✧･ﾟLunara･ﾟ✧

Baelor steps out of the carriage first and takes Aeva from you, cradling her in one arm and helping you down the wooden steps with the other. She coos as he adjusts his hold to have his arm underneath her and her leant on his chest. The position gives her a great opportunity to look around the new surroundings and she squeals excitedly at everything she sees.

“She is talkative today.” Baelor muses, looking down at the smiling babe.

“Quite. Here I can take her.” You reach up to grab her but he stops you.

“Its quite alright, I can hold her. The journey has been long your body doesnt need anymore strain.” He presses and tender kiss to the back your hand before you walk up to the greeting party.

“It is an honour to have you here Prince Baelor. And you, Princesses.” Lord Lannister says standing tall beside his family.

“Thank you for hosting us,” Baelor says only to be cut off by an excited squeal from the babe in his arms. She has recently started making more clear noises- ahhs and oohs -that were not just crying and seemingly gets a lot of joy out of doing so. Aeva babbles relentlessly and happily, a constant stream of garbled noises interrupting any conversation being had and drawing all attention to her.

Walking through the halls of the castle Baelor questions her. “What has gotten into you today my love? Hmm? You are not giving any one else the chance to speak.” He tickles her belly playfully causing her squawk out a laugh and throw her head back.

“Perhaps she is trying to save us from tedious small talk. She far cuter and more interesting than anyone else here.” You smile up at her, stroking over the brown curls on top of her head.

Aeva runs her chubby fingers through the coarse hair of her fathers beard still mumbling quiet ‘ba ba ba’s to herself. “Mm.” He smiles fondly at her, pressing his lips gently to her forehead. “Just wait until she can actually talk. I fear we will have our hands full.”

Maekar

You sit up against the headboard with Rhae held against your chest having her last feed before shes put down for the night, the dim candle light making your own eyelids feel heavy. She suckles happily cooing against your breast while her hand busies itself toying with your hair. Maekar climbs into bed next to you groaning as the movement aches his limbs. He looks upon you both face as hard as ever but you can see the love hidden in the scowl.

“The others never made that much noise.” He refers to the constant humming coming from the tiny babe and watches her with a curiosity.

“I know. Perhaps she is just more vocal than they were.” You ponder, thinking back on your five previous babies, how tiny and fragile they were.

He scoffs. “Have you forgotten about Egg? That boy wouldnt shut up. Still wont.”

The last part is mumbled under his breath but you hear it nonetheless and elbow him playfully. He holds out a finger which she quickly grasps onto. Her tiny hand wrapping around his finger and gripping with a strength that should be impossible for someone so small. A cheerful gurgle leaves her throat as she pulls away from your breast, looking over to her father with wide eyes before yawning loudly.

“I think someone is ready for bed. Unfortunately my love you need to be burped first.” You sit her up in your lap and begin patting her back.

“Here, let me.” His hands are almost as long her, you think as he lifts her effortlessly to rest her head on his shoulder resume the soft pats on her back. He paces the room with her in his hold, her tired eyes looking at him from where she rests on his shoulder. He talks to her with a voice far to gentle for the man nicknamed The Anvil and she responds in kind- you fall asleep to the sound of their voices drifting around your chamber.

Dunk

“Look, these plants are important. If any of us catches a sickness these can relieve the pain.” Dunk holds up the leaves to the babe wrapped to his chest stares at them with intrigue. “N’keep an eye out for any lavender, your mother asked us to find some.”

“Aaaahhhhhh!” Otis claps his hand excitedly and squeals, flailing his little legs as Dunk continues his journey through the dense forest. Its times like this that Dunk was thankful that you lived on the road. Your boy had recently discovered how to yell and did so at every waking opportunity- luckily no one would be disturbed by it along the dusty roads you travelled.

Otis shrieked pointing a chubby arm infront of him with all the might he could muster. “What is it boy?” Dunk asks scanning over the plantlife beneath him. Its not until he looks up that he knows what caused such commotion.

A butterfly.

Fluttering its colourful wings just a few feet before them, landing occasionally on the delicate flowers running along the path before hopping to the next. It moved around with such ease among the calm of the woods.

“You like the butterfly? Pity your mother’s not with us, she could probably tell us what kind it is.” He says to himself trying to recall everything youd told him about the creatures before.

“Aaaahhhhhhh!” He made grabby hands and wiggled in the wrap wanting to claw his way out to investigate further.

“You cant touch it boy, theyre delicate things. Just for watching.” His fathers words dont stop his valiant effort as he continues yelling into the vast forest.

Cregan

Cregan had been away for a week or two tending to his duties as Lord of Winterfell. He hated when they took him away from his family but knew he had no choice, and you always gave him such a warm welcome back- especially your youngest Lyanna. It was the first time he had been away since her birth and its safe to say she had missed him. With your other two fast asleep she had all of her fathers attention. She sat on Cregans chest as he lays in the soft bed, babbling and patting his face which now has a healthy coating of stubble on it.

“Did you miss me?” Cregan asks to which the girl squeals in delight and continues smooshing her hands over the new texture on his cheeks. “Ill take that as yes. I missed you too.” She speaks to him in her own language- seemingly having a lot to say to him - not caring about the drool coming from her mouth. He does his best to wipe it away as she never ceases moving her mouth, cooing into the cloth before trying to eat it.

“Ive never heard her make this much noise.” You say, watching from by the hearth how he handles her so effortlessly. “I think shes trying to figure out how she feels about your beard.”

