He wasn't completely unaffected of course, he wasn't a total robot.

His heart rate still picked up when you smiled at him from across the pitt, his eyes sometimes lingered just a touch too long when you laughed, his pulse thrummed in his ears when you teased him and said his name coyly - Whitaker - like you knew just how much of an effect you had on him.

He noticed little things too, like the way you pushed your hair back with your wrist when you were gloved up and stressed, how you would bite your lip when you were locked in on charting, or the way you would anonymously (or at least thought you did) leave snacks in the break room for your colleagues.

But it was fine.

You and your radiant smile were completely compartmentalised.

Filed neatly away under do not open - things that will get me fired or someone killed or both if I think about it at work.

Until tonight.

Javadi's 21st birthday - organised by Princess, Perlah and Dana despite her weeks of protesting against it.

He almost hadn't come.

The clinical side of his brain warned him that mixing coworkers with alcohol and personal time was a bad move - teetering way too close to the 'friend' sphere - which would make it all the more harder for him to engage his compartmentalisation switch.

"You literally live with me, I think that ship has sailed Huckleberry." Santos had remarked when he'd confided in her about his doubts.

Amy had texted him that afternoon asking him if he was coming up to the farm. His thumbs had hovered over his phone, willing up the courage to text Javadi to say he wasn't going to be able to make it.

Then, his phone buzzed.

His heart leapt.

A message from you that simply read:

You're coming tonight, right?

An hour later, he was walking to the bar with Santos, trying to keep any thoughts of you shoved firmly in your assigned compartment.

When he stepped inside, he spotted the group instantly. Milling around in a corner clustered around a bunch of high tables, a set of slightly deflated pink balloons numbered '21' floating half heartedly above them.

A chorus of greetings met them as they approached. Dennis tried not to think about how weird it was to see everyone out of uniform, glowing in that post-shift, one drink in kind of buzz.

"Drink?" Santos turned to him.

He nodded, suddenly eager to be on the same level as his colleagues. They had just made their way to the bar when a set of wolf whistles and cheers erupted from their area.

"Watch out Pittsburgh!"

He turned to locate the source of their ruckus.

And then everything - every neatly labelled, meticulously stored thought - came crashing down around him.

You were not in scrubs.

Logically he had known that would be the case. People did not wear scrubs to bars. You were not going to be an exception. He had psyched himself up for this exact sight on the walk over.

But seeing it in person was something he could never have prepared himself for.

Your hair was down and styled, not tied back in that purely practical way he had grown so used to. Your makeup sculpted your features in a way that made you look even more angelic than usual.

Your outfit fit your body perfectly, hugging you in places and curves he had never dared to let himself think about, had trained himself very deliberately never to follow.

He found himself silently thanking the inventor of scrubs for designing them to be so baggy, because if this is how you looked all the time - he wouldn't be able to control himself.

Heck, who was he kidding, how was he ever going to control himself again now that he'd seen you like this?

He watched as you crossed the crowded bar, oblivious to the hungry looks of random men that you passed. A huge grin was on your face as you twirled around to show off your outfit to the group, causing another huge bout of cheers.

There was no clipped efficiency, no fluorescent lighting washing you out, no neat, clinical version he could pretend was easier to ignore.

This was what everyone else outside of the pitt had the privilege of seeing.

It felt almost wrong, like he was seeing a version of you that he hadn't been cleared access for.

"You might want to put your tongue back in your mouth Fuckleberry."

Dennis' cheeks bloomed violent red.

"W-what?" He stammered, finally tearing his eyes away from you.

"Trust me, I have eyes too. I get it." Santos continued, her gaze flickering over to you. "But she is so out of your league."

He huffed. "Gee thanks. Want to tell me something I don't know?" He grumbled before pressing his drink to his lips and downing it in one go.

"Atta boy Fuckleberry." Santos slapped him on the shoulder enthusiastically. "Drown your sorrows with me."

"Why, Garcia not paying you enough attention?"

Santos shot him a glare. "Watch it or-" She cut herself off as she glanced over Whittaker's shoulder.

"Oh shit - incoming."

Dennis turned to see you making your way towards the bar.

"I gotta pee, good luck farmboy." Before he could protest, Santos pushed off the bar and disappeared into the crowd.

By the time he turned back around, you had spotted him.

Your smile widened when you locked eyes.

You slipped through the crowd toward him like it was the most casual thing in the world, like you hadn’t just fundamentally altered his understanding of reality.

"Whitaker!" You called out by way of greeting.

God. It was somehow even worse outside the pitt.

"I was worried you were going to bail." You teased as you slid in beside him at the bar. You were so close he could smell your perfume, see the flecks of mascara painting your lashes, the pink sheen of your lip gloss.

He opened his mouth.

Nothing came out.

He cleared his throat, motioning for the bartender to try and stop the red from creeping back into his cheeks. "Yeah. I um- yeah. Do you want something to drink?"

Smooth.

"Please, I'll have whatever you're having."

You leant an arm against the bar, angling your body towards him. You tilted your head slightly, your eyes roaming his body as he ordered for you in a way that made his pulse trip over itself.

And then you grinned.

"You know, you scrub off quite well Whitaker."

Dennis was pretty sure there was a full, tangible moment where his brain fully short-circuited.

You had to be teasing him, surely. You'd probably made the same joke to every single one of his colleagues, who had all probably laughed in a way that only you could illicit from them.

He let out a quiet, almost disbelieving laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. "That's uh.. that's not how that phrase usually goes."

"I know." You said easily. "I'm reinventing it."

"Right."

"I have a theory." You continued. He watched as you twisted around, pressing your back into the wooden edge of the bar.

"You either look way better in scrubs or way better out of scrubs, there's no in between."

You gestured to your table.

"Take Robby for example, can you imagine that man in anything other than scrubs? I saw him out on a run once and I can confirm, it was disturbing."

Dennis let out a genuine chuckle at that.

"Ok, I like this game." He nodded, feeling himself relax slightly without being under your intense gaze. "Javadi's an out of scrubs for sure."

Your grin widened at his willingness to go along with it. "Exactly. I never thought I'd see her part with that purple sweater."

Dennis laughed again, watching out of the corner of his eye at the way your eyes crinkled as you smiled.

"So uh- which one am I then?" He asked sheepishly just as the bartender plonked your drinks down on the sticky surface.

You grabbed your drink before you turned your attention back to him. You took a sip from your straw as your eyes flitted up and down his figure, a smirk forming on your lips.

"I haven't decided yet."

Dennis gulped.

"Thanks for the drink Whitaker."

He watched helplessly as you walked away.

All composure and restraint had flown out the window. He was a man completely undone, like putty in your gentle hands.

"What did I miss?" Santos reappeared at his side, surveying the dance floor with eagle eyes.

"She... she said I scrub off quite well." He murmured, his eyes never leaving your figure as you animatedly chatted with Mohan.

"Huh?"

"She said everyone either suits scrubs or normal clothes more, so I asked her which one I was."

"And?"

"She said she hadn't decided yet."

Santos looked over at him in disbelief. "Oh my fucking god."

Dennis' neck snapped to look at her. "What?"

"Huckleberry, she was fucking flirting with you!"

"What?" He repeated, blinking in a few times. "No she wasn't."

"Uh yeah - she was." Santos insisted. "What you just told me? That's a fucking line. She lined you!"

"No I-" Dennis stammered. "There's- there's no way she was flirting with me. Aren't you the one who said she was way out of my league anyway?"

"I did." Santos nodded, crossing her arms over her chest. "But even geniuses can be wrong on the rare occasion."

She turned to face him fully, her face completely serious. "This is your chance."

"What-"

"Go flirt with her! Ask her out! Do something!"

"B-but I-" He cut himself off as he glanced up, watching you twirl Javadi around.

"If you don't Huckleberry, I will."

One look at her face and Dennis knew she was fully serious.

-

As the night wore on, people began siphoning into the 'I have work at 7am tomorrow' and the 'I have a day off tomorrow' camps.

Mohan and Ellis were doing shots off a strangers stomach. Mel and Langdon were animatedly discussion the upcoming renaissance fair. Santos was making a point of flirting with any girl within earshot of Garcia.

Dennis had found himself and you alone, clustered together on stools at one of the high tables. He tried to ignore the way your shoulder casually brushed against his every now and then, sending a shiver up his spine. He couldn't decide if it was a blessing or a curse.

"I think Javadi is going to have a headache for about a week." You remarked. "I'm also pretty sure I just saw her sneak into the bathroom with Matteo."

"We've all been there."

You raised a brow.

"What, hooking up with co-workers?"

The tips of his ears turned pink. "No-no I-"

"Relax, I'm teasing." You laughed.

He let out a breathless chuckle. "Oh, right."

The thumping bass enveloped the two of you, preventing the possibility of awkward silence.

"You're quieter than usual." You observed after a few moments.

"I-" He cut himself off before he tried to deny it as you looked at him imploringly.

Who was he kidding? You would see right through him, you were way too good at reading people. He saw it everyday at work. It was a skill he'd always admired in you, your ability to coax the truth out of patients, but right now he found himself cursing your keen eye.

"Yeah, sorry." Was what he ended up saying.

You frowned. "You okay?"

He hesitated, then exhaled.

"Yeah I think just seeing everyone and you like this kind of threw me off."

You stilled, just slightly.

"Like what?"

"Like..." He shook his head, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. "Like not in clinical grade hospital lighting."

That earned a quiet laugh from you.

He didn't know why he opened his mouth again. Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was Santos' words from earlier, maybe it was the way you'd ignored every single man in here tonight who had tried to hit on you and only seemed to want to talk to him, and he couldn’t help but hold onto the smallest spark of hope that it meant something.

"You um-" He gestured vaguely to your figure, immediately regretting it. "You just look... different."

He winced as the awkward words rolled off his tongue.

But instead of the teasing look he'd expected, your expression shifted into something gentler.

"Different....good?"

He huffed a small laugh, looking down at his drink for a second before gathering himself.

"Yeah." He looked up at you, his voice quieter. "Different good."

Your smile widened.

The familiar bass of Maneater started thumping through the bar speakers.

The sound of your name being called made the two of you break eye contact.

A slightly dishevelled Javadi, apparently having been summoned from the bathroom by Nelly Furtado, was grinning at you.

“This is our song!”

You and Dennis laughed as she pointed at you, demanding your presence on the dance floor immediately.

“Sorry, duty calls.”

Dennis pressed his two fingers to his head in mock salute. “Good luck soldier.”

You grinned, giving him a salute back before going to join the small dance circle that had started to form.

Dennis’ eyes followed you all the way there.

-

As the night wore on, the herd thinned.

Santos and Garcia had conveniently left at the same time. Abbott had muttered something about sunrise yoga before vanishing. Princess and Perlah were slow dancing in the corner.

It seemed you were next in line for departure. Dennis watched from his chair as you started doing your rounds, handing out obligatory goodbyes.

Dennis turned as Robby cleared his throat this throat beside him.

“You know, she told me she walked here.”

Dennis followed Robby’s gaze, leading directly back to you.

“Lives just a couple of blocks away.”

“Uh… ok.”

“So… she’ll probably walk home.” He spoke slowly, like he was describing some incredibly complex medical term to one of his patients.

“And she’d probably appreciate it if someone were to.. oh I don’t know…” His lips quirked ever so slightly, “… offer to walk her home?”

“Oh.” Dennis balked, jerking his head over to look at you as realisation hit him. “Right yeah- that’s a great idea.” He shot up of his seat so quickly that the table shuddered, half drunk, forgotten drinks sloshed in their glasses.

“Thanks Robby.”

Robby's eyes crinkled with amusement as he watched Dennis hastily make his way towards you.

“Kids.” He muttered under his breath, shaking his head slightly.

You were rifling through your purse, making sure you had everything as Dennis approached you.

“Hey.” He jerked a thumb towards the door. “You heading home?”

“Yeah.” You sighed. “Figured I should try and get at least four hours sleep before my shift, I don’t think it would be ethical otherwise.”

Dennis chuckled. “Yeah I feel that.”

There was a slight pause before.

“So, how are you getting home?”

