab Damian by the hand, running so the soles of your feet don’t burn as you jump into the crystalline water.

That’s when Jason sees it. And his brain, traitor that it is, briefly stops functioning.

Red Hood’s symbol is printed on the back of your bikini bottoms in a brighter shade of red.

Jason closes his eyes. “You're unbelievable.” And insane, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

He watches you splash Damian, while Damian loudly insists he isn't having fun. The lie becomes significantly less convincing, when Damian starts splashing back.

Your hand rises above the water, gesturing for Jason to join you.

His smile widens and rushes in.

You end up on Jason’s shoulders, chasing Damian. Slowly, of course— the water is dense, but Jason is strong and Damian allows himself to be chased around.

The question made him look over his shoulder with a grin while he put his doublet on.

“Like who?”

“A messenger. A friendly envoy if you will, just within the north.”

“But who?”

“Someone else,” you said with a shrug. “I don’t know. Theon.”

He huffed out a laugh. “You think Theon, of all people, would be a good envoy?”

“Not really,” you admitted. “He’d be terrible at it, but perhaps he’d get lost on his way there. One could hope.”

 “Nah, he’d still find his way back,” he commented, fixing his sleeves. “So we’d just end up disrespecting House Hornwood.”

Your stomach turned again, making you grimace but you cleared your throat, then pulled your knees up to your chest, resting your chin on them.

“Then tell Lord Hornwood he can come here rather than you going there,” you whined, aware of the petulant tone of your voice. “We’ll throw him a feast and such.”

There was a playful glint in his eyes as he made his way to bed and sat on the edge, entwining his fingers with yours before he lifted your hand to press a kiss on the back of it.

“Lord Hornwood is too old for journeys, my love,” he said. “My father visited his banners, now I must in his absence.”

You heaved a dramatic sigh, rolling your eyes.

“Come on,” he cooed. “No sulking.”

You tilted your head, your mood taking a rather strange turn for some reason that remained a mystery to you at least for now. If it were any other time, you would have remembered how Lady Olenna had once told you and Margaery that there was a big line between luring attention and demanding it, and how you were never, ever supposed to demand it in an outright manner. A lady had to be subtle in such mind games so as not to appear needy and walk the line between admiration and nonchalance expertly, however, the words that left your lips were anything but subtle:

“Does this not upset you at all?”

Robb was rather confused at your question. “What?”

“We’ll be away from each other for a week, and you’re very willing to go to Castle Hornwood,” you pointed out, making him let out a chuckle.

“Lamb…”

“I’m just saying, it bothered you before but it appears to me you’re no longer bothered but more willing, as if—” you started but the rest of your sentence was claimed in a kiss, the pestering thought disappearing into the fog in your mind. His hand cradled your cheek while your fingers curled in the front of his shirt, not willing to let him go even when he pulled back to rest his forehead against yours with a smile.

“I am both bothered and very unwilling to go to Castle Hornwood and leave you here,” he assured you, his thumb stroking your cheekbone. “It’s torment to be away from you for an hour, let alone a week. You know this.”

You traced the tip of your finger over the direwolf clasps at the front of his doublet.

“It was different, when my father was here,” he added. “Before, attending to these things was a chore. Now it’s my duty.”

Of course.

How could you forget about the biggest currency in the north along with honor?

Judging by the chuckle that vibrated deep in his chest, he could tell what you felt about duty from your mere expression.  

“I’ll miss you every second of it,” he told you, nudging your nose with his before stealing another kiss from you and making you giggle, but your head whipped around when a servant knocked on the door.

“M’lord, your horse is ready.”

Your shoulders dropped as he let out a huff, then kissed you again and got up from the bed. He grabbed his cloak to fasten it while you let yourself fall back on the bed, and the moment he opened the door, Grey Wind darted inside. He jumped on the bed with a whine as if he was complaining about the trip he was being forced to go before he plopped down on you, resting his head on the furs on your stomach.

“I know, I know,” you said softly like you were speaking to a babe, scratching behind his ears. “I’ll miss you too, my sweet.”

“You spoil him too much,” Robb commented while you planted kisses on top of the direwolf’s head.

“He deserves to be spoiled,” you said, earning a yawn that turned into a small ‘awoo’. “Do you not my love? Are you the sweetest baby in the entire realm? Are you?”

“Grey Wind,” Robb said, “come. Time to go.”

The direwolf licked your hand, then jumped down from the bed with a huff to make his way out of the room, but even his gait was sulky, making you bite back a smile. Robb came closer to peck you on the lips.

“Be careful.”

“You too,” you said. “Miss me.”

“You too,” he answered with a grin before he left the bedchambers and closed the door behind him. You pouted, then let out a groan and pulled the furs over you.

