Don't mind me, I'm here to spread kindness

Additional characters: Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw, Pete 'Maverick' Mitchell, Tom 'Iceman' Kazansky, all other canon characters involved with the mission, brief appearances of other Kazansky!OC's

Warnings: see each chapter for specific warnings, slow burn, enemies to lovers-ish, canon character death, talk of death and dealing with the loss of a loved one, cancer/sickness, canon level violence, military inaccuracies

Notes: This is not intended to be us navy propaganda in any case. I have no connection to the us navy (or the military in general) & I do not condone their actions. I simply fell in love with tg:m & the characters and want to indulge in my fantasies about that series. While Ana technically is an OC, some might still consider this in the realms/lines of also being able to be considered a 'Reader' (different peeps have different lines where what becomes one and the other) which is why I decided to tag this story as both reader & oc

A/N: I have to thank @writercole a thousand times for helping me sort out the plot!

The name of my OC is inspired by @icemankazansky86 "Russian Iceman Kazanskys Headcanons" who graciously allowed me to name her after Ice sister & grandmother

The header is made by me, and all the dividers were made by the lovely @/firefly-graphics

taglist: open, message me or comment to be added, will be put as reblog

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

You were utterly submerged in the rhythmic domesticity of folding laundry, your headphones snug and your hips swaying—almost instinctively—to the music that anchored your private world. You had squeezed every drop of productivity from your day off: an exhaustive marathon of errands, heavy shopping bags filled with the absurdly expensive luxuries Brendon favored, and the endless hum of the washing machine.

Yet, there wasn't a flicker of resentment for having "wasted" your freedom on chores. Each time you smoothed a T-shirt or triumphed in matching a pair of socks—a feat far more complex than it seemed, as if they possessed a supernatural urge to vanish—a small, secret smile tugged at your lips. You couldn't stop visualizing your husband’s reaction.

Would he mirror your radiance? Or would he succumb to the phantom of panic since, in his own haunting words, "he’d never been granted a decent paternal example"? That doubt lingered in the back of your mind, but it only served as the fuel for your fire. Everything had to be impeccable. Today wasn't just housework; it was a silent, frantic race to ensure every detail of your home was a sanctuary. The life already blossoming within you deserved nothing less. It hadn't been a calculated pursuit—simply a choice to stop running, to step back and let fate take the lead.

Now that fate had spoken, Brendon deserved to hear the echo in a way he’d never forget. Between cycles of the wash, you had choreographed the moment perfectly. You wanted him to step through that door after a grueling shift at the hospital and find more than just a clean house—you wanted him to find the threshold of his new reality, neatly packaged in a box on the table containing a pair of tiny, shark-printed shoes.

You were so lost in your own thoughts, the music acting as a barricade against the world, that you missed the subtle creak of the front door. You didn't hear the heavy, exhausted sigh as Brendon dropped his keys into the ceramic bowl. You were still lost in the melody, carrying the final stack of clean clothes toward the dressing room, when large, warm hands suddenly cinched around your waist.

The shock was electric. You jumped, the sudden jolt sending a freshly folded cotton shirt tumbling to the floor. You spun quickly within his grasp, headphones still clinging to your ears, to meet your husband’s gaze. The exhaustion of a marathon shift in the operating room was etched into the tension of his shoulders, but his eyes held that soft, guarded light—the look he reserved exclusively for you—that never failed to make your pulse skip.

You slid the headphones down around your neck, discarding them onto the nearest surface without a thought.

"Your first day off in weeks and you spend it on labor, Sunny..."

"I slept in, Bren. Then I had a proper breakfast, got dressed, and conquered the shops," you replied with a tender smile, looping your arms around his neck and grazing the skin at his nape. "I bought those steaks you love. And I finally caught up on the laundry."

"You spoil me, Doll," he rasped. Before you could offer a retort, he closed the distance between you until there wasn't an inch of air to breathe.

His hands migrated from your hips to cradle your face with a fierce, possessive urgency as he kissed you. It was deep and desperate—a kiss born of longing and necessity, but anchored in a profound, quiet love. You felt the rigidity leave his frame as he melted against you, his thumbs tracing your cheekbones with a slowness that felt almost reverent.

"I’ve missed you every damn second of those sixteen hours," he whispered against your mouth, his warm breath ghosting over your skin. "I needed this. To feel you."