“Oh I was just going to walk. I only live a couple blocks that way.” You gestured vaguely behind you.

“Right.” Dennis nodded. A heartbeat passed.

“Would you um- would you like me to walk you home? You can totally say no.”

You smiled softly. “Yeah I’d love that, thanks.”

He shot you a tight lipped smile back as he shoved his hands into his pockets. “Great ok, well we can head off whenever you’re ready.”

You glanced over Dennis’ shoulder to see Robby watching the two of you.

“See you tomorrow Robby!”

Robby raised a hand in passive acknowledgment. “Later kiddo.”

The Pittsburgh weather had decided to be kind to the both of you as you spilled out onto the lamplit street. A warm, gentle breeze lapped at the two of you as you began the short walk to your apartment.

You made small talk, mostly about work, giggling about the crazy patients you'd both had recently, until you came to a reluctant stop at your doorstep.

Things felt calmer out here, away from the loud music and the preying eyes of co-workers.

“This is me.” You gestured to your building.

Dennis felt his heart sink. He thought he would have more time. More time to build up the courage to finally say something.

How was it that he could intubate a critical patient without breaking a sweat, but the thought of saying anything remotely risky to you was enough to turn him into a quivering, spiralling mess.

You peered up at him. “Thanks for walking me home.”

“Happy to.”

You observed him for a few moments.

Dennis wondered if you could tell exactly what he was thinking. Wondered if you knew the effect that you had on him. If you could tell that he was frantically flicking through a list of things to say that could stop this moment from ever ending.

“You’re giving me that look again.”

“What look?”

Your smile curved. “Like you’re still trying to get used to seeing me not under clinical grade hospital lighting.”

Dennis chuckled weakly. “Sorry for being weird tonight I…” He sighed as he looked at you.

As the soft light of the street lamp hit you, Dennis felt something unfurl beneath his ribs.

You were so beautiful, both in your scrubs and out of them. Neither one was better than the other. One would not exist without the other. Both sides made you whole, culminating in one perfect, sweet, smart person.

And now he had seen both sides, he didn't think that he could ever live without either of them again.

That feeling swelled in him, creating a tidal wave finally ready to knock down those barricades he'd held so stubbornly in place for so long.

He met your eyes then, properly, and whatever nerves he had seemed to settle into something steadier, the realisation grounding him.

"I've spent a long time trying to pretend that you don't exist outside of work." He finally said.

"Why's that?"

There was something so open about your face that made his remaining walls crumble, made him desperately want to spill all of his thoughts at your altar.

"Because... because I knew that you were someone I really, really wanted to know outside of work." He confessed.

"And uh-" He gestured to you. "I don't think I can keep pretending anymore. Actually, I think it might make me go insane if I keep trying."

You smiled softly.

"You know how you asked me earlier whether I thought you were a scrubs or no scrubs type?"

Dennis nodded, thrown off by the sudden change in conversation.

"Well, I've been waiting all night for you to ask me again. I uh- I had this whole thing planned out, I was going to say something lame like, 'I don't know, I think I'd need to see you a few more times not in your scrubs to make an assessment.'"

"Holy shit." Dennis blinked. "You were flirting with me."

That made you burst out into a fit of giggles, relieving some of the tense energy crackling between the two of you.

"Yeah no kidding. Trin said I was going to have to lay it on pretty thick for you to get it, but I didn't realise how thick she meant."

"Wait-" He stared down at you, eyes wide. "Santos knew about this?"

You nodded.

"I'm going to kill her."

"Wait no, don't be mad at her - I swore her to secrecy." You said hastily. "I only asked her for advice after none of my more subtle attempts worked. I figured since you literally live with her, she'd know you pretty well."

Dennis thought his brain was about to implode.

"What... what other subtle attempts?"

For the first time tonight, Dennis finally caught a hint of colour in your cheeks.

You chuckled sheepishly. "I don't know... I always made an excuse to consult with you, or to take a break at the same time. And didn't you think it was weird that I started bringing in your favourite snacks every time you mentioned what you liked?"

"Wait - you don't like Doritos? I thought you said you loved them."

You shrugged. "More of a Fritos girl."

Anyone who walked past them must have thought that Dennis resembled a stunned mullet.

"I'm an idiot." He stated matter-of-factly.

"You're not an idiot." You reassured him. "You're just-"

"Blind? Stupid? A combination of both?" He let out a dramatic groan, burying his face into his hands.

"I'm so sorry I- I was so focused on keeping you off my mind and convincing myself that I didn't like you that I had total tunnel vision at work."

"It's ok, really." You insisted. "I can get so emotional at work." You huffed. "But you...you're always so composed and clinical and precise." You cut yourself off before you started rambling.

Dennis' heart hammered in his chest.

"Really?"

"Really. I wish I was more like you at work."

Dennis' brow furrowed. How could you not see that you were perfect?

"What do you mean? You're a literal ball of sunshine at work. Everyone loves you, you manage to make the grumpiest of patients smile. Jesus Christ I'm pretty sure I even saw Park the Shark crack a smile once-"

"-I think he was just trying not to sneeze."

He glared at you playfully. "It was a smile...by Park's standards anyway." He insisted. "You light up every room you're in. And you just get patients. If anything, I wish I was more like you."

This time, a fully fledged blush flushed your cheeks.

"Well then…I guess we balance each other out."

Dennis smiled, "I guess we do."

"And for the record." Dennis continued, "That's one of the many reasons why I.. you know..." He bit his lip as he glanced down at his feet. "...like you."

He looked up at you shyly, his nerves making his stomach churn. There was a pause. Then you whispered your next words so quietly that Dennis almost missed it.

"I like you too, Whitaker."

You eyed each other for a few moments, like you were both trying to figure out the new energy that swirled between the two of you.

It was uncharted territory, but it was something new and exciting, something that you both wanted to explore.

You only broke your eye contact to glance down at your phone, wincing at the time.

"I really should get to bed." You eventually said reluctantly.

"Yeah, me to." Dennis studied you for a moment. "I guess I'll see you today?"

You chuckled. "I guess you will."

A small silence settled between you.

Not awkward.

Just...comfortable, full.

"Good night Whitaker." You finally said, your eyes bright despite your sleep deprivation.

"Good night." He replied softly.

Dennis waited until you were up the stairs, behind the safety of a locked door and out of sight before he started his walk home.

You didn't need to know that his apartment was in the complete opposite direction of yours, meaning he had to double back past the very bar you had just been in.

As he approached the bar, he noticed a familiar figure standing by the curb.

Robby looked up from his phone as Whitaker approached. He peered over his glasses, observing the biggest grin he had ever seen on Whitaker plastered across his face.

"You get our bundle of sunshine home safely?"

"Delivered without a scratch."

"Alright, well I'll see you bright and early."

Whittaker's grin somehow widened as he patted Robby on the shoulder as he walked past.

"Thanks Robby."

This time, Robby couldn't fight the smile that appeared on his features.

"Anytime kiddo."

-

Five hours later, you shuffled through the ED doors, clinging to a double strength red bull like it was your life blood.

Shen rounded the corner, his eyes lighting up when he spotted you.

"Well well well, aren't you a sight for sore eyes?"

You shot him a weak smile, pressing the can to your lips.

"What? No witty reply?"

"I don't have the brain capacity."

Shen chuckled, twisting around to grab something off one of the nurses desks.

“Here. This might help.”

He watched as your eyes lit up like a kid on Christmas morning at the sight of an extra large Dunkin iced coffee.

You immediately threw your measly substitute in the bin beside you.

“You are a lifesaver.”

“Actually it’s pronounced doctor.”

You let that joke slide as you eagerly took a sip, resisting the urge to let out a moan. If you could, you would have this stuff injected straight into your veins.

“Thank you. Seriously.”

“Anytime. Oh and good luck today, it’s a shit show.” He called out after you.

“As opposed to what?” You called back, giving him one final wave before making your way to your locker.

You went to keypad in your code, only to realise the door was slightly ajar. You were the worst offender when it came to leaving your locker unlocked, much to Dana's despair.

You froze when you yanked open the door.

Placed unassumingly on top of your things, was a packet of Fritos.

Upon closer inspection, you realised there was a small note attached to it, fastened with what appeared to be surgical floss contorted into a delicate looking bow.

You glanced around to make sure no one was in sight before leaning forward and carefully unfolding the note, revealing scrawling handwriting.

Figured you would need some sustenance to get you through this shift. P.S I've completed my initial assessment. My findings are that you scrub up just as well as you scrub off. P.P.S To really make sure, I think I need to run some further observations. Dinner this Saturday?

You bit your lip, unable to contain the wide grin that spread across your face.

Unbeknownst to you, Dennis was peaking through the glass, scrutinising every micro expression that appeared on your features.

A smile just as wide as yours spread across his face as he watched you fold the note back up neatly and tuck it into the front pocket of your scrubs.

Dennis subconsciously filed you under a different tab.

Except this time, it was labelled something far more dangerous.

High risk, once in a lifetime opportunity - proceed anyway.

He allowed himself to stare at you for moment before making his way towards the centre of the pitt for the day shift handover.

"Whitaker!"

He turned around, his heart rate increasing at the sight of you making your way towards him.

"Morning."

"Good morning."

The two of you naturally fell into step with one another.

"Ready for another day in paradise?"

He glanced over at you to see you peering up at him.

"With you? Always."

Both your smiles widened.

Then, very deliberately, he turned off the switch.

pope has always been around too, he hasn’t let you in as much as julia has, but his presence is always there, and you have grown to find a sense of comfort in him being around. and to pope, he can’t imagine his life without you around. he became used to seeing you around his house, like you were always just a part of the family. making coffee in their kitchen, laughing with julia at something stupid, lounging by their pool and asking if he would spray your back with sunscreen.

at some point, pope became more than just julia’s brother in your eyes. you found yourself laughing a little louder at his jokes, getting sad when julia told you pope was out for the afternoon, especially when you picked the bikini in your bag with the hopes that pope’s gaze would linger on you when he saw it. and if pope felt the same way, he sure didn’t act like it.

but it wasn’t because he didn’t feel that way, he just couldn’t imagine himself as the object of someone’s affection. he wanted to like you and think about what it would be like if you showed up to their house just for him, maybe you’d fall in his arms and tell him that you loved him, but everytime his mind would drift there he’d shut it down. he’d been taught to believe that love isn’t something he should have, so why would he think that you could possibly feel it for him? but that didn’t mean that he couldn’t be protective over you, smurf had always been accepting of the punches he threw and the people he hurt in the name of family, surely you’d be accepting of it too.

but now here you are, just finished with your junior year of college, home for the summer and in his house once again. he can’t lie and say that he wasn’t counting down the days until your summer break, he knew that meant you’d be back in his house all the time, hanging out with julia and crashing on their couch.

he hears you talking with smurf in the kitchen, filling her in on how your semester went. he stands in the hallway for a couple minutes listening to you talk and laugh. his heart sinks for a minute when you start talking about a guy from one of your classes, you fill smurf in on your tumultuous semester romance, telling her how he broke your heart when he left to study abroad for the summer, claiming that he needed to be single so that he could find himself in whichever european city he whisked off to. pope knows that it shouldn’t make him happy to hear it, but he can’t help but think about being the person to pick up the pieces of your broken heart.

“i think julia has some plan for us tonight,” he hears you respond to smurf, who’s just asked what the night holds for you. “some guy she met at work is throwing a party tonight, she wants to go, so i said yes.”

“but do you want to go, sweetheart?” smurf asks.

“not really, but i’ll play wingwoman,” you laugh, “it sounds like she really likes this guy.” pope comes in then, moving to grab a snack.

“hey pope,” you say cheerfully.

“hey y/n,” you can’t help but think about how much you missed his voice, raspy in all the best ways. “you’re going to a party tonight?” it's just like pope, getting straight to business.

“uh yeah, julia’s coworker is throwing it. hey, you should come with us so i don’t have to third wheel.”

“would julia want that? i mean i wasn’t invited.”

“i don’t know, but i want you there,” you’re looking at him so sincerely he almost can’t take it.

“yeah, sure then, i’ll go.”