“Great,” you muttered to yourself. “Very well. A week, then.”

 You couldn’t go back to sleep, so you figured you’d start the day earlier than usual.

By the time you were done with your bath in your own bedchambers and your maid finished helping you with your gown and hair, your nausea was even worse due to distress. You had debated going to Maester Luwin, but you knew he was busy with Bran, so you decided to take care of it yourself and asked your maid for a cup of hot water. After she brought it to you, you gave her leave until it was time for breakfast which was more than an hour away, and put the cup on the table before you made your way to the chest of herbs Arys had brought you.

“Where are you?” you sang to yourself, going through the carefully labelled pouches in his impeccable handwriting. “Where are—yes!”

You skimmed the instructions, then took out a generous amount of mixture of leaves and put them in the cup, the smell making you scrunch up your nose. You still had to go through the ledgers the Winterfell carpenters had given you days ago, which you figured you could do while you waited for the tea to brew, so you grabbed the ledgers and the cup, then went to sit on the bed, carefully placing the cup on your bedside table and opening the ledgers on the bed. It was a rather boring task, but the outcome was going to be so lovely for so many people, so you forced yourself to go through the first couple of pages until you decided the tea was ready. You took another sniff, then held your breath and downed it in one go, grimacing at the aftertaste.

“Gods, Arys…” you grumbled to yourself. “Could’ve put something sweet in it.”

You put the cup back on your bedside, but before you could turn back to the ledgers, small yet rushed footsteps approached before the door opened and Rickon appeared at the threshold, with Shaggydog right behind him.

“Oh good morrow my sweet!” You beamed at him. “You’re awake already? It’s rather early.”

He pouted and took a trembling breath like he was on the verge of tears, causing you to push yourself off the bed to rush to him and crouch down to his eye level.

“What’s happened?” 

“Robb left?” he asked, his brows furrowed. “They say he left.”

“Oh, for a week only!” you assured him, gently pinching his chubby cheek. “He’ll be back in a week. Remember how he and Lord Stark left earlier with Jon and Theon? It’ll be like that.”

“Will he see Sansa and Arya?”

“No my sweet, Sansa and Arya are in the south.”

“Will he see mother?”

“She’s also going to the south,” you managed to say. “Robb is right here in the north.”

“Where in the north?” he asked and you pretended to think for a moment.

“Remind me, which house has a bull moose on their flag?”

“House Hornwood!” he exclaimed and you gasped.

“That one, yes!”

“Their flag is orange,” he said, proud of himself for knowing it. “Orange and brown.”

“I’m told they live near,” you said. “And when Robb is back, we’ll have so much to tell him about what Winterfell was like in his absence.”

He looked over his shoulder to Shaggydog, then turned to you.

“I want to go see Frost,” he demanded. “To give her breakfast. She eats funny.”

“We can do that,” you said. “She’s probably awake already. But before we go, do you remember what I said about how we ask for things when speaking to a lady?” 

He thought for a moment, a frown pinching his forehead.

“Can we go see Frost…” he mumbled. “Please?”

“Yes!” you exclaimed, clapping your hands together. “That’s such a good job, Rickon! You remember!”

He gave you a toothless smile, his giggle echoing in the room while he jumped in his spot in excitement.

“And thank you!” he added in a haste. “We say please and thank you to ladies.”

Your jaw dropped.

“You are so smart, that’s exactly what we say!” you encouraged him. “I almost forgot about that part, it’s of utmost importance!”

He nodded, his curls bouncing around his head as he did.

“Alright, let’s go to the kitchen to get some carrots,” you said as you stood up and took his small hand into yours. “And then we can go give Frost her breakfast, she’ll be so happy to see you!”

The breakfast passed without any issues, and around noon you sent your ladies-in-waiting to the seamstress because apparently Barbrey’s cousin and her husband were soon coming to Winterfell, and seeing that Barbrey wanted to make her jealous, she needed opinions on her new gown. You stayed in the Great Hall, chatting with some of the guests and listening to their many opinions about your plan to have the carpenters make toys for the children who would come to Wintertown with their mothers.

“Galbert disagrees if I must admit, but I think it’s a great idea,” Lady Erena said. “Orphans get jobs, children get toys, and their mothers get some comfort seeing their children happy.”

“Well, yes but in the upcoming winter…” Lady Lynara heaved a sigh. “My lord husband disagrees as well. He thinks it unnecessary.”

“And what do you think?” you asked her and she hummed.

“I myself think it may offer some comfort to those mothers and children, but will it not interrupt the carpenters' usual work? Teaching the craft takes time and effort. Those orphans will walk in without any skills.”