A lump of pure emotion tightened your throat. He had no inkling of the miracle growing in your womb—the tiny spark you had both kindled. You pulled back just enough to hold his gaze, keeping your hands on his chest with a mischievous glint in your eyes.

"Well, I’m right here... and I have something for you."

You slipped from his hold and walked to the dining table, where the small box rested on the dark oak. You lifted it with trembling care, as if the contents were made of spun glass, and returned to him. Brendon watched you with mounting intrigue, leaning lazily against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest, a weary half-smile playing on his lips.

"A gift?" He arched a skeptical brow. "Doll, it’s not an anniversary or a birthday. You don’t need to buy me things."

"Just shut up and open it, Bren," you whispered, thrusting the box toward him, your heart hammering against your ribs.

He gave a soft, amused huff and took the package. His long, steady surgeon's fingers made quick work of the black ribbon, drawing out the suspense. But the moment he lifted the lid, the world went silent. His blue eyes locked onto the miniature shoes—tiny blue sharks, so small they could be swallowed by the palm of his hand.

He froze. He barely blinked, his analytical brain seemingly paralyzed by the image. The weariness evaporated, replaced by a sudden, stark pallor and a look of profound wonder.

"Doll..." His voice was a fractured whisper, his breath hitching as he delicately lifted one of the booties. "Tell me this isn't just a joke... tell me you didn't just find the design funny."

He looked up, searching your eyes for the permission to believe it.

"It’s not a joke, Bren. I’m nine weeks pregnant," you confirmed, your voice thick with tears. You placed your hands over his, which were still clutching the tiny shoe. "We’re having a baby, Big Guy."

The silence that followed was heavy and sacred. Brendon looked back down at the shoe, and for the first time in your years together, you watched a single, solitary tear track down his cheek.

Without a word, he sank to his knees. He pressed his forehead against your stomach, his arms wrapping around your waist with a desperate, grounding strength. It was the gesture of a man who had just found a new center of gravity.

"Nine weeks... a baby," he muffled against you, the vibration of his voice humming through your skin. "God, I’m going to be a father. I swear to you, Doll... I swear on my life I’ll be the best for them."

He stood, cupping your face once more to kiss you with a tenderness that nearly broke you.

"I'm buying a portable ultrasound machine," he announced, a flash of his usual professional authority returning as he wiped your tears away. "I don't care what it costs. I want to see this baby and hear that heart whenever we want."

"An ultrasound machine, Bren?" you laughed through your sobs. "That’s insane, it’s not even your specialty."

"I’m an orthopedic surgeon, Doll. I can read an image better than half the residents in that building," he countered with that characteristic touch of arrogance that made you smile. "Besides, I’m not letting our peace of mind depend on a waiting list. If I need to hear that little heart beating at three in the morning just so I can sleep, then I will."

"I married a madman," you joked, leaning into him.

"You married the man who is going to protect you and that baby better than anyone on earth," he corrected fiercely. "Tomorrow, I’m calling Dr. Bishop. She’s the best OB in the city and she owes me for fixing her mother’s hip. You’ll be seen in her private clinic. You’ll just have to tolerate me wanting to listen to the heartbeat every five minutes."

He folded you into his arms, and in that embrace, you felt like the safest person in existence. He fell silent, resting his cheek atop your head as you both stared at the tiny shoe on the table. The "Shark" had finally laid down his armor.

"It’s going to be so small, isn't it?" he asked suddenly, his voice laced with genuine awe. "The bones... they'll be so delicate. God, I’ll have to learn not to squeeze too hard when I hold them."

"You won't hurt them. They'll be in the best hands in the world," you assured him, rubbing his back. "You’re going to be an incredible father, Big Guy. Overprotective, but incredible."

In that moment of raw vulnerability, it was clear: Brendon was already as deeply in love with the baby as he was with you. It didn't matter how formidable he was in the OR or how much he terrified his residents; here, in the quiet of your home, he was simply a man captivated by the new life beginning to pulse within you.

"I'll be whatever you need," he promised, kissing your hair. "Rest now, Doll. I’ll take care of you both."

He wasn't lying.

Nine months later, you were a study in heavy, aching anticipation. Your daughter was a tempest, kicking your ribs with a relentless energy she had clearly inherited from her father. You felt as though you might split at the seams, yet stubbornness—another trait you shared with your husband—drove you from the bed. You wanted to brew one last pot of coffee for Brendon while he showered, preparing for his final shift before paternity leave.