“ok great, i think we’re leaving here around 9. i should probably check in with her, she’s probably wondering what i got up to, i’ll see you later,” you say heading back to julia’s room.

later that night you’re sitting on the couch with pope, julia needed to run to her room to grab something and it’s taking longer than expected for her to find it. you’re watching whatever was last on the tv with pope when he says your name. it’s gentle, like he’s approaching whatever he’s about to say with caution.

“yeah, pope?”

“tonight, if any guy makes you feel uncomfortable, you’ll tell me, right?”

“yeah, pope, sure,” you’re confused but also intrigued.

“because i’ll handle it, i don’t want anyone trying anything on you.”

“aw, pope cody, do you care about me?” you meant it as a joke, but pope gets quiet and shifts a bit away from you. “sorry, pope, i’m -” you cut yourself off, “of course, i trust you to take care of me.”

take care of me, he hates the rush of emotions that brings to his chest, the implications of being your protector, of him being someone that you feel safe around. he's hoping that he won't do anything to make you feel differently, that you won't see the real him and then leave like he's so worried about.

julia pulls him out of his thoughts, entering the living room in a rush, finally ready to head out. he offers to drive everyone in his truck, staying quiet while he listened to you and julia sing along to songs on the radio.

when he pulled up to the house, a house close to the beach, julia grabs your hand and runs, giddy to see the coworker she's been flirting with, who've you now been introduced to as jake. when pope finds you again, julia is introducing you to him, talking about how you've been her best friend in the world for as long as you can remember.

"do you want to hit the pool?" jake asks julia, an arm snaking around her shoulder.

"yeah sure!" she answers excitedly, looking at you and pope to figure out her next move.

"i think i might go and get a drink, pope do you want to come with me?" you ask, "we'll come meet you in a bit."

"sounds good," julia leans in closer to jake, silently thanking you as they head off towards the pool together.

"you don't want to go with them?" pope asks, confused.

"we'll meet up with them in a second," you start walking toward the kitchen with pope, "i wanted to give them some time alone," you hesitate, debating whether or not to say what comes next to your mind, "or maybe i wanted to get you all to myself."

you try not to laugh at the way pope blushes and try not to notice that he goes to grab both you and him a drink since he knows your preferences. you try not to think about how sometimes it feels like pope knows your next move, you chalk it up to him being an observant person in general, but in the back of your mind you like to think that he probably doesn't have the schedules of everyone memorized like clockwork.

as the night continues on, you stick pretty close to pope. you and him go to see julia and jake for a little bit, but as the night goes on she gets closer and closer to him, which makes you decide that they might need some privacy.

you're sitting on the deck with pope, enjoying the ocean breeze coming in and people watching with him. at some point, you decide to go back inside and grab another drink. pope tells you that he won't be indulging since he has to drive you back home later, so that's how you end up in the kitchen alone, promising pope that you'll be right back.

you're pulling a drink out of a cooler when you feel a body close behind you, almost breathing down your neck. "did you come here alone?" you can smell the alcohol on his breath, and on his whole body, he reeks.

you try to push past him, but he blocks your path. "i didn't, now can you let me go," you try again to no avail.

sensing something was wrong, he'd been timing how long you'd been gone and he was starting to get concerned, pope gets up from his chair on the deck and makes his way to the kitchen to see what you're up to. and that's when he sees you, caged in by a sweaty guy in the kitchen.

"you sure you're not here alone?" the guy is asking you again.

"i'm not doing this, just let me go." the creep just laughs and takes another swig of the beer in his hand.

"you heard her man, just let get her out of here," pope steps in, and you can't help but feel a rush of relief when you see him.

"this your boyfriend?" the guy asks and is met with two answers at the same time: you say "yes" as pope says "why does it matter?"

you both look at each other with wide eyes as the guy continues to get closer to you. "let her go, man" pope says again. the guy does his stupid laugh again, turning around on pope.

"what are you going to do about it?" the guy tests pope, and without hesitation pope swings on him, catching his face with a right hook.

"holy shit," the guy is on the floor in front of you, cradling his jaw and mumbling curses towards pope.

"don't fucking do that shit again," pope spits at the creep and then grabs your hand and walks you out of the kitchen.

you look down at pope's hand that is currently holding yours, taking in the way that his knuckles are starting to swell a bit.

"can we go home?" you ask him.

"home?" he gets worried, has he pushed you away finally? was that too much?

"well, your house, i guess," you smile at him. you tell him to go out to the truck, telling him you'll meet him after you fill julia in. she tells you that she was planning on staying with jake anyway, but tells you to feel free to crash at the cody house still, she doesn't care if you sleep in her bed. you thank her and head to find pope.

the car ride back to the cody house is quiet, both of you not sure what to say first. you end up breaking the silence with a quiet, "thank you." he stays quiet, his grip tightening on the steering wheel.

"i mean it, pope," you continue, "that guy made me feel scared, i was about to start yelling your name if you hadn't found me. you didn't have to do that, but you did."

he wants to spill out so much to you: i never want you to feel scared, i'd do unspeakable things to keep you safe, i never want you to leave me, i love you. but he keeps it all bottled up, focusing instead on the road ahead of him. as if you understand his internal battle, you put your hand on his arm, confirming that you understand that his silence isn't to spite you.

he pulls the truck into the cody compound, opening your door for you as you hop out of the truck. "follow me," you tell him, and he does, silently trailing behind you like your loyal guard dog. you head to the freezer where you rummage around for something frozen. you grab a pack of some frozen vegetable, and place it gently over his knuckles.

he looks up at you, faces so close and your features illuminated by the lights coming from the backyard into the dark kitchen. "can i kiss you?" you whisper, almost scared that if you say it, it'll change something permanently. that if he rejects you, everything will be different and you can't return to the life you knew before.

he searches your face hesitantly, looking for every sign of confirmation he can find that you're sincere, that this is real, that he didn't make this whole night up in a dream. "please," he almost chokes on the word. and then your lips are so softly pressing against his. the frozen vegetables fall to the floor as he wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you as close to him as he can as you deepen the kiss.

when he pulls away, he looks you over, savoring the way your lip gloss has smeared and the heat of your skin on his hands, which have moved under your shirt and onto your bare skin.

"can we please do that again?" you giggle at how sincere he sounds.

The Baratheon pavilion stood broad and heavy among the many tents scattered across Ashford Meadow, its black and gold cloth stirring in the cool evening wind. Lanterns hung from the central poles and cast a warm, uneven light over the interior, where men crowded together beneath the canvas roof. The noise carried constantly - tankards knocking against wood, chairs dragged across the trampled ground, the low rise and fall of voices thick with drink. Somewhere toward the centre of the tent a pair of fiddlers scraped out a tune that had already been played three times tonight - though no one seemed bored yet.

Ashford’s tourney had drawn half the realm into the meadow. Knights, squires, hedge riders, singers, and the curious alike all pressed beneath the storm stag banner while servants wove between them carrying platters and fresh pitchers of drink.

You sat at one of the longer trestle tables, shoulder to shoulder with two men.

On one side was Ser Duncan, enormous even when seated, his long limbs awkwardly folded as though the bench had been made too small for him. Dunk held his tankard carefully in both hands, drinking slowly, his eyes moving now and again across the crowded pavilion in the quiet, thoughtful manner that seemed natural to him.

On your other side sat Raymun - he claimed to be only a squire still.

He had come dressed properly for the evening regardless. A dark red doublet fit neatly across his shoulders, well made but plain. The colour showed darker beneath the lanternlight, nearly the shade of old wine. His hair had been brushed back and tied neatly. He sat straight - He looked clean, careful, respectable.

You noticed him almost at once; and then you decided to be a menace.

You leaned one elbow onto the table and turned slightly toward him, your voice lowered just enough that he had to incline his head closer to hear you through the music and noise.

"So," you said, idly circling the rim of your cup with one finger, "are all squires from the Reach this handsome, or did the gods shape you themselves?" It was a poor attempt, you had never quite flirted before.

Raymun blinked - as if confused that you were speaking to him. The reaction was immediate and rather satisfying.

He seemed to pause, uncertain whether you had spoken to him or someone else - when he realised you had, a faint flush began creeping up the back of his neck.

"I - ah - thank you, my lady." His voice was polite, soft. Across the table Dunk made a quiet sound into his drink that might have been a laugh - you ignored him completely.

Instead you leaned a little closer toward Raymun, your shoulder brushing lightly against his sleeve. He smelled faintly of clean wool, cider and lavender soap - it was a nice smell, it was him. When you smiled at him he immediately dropped his gaze toward the table as though the wood grain had suddenly become fascinating.

"My lady," he said again, clearing his throat, "you flatter me."

"Oh, I do more than flatter you." You teased, eyelashes fluttering slightly. His ears went red.

Raymun reached for his cup and took a careful drink, as though the ale might steady his nerves. It did not seem to help.

At the far end of the pavilion the largest table had grown louder than the rest. Lyonel Baratheon sat there among several knights and squires, broad as a bull beneath the lanternlight. At some point he lifted a hand and made a simple motion toward Dunk - two fingers crooked slightly in silent summons.

Dunk noticed it at once, he sighed softly under his breath and pushed himself upright from the bench. "Try not to start a fight while I'm gone," he muttered.

You waved him off without looking. "I never start fights." Dunk snorted quietly at that and made his way toward the rear table where the Storm Lord waited.

And just like that, Raymun Fossoway found himself alone beside you – He realised this perhaps a second too late.

You turned slowly toward him. Raymun made the mistake of looking up at the exact same moment. Your eyes met his and whatever thought had been forming behind his expression disappeared entirely.

"You are blushing again," you observed calmly. "I am not." He gulped.

"You are." You mock him, gods.. You want to reach out and touch him.

"I assure you-"

"You are." You finalize and the corner of your mouth lifted slightly.

"You know," you continued, tapping a finger against the damp ring your cup had left upon the table, "if you keep doing that I might begin to think I make you nervous." You drag your finger around the cup, eyeing him.

Raymun straightened. "You do not make me nervous."

"Hm." You leaned a fraction closer. "Then perhaps I excite you."

He choked on his ale, truly choked.

For a moment he coughed into his sleeve while a pair of passing men glanced over curiously. When he recovered his face had gone a deep red that reached nearly to his hairline.

"I - my lady-"

"I assure you I am no lady.. But you may call me whatever you like," you said lightly. That did not appear to help him in the slightest.

Raymun had already reached the quiet conclusion - entirely on his own - that you must belong to Dunk. The idea had settled heavily into his mind and now seemed to trap him there between courtesy and alarm.

A decent man did not flirt with another man’s wife.Unfortunately for him, you appeared determined to flirt enough for both of you.

When the fiddlers shifted into a quicker tune and several couples began stepping out toward the open space between the tables, you stood without hesitation.

"Come," you said; Raymun blinked, fearing this was another innuendo.

"Come where?"

"To dance." You muse, lips pursing.

"I - ah -" You had already taken his hand - He rose begrudgingly.

The dance itself was simple. A turn of hands, a step and pivot, the slow weaving of partners  while boots stamped lightly against the earth beneath the lanternlight.

Raymun moved well enough. You made certain he noticed that you had noticed.

"You dance nicely," you said.

"Thank you." He kept his eyes to the floor - or to the roof of the tent.

"And you hold me very carefully." You whisper, loud enough for him and only him.

"I should hope so." Raymun gulps; his voice wavering slightly.

You tilted your head, hair falling slightly as you try to maintain eye contact with a man certain of not holding any.

"You could hold me closer, you know." Raymun very nearly missed a step.

"I think this distance is proper." Raymun defended - face flushed a slight pink hue.

You laughed softly. "Proper?" you repeated. The dancers turned again. You leaned slightly nearer as you moved, your voice lowering just enough that only he could hear. "You are a careful man, Raymun Fossoway."

"I try to be."

"You need not be so careful with me." Your lips were painfully close to him.

He said nothing; you waited - patiently.

Still nothing.

By the time the music slowed and the dancers drifted apart again, your patience had begun to thin. You studied him for a moment before speaking again. "If you are done pretending to be a septon," you said quietly, "you could come back to my tent later."

Raymun stared at you- bewildered..

"I - beg your pardon?"

"You heard me."