He chuckles causing Lyanna to bounce slightly. “Aye, it will be gone on the morrow girl, do not worry about it too much.”

At the sound of your voice she turns to look at you cooing happily when she spots you. You walk over to the bed now clad in only your nightgown and kiss her hair. “I dont she minds the beard.” You suggest. “Neither do I.”

“Good to know,” He sends a sublte wink your way before turning his attention back to the babe. “What do you think, hm? Should I try it out?” Her senseless babbles grow louder. “Yeah? Perhaps I wont shave tomorrow.”

Gwayne

“I know its… irritating, isnt it?” Gwayne speaks directly to the red haired babe playing on the floor before him who chatters excitedly. “The man forgets to send me even a raven for my nameday, but has no problem sending one when he needs something from me.”

Aemma clumsily crawls closer to him, settling into his lap, his hand naturally going across her front to hold her there. She tilts her head back and chirps at him. “I know, its terribly rude. And hes your grandsire. But its fine, you have us, thats enough isnt it, my girl?”

She giggles, reaching up to try and grab the hair thats fallen infront of Gwaynes face. “Of course it is.” His smile no longer carries the sadness it did moments before as he gazes down at her.

She lets out a sweet coo. “Is that so?”

Another cheerful gurgle accompanied with her shaking her head. “Wow, I had no idea that babes had such wisdom. I might have a miniature maester on my hands here.”

The storm had burned itself out sometime before dawn.

Now all that remained was the steady drip of rain from Dragonstone's black stone walls and the distant crash of waves below the cliffs. Pale morning light slipped through the narrow windows in soft ribbons, washing the chamber in silver.

You wake slowly.

Not necessarily because you're rested, but because you're warm. Far warmer than you ought to be beneath a blanket that had long since been kicked to the foot of the bed.

Jace is wrapped around you as though sometime during the night he'd decided that simply sleeping beside you wasn't close enough. One arm is draped securely across your waist, his face buried against the back of your shoulder, his breathing slow and even. His dark curls are a complete mess, and one bare leg has somehow become tangled with yours beneath the sheets.

You smile to yourself.

"You'll complain about your shoulder later," you murmur.

A sleepy sound, somewhere between a hum and a groan, vibrates against your skin.

"I'll survive." His voice is thick with sleep and his grip tightens just enough to pull you impossibly closer. There's something almost boyish about the way he says it, as though it's a victory in itself.

You turn carefully within the circle of his arms until you're facing him. The movement earns another sleepy complaint, though he makes no effort to let go.

Up close, you can still see the faint flush lingering across his cheeks from the warmth of the room. A thin scratch is visible beneath his collarbone, your own fault no doubt.

You remeber is so clearly, how the rain had battered against the windows, how the candles had guttered low, how his forehead was resting against yours while the storm rolled over Dragonstone. But inside your bed chamber, you'd barely noticed.

"You look terribly pleased with yourself," you say.

One eye opens. "Well, I married you, didn't I?"

"Your point being?"

"It happens to be something I am very pleased about." He studies you for a long moment. "I was thinking..." He continues, thumb brushing lazily over your bare waist. "That I should arrange for more storms."

"Oh?"

"They appear to encourage you to stay in bed."

Outside, somewhere beyond the window, comes the deep, familiar rumble of a dragon.

Jace sighs dramatically without lifting his head. "He's awake."

He presses a kiss to your forehead before finally, reluctantly, releasing you. "If Vermax has flown all the way here simply to interrupt my morning," he declares, "I shall have to remind him who hatched him."

You grin as you reach for the discarded shift lying somewhere beside the bed.

By the time you're both dressed the castle has begun to wake around you.

You trail a step behind Jace, fingers loosely hooked around his sleeve more out of habit than necessity. To be honest, it is a habit you've only recently allowed yourself.

When you first arrived as his wife, you had been painfully conscious of every eye that followed you through the castle.

The princess, the prince's bride. Too young, some had whispered when they thought you were out of earshot. Too sheltered or too soft for Dragonstone.

You had smiled through every greeting, learned every name you could remember, and prayed no one noticed how often you got lost in the twisting corridors of black stone.

Jace had noticed.

Three days after your wedding, he'd quietly taken your hand before supper and walked every hallway, pointing out hidden staircases, quicker routes, which doors stuck in damp weather and which windows gave the best view of Blackwater Bay.

"I cannot believe you've spent an entire afternoon making sure I know my way around the castle." You'd said that evening in your chambers.

"Why can't you believe it?"

"You drew me a map."

"It was an excellent map."

"It had little dragons."

"So you wouldn't get bored."

You laugh. "You named one after Lord Celtigar."

"That one looked particularly grumpy." He grins, a quick flash of satisfaction that softens his usually princely composure, and reaches for your hand.

In your mind, the heir to the Iron Throne ought to be careful, composed, forever aware of watching eyes. But Jace rarely seems to remember, or perhaps he simply doesn't care.

A pair of servants step into the corridor ahead.

The moment they see the two of you, they bow hurriedly. "My prince. Princess."

You smile in greeting, Jace nods once, polite but distracted.

Only after they've passed do you realize he never let go of your hand.

Not even for a moment.

"You know," you tease quietly, "there are people who might think you're terribly devoted."

"They'd be right." He looks at you then with a familiar softness, so unguarded it almost steals your breath.