But as your feet hit the floor, it wasn't a contraction that halted you. It was a strange, sudden rush of heat—the unmistakable sensation of liquid soaking through your clothes and pooling onto the hardwood. You froze, staring at the puddle with the eerie, detached composure that only an ER nurse could maintain in a crisis.

The bathroom door creaked open, and Brendon emerged in a shroud of steam, a towel slung low on his hips and his torso still glistening with droplets. He stopped dead when he saw you standing there, staring blankly at the floor. His blue eyes swept the room, processing the scene in a fraction of a second. There was no first-time-father panic; there was only the absolute, chilling calm of a surgeon.

"Bren... I just—" Your voice was a thin whisper.

"I know, Doll. It seems our daughter has a very loose interpretation of due dates," he replied. His voice was so steady it sent a shiver of pure relief down your spine.

There was no frantic rushing. Brendon dropped the towel and dressed with the clinical efficiency of a soldier on a mission. In a heartbeat, you were swept into his arms and carried down to the garage. He settled you into the leather interior of his BMW X6, reclining the seat just enough to keep you secure but comfortable.

"Bren, the upholstery..." you wheezed as a fresh contraction stole your breath.

"I can replace leather, Doll. I can't replace you two. The only thing that matters is getting you to that hospital," he said, cinching the belt over your belly with a tenderness that brought tears to your eyes.

He rounded the hood in three long strides and slid into the driver's seat. With a flick of his wrist, the engine roared to life. The drive was a masterclass in precision. Brendon kept one hand locked on the wheel, carving through the morning fog with surgical accuracy, while his other hand sought yours, squeezing tight every time a contraction forced your back to arch. His eyes flicked between the road and you, monitoring your vitals as if you were his most critical patient.

"She had to pick rush hour," you hissed through gritted teeth. Pittsburgh’s morning traffic was a legendary hellscape; the path to PTMC felt like an impossible gauntlet.

A new contraction, far more violent than the last, forced your eyes shut. You gripped his thigh with a force that would have made any other man falter, but Brendon didn't flinch. He absorbed your pain as if it were his own.

"She’s impatient. Clearly, she didn't get that from me," he joked, his voice a low rumble designed to ground you as he swerved around a delivery truck. "Breathe, Doll. You’re doing perfectly. You’re the strongest woman I’ve ever known."

"God, I don't think I'm doing this again, Bren..." you gasped, the pressure becoming unbearable. "I'm sorry..."

"Don't you dare apologize. Not for this," he countered instantly, his voice thick with devotion. He kept his left hand fixed on the wheel, dodging a slow-moving sedan, while his right hand remained a steady weight on your leg. "If this impatient little girl is the only one we ever have, she’ll be the luckiest, most loved child in this fucking world. I don't need another miracle to know how incredible you are. I just need you two safe."

You looked at his profile—a sharp, concentrated line of marble. There was no trace of the panic a normal father would feel. He was a surgeon in the middle of the most vital operation of his life, and you were his only priority.

"Bren... she’s crowning," you exhaled, the downward pressure forcing you to arch against the leather.

The atmosphere in the car shifted instantly. The air grew dense, electric. Brendon’s jaw tightened until the muscle looked carved from stone. You were gridlocked just blocks from the hospital. Time had run out.

"Damn it," he growled, though his voice remained low. "Okay, Doll. Listen to me. We aren't waiting for this traffic to move. We both know she isn't going to wait for a parking spot."

He shifted in his seat, placing a firm, steady hand on your stomach.

"Unbuckle the belt. Get your pants off. Now, beautiful. Don't worry about the car, just focus on me."

"We should call Dana... tell her to get the OB team ready..." you managed to stutter, your hands trembling as you fumbled with the fabric.

Brendon didn't take his eyes off you, but he slammed the hands-free button. "Call Dana Evans," he commanded. "Now, Doll. Get rid of the clothes. Forget everything else. Let's bring our daughter home."

The phone rang over the speakers just as you managed to kick the clothes to the floor. Dana’s authoritative voice filled the cabin. "Park? Why are you calling? Is everything okay with Sunshine?"

"Dana!" you shrieked, clutching the ceiling handle so hard the plastic groaned. "I’m in the car and she’s coming! I’m crowning!"

There was a half-second of silence—the time it took for a veteran nurse to shift gears. "Sunshine! Stay calm! Don’t push unless you can’t stop it! Shark! Tell me you aren't driving like a maniac!"