You lifted one shoulder in a small shrug. "I promise you a very good time."

For several seconds he simply gawped at you like a man who had just been struck over the head - not a single word came out.

Not one, you waited - nothing.

The silence stretched long enough that irritation finally began to settle in – you had given him every opening.

Every little invitation a man could reasonably hope for - and still he stood there looking stunned and silent. It hurt to be rejected so, other men have fought over your beauty - to be declined so was an insult. Perhaps he thought you ugly and wretched.

You finished the last of your wine, set the cup down upon the table, and stood. Raymun looked up immediately.

"You are leaving?" Raymun asked quickly.

"Apparently." You did not look at him, for fear of showing your sadness.

"You seemed to be enjoying yourself."

You paused for a moment - back facing him.

"I was trying to."

Then you turned and walked from the Baratheon pavilion long before most of the guests had begun to drift away, leaving Raymun Fossoway standing beneath the lanternlight looking as though something very confusing had just happened to him.

The feast beneath the Baratheon pavilion thinned slowly as the night wore on.

The music had grown looser, the fiddlers no longer keeping quite the same pace as they had earlier, and many of the men who had begun the evening straight-backed now leaned heavily over their cups. Some had wandered away toward the outer fires scattered across the meadow. Others had disappeared toward the darker rows of tents where sleep - or trouble - waited.

The great pavilion itself still glowed warmly in the distance, lanternlight bleeding through the thick cloth walls like dull gold.

Outside, the air had turned cooler.

Duncan walked beside Raymun, the two of them moving slowly along the worn paths between the tents. Dunk had insisted upon walking him part of the way back.

Raymun had not argued – For a time they walked in silence. The noise of the feast softened behind them, replaced by the smaller sounds of the camp settling into the late hours of the night - a man laughing somewhere in the distance, the rattle of a loose pot over a dying fire, the quiet murmur of voices from within closed tents.

Raymun had been turning something over in his head for the better part of twenty minutes.

He had tried twice to begin speaking and stopped himself both times.

Dunk noticed, He glanced sideways after a while, one brow lifting slightly.

"Alright, you look like you're trying to swallow a stone," Dunk said. "Something wrong?"

Raymun hesitated – he rubbed one hand across the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable.

"It is... nothing of consequence."

Dunk snorted softly. "If it weren't, you wouldn't look like that."

They walked a few more paces before Raymun finally spoke again.

"Your wife," he said. Dunk frowned immediately. "My what?"

Raymun cleared his throat. "Your wife," he repeated, slightly more awkwardly now. "The woman you came to the feast with."

Dunk slowed his steps a little, confused.

Raymun kept going before he could stop himself. "She was... ah..." He hesitated again, clearly searching for the least offensive words possible. "...rather forward with me tonight."

Dunk stared at him – Raymun exhaled slowly through his nose, the memory of it clearly returning all at once. "By the Seven," he muttered quietly, more to himself than to Dunk, "she was practically on top of me."

Dunk stopped walking altogether. "What?" Raymun looked over at him, slightly embarrassed but still entirely sincere.

"I tried to behave properly, of course," he continued. "Gods know I did. I said very little. I danced once when she insisted, but I thought it best not to encourage anything further."

He gestured vaguely back toward the distant Baratheon tent. "She suggested - rather plainly, I might add - that I should come back to her tent later."

Dunk blinked.

Raymun continued, still speaking in the careful, strained tone of someone attempting to explain an uncomfortable situation. "I assumed she had drunk too much wine," he said. "Or perhaps she only meant it in jest. But still - it seemed... improper."

Dunk was still staring at him. Raymun shifted his weight uneasily. "I thought it best to tell you," he finished. "In case you wished to speak with her about it."

There was a pause - then Dunk scratched the back of his head slowly. "...My wife," he said again.

Raymun nodded, somewhat relieved that the explanation was finally out. "Yes." Another pause. Dunk looked genuinely puzzled now. "But she's not my wife."

Raymun blinked. "What?" Dunk shrugged. "She's not."

Raymun stared at him. "I'm sorry," he said carefully, "what?"

Dunk shifted his shoulders beneath the rough cloth of his tunic. "We just travel together," he said simply. Raymun continued staring.

"...You travel together."

"Aye." The silence that followed lasted several seconds longer than either of them expected.

Raymun's brow furrowed. "I had assumed-"

"Most people do," Dunk admitted. They resumed walking again, though Raymun's pace had slowed considerably.

He looked deeply confused now. "You mean she is not your wife."

"No."

"Nor betrothed."

"No."

Raymun blinked again. "...Then why in the Seven Hells are you travelling the roads together?"

Dunk rubbed the back of his neck again, looking faintly embarrassed now. "She saved my life," he said.

Raymun stopped walking – Dunk took two more steps before noticing and turned back toward him.

Raymun looked genuinely startled. "She what?"

Dunk shrugged slightly. "Bandits," he said. "Ran into them on the road some time back."

He glanced toward the ground briefly as he continued. "They meant to string me up and rob me clean. She came out of nowhere and put an arrow through one of them before they could finish the job."

Raymun stared. Dunk continued walking again, leaving Raymun to catch up a second later. "So we started travelling together after that," Dunk finished simply. "Safer that way - For me and for her…."

Raymun walked in silence for several paces. His expression shifted slowly as the pieces settled into place in his head. First confusion.

Then understanding.

And finally something very close to horror.

He stopped walking again. "Oh," Raymun said faintly. Dunk turned back once more.

"What?" Raymun ran a hand down over his face. "Gods."

Dunk frowned. "What?"

Raymun looked up at him again, still processing the information.

"You mean," he said slowly, "that when she told me to come back to her tent..."

Dunk waited. Raymun exhaled. "...she actually meant it."

Dunk shrugged, a chuckle shook his shoulders.

"Probably." Raymun stared into the dark meadow ahead of them for several long seconds. Then he muttered very quietly to himself, "...Fuck."

Dunk only looked mildly puzzled.

The day began cold - The Meadow now fully accompanied by people from throughout The Reach and the Stormlands - Lord Baratheon still had endless celebrations in his tent; ale pouring out of his ears and continuous meals being served. Inside the pavilion, the warmth returned quickly once one passed the entrance flap. The heat of bodies, the press of voices, and the low glow of lanternlight made the place feel close and crowded.

You stepped in without hesitation and your eyes found him almost immediately.

Raymun stood not far from one of the side tables, his dark red doublet much the same as the night before except this one had differing details. He looked different tonight.

Not in dress, no, but in manner.

Where he had appeared uncertain before, tonight there was something more deliberate about the way he stood. His shoulders were straighter, his eyes moved more carefully across the tent, as though he had come searching for something and did not wish to appear too obvious about it.

You did not make him wait long – when he noticed you approaching, the recognition was immediate. And then the colour crept slowly up his neck all over again.

You stopped a short pace before him.

"Evening," you said lightly.

Raymun inclined his head politely. "My lady." For a moment neither of you spoke.

The music swelled again from the centre of the pavilion, a quicker tune this time, and several couples began drifting toward the open space between the tables.

You studied him openly. "Well," you said after a moment, "you look less terrified tonight."

Raymun almost smiled. "That may be because I understand the situation somewhat better."

"Oh?" His expression shifted slightly, the embarrassment of the previous evening still present but no longer quite so overwhelming.

"I spoke with Ser Duncan," he said.

You hummed softly. "Did you now..."

Raymun nodded. "On the walk back to the tents last night," There was a brief pause. "He explained... matters."

Your mouth curved slightly at that. "And what matters did he explain?"

Raymun hesitated just long enough to gather his thoughts."That you are not his wife."

You said nothing.

"He also explained," Raymun continued carefully, "that the two of you travel the roads together.. for safety." He did not elaborate further.

You watched him for a moment, then shrugged lightly. "That about covers it."

Raymun exhaled slowly, as though the conversation itself had taken some small effort.

"I fear I behaved rather foolishly yesterday."

You tilted your head. "You behaved like a man who thought he was about to get murdered by a very large hedge knight."

Raymun coughed into his fist. "That thought had crossed my mind."

"Several times, I imagine."

"More than several."

The corner of your mouth lifted.

The fiddlers began another tune, and once again the small clearing between the tables filled with movement as couples drifted forward to dance.

You did not wait to be asked; you simply reached out and took Raymun's hand.

"Come," you said.

This time he did not hesitate.

The dance was much the same as the night before. A turning step, hands clasped, boots shifting across the beaten ground beneath the lanternlight.

But Raymun Fossoway did not behave quite the same way he had the evening before.

Where once he had held himself carefully distant, tonight he stepped a little closer when the dance allowed it. His hand at yours remained steady, his posture far less rigid.

You noticed.

"You seem less frightened," you observed.Raymun glanced down briefly, then back toward you. "I believe I was frightened of the wrong thing."

"Oh?" You blinked.

"I thought I might lose my head." He mused.

You laughed quietly. "And now?"

Raymun held your gaze for a moment longer than before. "Now I suspect I may lose something else instead."

That caught your attention – your brow lifted slightly.

"Is that flirting, Raymun Fossoway?"

"It might be." He said sheepishly, cheeks flushing slightly.

"Gods," you muttered, "he can speak." Raymun actually laughed at that, though the sound remained soft. The dance carried you through another slow turn.

You leaned closer as you moved. "You know," you said quietly, "you left me very disappointed last night."

"I am aware." He murmured,

"I invited you rather plainly."

"You did."

"And what did you do?"

Raymun winced faintly. "I gawped at you like an idiot."

"Exactly."

The music slowed slightly as the dancers shifted again. Raymun studied your expression with an uncertainty that had not quite disappeared. "You meant what you said, then."

"I rarely speak nonsense," you replied. "Not when I am offering a man a good time."

He swallowed – you could see the thought forming plainly behind his eyes, then you leaned closer still and said it again. "If you are not busy gawping tonight," you murmured, "you may come back to my tent."

Raymun froze mid-step. For a moment it seemed he might revert entirely into the stunned silence of the night before.

Instead he glanced briefly across the pavilion.

Dunk stood not far away near one of the long tables, speaking with another hedge knight. Raymun looked toward him with something like the nervous expression of a boy about to ask permission for a very poor decision.

You followed his gaze; then you rolled your eyes.

"Oh for fuck's sake."

Raymun looked back at you.

"I thought it best to be certain," he admitted.

You leaned forward just enough that he had no choice but to meet your eyes again. "Dunk does not own me." Raymun nodded quickly. "I am aware."

"Good." Another beat of silence passed between you. Then Raymun drew a slow breath. "And if I were to accept this invitation," he said carefully, "would you still promise a very good time?"

You smiled. "Raymun Fossoway," you said quietly, "I promise you an excellent one."

For a moment he simply looked at you.

Then the faintest grin appeared at the corner of his mouth.

"Gods help me," he muttered under his breath.

You squeezed his hand once during the next turn of the dance.

"Oh, they won't," you said pleasantly.

The dance ended, and you took his hand, leading him away from the swirling crowd with a firm but gentle pull. 

His fingers trembled slightly in yours, but he followed without protest, his steps quick to match your pace. 

The air between you hummed with promise as you guided him toward your private space, the tent's entrance flapping softly in the evening breeze - it was not far from the rest of the tents; but it was far for no one to hear the depravities that were about to take place within. It was not a large tent like Lord Baratheons - but perhaps a quarter of it.

Once inside, away from prying eyes, you turned to him, your gaze locking onto his wide, earnest eyes. Without a word, you placed your palms on his chest and pushed him backward onto the thick furs spread across the ground. He landed with a soft thud, surprise flickering across his face, but he didn't resist - his body yielding to your touch.

You straddled his hips, leaning down to grasp the back of his neck, your fingers curling into his light brown hair. Your lips crashed against his in an otherworldly, debilitating kiss, tongue slipping past his parted lips to claim his mouth. He gasped into the kiss, his hands hesitantly rising to your sides, but you controlled the rhythm, nipping at his lower lip before diving back in.

Your hand trailed down his body, sliding over the front of his pants where his cock strained against the fabric, hard and insistent. You palmed him firmly, rubbing the length through the cloth, feeling him twitch under your touch. A soft, needy sound escaped him, muffled against your lips.