His thumb brushes absentmindedly across your knuckles. "And I'm not inclined to stop simply because people are looking."

Before you can answer, a deep, resonant rumble rolls across the courtyard outside.

Jace exhales through his nose.

"There he is."

You cross toward one of the narrow windows overlooking the inner yard. Far below, Vermax has landed.

The young dragon stands with his wings half-folded, emerald scales still glistening from the night's rain. A pair of dragonkeepers are speaking to him from what they clearly believe is a safe distance.

Vermax is paying them absolutely no attention. Instead, his great head is tilted upward.

Toward this very window.

You laugh. "I think he's looking for you Jace."

Jace joins you at the window. "No."

He follows the dragon's gaze for a moment before the corners of his mouth twitch. "I think," he says with theatrical resignation, "he's looking for you."

As though to prove his point, Vermax lets out another low, expectant chirr, quieter than his earlier call.

You blink. "Surely not."

Down in the courtyard, Vermax chirrs again.

It becomes impossible to deny by the end of the week. Vermax has decided you belong to him.

"No," Jace says flatly one afternoon, watching the dragon nudge your shoulder with surprising delicacy. "Absolutely not."

You laugh, scratching beneath the smooth ridge of emerald scales where you've discovered he likes it best. "What has he done now?"

"He is stealing my wife."

As if personally offended by the accusation, Vermax lowers his head another inch until the broad curve of his snout is pressed insistently against your side.

Jace stares. "You see?"

"He wants attention."

"I gave him an entire sheep this morning."

You can't help the laugh that escapes you, and it echoes across the training yard, bright enough that even a pair of dragonkeepers glance over with amused smiles.

You and Jace turn to go back inside, but only make it perhaps ten paces before heavy footsteps thud softly behind you.

The dragon has stood and started following.

"Vermax."

He stops, tilting his head.

"You can't come into the castle."

It doesn't stop there.

If you choose to read beneath the old weirwood overlooking the sea, Vermax appears within the hour.

If you wander the beach collecting shells after supper, a shadow passes lazily overhead before circling back toward shore. When you look up, the dragon is gliding against the afternoon sky.

The dragon dips lower, just enough that the rush of displaced air sends your skirts fluttering.

You laugh and wave. High above, Vermax answers with a delighted trill.

One morning you step into the gardens alone, intending only to cut fresh lavender for your chambers. You have barely even filled half the basket when a familiar shadow rolls across the flowers.

Then comes the gentle, unmistakable whuff of warm dragon breath.

You don't even look up.

"Good morning, Vermax." The dragon answers with a contented rumble.

He settles himself just beyond the garden wall, folding his forelegs neatly beneath him.

And there he remains.

When Jace finds you nearly an hour later, basket overflowing with lavender, he stops dead.

"You've got to be joking."

"What?"

He points.

Vermax, his great head rests on crossed forelegs, one eye lazily cracked open just enough to keep you in sight.

You walk over, unable to resist stroking the smooth scales along Vermax's jaw.

Jace follows, and you shake your head, laughing, and slip your free hand into his. Immediately, Vermax opens both eyes.

He watches the joined hands for a long, silent moment. Then, with another deep, satisfied rumble, he closes them again.

A couple weeks later, Dragonstone is hosting a small gathering of sworn lords from the Crownlands. Nothing particularly grand, just an awful lot of petitions, trade disputes, and endless discussions that leave Jace rubbing his temples by supper.

You escape the hall as politely as you can.

"I shall only be a moment," you promise him.

His hand lingers around yours before he lets go. "I know."

"You'll survive without me, Jace, I promise."

The sea air is cooler outside. Rain still clings to the black stone, leaving everything smelling of salt and earth. You breathe deeply, grateful for the quiet after hours of smiling at strangers.

You don't notice the shadow until it passes overhead.

A heartbeat later, Vermax lands beyond the outer wall with enough force to make loose gravel dance across the ground.

"You again?" you laugh.

His answer is a soft chirr as he lowers his head, inviting the familiar scratch beneath his jaw.

You indulge him. "You know," you murmur, "your rider insists you're abandoning him."

You continue scratching him anyway.

The interruption comes quietly. "My princess."

You turn. One of the visiting lords, a pleasant enough man whose name escapes you, has stepped into the courtyard. He offers a courteous bow.

"I hoped I might thank you for your kindness at supper."

"You are very kind, my lord."

He smiles. "I confess Dragonstone is rather less… welcoming than I imagined."

You glance at the dragon. "I imagine it has nothing to do with the fire-breathing beats circling at all times."

The lord laughs and takes a step closer.

Vermax's head lifts. The movement is slow enough that, for a moment, no one notices. Until the rumbling begins. It vibrates through the stone beneath your feet and the lord stops mid-sentence.

His smile falters.

Vermax does not bare his teeth, he does not spread his wings, he simply fixes the man with one unblinking emerald eye.

The rumble deepens.

"My lady," the lord corrects takes an instinctive step backward.

The sound stops.

You blink.

"…That was odd."

The lord laughs a little too loudly. "I believe… I shall return inside."

You think little of it.

Until it happens again, and again, and again. Not only with strangers, but with servants and guards. Even dragonkeepers he has known since hatching.

If someone approaches you too quickly, Vermax appears.

If voices grow heated nearby, he materialises as though summoned by instinct alone. He has become a living wall of green scales between you and the rest of the world.

A fortnight passes.