"We’re stuck in traffic, Dana," Brendon interrupted, his voice reaching that terrifying level of calm he only used when a life was on the line. "Clear Trauma 1. I want OB and a Neo-team standing by the bay. We're coming in hot."

He cut the call. The traffic broke, but your daughter had reached the point of no return. The "ring of fire" consumed you, and your nails dug deep into Brendon's knee.

"Don't hold back, Doll. If you have to push, push," he ordered. He covered your hand with his, welcoming the sting of your nails.

The BMW roared as Brendon tore onto the shoulder, burning rubber to bridge the final meters to the PTMC ramp. You felt a final, explosive surge of nature—a force that ripped a scream from your lungs that likely echoed through the entire ward.

"Brendon!" you cried out, your hands reaching down to catch the small, slick body of your daughter as she slid into the world.

He slammed on the brakes in front of the ER doors, the screech of tires bringing security running. The engine was still ticking, hot from the race, but the world went silent when your daughter’s first cry—a high-pitched, indignant, life-filled wail—broke the air.

Brendon unbuckled and lunged toward your seat. His surgeon’s hands, which never wavered, joined yours to hold the warm miracle against your chest. He shed his linen jacket to cover her, shielding her from the morning air. His blue eyes, usually so clinical, were shimmering.

"She’s perfect, Doll. You’re... God, you’re incredible," he whispered, kissing your sweat-soaked brow.

"She already has your look of annoyance," you joked weakly, tears finally spilling over.

The ER doors burst open. Donnie and Jesse sprinted out with a gurney, their faces a mix of terror and awe.

"I see Baby Shark is just as impatient as her mother, eh, Sunshine?" Donnie shouted, rushing to cover you with a blanket as they helped Brendon move you to the gurney.

"Shut up, Donnie!" you barked, a laugh bubbling through your sobs. "I would have made it to the ward if the traffic in this city wasn't absolute shit!"

"Hey, watch the language, Sunshine! There are innocent ears present!" Jesse teased.

As they began to wheel you inside, Donnie—ever the instigator—pulled out his phone. He had been waiting for this moment since the day he found out "Park the Shark" was the father. He hit play and turned the volume to the max.

The low, menacing notes of the Jaws theme began to thrum through the ER hallway.

Tu-tum... tu-tum... tu-tum-tu-tum...

The ward ground to a halt. Robby froze mid-note; Langdon dropped his pen; the nurses exchanged looks of pure shock. Even Dana couldn't hide her grin. The Great White Shark of Orthopedics had entered the building, not to hunt, but to protect his brood.

Brendon walked beside the gurney, his hand resting firmly on the edge. He didn't care about the ruined shirt or his fearsome reputation. He only had eyes for you and the tiny creature on your chest.

"Donnie, you're an idiot," you laughed.

"What? Baby Shark deserves the entrance of the century," he retorted as they swung you into Trauma 1.

The baby, oblivious to the soundtrack, snuggled into your skin. But the joy of the room shifted as Robby stepped forward, his expression darkening.

"You know what's crazy, Sunshine?" Robby said softly as the team began their post-birth checks. "Today is a day of miracles and cruel ironies. Baby Jane Doe came back in thirty minutes ago."

You stiffened. The memory of the little girl from the 4th of July—the one you had held until the system took her away—hit you like a physical blow. You had grieved for her, fearing the system would fail her.

"What? Why?" you asked, your heart sinking.

Robby sighed, glancing at Dana. "Her foster mother 'forgot' she was in the back seat while running errands. She was locked in the car, Sunshine. In the direct sun. A passerby had to break the glass. She's lucky to be alive."

You looked down at your own daughter, so safe and warm, and then up at Brendon. The contrast was agonizing. You had fought through a city to save your child, while Jane Doe had been left to bake in a metal tomb.

The silence in the room was deafening. Brendon stood perfectly still, but the air around him turned cold. That predatory, protective calm settled over him.

"Forgotten?" The word fell from his lips like a death sentence. His gaze turned lethal. "You’re telling me that while I nearly wrecked my car to ensure my family was safe, that woman left a child in a furnace?"

"Exactly that," Dana confirmed, her eyes bright with unshed tears. "She’s dehydrated and the heat stroke was severe, but she’s a fighter."

You felt the echo of your own childhood—the cold uncertainty of the foster system—resonate in your chest. You couldn't let it happen again. Not to her.