“The carpenters will be compensated for their time and effort,” you said. “And most of the orphans end up without jobs, I’ve learned. It is hard without a family.”

Lady Lynara scoffed. “Winter is hard, my lady. They must learn the ways of life without you throwing them opportunities.”

You tried not to roll your eyes at her.

“Winter is indeed hard, so it is our responsibility to make life easier to everyone who’s in need,” you said. “Of jobs or comfort or opportunities.”

Lady Erena nodded her head. “I agree wholeheartedly,” she said. “I told Galbert the same thing, we must help. For example, our sons are nearly men grown, they have no need for toys. I’ve already sent a raven back home, all the toys from when they were babes will be given to carpenters in the nearby villages, so that they’ll have an idea of what to create.”

“Thank you, Lady Erena,” you said with a bright smile. “I appreciate it.”

“Of course.”

“My lord husband says it’s a very southern way to approach winter,” Lady Lynara pointed out, and you tried to keep your expression calm.

“It is true that in the south, we don’t have people who have to move from their homes to survive the winter,” you said. “However, I truly think that if we—”

The sudden sharp pain that hit you out of nowhere took your breath away mid-sentence, and something churned in your lower abdomen, the ache familiar and strange at the same time. Lady Erena frowned slightly.

“My lady?”

Your head whipped up, and you tried to smile as if you couldn’t feel the warmth between your legs.

“Forgive me I—um,” you stammered. “I just remembered an urgent letter I must send, if you’ll excuse me.”

You left the Great Hall, walking as fast as you could with small, deliberate steps, praying to the gods that the blood sticking your underclothes to your skin would not drip to the ground until you got to the safety of your bedchambers. If it were any other time, you would have gladly stopped and chatted with multiple people in the hallway but now you could barely nod at the in acknowledgment as you passed by them. The dull throbbing got worse with every second, and it was only when you hurried into your chambers that you realized your hands had balled up into fists, your nails digging into your palms.

How long had it been since you had your last moon blood?

You quickly shed your gown down to your chemise that already had a growing red stain on it, straining your mind to remember when you’d had your last moon blood. The knife that turned in your abdomen made you double up as the wave of pain rippled through you, and you squeezed your legs in a pitiful attempt to block the blood from dripping to the ground, pressing a hand on your stomach. It made no sense, your moon blood had never been as painful on your first day, nor had it been this heavy, it always started light—

The idea crashed down on you like a ton of bricks, making your breath hitch.

…Oh.

This was not your moon blood.

Something sunk its claws into your heart, your whole body freezing in terror. For a moment, you stayed right where you were, bent from the waist, your eyes wide yet unseeing, unblinking. There was an ache at the back of your throat, a sob already forming there, but the cramps snapped you out of it and you forced yourself to take a deep breath, as shaky as it was.

“Okay,” you whispered, forcing yourself to grab at the edge of the table so that you wouldn’t lose your balance, tears burning your eyes. “Okay. You’re okay. It’s okay. You’re okay.”

It was not the tremors that ripped your breath from your lungs this time, but the utter disbelief that it was happening; it was happening to you, right here and right now, miles away from anyone you could call for help. The arm of the sofa supported you for a moment, but as soon as you took another step your legs gave out and you crumpled to the floor, swallowing a sob while you blindly pushed the plush furs aside. A strangled cry ripped itself from your chest when the invisible dagger drove deeper into your guts and you curled up on your knees, one hand shooting up to wipe your nose, the other already stained with blood—

And to your absolute terror, that was when the door opened.

“My lady, I called out but…” Jorelle stopped talking at once when she stepped in, her eyes darting over your collapsed figure and the skirt of your chemise, drenched in blood.

Oh no.

No no no, this could not be happening.

Jorelle was the last person who was supposed to see you like this. She was the one whom the north loved and supported, the one who they thought was the better option for your status; the very same status that was now hanging by a thread, with you bleeding on the floor. Anyone who saw you in this situation would be able to tell what was happening, and the moment the word got out, the moment the north suspected you were unable to provide an heir to House Stark?

It wouldn’t matter how much Robb loved you, or how much you mesmerized him.

You were no fool, you knew very well how it worked. Beyond uniting your families, beyond all those grains and food your family would provide the north in winter and beyond how much House Stark would pull your family up in influence and power and status, this marriage had one, very specific expectation from you and Robb; to make sure the Stark bloodline continued.

An heir and a spare, minimum.

Though there were exceptions, the lack of heirs in a marriage usually came with two options, the annulling of the said marriage, or the husband siring heirs from a mistress and legitimizing them. In both of those options, you and your reputation would be dragged through the mud, and you would either be sent away with the whole realm knowing the reason, or you would turn into a living ghost right here in Winterfell, with no influence, no power, no respect or love.