The castle settles into its familiar rhythm, though Vermax never quite returns to his old habits.

If anything, he grows bolder.

By now, even the servants have stopped remarking upon it.

"Your shadow awaits you, Princess," one maid says one morning with a knowing smile.

You peer from the window. Sure enough, a pair of emerald eyes are already fixed expectantly on the tower.

You laugh. "I do believe I've been adopted."

That afternoon, the weather is fair.

Jace has escaped the council chambers looking thoroughly exhausted, finding you exactly where he expected, beneath the old windswept tree overlooking the cliffs, a book forgotten in your lap while Vermax dozes nearby.

Or appears to.

His eyes are closed.

One wing lies stretched lazily across the grass, shimmering green beneath the sun.

Jace watches while walking towards you, finally bending to kiss the top of your head. Then, without thinking, he reaches a hand toward you.

Vermax's eyes snap open.

The dragon rises in one smooth motion, slipping between you and Jace with astonishing precision. His great neck curves across the narrow space, not striking, not threatening, but blocking.

Jace freezes.

For one suspended heartbeat, neither moves.

The dragon's head turns slightly, one brilliant green eye fixed on his rider, Jace stares back.

"...Vermax."

The dragon lets out a low sound, as though asking something only he understands. Then, just as suddenly, he steps aside.

You blink. "What on earth was that?"

Jace doesn't answer, he is still looking at Vermax.

"I've never..." he murmurs.

"What?"

"He has never stood between us."

By evening, Jace has sought out the dragonkeepers; he wants an explanation.

The oldest among them is already waiting when Jace reaches the caverns.

He bows deeply.

"My prince."

"You've noticed." It is not a question.

The old man is silent for a long moment. "...Yes."

"Then tell me."

Another pause.

"There are tales." The dragonkeeper folds weathered hands before him. "And the tales are all I have."

Jace says nothing, but his jaw tightens.

The old man continues carefully. "Dragons know certain things before men do, sometimes."

"What things?"

"Danger." Jace nods once. "Weather." Another nod. "And..." The man hesitates. "Life."

Jace blinks. "...What do you mean?"

"There are old records. Rare ones. A dragon becoming unusually protective of a rider's wife. Of a queen. Of a princess."

"Protective?"

"They guard." The dragonkeeper's gaze drifts toward the mouth of the cavern, where Vermax sleeps beyond the fading light.

Jace remembers every strange moment of the past weeks and his heartbeat quickens.

"No."

"It is only a possibility."

"No."

"Has the princess been unwell?"

"...No."

"Has she been unusually tired?"

Jace opens his mouth. Closes it again.

"And..." the dragonkeeper says gently, "when did the dragon's behavior begin?"

Jace's mind races backwards until he finally remembers the storm. How Vermax had refused to leave the castle, had hovered outside their chambers, nudging him toward the tower when he'd intended to return to his studies.

He'd laughed. "Apparently, he has plans for us."

Three months, almost exactly.

The dragonkeeper watches the realisation settle over his prince's face. Quietly, he says, "I believe... it may be time to send for the maester."

Jace finds you in your solar not five minutes later. You look up from the embroidery in your lap, smiling the moment he steps through the door, but the smile falters almost immediately.

"Jace?"

His hair is windblown from crossing the castle at nearly a run, his expression unreadable in a way you've never quite seen before. He closes the door behind him without a word and simply looks at you, searching your face as though expecting to find something different.

"What is it?"

He crosses the room in three long strides and kneels before your chair, taking both your hands in his. "Have you felt unwell?"

You blink. "...No."

"Not at all?"

"A little tired, perhaps, but you've been working me through every feast and council dinner on Dragonstone." You smile faintly. "I assumed being a princess was simply quite exhausting."

His thumb traces absent circles across your knuckles. "And nothing else?"

"I've slept later than usual."

"You've always liked sleeping late."

You grin, leaning forward to whisper, "I do when my husband keeps me awake half the night."

The corner of his mouth twitches despite himself, though the smile never quite reaches his eyes. "When was your last moon's blood?"

You stare at him. "What?"

He doesn't repeat himself, and slowly, your own amusement fades. You set the embroidery aside. "I..." You pause, thinking. "I don't know."

"You don't know?"

"I've never had reason to count the days so carefully, Jace."

Silence settles between you. You begin counting backwards in your head, tracing feasts, journeys, the passing weeks. Your brows knit together. "A couple of weeks, maybe," you murmur. "I'm not sure."

His expression answers before he speaks. "The dragonkeepers believe Vermax sensed it."

You let out a disbelieving laugh. "Jace."

"They've seen it before."

"Surely they haven't."

"They swear they have."

You shake your head, trying to make sense of it. "So... because Vermax has decided to follow me everywhere..."

"And because he stood between us."

"...he thinks I'm carrying a child?"

"Yes."

You both fall quiet.

"Oh."

It is the only word you can manage, and Jace squeezes your hands.

"I've sent for the maester."

"You've... already?"

"He'll be here shortly."

The maester, when he finally arrives, is kind and discreet, far too accustomed to royal nerves to comment on the tension hanging in the room. He asks a handful of careful questions, his expression growing steadily more thoughtful with each answer.

When he rises from his examination, he folds his hands inside his sleeves and smiles.

"My prince."

Jace has been standing by the window the entire time.

"So?"

The old man inclines his head. "My congratulations."

The room falls completely still. You look at Jace. He looks at you. Neither of you speaks.