"Brendon," you whispered, reaching for him.

He looked at you. In his eyes was the man who had just realized his family wasn't yet complete.

"They failed you, Doll," he said, his voice a low, lethal promise only you could hear. "But we are not going to fail her. Not again. I know how hard it was to let her go the first time. Fate is screaming at us to fix this."

The room went still as his meaning sank in.

"You mean...?" Your voice broke.

"We should have done it from the start," he said, kissing your temple. "There will be no more goodbyes, Doll. Baby Jane Doe is staying with us. I don't care who I have to call—she isn't going back."

A few hours later, the frantic pulse of the ER had faded into the profound stillness of a private suite on the maternity floor. The late afternoon sun began its slow descent over Pittsburgh, hemorrhaging gold through the windows and bathing the room in a warm, ethereal glow. You were reclined against a mountain of pillows, your newborn daughter—the little "Baby Shark" who had claimed her place in the world so violently—sleeping soundly in the bassinet beside you.

The door moved on silent hinges. Brendon stepped inside, still wearing the clothes from the birth, though he had scrubbed the day’s grime from his face. The shadow of fury that had darkened his features in the Trauma Box was gone, replaced by a quiet, triumphant serenity. In his arms, he carried a small, bundled weight wrapped in an immaculate white cotton blanket.

"Brendon?" you whispered, shifting carefully.

He didn't speak. He crossed the room with the measured grace of a man who had already won the war. With the delicate precision he reserved solely for you, he leaned down and deposited the bundle into your arms.

"Emergency custody has been granted," he murmured, sitting on the edge of the mattress and draping a protective arm around your shoulders. "The judge is a former colleague, and the Chief of Surgery personally signed the suitability reports. There is no more 'Jane Doe.' The paperwork dictates she remains with us until the adoption is finalized. We’re going to need to give her a name, Doll... something other than what that woman called her."

You looked down at the infant. She was barely three months old, her cheeks still flushed from the terrifying heat she had endured, but as she felt the familiar warmth of your touch, she blinked open those sweet, dark eyes that had haunted your dreams since July. She seemed to recognize you instantly; her lips mimicked a soft, seeking motion before she curled into your chest, tucking herself directly over the beat of your heart.

"Hello again, little one," you sobbed, the tears falling unchecked as you pressed a kiss to her temple. "I promised you back in July... I promised you that someone would love you. And we are going to love you so very much. My sweet Cordelia Ondina."

The baby let out a long, shuddering sigh, as if she had finally found the only place in the world where she was truly safe. The hollow ache that had lived in your chest since she was taken from you weeks ago vanished, healing scars you hadn't even realized were open.

Brendon leaned his forehead against yours, absorbing the sight of the perfect tableau: his wife, his biological daughter, and the little girl fate had refused to let him leave behind. The three women who now held his world in their hands.

"And to think, I said we’d only have one daughter... then fate hands us two," you whispered, your voice thick with emotion as you stroked Cordelia’s cheek. Your gaze drifted to the bassinet where Baby Shark slept on.

"Fate didn't hand us anything, Doll. It simply pointed the way," he corrected in a low, gravelly rasp, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made you tremble. "We took what was ours. And neither of them... they couldn't have asked for a better mother."

"And they couldn't ask for a better guardian, Big Guy," you whispered, brushing your nose against his. "The great Park 'The Shark'—the surgeon everyone fears, who turns out to have the largest heart I’ve ever known."

In the hallowed silence of the suite, there was only the rhythmic, synchronized breathing of the two infants. Though they had arrived by vastly different paths—one born in the leather-scented sanctuary of a luxury car, the other rescued from the cold abandonment of a failing system—they now shared a home, a future, and a name.

Brendon wrapped his arms around all of you, a living shield against the world outside. His blue eyes shone with a raw vulnerability—the kind only you could draw out, and the kind you suspected his daughters would eventually command as well.

"I love you, Doll," he whispered, the words heavy with a devotion that bordered on the sacred. "I love all of you. You are everything I ever wanted... even when I was too arrogant to know I needed it."

He kissed your forehead with a lingering, reverent slowness. Outside those doors, the hospital continued its frantic, chaotic dance, but inside the bubble of the suite, time stood still. You looked from Cordelia, dozing against your heart, to the bassinet where your youngest daughter rested, knowing that your real story—the one of the Shark and his girls—was only just beginning.

It was the dead of night, and you could not sleep.