And those banners and important families of the north would push Jorelle into the picture, especially now that she was the one who had caught you in such position and was surely going to use this to her advantage, as every other lady in the south would have.

It was all but a gift to her by the gods.

If you weren’t rendered speechless by the fear that took your body and mind hostage, you could’ve at least tried to come up with an excuse, as feeble and weak as it would’ve been. Jorelle seemed as frozen as you were, but her head whipped around when the chattering of the servants got louder with approaching footsteps. Her hand shot up to grab the door handle to pull it to herself when it rattled, your eyes widening as you pushed yourself to sit up, your whole body shaking.

“No—” you started but she shushed you, then opened the door just a little to slip through the crack and closed it before anyone could peek inside.

“Would you like to be louder?” She snapped at the servants at the door. “My lady is taking a nap, and she does not want to be disturbed. Shall I tell her whatever you’re talking of is more important than her rest, or would you like to shout into her bedchambers while you’re at it?”

The servants mumbled something you couldn’t hear.

“And Kyra, I expected better from you.”

“I apologize, m’lady. I was just going to check whether—”

“She doesn’t want to be disturbed,” Jorelle repeated. “Nor does she want anyone’s chatter or footsteps in the hallway, her sleep is very light. Make sure everyone stays away from this hallway until she wakes up.”

“Of course, m’lady.”

The sound of footsteps grew faint and Jorelle entered the bedchambers again, bolted the door, and rushed to you.

“Is that what I think it is?” she asked. “Do you want me to get Maester Luwin?”

Pain burned down your lower back, and there were tears in your eyes, but that didn’t stop you from gritting your teeth to force yourself to glare at her.

“No,” you managed to say, your voice hoarse as you wiped the sweat off your forehead. “It’s just my moon blood, leave me be.”

Jorelle gave you an exasperated look before she ran to the corner of the room to grab the fresh towels for your morning baths. She helped you up, then slipped the towel under you and gently sat you down, a worried frown pinching her brows while you tried your hardest to mimic Margaery despite the cold sweat dripping down your back.

“If you utter a word of this—”

“I won’t,” she cut you off. “This goes to the grave with me, I swear it by the old gods and the new.”

That made you pause halfway through your threat.

“And so will what you’re going to answer me right now,” she said. “Has anything happened before the wedding? With Lord Robb or anyone else?”

“What? No!”

“If it was conceived on your wedding night, at most it’s been six weeks,” she murmured more to herself. “That’s good. That’s early. Bleeding should stop in a couple of hours, the worst part at least—my castle is quite crowded,” she added when she saw the quizzical look on your face. “You’re not the first woman I’ve seen who’s having a miscarriage.”

You wetted your dry lips. “If anyone hears…”

“They won’t, because once the bleeding lessens, we’ll burn the towels in the hearth,” she said. “Things get lost in a big castle all the time. No one will ever know, including the servants.”

You winced when you tried to shift your weight, your movements rigid and short. She hesitated for a second, her eyes darting over your face before she reached out to take your hand between hers, making your head snap around.

“It’ll help,” she said with an apologetic smile. “Not with the pain I’m afraid, but the rest.”

You opened your mouth and closed it again when no sound came out, so you gulped and tried again.

“Thank you,” you managed to say, and she squeezed your hand in an attempt to assure you.

“It’ll be okay.”

No it wouldn’t.

You knew it wouldn’t, so did she.

But neither of you could do anything but just sit there and stare at the flames in the hearth, waiting for it to pass.

Jorelle was right, the worst part of bleeding was the first hour, and though the deep ache were still there, you were either getting used to it, or it was getting slightly better. Silence filled the room for almost an hour, the only sound your gasps of pain from time to time along with the crackling of wood in the hearth.

But after a while, you forced yourself to swallow the lump in your throat and turned to her.

“You didn’t have to help me.”

“Yes I did.” She shrugged her shoulders. “I’ve been trying to tell you since we met, I have no intention nor desire to be your enemy.”

You would have laughed if you had the energy. “The whole north thinks otherwise.”

“I care not what they think,” she said. “I don’t know why people are under the impression that I’m somehow a rival to you, but I’m not. There was only friendly affection and a promise of potential companionship between me and Lord Robb, and contrary to what everyone seems to think, I am not devastated over our broken arrangement, if you can even call it that. There wasn’t a betrothal.”

“No,” you admitted. “There wasn’t. But you know how these things work, if they wanted to push you...”

“They can push me all they want, I won’t move,” she said. “I won’t. He is in love with you, and you’re in love with him, what others hope for does not matter. Besides, even if you two weren’t in love, I still would not try to jam myself in between, I respect myself way too much to do that.”