The maester continues, almost gently. "If my calculations are correct, Her Grace is nearing the end of her third month."

He leaves you with instructions about rest, diet, and avoiding undue strain, but you hear almost none of it, too focused on the way the room seems to have shrunk around you.

The door clicks shut.

Then Jace crosses the room so quickly that you barely have time to stand before his arms are around you. He buries his face against your hair, holding you so tightly it almost hurts.

You laugh through the tears threatening your eyes.

"I think..." Your voice catches. "I think we're going to have a baby."

He nods once against your shoulder, voice barely a whisper. "I know."

Jace's spiral into overprotectiveness begins with the reasonable things.

"No more riding."

You open your mouth to argue, but are stopped before any sound escapes by a single raised eyebrow.

The maester, entirely unhelpfully, agrees with him.

Then come the stairs.

"If no one is with you."

"Jace."

"They're uneven."

"They have been uneven for a hundred years."

He insists on taking your arm every time you descend them after that.

By the time your gowns no longer sit quite as they used to, he has become impossible.

Servants carry anything heavier than a book. Meals appear in your chambers if the Great Hall is too crowded. Councils are moved rather than asking you to cross the castle, and if you so much as mention feeling tired, Jace is already leading you back toward your rooms before you've finished the sentence.

"You know women have been having children since the beginning of time?"

"I am aware, yes."

"They don't all require an escort to the library."

"I don't care, because you will have one.

Once, you disappear for nearly an hour.

Jace finds you asleep in the late afternoon sun, curled against the warm curve of Vermax's foreleg with a book lying open across your lap.

The dragon is awake. His head rests protectively around you, just close enough to shelter you from the wind without touching.

At Jace's approach, one emerald eye opens. For a long moment, dragon and rider simply look at one another. Then Vermax lowers his head again.

You stir at the sound of footsteps, blinking sleepily up at your husband.

"There you are."

"I've been looking everywhere."

"I was comfortable."

"I can see that."

By the eighth month, you start to begrudingly appreciate Jace's over-the-top efforts.

"I cannot reach my boots."

Jace looks up from the letter he'd been pretending to read. "You reached them yesterday."

"I was smaller yesterday."

He watches you glare down at the impossible curve of your stomach as though sheer determination might convince it to move. After another unsuccessful attempt, you huff dramatically and fold your arms.

"This child is already causing problems."

"Our child," Jace corrects.

"Our child," you sigh, "has stolen my feet."

A smile threatens at the corners of his mouth. With the patience of a man who has accepted this as his fate, he sets the letter aside and kneels in front of you.

"Oh, don't you dare."

"You said you couldn't reach."

"I did not ask you to-"

"You were about to."

He lifts one foot gently onto his knee and makes quick work of the laces.

"Jace, you don't have to do everything you know."

"I know."

"So why do you?"

He finishes tying the second boot before looking up at you. "Because I like taking care of my wife."

A number of weeks later the castle wakes before dawn to the sound of a dragon.

Not roaring; pacing.

The heavy scrape of claws against stone echoes through the courtyard, followed by a low, restless rumble that seems to vibrate through the walls of Dragonstone itself.

You stir beneath the blankets, still half asleep. "...He's at it again."

Beside you, Jace groans into his pillow. "If he has frightened another stableboy, I swear on all that is holy-"

Another rumble.

Closer this time. Longer, almost a whine in nature.

Jace sits up. "...That's odd."

For the past several months Vermax has scarcely left the courtyard beneath your chambers, but he has always been quiet. Content simply to stand and watch.

The windows rattle faintly as his tail sweeps across the stone.

Jace is already pulling on a tunic. "I'll see what's wrong."

You nod, pushing yourself upright with considerably more effort than dignity. He smiles over his shoulder as he ducks out of the room, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes.

The courtyard is in chaos.

Dragonkeepers stand well back from Vermax, speaking to him in soothing High Valyrian that goes utterly ignored. The dragon paces in tight circles, wings half-spread, head swinging constantly toward the tower above.

One keeper catches sight of Jace.

"My prince."

"What happened?"

"We don't know."

Vermax notices his rider. Instead of calming, the dragon lets out another deep, agitated rumble and immediately turns toward the tower again, toward your chambers. Then, he stamps a forefoot. Hard enough that dust shakes from the walls.

Up in the tower, you're sitting and waiting for Jace when pain tightens unexpectedly across your abdomen.

You stop halfway across the chamber, one hand finding the edge of the table. "...Hm."

The feeling passes as quickly as it came.

Outside, Vermax lets out the loudest cry you've ever heard him make. It rolls across the cliffs and back again.

You freeze before calling out. "...Jace?"

He is already taking the stairs two at a time. He bursts through the chamber doors moments later, slightly out of breath.

Before he can speak, another wave rolls through you. Your hand flies instinctively to your stomach.

Jace's face drains of colour. "What is it?"

"I..." You breathe carefully. "I think..."

Another pause. Then, despite yourself, you laugh. "I think Vermax has solved another mystery."

For one heartbeat Jace simply stares.

Then his eyes widen.

"No."

"I think so."

As if the universe itself objects to his denial, another wave steals your breath. You grip the bedpost but Jace is at your side before you can blink, one arm already around your waist.

"The maester."

His voice comes out far calmer than his expression.

"Someone fetch the maester!"

Outside, Vermax finally stops pacing.