You lay still beneath your blankets, your child pressed tight against your chest. The boy's small body rose and fell with shallow breaths, but your own refused to calm.

Outside, the air was too quiet, unnaturally so. Not even the wind dared blow tonight. It wasn’t just any night. This was the night that Stannis Baratheon marched on King’s Landing.

Your small village, a mere a day and a half walk from the city walls, had been restless for weeks. Rumors spread like wildfire. Stannis would come by sea, by land, with dragons, with demons. No one truly knew anything, but all agreed on one thing: death was coming.

You had family in the city. Your brother, Brenn, served with the city watch. He’d come to you quietly just two days before, pressed a kiss to your son's forehead, and said, “don’t go to the Red Keep. no matter what you hear.”

You blinked at him. “They're opening the gates. The Queen herself said so…-”

“It’s a trap,” Brenn interrupted. “She’ll pack the people in and use them as a human shield. She’ll dare Stannis to burn them, she’ll force him to defy his morals to save her own skin.”

Now, as you stared into the dark, you held your son tighter, your heartbeat pounding like war drums. Could your small house, tucked at the edge of a nearly forgotten village, truly be safer than the Red Keep? Safer than stone walls and soldiers?

Earlier that day, you had overheard the men at the market speak as if they knew war like they knew their tools. Stannis would strike by dawn, they said, or maybe hold back and starve the city.

You didn’t pretend to understand the minds of lords or kings. All you knew was fear, and tonight; it crept in like smoke through cracks, impossible to ignore.

You looked down at your little boy again, brushing a stray curl from his cheek. The stillness of the air, the absence of any sounds… Had you made a mistake by staying? When the whispers of war began, when the sailors in the harbor started sailing west instead of toward the city... should you have packed what little owned and ran?

But run where?

You had no coin, no kin beyond your brother. You had lost everything when war took your husband two years past. If he were here now, he’d be fighting beside Brenn, sword in hand, doing his duty for a king neither of them believed in.

A noise broke your thoughts.

It came from outside, something heavy crashing down, the sound muffled by grass and earth, but the metallic clank was clear. could still hear the metallic clank. You sat upright in an instant, your breath caught in your throat. For a moment, you told yourself it was nothing. Just your nerves. Just the wind.

Maegin stirred but didn’t wake.

Heart hammering, you slipped from the bed, laying your son gently on the mattress. You crept to the window, careful not to let the boards creak beneath your feet. With one finger, you nudged the curtain aside.

Darkness, nothing but it. The moon hung pale and high, casting just enough light to make shadows long and shapes uncertain. No firelight. No torches. No village sounds. No one was foolish enough to light a lamp tonight.

You squinted, eyes adjusting slowly.

There was something. A shape.

Lying in the grass right on top of your herb patch. It looked like a heap of furs or a forgotten sack. But then it moved. Shifted. Groaned.

A man. A large man sprawled on his side as though he’d simply collapsed there.

You held your breath. He wasn’t moving now, just breathing. You could see the slow rise and fall of his chest in the moonlight.

Drunk? Wounded? Dangerous?

You stared a while longer, debating. You could shut the curtain, crawl back into bed, and pretend you had seen nothing. A stranger’s life was no concern of yours, not with Maegin under your roof.

But what if he died out there? What if it was someone fleeing the city? A soldier left behind, or even an outlaw?

You could be saving someone’s life... or ending your own. And your son’s.

You stepped back from the window, heart thudding in your chest. Could it be your brother, or a friend of his? You felt your hands sweaty, and wiped them on your skirt, stepping away from the window. Whoever was that man in your yard, it was a soldier. It was obvious he was wearing armor by the clank when he fell. 

You thought of your husband, Sam. You wondered if he had been through anything like this in his final moments, when he went to war and never returned home. No matter what side that man was fighting for, you had to do something, anything. You knew most soldiers weren’t fighting for ideals, you knew most of them didn’t agree with their kings and lords, they just did it for a living. Just like Sam. Just like Brenn. So you decided to go outside, to check on that stranger. 

Despite your fear, you couldn’t bring yourself to shut the curtains and pretend. You would go out. Just long enough to see if he was still breathing. Just long enough to know what to do next.