Well, that hadn’t crossed your mind before.

This kind of thinking simply didn’t exist in the south. If there was any possibility of more power, no one stopped to think before they stabbed people in the back, personal feelings and pride and respect all came second when one could climb higher in status even at the expense of others.

And most of the time, it was indeed at the expense of others.

“Anyone else in your place would not hesitate,” you couldn’t help but point out, “back in the south.”

“This is not the south,” she said. “Things in the north work a bit differently. For which I’m glad.”

For some reason you doubted that; power was tempting, in the south or the north.

“And your family?”

Jorelle made a face.

“Well, my mother hates you,” she said with a chortle. “I wouldn’t take it personally. Everyone in the north wanted their daughter to wed Lord Robb, she’s no exception, though she was more intense than any other. I used to think she wanted me to wed him more than I wanted to wed him.”  She paused for a moment. “Now to think of it, I’d say she wanted to wed him more than I did.”

A burst of hysterical laughter escaped you and echoed in the room, surprising even yourself.

“I’d keep an eye on her if I were you,” she added, a grin playing on her lips. “She is as ambitious as a southron, and she would indeed leave my father for your husband.”

Gods, this was the worst time to be laughing.

Yet, you didn’t seem to be able to stop yourself even though you covered your mouth in an attempt to muffle the sound. You doubled over, resting a hand on the floor to support yourself while your shoulders shook, tears running down your cheeks from amusement or the pain, you could no longer tell. A hiccup escaped you, the ache in your chest as heavy as the one in your abdomen while you tried to breathe through the sobs and Jorelle sat up straighter.

 “No no no, we’re not crying right now,” she said in a rush. “We’re not crying, we’re talking of other things—um, so I didn’t tell you because you hated me, but funny thing, speaking of southrons, your brother asked me to be his mistress.”

Your head whipped up, your vision still blurry with tears while she nodded with wide eyes.

“I know,” she said. “I came up with one thousand retorts since he left. I’ve been writing them down, and I think I’ll turn it into a book and send it to Dorne on a ship.”

“Which—what?” you stammered, already distracted. “Which one?”

“Of the ships?”

“Of my brothers!”

“Perceon.”

“Perce?!” you exclaimed and wiped your nose in a haste. “Seven hells, Perce was who you were talking about in the kitchens?”

“Oh yes.”

“But you—I didn’t—” You hiccupped, trying to pick the right words. “I wasn’t aware you two were…”

“I’m as confused as you are, because we were not.” She motioned at you, flailing her arms. “We danced at your wedding, and then at the Harvest Feast, and I thought, well, he is very handsome.” A blush spread over her pale cheeks. “So I didn’t mind him courting me, but he wasn’t courting me. He asked me to be his mistress right after he almost kissed me.”

“Almost kissed you?” You sniffled. “He asked you to be his mistress before you two even kissed?”

“As I’ve said before. The audacity.”

You rolled your eyes.

“The twins came after Arys, so Arys claimed their share of wit in advance,” you said. “That’s why he’s so smart and Perce is an idiot. I apologize for his behavior, I’ll make sure to smack him when I see him again.”  

“But is that what southrons do?”

“Things work differently in Dorne, and Perce belongs more in Dorne than the Reach at this point,” you said. “Mistresses in Dorne have official titles, and they have all the luxuries and none of the responsibilities of the wives. And he won’t wed, so he probably thought it was a good offer—though, this is the first time I hear a man asking a lady to be his mistress before a kiss.”

Her cheeks got redder as she fixed her gaze in the hearth.

“I was going to kiss him before that,” she admitted. “I wanted to, but then I got scared because I was worried I’d be, I don’t know, bad at it—gods, you must think me a fool.”

“I don’t,” you assured her, shaking your head. “I wouldn’t. I was terrified of being bad at it too.”

“Was Lord Robb your first kiss?”

That made you scoff a laugh.

“No.” Margaery’s face flashed before your eyes and you tried to focus. “No, I had a lot of…practice—but the Reach is different!” you added in a haste. “We have different customs and education. The North is stricter in such matters, and you have different priorities.”

“It wouldn’t hurt to have some knowledge,” she grumbled, her shoulders dropping. “The south got that right, at least. Some of the north dislikes you yes, but they all agree that Lord Robb is mesmerized by you.”

There was a fist clenching your heart, but you managed to give her a smile.

“Oh, don’t worry,” you rasped out and gestured at the towels you were sitting on, stained in deep red. “I’m on borrowed time.”

She frowned. “That’s untrue.”