He broke the kiss just enough to whisper, breath ragged, "P-Please... I don't want to spend in my breeches.” He panted, you watched in earnest at how beautiful he looked beneath you. “I want to be inside you." He murmured, looking at you through his eyelashes.

His words sent a thrill through you, and you nodded eagerly, releasing his neck to sit back. His hands, steadier now, moved to the laces of your dress, fumbling at first but growing bolder as he worked them free. The fabric pooled around your waist, and he tugged it lower, exposing your bare skin to the cool air. His eyes widened, drinking in the sight of your breasts, smooth and heaving with each breath. “You are… beautiful..” He muttered, gazing at you - “You aren’t too bad yourself, Fossoway–” You get cut off by Raymun's mouth found your neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin in light nips that made you arch against him. He trailed kisses downward, lips brushing your collarbone before latching onto one nipple. He sucked hard, tongue swirling around the peak, then rolled it gently between his teeth, drawing a moan from your throat. His arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer as you ground down against the bulge in his breeches, the friction teasing you both.

Emboldened by his touches, you reached down to undo his breeches, freeing his cock. It sprang up, thick and flushed, the tip already glistening with pearls of precum. You stroked him once, base to head, making him shudder beneath you.

"Wait," he murmured, his voice gentle but insistent, one hand sliding between your thighs. His fingers parted your folds, finding your slick entrance. He eased one digit inside, slow and careful, curling it to stroke your inner walls. “Oh gods..” You moan as you rock against his hand as he adds a second finger, stretching you gradually, his thumb circling your clit with earnest focus.

The sensation built, your pussy clenching around him, preparing you for more – when you couldn't wait any longer, you lifted your hips, positioning his cock at your entrance. You sank down inch by inch, his thickness filling you completely. He groaned, hands gripping your hips as you adjusted to the stretch - it was your first time, but his careful touches had eased the way, turning discomfort into pleasure.

You began to ride him, hips rolling in a steady rhythm, your breasts bouncing with each movement. Raymun's eyes locked on yours, filled with awe and something deeper, his slender body arching up to meet your thrusts. His cock hit deep inside you, sparking waves of heat that made your thighs quiver.

In the midst of it, as sweat slicked your skin and your breaths mingled, he pulled you closer, lips brushing your ear. "Be.. be my wife..please.." he murmured, voice breaking with emotion, his earnest plea laced with the raw intensity of the moment. “I swear to always protect you..”

Your core tightened around him at his words, pleasure coiling sharper. You captured his mouth in a fierce kiss, tongue exploring the warm depths, tasting his surprise and joy. Breaking away, you panted into his neck, "Yes...! oh, Raymun– Yes, I will,"

“Your Grace,” he says, voice shaking in its quietness.

You reach for him automatically, to make him stand, to remind him he doesn’t need to offer himself to you, but he catches your hand in both of his, holding it as though it is a sacred thing, as though touching you is the riskiest thing he’s ever dared.

“I am your man,” he declares, lifting his eyes to meet yours at last.

There is nothing hungry in it. Nothing greedy or selfish. Only devotion so earnest it threatens to break him in half.

“Please,” he breathes, not begging for your affection, but for the right to serve you. “Your man. Your protector.”

He lowers his forehead to your knuckles in a gesture so old, so honest, it feels like a ritual older than any throne.

“I’ll guard you,” Dunk murmurs, voice thick. “With my life. Until you send me away, I am yours.”

And the pure sincerity of it—the way he means every word with the whole of his enormous, gentle heart—settles around you like a finest cloak.

BAELOR

You don’t mean anything by it.

It’s little more than a courteous exchange, a lord offering some practiced compliment, his hand hovering a fraction too close to your waist. You step back before it becomes improper, but Baelor notices it. He always does. His posture never breaks, his face never shifts, yet something in him tightens like a bow quietly drawn.

He finishes his conversation with perfect civility, but his gaze finds you across the hall with an intensity that pins you in place.

“My wolf,” he says when he reaches you, voice low, velvet-edged. “Walk with me.”

Not a question. Not truly a command, either. Something gentler, deeper; a request he expects you to honour.

You follow him into a quieter alcove, torchlight haloing the stretch of his shoulders. He waits until the sounds of the hall soften into a distant hum before turning to you fully.

He doesn’t look angry. He looks steady, frighteningly so.

“Tell me,” he murmurs, stepping close enough that your breath catches, “did you welcome his attention?”

Your denial rises instinctively, but Baelor shakes his head once, too slow and knowing.

“No,” he cuts it in smoothly. “I already know your answer.”

He reaches up, brushing your cheek with the backs of his fingers. The touch is soft, but his eyes are not. They burn, some relentless, contained thing, but blazing from within all the same.

“He looked at you as if he had earned the right,” Baelor continues, voice a quiet burn. “As if you could be swayed by someone who has never learned the shape of your silences. The strength of your will.”

Your pulse stumbles. He feels it, his hand drifting from your cheek to the delicate column of your throat, fingertips skimming with a reverent, soft pressure.

“Baelor—”

His thumb presses lightly beneath your jaw, stilling the word.

“You forget,” he says, leaning in until your lips almost brush, “why you choose me. Every day.”

Heat flares through you. He sees it, tastes it in the hungry little hitch of your breath, and something shifts in his expression, too; something tender and devastating all at once.

“I see you,” Baelor murmurs. “Not the title. You. The woman who stands like winter and burns hotter than any summer sun. The one no man commands.”

He leans closer, his breath ghosting your mouth.

“The man in that hall saw what he wanted.” His voice drops, darkening. “I see what is.”

Your hands curl into the front of his tunic without conscious thought. His fingers linger against the flutter of your pulse, feeling, counting.

“I am your man,” he breathes, the words rich and rumbling in the quiet between you, “and you are my wolf.”

His head bows, your brows almost touching. “And I am not in the habit,” he whispers mildly, “of letting anyone mistake that.”

His thumb strokes your pulse once, reverently, like he’s memorizing the beat of belonging he feels there. When he finally draws back, his voice is barely more than breath.

“You choose me,” he finishes softly, “and gods willing, I will spend every breath proving why you were right to.”

LYONEL

You catch him lounging again where he shouldn’t be. Sprawled across a cushioned bench in a sun-soaked corridor, boots up, tunic half-laced, every inch of him radiating the smug indolence of a man who has escaped three meetings and one summons from the Hand.

“Stormlord,” you call his title on purpose, arching a brow. “You are meant to be in council.”

He brightens instantly, as though you’ve delivered him from execution.

“Ah,” Lyonel sighs, hand over his heart, “and here I thought you’d come to rescue me.”

You don’t dignify that with an answer. You only stand there, waiting, tapping your fingers lightly against your hip. He watches the movement with far too much interest.

Then, with a groan clearly meant to amuse you, Lyonel pushes himself upright, stretching like a cat waking from a pleasant nap.

“You know,” he says, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeve, “it’s a terrible burden, serving the crown as Stormlord.”

“Oh?” you ask, dry as northern tree bark.

“Mm.” He nods gravely. “Endless storms. Endless paperwork. Endless dull old men droning in my ear about grain.” His eyes sparkle, sharp and devious. “One wonders why I ever agreed to it.”

“Your duty?” you offer. “Your birthright?”

He scoffs. “Hardly that. Duty is for respectable men.”

“And what are you?” you ask.

Lyonel steps closer, grin tilting, voice dropping just enough to slip under your skin.

“Hopeless.”

You blink, genuinely puzzled and wary. “Hopeless?”

“Utterly.” He leans in, brushing a loose strand of hair from your cheek with the back of his fingers, a gesture so soft it contradicts every careless word he’s ever spoken to you. “Hopelessly devoted. Hopelessly distracted. Hopelessly inclined to ignore half the realm if you’re standing in the same room.”

Your pulse jumps. He notices it, drinks it in with a knowing little twitch of his lips. And still he keeps smiling that bright, infuriating smile of his that hides a blade.

“You think I bend knee to the crown?” Lyonel wonders, soft and idle, near ponderous. “Gods, no. I serve because you sit beside it.”

You open your mouth, but he cuts you off with a laugh, shaking his head.

“Don’t look so startled,” he says. “I’ve never pretended to be honourable. Only reliable.” His voice softens, the joke thinning into something bare and earnest. “For you, at least.”

Then, with a ridiculous, court-mocking flourish, he drops into a half-bow, pressing your hand to his lips.

“Your man,” Lyonel announces lightly.

It should sound unserious, perhaps ridiculing, coming from him. It should be nothing but flirtation. But the way Lyonel looks up at you from under his lashes ruins that lie completely, because his eyes are warm, molten, and far too honest.

“Please,” he says, barely above a whisper. “Your man.”

You feel the truth of it like a physical thing. And Lyonel—reckless, radiant, irreverent Lyonel—straightens with a wink, already turning toward the corridor as if he hasn’t just cracked open something dangerous between you.

“Well,” he tosses over his shoulder, “if I must endure council for the crown, I expect you to repay the suffering with at least one smile.”

He pauses mid step.

“And perhaps,” he adds, voice dipping sweet and sinful, “a reminder later that being your man is not entirely thankless.”

Then he disappears around the corner, leaving you standing in a wash of sun, breath unsteady, pulse still chasing the shape of his words.

AERION

You hear him long before you see him.

A shift of floorboards, a breath held too long. That sharp, restless presence you know like you know your own heartbeat. The hour is late, the castle asleep, and the fire in your chamber has burned down to embers when he appears in the doorway. Barefoot, shirt half-laced, pale hair mussed as if he has raked his hands through it a hundred times.

“Aerion,” you speak quietly into the dark. “You should be asleep.”

He huffs a soft, humorless laugh. “I can’t.”

Of course he can’t. He never sleeps well when something stirs in him. He’s half longing, half nightmares, and mostly just dark, destructive desire. All of it bruises him the same way.

He stands there a moment as though deciding whether he should leave.

He doesn’t.

He crosses the room in three slow steps, and when he reaches you, he doesn’t ask permission. He never asks. He waits, just long enough to be denied if you choose to deny him, and when you don’t speak, he sinks down beside the chair and lays his head in your lap.

The breath you draw catches.

Aerion exhales like someone drowning who has finally reached air. His cheek presses to your thigh. One hand curls loosely at your knee, not gripping, only holding, as though he needs the anchor more than he needs dignity.

“Nightmares?” you ask.

He shakes his head. His voice is low, dark, a whisper cracked at the edges.

“No. Just… you weren’t in my dreams tonight.”

Danger coils under the words, but so does something fragile, something almost childlike in its honesty.

Your fingers hesitate above his hair. He waits, more patiently than he does for anything in the harsh honesty of daylight. The moment you finally touch him—lightly, barely—Aerion’s entire body loosens. His eyes slip shut. He turns his face a fraction toward your hand, toward the warmth, toward you.

“Aerion,” you murmur warningly.

He smiles into the fabric of your nightrobe. A slow, wicked, aching thing.

“Don’t send me away,” he says. “Not tonight. I can’t bear it.”

You thread your fingers through his pale hair despite yourself, and the sharp, thrilled breath he sucks in nearly undoes you. He nuzzles closer, his voice dropping to something fevered:

“You have no idea what you do to me when you touch me like this.”

Your pulse kicks, and he hears it. You know he does. His fingers trace a line along your calf, ever so slowly, savouring, nothing like the arrogant confidence he wears by daylight.

Then, muffled against your lap, dangerous and tender in the same breath:

“Aunt.”

An aching little prayer, a bruise, a surrender.

“I am your man.”

The words scrape out of him like confession, not performance, a truth he can’t hold back in the dark. His hand tightens just slightly at your knee, enough to tremble, not enough to trap.

“Please,” he whispers, silky and dark, breath hot against the thin cloth. “Your man.”

There is hunger in it—wildfire desire that could consume a kingdom, you think grimly—but beneath that, horrifyingly, unmistakably, is need. The kind he would burn the world to keep hidden. The kind he brings only to you, only when the night strips him down to something raw and desperate and hungry.

Aerion turns his head just enough to look up at you, eyes molten, lashes casting shadows on his cheek.