First, you moved Maegin to his crib in the smaller room. You kissed his hair and shut the door softly behind yourself.  Then you knelt at the chest that held what was left of Sam’s things, the things you were never brave enough to sell or throw away, things you hadn’t touched in two years. A dagger and a sword. You hid the dagger on the waistband of your skirts. The sword was too heavy, and you wouldn’t know how to use it anyway. Not that you planned on using those weapons, you just knew you had to be careful. 

You weren’t planning to use it, but being careful wasn’t the same as being cruel.

One last glance at the closed bedroom door. One last steadying breath.

Then you opened the front door and stepped into the night. The air was colder than you expected.

You stepped barefoot onto the packed earth of the yard, the worn hem of your nightdress brushing against your ankles. Your fingers hovered near the hidden dagger.

The figure hadn’t moved since you last looked. Still a lump of dark cloth and armor sprawled in your herbs, boots muddy and arms open. A faint snore—or maybe a groan—rose from his throat.

You circled wide around him at first, scanning the edges of your property. No signs of any others. No glint of metal. No shuffle of boots. Just the steady croak of frogs by the creek and the distant moan of wind over the hills.

You crept closer.

The man reeked of wine. Stale sweat. Horses. And blood.

His sword was still belted at his side, heavy and long. Not a cheap blade either. you could see the workmanship in the moonlight. His armor was scorched and dirty, the remnants of an undershirt still clinging to one shoulder, too stained to even make out a color.

And he was huge. Gods, bigger than any man you had ever seen.

You knelt slowly near his side, every breath sharp in your throat. Your hand hovered above your dagger, but you hadn’t drawn it. Not yet. Your eyes flicked to the sword. It would be foolish to leave it on him. If he woke and panicked, you wouldn’t stand a chance.

Careful, slowly, you reached for the hilt, and his hand clamped around your wrist like a bear trap. You gasped, nearly falling backwards. His grip was like iron. His filthy fingers caked in dried blood and dirt, but damn strong.

His eyes cracked open, just a sliver. One was nearly swollen shut. The other glinted dully in the moonlight, full of confusion and threat.

“Touch it again,” he growled, voice thick with drink and hate, “and I’ll open yer throat.”

You didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Your hand trembled now. But after a long, tense beat, his grip loosened and his eyes shut close again.

And just like that, he passed out. Fully, this time.

You sat there beside him, heart pounding, skin cold.

You didn’t scream. You didn’t stab him. You should’ve done either, but instead, you sat in the grass, staring at that giant of a man passed out in your herb garden and realized you had just made your choice.

There was no running back inside now, so you stared at the man for almost a full minute, your hands shaky, your heart thumping, waiting to see if he’d move, talk, say anything. He didn’t. Your gaze lingered on his face, on the half you could make sense of, slack with sleep. The other half was twisted in a mess of old burn scars. Puckered skin was pulled tightly over bone, shiny and raw even in the moonlight. One ear was half gone, melted like wax.

You looked down at his body, looking for wounds, but the armor didn’t show scratches. Still, there was a bunch of blood. Even his hair was stained. You touched his arm, then his chest, prodding here and there to see if he’d wake up. 

You couldn't move him. Couldn’t leave him. Couldn’t quite convince yourself he was harmless either.

He was too big. Too armed. Too unknown.

But he was also alone. Hurt. Left out in the dark like something the gods forgot.

You stared at him a little longer, the cool night air curling around your bare ankles, your mind racing with all the reasons she should turn back… but your feet didn’t move.

It felt wrong leaving him like this. Whatever he’d done, wherever he came from, he was still a man bleeding in your yard. A soldier. Like Sam. Like Brenn.

You stood slowly, knees stiff, and brushed the dirt from your skirts. “All right, then,” you muttered to yourself, voice low. “If you’re not dead, you better prove it.”

You stepped closer, leaned down, and gave his shoulder a firm shake. Nothing. You shook him harder. “You’re bleeding all over my mint!”

Still nothing. Just the slow rise and fall of his chest and the faint stink of wine and blood.

You sighed, eyeing the edge of his armor. If he was bleeding under all that, he’d rot through the night. You couldn't carry him. You couldn't lift him. But maybe you could get the armor off and check for wounds hiding underneath….and pray to the gods he wouldn’t wake angry.

You stepped around behind him, careful not to jostle him too much, and began working at the buckles on his chest plate. They were stiff, grimy with dried blood, and obviously made for a man with larger and more skilled hands than yours.

“Stupid thing,” you muttered, yanking one loose with more force than grace. As you pulled at the second buckle, he stirred. Not fully, but his head rolled slightly, and his breath hitched. A low groan rose from his throat.