“Come on.” You let out a dry laugh. “You know what it means if it started like this.”

“I do know what it means, it means nothing,” she insisted. “My mother lost a babe on her fourth moon before my brother, but she carried my brother very easily, with little to none sickness. My cousin, she had three miscarriages, and now she has twins. Granted they’re little brats, but they’re very healthy, growing like beanstalks.”

You blinked back the tears, swallowing the lump in your throat.

“And how many miscarriages do you think I’d be allowed to have until the north started whispering?” you asked. “Until all the prominent families started pushing Robb for a replacement, for an heir? They already dislike me, already looking for a fault.”

“He loves you—”

“We’re in the north, Jo,” you muttered. “You tell me what’s more important in the north, love or duty?”

“Loyalty,” she answered. “Loyalty is of most importance in the north, it means everything here. And one miscarriage means nothing at all. You and your husband are young and healthy, you apparently conceived on your wedding night, you’ll easily do it again.”

You turned your bracelet around your wrist, your gaze fixed on it as you sniffled.

“You’ll see I speak the truth once the pain passes.” She pushed herself to her feet. “Our maester told my mother to drink water during this, it’s better to be safe.”

She moved about in the room and grabbed the cup that you had drank your tea from earlier to dispose of the pulp, but she stopped dead in her tracks, falling quiet. You looked up from your bracelet and shifted your weight on the towel, pointing at the table.

“There’s another cup over there—”

She cut you off, her voice stern: “Who served you this tea?”

“No one,” you said. “I made it, it’s for nausea.”

Jorelle lifted the cup to her nose to sniff it, then shook her head. “Who told you it was for nausea?”

“My brother Arys brought me many herbs, they’re over there,” you said as she rushed to the chest you were pointing at, then lifted the lid to find the pouch in it. She untied it to spill the crushed leaves into her palm, her frown deepening.

“Did your brother oppose this marriage?”

“No,” you said. “All of them support it. Why?”

“Then you told someone else what was in the chest?”

“No, I—why do you ask?”

“This is not for nausea,” she told you. “This is moon tea.”

Confusion crashed down on you and you stared at her before you huffed out a laugh.

“It’s not,” you argued. “Of course it’s not, it’s for nausea. Arys made sure to write clear instructions on everything, especially after the wedding. He would never make such mistake.”

“I’ve seen moon tea before, this is moon tea.” She held out her hand to show the herbs in her palm. “One of my maids had to drink it in secret, I was with her. I swear to you, it looks and smells like this. And you’re supposed to take it with honey to help with the pain, you’re not supposed to just brew it and drink it as it is.”

You pushed yourself to your feet, ignoring the warning tone of her voice when she said your name as she took a step towards to catch you in case you fell. The skirt of your chemise was drenched in blood—most of which dried down, sticking the fabric to your skin, making you grimace. The room spun around you, but you forced yourself to focus, blinking away the dots flying in your vision.

If she was not mistaken, if it was moon tea, that meant this was no natural miscarriage. This was not the first sign of a lifelong distress of trying for heirs only to lose them again and again, with the threat of being replaced hanging over your head, this was—

Jorelle’s voice snapped you out of your thoughts. “Who else knew about these herbs?”

“No one,” you said, approaching the chest on shaky legs. “Only my lady maid whom I’d trust with my life. She was here when I ate a sort of root to relax my mind before the wedding, she disagreed but then Eli—”

The thought hit you so hard that your breath caught in your throat and you took a step back, unable to tear your gaze from the chest.

Elinor.

That was what she was doing in your room the morning of their departure, at dawn when everyone else was asleep and you were supposed to be in Robb’s bedchambers. She had seen that chest, she had seen you close it, she could’ve easily sneaked into your bedchambers and…

“Elinor,” you rasped through frozen lips. “My brother Alton’s wife. She did this.”

“But why?”

“Because I—we—” you stammered, the hot rage spreading through your veins like poison. “We had a fight, and I told her I’d ask Robb to march his men to the Reach and root Alton out of his castle to replace him with another brother of mine, and I told her he’d do as I asked. It was a mere bluff because she attacked me and…” you trailed off. “She must have swapped the pouches.”

“She did this because you had a fight?”

“What’s the first sign of pregnancy?” you asked through your teeth. “Nausea. She swapped moon tea with nausea tea, because then I’d be drinking moon tea every single time I got pregnant, and I’d lose it every single time. In front of Robb. Over and over again.”

Her jaw dropped. “What?”

“She wanted to make sure he’d stop loving me, because if he stopped loving me, I’d hold no power,” you managed to say. “All the power I have here goes through him, she knows that. What better way to ensure he wouldn’t be mesmerized by me any longer? Everyone would be asking for an heir and I…”

How dare she?