“If you send me away,” he tells you softly, “I’ll go mad.”

Your hand is still in his hair.

And Aerion leans into it like a creature starved for gentleness, letting the fire paint his features in gold and ruin.

“Let me stay,” he breathes. “Let me be yours. Just for this hour. Just until the sun comes.”

He closes his eyes again, as though surrender is safer than looking at you.

“As if,” he murmurs, voice dark silk, “I was ever anything else.”

MAEKAR

It starts in the hall.

Snow has fallen from the hills all day, light at first, then heavier, thickening on the stone steps and clinging to men’s beards as they come in off the yard. The fire roars pleasantly; the air smells of smoke and wet wool and something stewing in a great black pot at the back. Men are loud with drink and the comfort of their own safe keep.

Which is always when someone decides to be brave and foolish.

“He wears our colours well enough, m’lady,” one of your father’s bannermen says, not quite slurring yet. “Talks like he means it, too. But steel’s still southern under it, my lady. Dragon’s a dragon. We’ll see if he holds when the winter truly bites.”

It’s not meant as an insult, not even as an accusation. Northerners are too blunt for such games. It’s worry, spoken poorly but sincerely. The words find their way across the firelight well enough regardless.

At the high table, Maekar pauses with his cup halfway to his mouth.

He doesn’t look over. Doesn’t ask the man to repeat himself. There is just the smallest tightening along his jaw, as if something in him has clenched and he’s set his teeth around it.

You answer, because it is expected of you and because you would have done so even if it weren’t. Your voice is even, and your words are Winterfell’s words, your father’s words, as sharp and cold and sure as the stones underfoot.

The matter dies, on the surface. Men shift, placated. Someone calls for more ale. The conversation turns again, as it always does, back to harvest and levies and some poor fool’s misjudged hunt.

Maekar does not speak for the rest of the meal unless he has to. He listens instead, and that’s worse. He listens with his face turned slightly away, the nape of his neck corded, his hand around his cup as if he’s holding onto it so he doesn’t reach for something else.

You do not touch him there. Not with eyes on you. Not when he is wound that tight.

Later, when the hall thins out and the cold sting of the corridors closes around you, he walks beside you without speaking. His strides are heavy on the stone. He does not offer his arm. But he doesn’t need to. You know precisely how to fall into step with him now. You’ve learned each other well enough.

Only when the door to your chambers shuts behind you and the latch drops does he stop.

The room is dim, lit by one low fire and two candles guttering on the table. Your shadow crosses his when you shrug off your cloak. He stands just inside the door a moment longer, as if deciding whether to leave again.

He doesn’t leave.

He unbuckles his sword belt and sets it aside. Shrugs out of the heavy Stark grey. Underneath, his shirt is dark at the throat where snowmelt and sweat have soaked the linen; his forearms are bare and scarred where he’s rolled the sleeves up. His movements are clipped, agitated. Only the muscle jumping in his jaw betrays anything else.

You hang your cloak. Turn back towards him, eyeing him for a breath.

“What they said—” you begin.

“Did you agree?” he demands.

It’s blunt in a way you’ve stopped flinching from. Maekar is a man who cuts straight to the bone once he’s decided to cut at all.

You cross the space between you until you are close enough to see the pale nick along his knuckles from this morning’s drills, the faint, fresh line at his throat where some boy’s blade slid too close.

“No,” you say.

He studies you. As if weighing that on its own, no other argument offered. Something eases in him, but not much.

“They’ll talk,” you add evenly. “They always have. New lord, new snow, new grumbling. You know this.”

“They can grumble about my manners,” he snaps back. “Or my face. Plenty there.” His mouth twitches, brief and humourless. “They start grumbling about whether I’ll hold the line when it breaks, that’s different.”

“You’ve never broken,” you remind him.

He huffs. “You weren’t there for every year.”

You tip your head, waiting.

He drops his gaze. Not out of shame. Maekar doesn’t waste time on that. It’s something else. A man digging in his heels before he says more than he means to.

“I know what they see,” he says suddenly. “Southern prince in a borrowed cloak. Dragon’s son. Man who rode north on a king’s word and a treaty, not because the old gods whispered in his sleep.”

Your throat tightens. “Is that what you think this is? A treaty?”

“Not now.” The answer comes too fast; he looks almost annoyed with himself for that much softness, for how quick he is to give it to you. His fingers flex at his sides. “Now it’s… different.”

You wait, but he doesn’t elaborate. You bite back an impatient sigh.

“Maekar.”

He finally looks up.

You’ve seen this look on him in battle drills, when he has decided a thing and then decided it will be done even if it costs him blood and bone. Old. Stubborn. Unyielding. He takes two steps and then you have your back to the wall and him in front of you, not trapping so much as blocking out the rest of the world. His hands plant on either side of your hips on the stone, bracketing you without touching.

“Your father wants to know if I’ll stand when winter comes,” he says. “Your bannermen want to know if I’ll bleed for some hill they can’t see on a map.” His head dips, shoulders hunched just enough to bring him nearer, to make his voice a rasp between you. “I don’t give a shit about hills.”

Your breath catches; his eyes flick to your mouth, then back to your eyes.

“I care if you’re on them,” he adds tightly.

That lands heavier than any oath could.

“If the snows come in and the dead are walking, if the gods themselves climb out of those woods to take a piece of this place—” his mouth twists, the words grinding out, “they’re welcome to try me. They’ll find me where you are. They’ll have to go through me first.”

The way he says it, like a simple fact, makes something in your chest ache and something in your belly coil, low and hot.

“I’m not good with speeches,” he mutters. “You know that.”

“I had… suspected,” you answer, dry despite the tightness in your throat.

“Good,” he grunts. “Then you know I don’t say this because it sounds pretty.”

His hand leaves the stone. Settles, heavy and warm, at your waist. Fingers spread, thumb pressing once into the bone as if to prove to himself you are here, tangible and his.

“I am your man,” Maekar says.

He doesn’t dress it up. Doesn’t soften the rough edges. The words are as plain as any he’s ever given you.

“Not your father’s,” he goes on, staring at you. “Not your kraken-eyed bannermen’s. Not even my own Father’s, not anymore.” His jaw clenches, bones rolling. “Yours.”

You stare up at him. “Mine?”

He makes a low, frustrated sound. “Don’t make me say it twice, woman.”

You can’t help it. You smile, small and sharp. He sees it, and something in him steadies. His shoulders drop the barest fraction. The corner of his mouth threatens a curve he crushes before it can fully form, much to your disappointment.

“I’ll stand where you tell me to stand,” he says, a shade quieter now, but no less stern about it. “I’ll swing on whatever poor bastard you point at. I’ll freeze on these walls and bleed in these gods-cursed woods and eat boiled leather before I let anything take what’s under this roof from you.”

His thumb strokes once, rough, at your side. It could almost be accidental, but you know better than that. Nothing with Maekar is accidental.

“That’s my loyalty,” he finishes. “They can call it northern or southern or madness. Doesn’t matter to me. It’s yours.”

You lift a hand and catch his jaw in your palm. He goes still under your contact. You feel the scrape of stubble, the heat of skin, the way his throat works once under your fingers like he’s swallowed something sharp.

“Maekar,” you say quietly. “It’s more than enough.”

His eyes shutter for a beat, then open again, clearer and still hard.

“Good. They can keep their questions,” he says, softer now. “You know the answer.”

His hand tightens at your waist, something claiming and steady at the touch in the same breath.

They called you a ward. They smiled when they said it. You understood the word well enough. You were not visiting, not a guest. You were a living promise, a breathing contract. A thread stitched between Houses so tightly that neither side could cut it without drawing blood.

The Red Keep swallowed you whole. It was nothing like home.

Its corridors were vast and tall; sound disappeared to the ceiling and returned in echoes. Torchlight jumped along the stone walls, never strong enough to banish the shadows entirely. The air smelled of salt from Blackwater Bay and of smoke from a thousand hearths and beneath it all, the thick sour undercurrent of King’s Landing itself.

Three-headed dragons watched you everywhere you turned. Scarlet banners cascaded from ceilings, coiled around pillars, draped across balconies.

Everything echoed. Your footsteps, your breathing, your loneliness.

You tried not to cry. Each morning you told yourself you would not cry. Each night you failed in some quiet corner. The library became your refuge, not because it comforted you, but because it was large enough to hide inside.

It was there that Baelor found you.

He was eight. Tall already, with shoulders that seemed to understand they would one day carry weight. Even grown men softened their voices when he passed. His eyes were mismatched, one blue as a clear summer sky, the other brown like polished oak, and both were too thoughtful for a boy his age.

You were curled into a window nook, knees drawn tight to your chest, a heavy tome open in your lap. The letters blurred across the page as the tears welled in your eyes. You had not read a single word.

He did not ask why you were crying. He climbed into the nook beside you as if it had always been meant to hold two. Without ceremony, he slid a small silver plate between you.

Lemon cakes.

“The Maesters insist these are for the Small Council,” he whispered, voice thick with conspiracy. “But I find the Council… adequately fed.”

You stared at him. Then at the cakes. Then back at him.

A laugh escaped you. Small and startled, but real. Partly because you were bewildered by the situation, and in part because the Prince of the Realm was sat in front of you offering you cake. It broke through your grief like sunlight through cloud.

Relief softened his face so suddenly it startled you more than the joke had.

“There,” he murmured, satisfied. “Better.”

It was the first time the Red Keep felt less like a prison and more like a place that might one day belong to you.

From the far end of the library, King Daeron Targaryen observed in silence. Myriah Martell stood at his side; her hands folded calmly before her.

They said nothing. They did not need to.

They saw the way their son looked at you. Not with duty, not with calculation, but with something quieter. Something chosen.

*

Childhood slipped away in fragments.

At ten, you existed in a strange limbo, too old for toys, too young for power. Your days filled with lessons: lineage traced back through centuries, conquests memorised like prayers, etiquette polished until it gleamed sharp as steel. Needlework so precise it bordered on punishment.

Baelor excelled effortlessly. History clung to him as though it wished to be remembered by him alone. Words obeyed him.

You did not.

He was determined to save you from the Septa’s wroth. Evenings became rituals of patience. Candles burned low over scattered scrolls. His shoulder brushed yours as he guided your trembling hand across parchment.

“Again,” he would murmur, voice steady as stone. “You nearly have it.”

When frustration burned too brightly in your eyes, he would lean back and sketch absurd caricatures of stern-faced Maesters in the margins, exaggerated noses, ridiculous hats, until your laughter broke free again.

He collected that laughter. Guarded it. Stored it away.

Beyond lessons, he mapped the castle for you piece by piece. The kitchens, thick with sugar and smoke. The sept, where sunlight filtered through stained glass in rainbows. The Godswood, where the pale weirwood watched in eternal silence, its red eyes unreadable.

He never hurried you. When courtiers stared too long at the foreign girl turned political pawn, he returned their gaze until they remembered themselves. It became unspoken law.

Where Baelor went, so did you.

*

The first grand ball you attended at the Red Keep was meant to be dazzling. You were twelve. Baelor was thirteen. Which meant you were old enough to attend but still young enough to be overlooked.

The Great Hall had been transformed into a sea of candlelight. The light caught in polished goblets and gilded armour. Musicians lined the gallery above, violins and lutes weaving bright melodies that seemed to float through the air. Lords glittered in velvet and jewels. Ladies drifted effortlessly, dressed in silk.

And there you stood at the edge of it all, stiff with instruction.

“Remember,” your Septa had whispered, smoothing your sleeves for the hundredth time, “you are to curtsy. Gracefully. Speak only when spoken to. And do not fidget.”

You fidgeted immediately. Your shoes pinched. The neckline of your gown felt too high, then too low. Every laugh from the crowd sounded like it might be about you.

Baelor stood beside you in black and red, his doublet embroidered with three-headed dragons in gold thread. He had been lectured as well on posture, on diplomacy, on the art of appearing effortless. He leaned slightly toward you. “You look like you’re about to be executed,” he murmured.

“I might be,” you whispered back. “By embroidery.”

His mouth twitched.