He lowers himself heavily onto the black stone directly beneath your windows, refusing every attempt by the dragonkeepers to coax him away.

His head remains lifted toward the tower.

After hours of pain and effort the world slowly comes back into focus in pieces.

Sound first; soft voices, the distant rush of the sea, the occasional crackle of the hearth. Then warmth pressed against your side. You blink against the haze of exhaustion and find yourself surrounded by dim candlelight and movement that feels almost too gentle for how loud everything had just been.

Jace is here.

He’s sitting half on the edge of the bed, hair dishevelled, sleeves rolled up wrong, a smear of something dark on his cuff that you vaguely decide not to think about too hard. His eyes are fixed on you with a kind of stunned intensity, as if he’s afraid that if he looks away for even a second, this will all vanish.

“You’re shaking,” you murmur, though your own voice barely holds together.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

A beat of silence passes between you before he exhales and finally lets himself lean forward, pressing a careful kiss against your forehead.

“And him?” he asks, like he’s been holding the question in his teeth for hours.

You don’t even need to answer. The little bundle in your arms shifts slightly, a tiny sound breaking through the quiet and Jace goes utterly still. His gaze drops to the child as though he’s afraid it might disappear if he stares too hard.

“He's beautiful,” he says finally.

You adjust the blanket slightly, and the baby nestles closer, face scrunching briefly before settling again. Jace makes a sound that is halfway between a laugh and something dangerously close to breaking.

“I don’t-” he starts, then stops, swallowing. “I didn’t think it would feel like this.”

“You thought it would feel like what?”

He doesn’t answer immediately. His hand hovers near the bundle, stops short, then retreats again like he’s not sure he’s allowed.

“Louder,” he admits.

You huff a weak laugh. “I'm not sure it'll stay this quiet, so we should probably try to enjoy it while it lasts.”

He finally looks at you again, and there’s something undone in his expression that you’ve never seen before. “I need to see him,” he says.

You tilt your head slightly. “You’ve been staring at him for an hour.”

“Alright, I need to hold him.”

You carefully shift the baby into his arms. It’s awkward at first, Jace holding himself too rigid, like he’s afraid of doing it wrong, like one wrong breath might undo everything, but then the child settles against him and something in his shoulders breaks open.

He exhales, slow and unsteady. There’s a long silence where he doesn’t say anything at all.

Then, barely audible, “I can't believe he’s mine.”

You smile faintly. “Yes.”

Jace looks down again, thumb brushing so lightly over the baby’s cheek it’s almost not there. “He looks…” He pauses, helpless. “He looks like he knows things already.”

“That’s probably just you projecting.”

Outside the window, a deep sound rolls through the cliffs. Jace’s head lifts instantly.

“Oh.”

Jace carefully adjusts his grip on the baby, like he’s handling something far more fragile than steel and fire could ever be.

“I should-” he starts.

You raise an eyebrow. “You should what?”

He’s already standing. “I should show him.”

You blink at him. “Jace.”

But he’s not really listening anymore. Not in the way he used to, at least. This is something else, instinctive and almost urgent.

“Jace, it’s freezing outside.”

“I’ll be quick.”

So you watch him wrap a cloak around himself and the baby like it’s the most natural thing in the world, then walk out of the room.

By the time he reaches the courtyard, Vermax is already there.

The dragon is enormous against the grey morning sky, wings folded, tail curled tightly around the stone like he’s been rooted there for hours. When he sees Jace, he doesn’t move at first.

Then Jace steps into the open.

Vermax’s head lowers immediately.

Jace stops a few paces away, breathing uneven, then lifts the bundle higher against his chest.

“This is my son.”

Vermax steps forward, so carefully. The ground still trembles slightly beneath the weight of him, but he is impossibly gentle as he lowers his head until he’s level with Jace’s arms. One massive eye focuses on the tiny face within the blanket.

For a long moment, he does nothing.

Then he exhales. Warm air, slow and careful, brushes over the child like a blessing.

The baby stirs, and Vermax freezes instantly.

Jace laughs under his breath, disbelieving and wrecked all at once. “It’s alright,” he murmurs. “He’s yours too, apparently.”

The dragon makes a soft, almost questioning sound, then lowers himself further until his forehead rests against the stone directly in front of them, as if offering something wordless and absolute.

Jace finally looks up at him properly, smiling.

“Say hello,” he whispers.

Vermax answers with a quiet, reverent rumble that rolls out across Dragonstone.

The walls of Winterfell, as well known, were raised upon natural hot springs. Fires were seldom needed; the very stones breathed warmth, lulling one toward sleep.

Heavy tapestries, richly embroidered, barred the morning sun from entering, and the chambers lay steeped in a soft, muted gloom. You lay sprawled in lazy serenity, buried beneath thick furs that cocooned you in warmth. But not only they kept the chill at bay. A man lay atop you, heavy and solid as another blanket entirely — Cregan, his cheek pressed to your belly, his broad palm splayed across your side, thumb tracing slow, absent circles against your skin. His long and dark hair had tangled overnight; he never braided it before sleep, and come morning he would grumble (adorably, you thought) about the knots that always seemed to find him.

You smiled at the thought, your fingers threading almost idly through his tousled locks. He looked so peaceful now, so utterly at rest, though he had only returned from the Wall a single day past, pushing his horse hard the whole way.