A snarl twitched your lips, your nails biting into your palms. You squeezed your eyes shut to get rid of the red haze of anger clouding your vision, a thousand needles pricking the top of your head and spreading to your temples. All traces of pain sunk deep under a wave of fury tensing your muscles, the pounding in your ears getting louder and louder until Jorelle spoke.

“I wouldn’t last a day in the south,” she stated, her voice muffled like you were underwater as you opened your eyes again. “This is too much plotting.”

You swayed on your feet for only a second before your spine straightened like a puppet with its strings pulled, as if the southern courtier in you had decided that this was enough slouching with or without the pain; chin up, shoulders squared, a small, yet feral smile baring your teeth. It was clear from Jorelle’s worried gaze on you that you looked rather deranged; the skirt of your chemise drenched in blood, your legs and hands stained red, wisps of hair that were carefully pinned into a braid in the morning now sticking to your forehead with sweat.

When you spoke, your voice didn’t even sound like your own: “Not a good one.”

“Hm?”

“Not a good one,” you repeated. “I’ll survive. She will not.”

“You—”

“I can be patient,” you said, nodding to yourself. “I can and I will be, and I’ll wait for the right time, but I’m going to kill her. I’m going to kill her, and then I’m going to kill Alton if he knew and didn’t tell me.”

“You might not have to lift a finger, when Lord Robb hears—”

“He won’t hear.”

“He won’t hear?” she repeated with a tilt of her head. “I understand not telling anyone else, but you won’t tell him either?”

“No,” you said, a strange calmness settling in your mind like a fog. “There are only two people in the world who I could tell about this, both miles away from me. I love Robb with all my heart, but he is not one of them.”

“He’s your husband.”

“And that’s the reason,” you said. “You wanted to learn about the southern ways to mesmerize someone, did you not? Here’s the first lesson. You cannot do anything to break the illusion. Ever.”

“You must be jesting,” she said. “You love him, surely you trust him.”

“This has nothing to do with love or trust, this is survival.”

“Survival?”

You weighed the words in your mind, then scrunched up your nose.

“I recognize that parenting styles are different in the north and the south,” you said, “but in the Reach, me and Margaery and all my friends, we were all taught one thing from the moment we could walk, something they apparently don’t teach anywhere else in the realm. Every castle that isn’t your home is a trap waiting to swallow you the second you take the wrong step.” You pointed at the cup. “This is the wrong step.”

“But how is this the wrong step?” she asked. “He won’t blame you. This was your sister-in-law’s doing, you couldn’t have known.”

“No,” you admitted. “No I couldn’t have, but it matters not. This is how you play the court game, this is why everyone sleeps with one eye open in the south. Robb loves me yes, he would—he would console me, yes.” You gulped when your voice cracked. “But in the long run, it’s still the wrong step. Love is one thing, heirs are another. And if he…”

Every word was a hot coal burning your throat, but you willed yourself to focus.

“It all comes down to power, I’m afraid,” you murmured. “Once you have it, you sink your teeth and your claws in, and you don’t let go. It’s no different than trying to survive in battle, I just make it look pretty.”

A breath of disbelief left her as if the thought hadn’t occurred to her before, and you dragged the tip of your tongue over your bottom lip.

“I love Robb,” you added. “I do. I genuinely love him, which is more dangerous than any other court scheme. But that doesn’t change the fact that my power here, it’s linked to him. My status, my influence, how involved I am in decisions, it all depends on his feelings for me. That’s why I can’t risk it, I can’t afford any flaws.”

“This is no flaw,” she managed to say, and you shrugged your shoulders.

“No, but this is something he might bring up when he’s angry,” you said. “People say all kinds of things when they’re angry. I’m not going to break the illusion just so that he can use the shards to hurt me.”

A stunned silence fell upon the room and you fixed your hair, ignoring how badly your hand was shaking.

“So, this simply never took place,” you said, making her head whip up. “We will burn the towels as you said, and we will burn my chemise, and I will have the maids draw me a bath. And once that’s done, that’s it.”

“My lady…”

“Nothing happened,” you told her, your eyes locked in hers. “I came here, I took a nap, woke up and had my moon blood. Nothing more.”

It was clear from the expression on her face that she wanted to argue, and though she pursed her lips, it seemed that she still couldn’t stop herself.

“Does it not get tiring?” she blurted out. “Looking at everything that way?”

The simple question pulled your lips into a wry smile and you blinked back the tears, a dull ache making its way to your temples.

“It’s exhausting,” you admitted. “But I don’t have any other windows to look through.”