Across the hall, King Daeron Targaryen observed the gathering with a cup of wine in hand. Myriah Martell stood beside him, radiant in deep orange silk that shimmered like flame in motion.

“Watch,” she said quietly.

Daeron’s gaze shifted, not to the dancers or to the lords, but to the children stood at the edge of the hall.

When the first dance was announced. A simple courtly circle meant for the younger attendants. Several noble boys approached you in hesitant succession, each offering stiff bows. You curtsied politely, as instructed, hands folded just so. Before you could accept any invitation, Baelor stepped forward.

“I believe the first dance is mine,” he said evenly.

One boy flushed. Another retreated at once.

Technically, there had been no prior claim. Technically, Baelor had simply decided.

You stared at him.

“You hate dancing,” you accused softly.

“I hate watching you dance with someone else more.”

The honesty of it stole your breath for a moment. You placed your hand in his.

The musicians struck a lighter tune. The younger Lords and Ladies formed a circle, small hands linking, silk brushing silk. Baelor’s palm was warm and slightly damp against yours.

“You are stepping on my foot,” you informed him.

“You are moving unpredictably,” he responded.

“You are leading terribly.”

“I am leading perfectly. You are simply not following.”

You tried to suppress your laughter and failed. It bubbled up bright and irrepressible, breaking the quiet concentration of the dance. A few adults glanced over, amused. You knew your Speta would have been unimpressed and scold you for loosing your composure.

Baelor, determined by your laughter, exaggerated his next step in retaliation for your earlier accusation. The result was disastrous. You collided gently, nearly tangling in one another entirely.

You both dissolved into giggles.

From the high table, Daeron exhaled through his nose in what might have been a laugh.

“They are supposed to be demonstrating refinement,” he said dryly.

“They are demonstrating devotion,” Myriah corrected.

Then the dance ended in uneven bows. Before another boy could approach you, Baelor turned fully toward you and said, “Again.”

“Again?” you echoed.

“We must improve. For the honour of the Crown.”

“You mean for your pride.” You said through giggles.

“That too.” And so, you danced again. And again.

Not every dance was perfect. Once he spun you too quickly and you nearly toppled into a passing lord. Once you forgot the pattern entirely and dragged him the wrong direction. But each time, you found your way back to one another, your hands seeking his instinctively, eyes locking in shared amusement.

At one point, when the music slowed into something softer, you grew uncharacteristically shy. The hall seemed larger then, the watching eyes sharper.

“I don’t like when they stare,” you murmured.

Baelor shifted closer without thinking, angling his body slightly so he stood between you and the worst of the onlookers.

“Then look at me,” he said simply.

You did. And you forgot the rest of the hall existed.

From above, Myriah tilted her head, watching the way her son unconsciously adjusted himself to shield you. The way your shoulders loosened the instant his hand steadied at your waist.

Daeron followed her gaze.

Baelor leaned in to whisper something that made you laugh again, soft this time, private.

“Hm,” Daeron hummed.

“Hm,” Myriah echoed.

“He is thirteen.”

“And already ruined for anyone else,” she replied serenely.

Daeron took a slow sip of wine, eyes never leaving the dance floor. “We should begin preparing the realm.”

“For what?”

“For inevitability.”

As the music crescendos to an end, Baelor attempted a formal bow at the end of the set and nearly lost his balance in the process, his legs tiring from the many dances you had shared. You caught his sleeve to steady him; cheeks pink with laughter.

He straightened, dignity salvaged only by your grip. “Thank you,” he muttered.

“You would have fallen.”

“I would not.”

“You would have,” You giggled.

He studied you for a long second, something earnest flickering behind his mismatched eyes. “Then it is fortunate you were there, my brothers would never have let me live that down”

You did not understand why that made your chest feel warm.

But Daeron and Myriah did.

High above the candles and music, beneath banners heavy with dragon sigils, the King leaned slightly toward his queen. He smiles, almost impressed.

Myriah’s smile was slow and knowing. “They are in love.”

And below them, unaware, you and Baelor continued to dance as though the world had already narrowed just to your hands clasped tightly together.

*

At 16 years old, the summer storms rolled in from Blackwater Bay like an invading fleet. The air changed first it was thick and restless. Curtains stirred though no wind touched them. The sky bruised slowly from blue to a heavy, dark grey.

You had confessed it once, months ago, in an offhand murmur you had hoped he would forget.

“I don’t like storms.” You had not elaborated. You had not needed to.

You hated loud noises. Not disliked. Hated. They stole the breath from your lungs and left you feel small and shaking, seven years old again in a castle too large for comfort.

He remembered.

He always remembered.

That night the storm did not creep, it struck. Lightning split the sky so violently the windows flashed white and the thunder followed not as a rumble but as a crack, sharp and brutal, shaking the panes. The old stones of the Red Keep groaned in the gusts of wind.

You were already beneath your blankets, curled tight as a fist. Your hands clamped over your ears, but it did nothing. The sound came through stone, through wood, through bone. Each strike felt personal.

Another flash. Another crack.

You squeezed your eyes shut and counted between them, breath hitching. One. Two-

The door opened. Not loudly. It simply opened.

Baelor slipped inside as though he had every right in the world to be there. Barefoot. Hair tousled from sleep, dark strands falling into mismatched eyes still heavy. He wore only a loose nightshirt, hastily pulled on, laces crooked.

In one hand, he carried a single candle. In the other, a thick, leather-bound book pressed against his side.

He did not ask if you were afraid.

He crossed the room in three quiet strides and set the candle upon your bedside table. You peered over the edge of the blanket.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you whispered, though your voice trembled on the edges. Another explosion of thunder made you flinch despite yourself. Baelor glanced toward the window as though the sky had insulted him personally.

“I disagree,” he said calmly.

He dragged one of the cushioned chairs from near the hearth to the side of your bed, but after a moment’s consideration, he seemed dissatisfied with the distance. With a quiet huff, he abandoned the chair entirely.

He lifted the edge of your blanket and slid beneath it without ceremony. His feet were cold.

You gasped. “Baelor!”

He ignored your protest, stretching out stiffly at first, adjusting until he was half-propped against the headboard. He pulled the blanket more securely around both of you, sealing the small space into something warmer. Smaller.

Another crack of thunder split the air.

You instinctively pressed closer before you could stop yourself.

He noticed. Said nothing. He opened the book.

“Valyria,” he announced, as if addressing a court rather than a storm. “Before the Doom.”

Lightning flared. His voice did not waver. He read steadily, low and measured, threading his words between each growl of thunder as though competing with it. Descriptions of Dragonlords and of cities carved from flame. His tone was even, deliberate never rushed.

When a particularly violent crash rattled the shutters, you jolted hard enough that the mattress shifted.

Baelor stopped reading. He closed the book carefully, marking the page with his thumb.

“If I am here,” he said, turning his head slightly toward you, “the noise must pass through me first.”

Another rumble rolled across the sky, longer this time, less sharp.

“I do not give the sky permission to frighten you,” he added, as though that settled the matter entirely.

It was absurd. It was said with the quiet authority of someone who fully expected the world to comply. You huffed a small, shaky laugh despite yourself. “You cannot command the weather.”

“I can attempt it,” he replied. “I am very persistent.”

Silence fell between claps of thunder. His shoulder was warm against yours now. You could feel the steady rhythm of his breathing. Each inhale deliberate. Each exhale grounding.

You matched it without realising.

Another flash of lightning came but this time you watched it through the narrow gap in the curtains instead of hiding from it. The thunder followed but dulled somehow. Distant.

Baelor resumed reading, though softer now. The words blurred at the edges as exhaustion crept in, your body slowly relaxing

At some point, your hand found the fabric of his sleeve. You did not remember reaching.

He adjusted slightly so your fingers could curl more comfortably, careful not to wake you. Outside, the storm continued its fury. Rain lashed stone. Wind clawed at towers. Thunder rolled over the city like drums of war. Inside, beneath a shared blanket and the glow of a single stubborn candle, it felt smaller.

Your breathing evened. Your grip slackened. Baelor glanced down once to confirm what he already knew. Asleep.

He watched the window through the next flash of lightning. When the storm finally began to move inland, its anger spent, he did not leave immediately. He waited until the thunder was nothing more than a memory in the distance.

After that night, he came without needing to be asked.

Sometimes with histories. Sometimes with stories of his own invention, outrageous tales where he negotiated peace treaties with storm gods and forced them into civilized conduct. Once with warm milk balanced precariously on a tray and two lemon cakes stolen from kitchens that would absolutely notice. It became ritual.

When clouds gathered, so did he. The servants noticed the candle wax outside your door in the mornings and the fact your bed had been slept in on both sides.

The King noticed. The Queen noticed more.

Neither forbade it.

Some bonds were not interruptions to be corrected. Some storms were meant to be weathered together.

*

For your 17th nameday, you had been gifted a new mare by the King and Queen, she was your escape from courts. The afternoon was honey-warm, sunlight spilling through the canopy of the Kingswood. Leaves rustled overhead, stirred by a gentle breeze that carried the scent of pine and earth. Your mare moved at an easy pace beneath you, her hooves muffled by moss.

Baelor rode at your side, close enough that your boots nearly brushed when the path narrowed. His stallion tossed its pale mane, restless but obedient, as if aware it was expected to behave.

“You’re thinking too loudly,” he said at last, glancing at you sidelong.

You arched a brow. “Is that so?”

“Yes. I can hear it from here.”

“Then perhaps you should ride farther away.”

“Never,” he replied easily.

The path curved, opening into a wider stretch. A squirrel darted across the trail. Somewhere in the distance, a woodpecker tapped its steady rhythm against bark.

You leaned forward slightly, stroking your mare’s neck. “She’s been patient all morning,” you murmured. “I think she deserves to stretch her legs.”

Baelor’s mismatched eyes flicked to you, suspicion already blooming. “Stretch,” he repeated carefully.

“Mhm.”

Before he could say another word, you pressed your heels gently to your mare’s sides.

She surged forward.

The world shifted at once. No longer a quiet painting of green and gold but a rush of motion. Wind tore laughter from your throat as branches blurred past. Your braid whipped behind you.

Behind you came the sharp exhale of Baelor’s startled curse.

“You cheat!” he called, though the sound was half laughter, half challenge.

His stallion leapt into pursuit, hooves pounding hard against packed earth. The rhythm doubled, then merged as the two of you went racing through the forest.

You dared a glance over your shoulder. He was gaining, of course he was gaining, posture low over his horse’s neck, silver hair streaming behind him like a battle standard.

“You said stretch!” he shouted.

“I did not specify how much!”

The path narrowed suddenly, forcing you to duck beneath a low-hanging branch. Your mare adjusted instinctively, agile and sure-footed, weaving between trees with eager grace.

Baelor cut across a curve in the trail, taking the inside line with bold confidence. His stallion leapt a fallen log instead of veering around it.

Show-off.

You leaned closer to your mare’s ear. “Don’t let him win,” you whispered.

She responded with another burst of speed, as if she understood you. For a time, there was nothing but wind and thunder and exhilaration. No court. No whispers. No expectations pressing in from every side. Only the wild rush of movement and the fierce joy of being alive beside someone who matched you stride for stride.

The forest began to thin ahead, light growing brighter.

Baelor pulled even with you at last. He turned his head, grinning wide, the careful prince gone entirely.

“Yield,” he demanded.

“Never.”

He reached out in a fit of giggles and caught your sleeve. You gasped and matched his laugh, swatting at him as your mare surged one final time toward the clearing.

The two of you burst from the trees together, hooves tearing through tall grass, neither horse willing to concede.

You crossed whatever invisible finish line might have existed at the exact same moment. Both horses slowed in reluctant spirals, sides heaving, nostrils flared.

Silence settled again broken only by your shared breathless laughter.

“It was a tie,” you said firmly.

Baelor swung down from his saddle, still smiling as though he had just conquered a kingdom. “It was not.”

“It was.”

He stepped closer, taking your reins before you could protest, steadying your mare as you dismounted.

“It was,” he conceded at last, voice softer now. “Because I decided it was.”

You narrowed your eyes. “That is not how races work.”

“It is when I am future king.”

You shoved him lightly. He caught your wrist before you could retreat, his grip warm and certain.