"I missed you," he mumbled against your skin, his breath warm and startling, raising goosebumps in its wake. You twitched, not having expected either of you to break the silence for some time yet. His hand shifted higher, sliding just beneath your ribs, and he hitched himself closer. Closer hardly seemed possible, you thought.

His eyes were still heavy with the pull of sleep. Cregan could easily sink back into dreams, lie tangled with you for hours more, until some urgent lord came pounding at the door with talk of accounts and petitions and all the thousand petty matters that lordship demanded. No. No one will tear me from my wife for a single second longer, stirred in his mind.

Home. The word suddenly echoed in his chest, strange and new. The grey stone of Winterfell, so often grim and unyielding, now meant only you. Your smile, your eyes catching the firelight; your laughter, your sorrow. Everything now filtered through the heart of a man who had once been as cold and impassive as the walls he ruled.

You hummed softly, scarcely above a whisper. "You've already said that…about ten times now." Your fingers burrowed deeper into his dark hair. Your gaze drifted across the broad expanse of his back, the muscle that lay carved even in stillness, broad and powerful. Cregan's breathing was deep, almost a soft snore; your touch, soothing as it was, made him sway faintly, following the motion of your hand like a great beast seeking comfort.

Then, as if stirring from a dream, he lifted his head to meet your eyes. His lips curved into a faint, almost teasing smile. "I think one more time wouldn't hurt, my lady." A playful glint lit his gaze as he pressed a quick kiss to your stomach, the nearest of his sudden carnality.

You kindle something wild in him, a storm he couldn't always name. Some days you were sharp-tongued and impossible, and he half-wondered if some old crone had taken root inside his pretty wife. Other days you were light and sly as a vixen, and he feared he could never keep pace, that you would vanish into the snowy depths of the wood and leave him chasing shadows.

A startled gasp escaped you at his unforeseen movement, and the heat rose swiftly to your ears, flooded to your cheeks. You must have looked like a maiden again. Cregan chuckled, warm and low. "Forgive me, my wife. My long absence has clearly made you forget what it is to be surrounded by a man's attention, to be so affected by it," he intoned, droning voice of a maester reciting some tedious moral. Then laughter broke through, bright and boyish, and his lips descended again to your sensitive skin.

Lord Stark kissed you with life and fire, playful and fervent, as if he wasn't kissing you at all but rather tumbling like a wolf pup with its littermates. Your vibrant laughter filled the space, and the man’s heart pounded harder with very beat. In an instant, his hands braced themselves on either side of you, and he hovered above your frame, his chest rising and falling, his hair wilder than before. A smile spread across his face — the kindest, most genuine smile — and a faint dimple appeared on his cheek. You would never have guessed that this rugged, weathered man of the North could hold such lightness, such unguarded devotion. A man who had fallen for you utterly, who would move mountains or burn the world just to catch your smile.

You rolled your eyes, trying to deflect any suspicion that he was right and you truly had forgotten what it was to share a bed with your husband. But your nervous smile, the frantic beating of your heart betrayed you completely.

"I see," your husband said, with deliberate clarity.

His lips met yours in a tender, languid kiss. Palms cradled your face, rough and warm, thumbs stroking your cheekbones with unhurried reverence. The heat of his mouth settled on yours in a hungry, patient, full of all the longing kiss he had carried across the miles. You exhaled sharply through your nose, and he deepened the kiss, working on your lower lip, sliding his tongue inside with a slow, warm exploration that made your head swirl. You found your arms wrapping around the back of his neck, pressing him closer, craving more. Your cheeks flushed hot, your breath came short and ragged. It was only a kiss, one you had shared a hundred times before. Yet somehow, this one undid you entirely.

With visible effort, Cregan pulled back, just far enough to look at you. Cregan always wanted to look at you, your face was a miracle he could not explain, a mystery that stole his breath every time. His heart hammered as wildly as yours, his pupils blown wide, and in that very moment he looked less like the Lord of Winterfell and more like some adoring, awestruck pup.

He kissed you again, soft and brief. "You are so beautiful," the man murmured, and there was a tender sadness in his voice. "It almost grieves me that such loveliness must dwell in the cold North, tucked away behind these stone walls." He spoke with complete sincerity; soon after the Northman pressed another kiss to your lips, your jaw, the tender spot behind your ear, drawing out a fresh wave of goosebumps. You sighed, surrendering to his gentle ministrations.

He was here. Real, solid, warm — flesh and blood.

His kisses grew bolder, his open mouth trailing down your neck, your shoulders, your collarbones. Back up again.

Husband's large hands slid beneath your shift. You flinched, more violently than before, at the wave of warmth that washed over your body. Cregan's hands had always been warm, almost scalding. And he himself always seemed to burn with fire. He often complained that your chambers were too stifling, and so he would throw open the windows. Yet watching you burrow deeper into the furs with each passing night, he would think that he could endure the heat, if only his sweet little wife might sleep in comfort.

His palms traced the curve of your ribs, the dip of your waist. His eyes gleamed with something ravenous.

He hitched up the hem of your nightdress, baring you with immodest recklessness. Your gaze darted away, your lashes fluttering in a frantic beat.

His lips descended upon your tender skin, a new expanse he had yet to explore that morning in your lovemaking. The Northman was gentle, but unbearably impatient, as his mouth traveled lower, from your ribs down to your navel. His breath seared your flesh, and through your mind raced the thought: how could a man so cold harbour such fire within? You arched into those utterly honest kisses. If only you knew that Cregan had cultivated and nourished these feelings solely because of you. Because of you and your nature, which captivated him more with each passing day, with a force that was nothing short of staggering.