She held your gaze captive for a moment, the defiant light in her eyes melting into something else entirely; sadness or compassion, you couldn’t tell. An exhale left her, and she shook her head slightly like she couldn’t believe you or herself before she clicked her tongue.

 “Very well then,” she ended up saying. “As you wish. Nothing happened.”

You were no stranger to performing.

It was second nature to you at this point. You, Silas, Margaery, Loras, you were all masters at keeping the mask on and not letting it slip, no matter how heavy it got. Even when you were sick, even when Silas was heartbroken, even when Margaery was angry and Loras was frustrated, that teasing courtier smile didn’t falter, nor did the straight posture or playful words.

It’s your armor, Lady Olenna used to say. Only a fool takes off their armor in front of the enemy.

And you were no fool back in the Reach, and you certainly were no fool here in Winterfell, miles away from every member of your family.

So, you did exactly what you said you were going to do. Once the bleeding lessened, you and Jorelle burnt the towels and your chemise, you changed into a new chemise and asked the maids to draw you a scorching hot bath where you spent nearly an hour, scrubbing at your flesh until the water went cold.

It was all without forethought, like you were sleepwalking.

You would’ve thought you were indeed asleep, if it weren’t for the knife turning deep in your abdomen.

You changed into a gown, made sure to put not just one or two, but three folded pieces of linen cloth in your undergarments, then sat in front of the mirror so that your maid could do your hair while your ladies-in-waiting chattered in the room; Wylla and Lyra disagreeing about some northern lady, and Alys and Barbrey talking about Barbrey’s new gown.

Yet, no amount of chatter could distract Jorelle from watching you like a hawk.

She did join the discussion from time to time, whether to make sure Wylla and Lyra’s discussion didn’t escalate, or answering Alys and Barbrey’s questions about Barbrey’s gown and the seamstress’ suggestions on it, but you could tell she was still worried about you. She had suggested you would take your dinner in your bedchambers, saying that sometimes she did the same on the first day of her moon blood because it made her tired, all the girls agreeing with her.

But with everyone away, it fell on you to host the guests and show them good hospitality as the lady of the castle, and attending dinner with them was a way for that.

The pain had mostly subdued. It felt more like your moon blood and less like a miscarriage, but now you had the most painful throbbing in your temples that didn’t even tolerate the candlelight while you walked down the hallway with your ladies-in-waiting around you.

“And as I was saying, she claims blue will look better—”

“It will look better.”

“But purple is more eye-catching. Wylla agrees, do you not Wylla?”

“Deep purple or light purple?”

“Wait, which one do you think is better?”

“Deep purple.”

“But the beads we bought looked better on blue.”

“Jo, what do you think?”

“I don’t know, I wasn’t there,” Jorelle brushed Barbrey off, walking beside you. “My lady, I must insist that we cut this dinner short, you have been awake since early hours of the morning, you said.”

“She does have a point, you look rather tired,” Lyra added, brutally honest as always. “Your eyes are bloodshot, perhaps you need some rest.”

You did need rest.

You had no idea whether it was the blood loss or the pain, or the emotional toll of the day, but you felt so tired. Your maid had prepared you a bag full of hot stones that had been in the hearth, so that you could press it on your stomach to help with the cramps, and you had already decided you’d have it with you tonight in bed as well, perhaps that could help you sleep the exhaustion away.

One could hope.

“I’ll retire to my bedchambers afterwards,” you said, your voice calm and composed. “However, we must—”

The hallway spun around you for a moment, making you stop dead in your tracks. Your hand shot up to the wall so that you could support yourself, the voices growing faint with the blood rushing in your ears, heat creeping up your spine while your ladies-in-waiting rushed to you.

“My lady?”

No.

No, you were not going to do that.

You were not going to collapse and give anyone any reason to think you were anything but alright, that was how the whispers started.

You blinked away the black dots flying in your vision and forced yourself to take a breath, your hand slipping from the wall so that you could wipe the cold sweat off your forehead, then cleared your throat.

“I’m alright.”

 Wylla and Jorelle exchanged glances.

“Shall I go fetch Maester Luwin?”

“There’s no need for that,” you said, your heart slamming against your ribcage, “thank you.”

“Maybe Jo is right, let’s go back.”

“That’s what I’ve been saying, thank you!”

“Aye, I don’t even like these people.”

“Lyra!”

“Wha—I don’t!”

“We can eat in your bedchambers my lady, I’ll tell one of the maids—”

“No,” you said. “We’re attending dinner here.”

“You look like you’re about to faint,” Lyra insisted while you let yourself linger in your spot for a moment, still swaying on your feet before you took a deep breath.

Nothing had happened.

And nothing was happening.

“I’m perfectly fine,” you managed to say. “Trust me.”