For a moment, the world felt small again. Just trees and sunlight and the echo of pounding hooves still thrumming in your veins.

“We’ll race again,” he said quietly. “And next time I’ll win properly.”

You smiled, breath still uneven, heart still racing. “We’ll see.”

Behind you, the woods held your secret, it would hold a hundred more moments yet to come.

*

Adolescence crept in quietly.

You did not notice it. The court did. You were ten and seven, more than old enough to be married off by Westeros standards.

What had once been an affection toward the small ward sharpened into something else. Lingering glances. Compliments that stretched too long. Boys who straightened their shoulders when you passed.

Baelor noticed. He told himself it was protectiveness.

The first time a young knight pressed a kiss to your knuckles at a feast, Baelor’s goblet cracked in his hand. The silver split beneath his grip. He stared at it as if betrayed.

Something tightened in his chest restless, unnamed.

That night, Daeron watched him over supper.

“Is the wine to your liking?” the King asked mildly.

Baelor blinked. “Yes, Father.”

Myriah’s gaze flicked toward you across the hall. She said nothing. Later, alone with her husband, she smiled faintly.

“He is beginning to understand.”

“Not yet,” Daeron replied. “But he will.”

Baelor grew quieter after that. More careful. He stopped sitting quite so close. Stopped brushing your hand without thinking. Stopped letting his gaze linger.

The distance hurt more than proximity ever had.

When you left to visit your family, he finally understood absence. The castle dulled without you. Lessons blurred. Council meetings stretched endlessly. He wandered restlessly to the library nook, to the Kingswood trail where you once outran him, to the stables at dawn where you used to steal apples for the horses.

Myriah watched him.

“Send for her,” she told Daeron lightly one evening. “It has been long enough.”

Daeron pretended to deliberate. Then he sent the raven.

*

Baelor was eighteen. A man grown.

The dream came in the thick heat of late summer, when the air itself felt indulgent. The windows of his chambers had been thrown open to Blackwater Bay, but no breeze came. The curtains hung limp. The night was uncomfortable, the air hot and heavy.

Sleep did not take him gently. It pulled him under.

He was back in the Kingswood. Only it was not quite memory.

The light was lower, heavier, the gold sunlight now amber. You rode ahead of him, hair unbound this time, loose down your back instead of braided properly for court. It caught the sunlight like a banner in motion.

You glanced over your shoulder. Smiling.

Not the polite smile you wore at feasts. Not the careful one reserved for lords. The real one, reserved for him alone. You slowed your horse until he drew even with you. No words passed between you. None were needed. The forest was quiet. Expectant.

Then the scene shifted - as dreams do - seamless and strange.

You stood in the library nook. Not seven and small. Eighteen and a woman.

The same window. The same sky beyond it. But you filled the space differently now. Your knees were not tucked to your chest. You sat upright, composed, a woman instead of a child. He approached you.

In the dream, he did not hesitate. He touched your cheek. You leaned into it.

The simplicity of that gesture unravelled him.

Your fingers slid into his hair slowly. You pulled him down until your foreheads touched.

“Baelor,” you whispered.

The sound of his name in your voice shifted something deep inside him. His hand moved to your waist, and it fit there perfectly, almost possessive.

You rose onto your toes and kissed him. And the kiss was not uncertain like in corridors lit by torches. It was hot and breathless, your mouths learning each other without interruption. His hands tightened at your back. Your hand tightened on his dark hair. The library faded away. The dream narrowed to skin and warmth and the sharp realization that you were not a girl beneath his protection anymore.

You were a woman choosing him.

The dream did not stop there. It betrayed him further. You pulled him backward toward the cushions of the nook, laughter low in your throat not girlish but knowing. He followed, until you were beneath him and then over him and then nothing made sense except the press of your body and the sound of your breath catching when he said your name like something sacred.

His restraint, that careful, deliberate control he wore like armour, dissolved completely.

He wanted you. Not poetically. Viscerally.

His mouth traced the line of your throat. Your pulse leapt beneath his lips. Your hands tightened in his shirt, pulling him closer as though there were no court, no crown. Only the two of you.

When he woke, it was with your name on his lips.

The room was dark. The air still heavy. His sheets were tangled around his legs. His pulse thundered violently in his ears, as though he had been running. Sweat clung to his skin. His breath came uneven.

For a long moment he did not move. He just stared at the ceiling.

He could still feel it. The ghost of your mouth, the warmth of your hands, the weight of you beneath him.

And beneath that, something sharper. Guilt.

Not because the desire was wrong. But because it was no longer deniable.

You were not the child in the library. You were not simply the ward under his protection. You were eighteen and so was he.

The wanting was no longer harmless, it had consequences.

He dragged a hand down his face slowly, exhaling through his teeth.

This was no longer the soft affection of childhood. This was hunger and it terrified him how natural it felt.

The next morning, when you approached him in the courtyard. The sunlight in your hair, which was loose down your back, just like in his dream.

“Baelor-”

He looked at you. Really looked.

At the curve of your mouth. The slope of your throat. The way your riding leathers fit differently than they had even a year ago.

Heat flooded him so abruptly he felt dizzy. He turned and fled without a word. Behind him, you stood bewildered.

And for the first time in his life, Baelor Targaryen who feared neither council nor battlefield nor storm was utterly petrified.

For weeks he was undone. Blushing. Stammering. Avoiding your gaze. If your fingers brushed his sleeve, he forgot how to breathe. You were bewildered. He was mortified. And yet he could not stay away.

He saved you a seat without thinking. His gaze found you in every crowded hall. You reached instinctively for his sleeve when corridors grew overwhelming. Love settled between you slowly. Patiently.

Neither daring to name it.

Daeron named it. Myriah confirmed it.

They spoke it through one quiet evening.

“It would be the strongest match we could hope for,” Daeron said,

“And the simplest,” Myriah replied.

“Do we tell them?”

She smiled, her fierce Dornish nature and enjoyment for mischief present in her tone,

“No.”

*

The betrothal rumours were planted carefully. It was expected the heir to the throne was eighteen. A whisper in council. A suggestion at supper. A letter left half-open. The court buzzed.

Baelor heard it from a Lord. He did not ask who the bride was. He imagined marrying another and felt something inside him recoil violently.

You heard the whispers too.

Three days passed. You avoided him. He avoided you.

The silence felt like a wound.

Midnight found you both in a dim corridor, torches guttering low. Both mulling over the prospect of the prince’s betrothal.

As you rounded a corner, you collided. His hands closed around your shoulders. They were trembling.

Silence stretched between you for a beat, eyes meeting, almost desperate.

“Congratulate me,” he said hoarsely.

Your composure fractured.

“I hope she makes you happy,” you whispered. “I hope she is everything I could never be.”

Something inside him shattered completely.

“There is no everything else,” he said, voice breaking. “There has only ever been you.”

The words tore free.

“I did not understand it when we were children. I did not understand it when I could not breathe while you were gone. I understand it now.”

His grip tightened.

“I love you.”

You exhaled like someone breaking the surface after drowning.

“I love you too.”

He did not kiss you. He took your hand. And marched dragging you behind him, holding your hand tightly, as thought he feared you would disappear it you slipped form his grasp.

He marched you all the way to the royal quarters, flinging the King’s chamber doors opened without announcement.

“I will not do it,” Baelor declared, shaking. “I love her. I will not marry another.”

Silence. Then Myriah sighed.

“Baelor,” she said carefully, “who do you believe your betrothed to be?”

He blinked. Realisation dawned.

“Oh.”

Daeron’s laughter filled the chamber.

“The realm is not blind,” the King said. “We simply required you to see it yourselves.”

The silence that followed was not awkward. It was catastrophic.

Baelor still held your hand. His grip had not loosened. In fact, it tightened as understanding spread across his face. His ears turned red first. Then his neck. Then the colour rose fully into his cheeks.

You, meanwhile, stood very still, praying to the gods you could just disappear.

Myriah was most definitely amused. Daeron leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin. “You believed,” he said mildly to his son, “that I would wed you to some unknown daughter of a Reach lord?”

Baelor swallowed. “Yes.”

“And you,” Myriah added gently, eyes shifting to you, “believed you were to be discarded?”

Your voice came out smaller than you intended. “Yes, Your Grace.”

Daeron made a low sound in his throat. Not disapproval. Not quite approval either.

“For years,” he said, “half this realm has wagered on when the two of you would realise what was plain to everyone else.”

Baelor closed his eyes briefly. Myriah rose from her seat in a smooth sweep of orange silk. She crossed the chamber with measured steps, stopping before you. Her gaze was not unkind.

“You were sent here as a promise,” she said. “You have become far more valuable than that.”

She turned to her son. “If you were to wed another, Baelor, you would resent her. The realm would suffer for it.”

His jaw tightened. “I would not-”

“You would,” Daeron interrupted, voice sharp enough to cut. “You are not subtle.”

Silence again.

Baelor looked at you. Not the girl in the library nook. Not the child under blankets during storms. Not the racing companion in the Kingswood. He looked at you as a man who had nearly lost something and now understood its weight.

“I will marry her,” he said evenly. No tremor now. No boyish panic. “Or I will not marry at all.”

Daeron’s brow lifted slightly.

The declaration was not romantic. It was absolute.

Myriah’s lips curved faintly. “You see?” she murmured to her husband.

Daeron studied you for a long moment. Measuring. Calculating. Seeing not only affection but consequence. At last, he nodded once.

“It will be announced at the next Feast,” he said. “Publicly. There will be no room for speculation.”

Baelor exhaled slowly, as though he had been holding breath for years. You had not realised you were still gripping his hand until Myriah’s gaze flicked downward. Only then did you loosen your hold.

“Go,” the Queen said, waving you off with elegant dismissal. “Before he attempts to storm another chamber.”

Baelor did not wait to be told twice. He pulled you into the corridor, but this time he did not drag you. He stopped only once the heavy doors shut behind you.

The torches guttered low.

The castle was quiet.

He stared at you. For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Then he laughed. Almost disbelieving.

“They knew,” he said.

“Yes.”

“They let me panic.”

“Yes.”

A pause.

“I may challenge Father to a duel.”

“You would lose.”

“I know.”

Silence again. The air felt different now. Charged.

“You were going to let me go,” he said softly.

You held his gaze. “I thought I had to.”

His hand lifted, hesitant for the first time in years. It hovered near your face, then settled carefully along your cheek.

“You do not have to,” he said.

For all the years you had slept through storms and raced through forests and danced beneath dragon banners, this felt like the true turning point.

“I would have followed you anyway,” you confessed quietly. “Even if you had married another. I would have stayed.”

His eyes darkened at that. Not anger. Something more dangerous.

“No,” he said. “You would not.”

A princes command. You searched his expression and found no jest there.

“If I had been forced into another match,” he continued, voice low, “I would have broken something. Perhaps the alliance. Perhaps myself.”

The honesty did not frighten you. It steadied you. He was not gentle by nature. He was deliberate and devoted. Fierce in ways the court had only begun to glimpse.

“You will not have to,” you said.

“No.” The word settled between you like a vow already sworn.

Footsteps echoed faintly somewhere in the corridor. Servants moving through distant halls. Baelor stepped closer.

“You realise,” he said quietly, “this changes nothing.”

You blinked. “Nothing?”

“I will still correct your posture at feasts. I will still win our next race.”

“You admitted the last was a tie.”

“I rescind that admission.” A smile tugged at your lips despite yourself.

“And storms?” you asked.

“I will continue negotiating with them personally.” The torchlight flickered across his mismatched eyes. For the first time, neither of you hesitated.

He leaned down.

The kiss was not practiced. Not polished. It was warm and slightly uncertain and entirely real. When he pulled back, his forehead rested lightly against yours.

“You are mine,” he said quietly.

Not ownership, just recognition.

“And you are mine,” you replied.

Above you, banners heavy with dragons shifted faintly in the draft of the corridors.

In the royal chambers, Daeron poured more wine.

“It is done,” he said.

Myriah smiled into her goblet. “It was done the day he brought her lemon cakes.”

Outside, the wind rolled in gently from Blackwater Bay.

No storm tonight. Only inevitability.