Cregan hooked your leg, lifting it onto his shoulder. You shuddered entirely, drawing inward, as though he were committing some forbidden act, some transgression against the honourable nature of the Starks. And yet it was nothing of the sort of an acknowledgment. An acknowledgment of a husband's surrender to his wife.

With kisses, he descended upon your thigh, and his breath raised an extraordinary host of goosebumps across your skin. Your lips parted, and from your mouth escaped an involuntary sigh, impatient and utterly inviting.

He found your pussy and covered it with open-mouthed, wet kisses. He did it with such fervent hunger, as though he had dreamed of nothing else during all those days he had spent at the Wall. He worshipped you as if he could think of no other thing in the world but your slick, aching cunt. And that was the plainest truth. He licked and sucked at your folds, feasting in that very moment. He needed no grand banquets thrown in his honour — leave him his wife with her legs spread wide in his chambers, and that would be the truest feast for the Lord of Winterfell.

You arched your back and moaned so lewdly that you would later feel the burning shame of it, utterly and without question.

Cregan, meanwhile, was drinking you in, savouring every last drop of you.

Your fingers sank into your husband's hair with a newfound fervour, pressing him closer still. Cregan smiled against your skin, and his tongue began tracing ever more intricate patterns upon your swollen, aching nub with renewed diligence. His thumb stroked your thigh in a slow, steady rhythm, as though encouraging you. What further encouragement could you possibly need, when his mouth was working so ardently between your legs, delivering such immeasurable pleasure and setting sparks alight behind your eyes?

You gasped and panted, your breath hitching with each flick of his tongue. "Cregan!" you pleaded, your eyes snapping upward in a silent, desperate prayer to the heavens.

In response, your husband merely hummed against you, drawing out your rapture with merciless precision. You trembled violently, and with a loud, broken moan, you shattered beneath him.

Cregan pulled back from you, wiping your wetness from his face with the back of his hand. He looked more than satisfied with his morning mischief. The formidable man offered you a tender smile, then pressed a kiss to your forehead, achingly gentle, impossibly soft.

He held your gaze, his palm coming to rest against your cheek, his thumb grazing your skin in a slow caress. "I believe I must take my leave now, my lady," he uttered, his voice low and measured. "Else my wayward lords will have wrought some folly in my absence."

The man disentangled himself from the furs and rose from the bed with an effortless motion, shrugging into his robe. He dressed with soldierly swiftness, for that was precisely what he was. And then he left you, alone with your thoughts.

You lay there, flushed to the very roots of your hair, as the heavy door thudded shut, stirring a faint breeze across your heated skin. You bit your lip, still half-disbelieving of what had transpired only moments ago. A quiet giggle escaped you at the thought, and you burrowed yourself up to your nose beneath the blanket. Your smile lingered on your lips for a long, long while after.

The sparkling blue of the sea is almost the same colour of Dick’s eyes as he peers at you over the brim of his sunglasses. He’s grinning, head cocked slightly to the side, mess of dark waves falling into his face. Sunlight falls over his skin, catching on his freshly applied sunscreen and shimmering.

“Come on, sweetheart.” He pleads, “just for five minutes.”

Your answer comes in the form of you kicking yourself further back on your chair and spreading the pages of your book further.

“I mean,” he crouches to sit in the sand next to you, “what’s the point of coming to the beach if you’re just gonna read?”

Dick Grayson, as per usual, is absolutely relentless. He leans closer to you, sun-warmed skin tan and warm against yours. He squints to make out the words on the page you’re currently reading, eyebrows raising.

“I’m relaxing,” you say simply.

“You’ve got to be dying of heat. Come on,” he reaches for your free hand, “just take a dip with me.”

You dogear the page and set your book between your legs. “I know you, Grayson. It’s never ‘just a dip’ with you.”

His smile only spreads, a knowing look on his face. “What’s so wrong with that?” And as if knowing you’re halfway to caving, he rises to his feet, making a big show to stretch his arms over his head. His biceps curl, muscles reflecting the golden sunlight. You can’t help but look, can’t help but trace your eyes up from the tanned muscle of his thigh, to the defined look of his abs, to the shiny white of his teeth.

You sigh. It’s the greatest curse, and blessing, that you happen to have the hottest boyfriend on the planet.

“Okay.” You officially concede, ditching your stuff on the chair and rising to your feet. “Five minutes.”

Dick’s quick to run up to you and wrap his arms around you, squeezing you tight against his muscled chest. “You’re the best.”

“You’re relentless.”

“You love it.”

And unfortunately for you, you really really do.

Dick laces his fingers through yours and tugs you after him, the two of you making your way through the hot sand to where the shore meets the water. Gentle waves lap at the wet sand, your toes sinking into the soft ground. 

Dick wastes no time in running ahead and executing a perfect dive into the water, his body arcing and making a big splash as he hits it. You, not nearly as showboaty as Dick Grayson, slowly wade your way into the water until it’s up to your chest.

Dick surfaces, shaking his wet hair out like a dog. “The water is amazing.”

He leans in so close you can see the water droplets running down his face and purses his lips, pressing them against yours. The cold water on his skin rubs against you and soothes the heat that’s soaked into you throughout the day.

“You’re getting me wet,” you cringe.

“It wouldn't be the first time, right?” You smack his bicep. “Shut up.”

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