You froze, dagger suddenly too far from your reach.

His arm twitched. His brow furrowed, as if caught in some nightmare, but he didn’t wake. You swallowed and waited, body tight with tension, but after a moment he went still again.

You let out a breath and returned to the buckles, faster this time. You unfastened the last strap, then gently lifted the armor from his chest and set it aside on the grass. It hit the earth with a dull thud.

Beneath, his tunic was soaked through. The blood was thick and drying across his ribs, the fabric stiff and clinging to his skin. But when you pressed gently along his side, you found no obvious wound. No gash, no arrowhead, no broken rib poking through.

“Whose blood is this?” you whispered to yourself.

You looked down at your fingers, stained red. Blood didn't scare you, since you grew up in a family of soldiers and married one years later. 

You stood slowly.

He needed a blanket. Something to keep him from freezing. Something to give you time to think.

And I definitely, you thought as you turned around towards your house, need a drink.

…

The fire in the hearth had long since died down, but you hadn’t gone back inside. Instead, while wrapped in your husband’s old cloak, knees pulled close to your chest,  you sat a short distance from the stranger. A worn wool blanket now covered the stranger, barely enough for a man his size, but better than nothing.

You didn’t know what you were waiting for. Maybe dawn. Maybe the courage to drag him to the Godswood and leave him there. Instead, you sat.

The moon had shifted high above the trees when you heard the shift in his breathing. Deeper. Then shallow. Then a soft, gritted groan. Your spine stiffened and you glanced towards him. The man was stirring, his fingers twitching against the edge of the blanket, mouth parting like he was about to curse the world awake.

He blinked slowly. Then suddenly, his eyes snapped to yours. One good eye, one swollen. Even in the moonlight, you felt the weight of that stare, sharp and cold like a blade against your throat.

You didn’t move.

Neither did he.

“You’re ruining my mint,” you said finally, voice low.

He grunted, shifting to a sitting position, eying the bits and pieces of his armor laying on the grass next to him. He reached instinctively toward his side, towards where the sword should’ve been.

You put your hands on the ground, as if ready to get up at any moment. “I hid it. And checked for wounds.”

He looked down, grunted again. “You better keep your fuckin’ hands to yourself, woman.” He looked around, taking in the picture. “Where am I?”

“In a village that wants nothing to do with that war.”

Silence stretched between you, thick with questions neither of you were willing to ask, let alone answer. You studied him carefully. He was still pale, still reeking of wine and blood. But there was clarity in his gaze now.

He was awake. 

Dangerous again.

“Who are you?” he said, voice slurred. 

Your mouth tightened. You said nothing.

“I want to know why you were bleeding on my garden.”

His jaw clenched. “Go back inside, girl”

You didn’t reply. You just stood there.

“Where my horse at?”

You shook your head. “No horse.”

“The fuck you mean?” he snapped. “Big black bastard. Mean as I am. Where’s he gone?”

“You had no horse. Just armor. A flask of wine. A sword. And a bag of gold.”

“You took the sword, but left the gold?”

“I don’t want your gold.” As far as you knew, that gold could've come from anywhere. “I'm not a thief.”

He barked out a laugh, short and mirthless. “You do steal swords.”

“I hide weapons. There’s a difference.”

You stared at each other for a long time, the silence taut and uncomfortable. The wind picked up, rustling the dry grass between you.

Sandor’s voice broke the silence. “Take the sword. Keep it. Won’t stop me if I decide to break your neck instead.”

You didn’t blink. Neither did he.

Then, from inside the house, a faint wail broke the quiet.

Maegin.

You stood slowly, eyes still on the man, hesitant to turn your back to him. The harsh truth was that he wouldn’t need any weapons to harm you and your son, and this weighed heavily on your shoulders. 

He didn’t say anything, just watched.

You lingered for a moment longer, then turned and walked toward the cottage, cloak trailing behind you.

…

Soon, dawn came.

You stepped outside again once the light crept over the hills, breath misting in the cool air. Your garden was quiet, the mint and chamomile heavy with dew. You knelt to gather a few sprigs, hands moving with practiced ease.

He was still there.

The stranger.

Sitting on the grass, back against a tree, legs stretched out in the grass. The blanket lay forgotten at his side. He was staring into the distance, jaw tense, one hand resting on his knee.

He didn’t look at you when you came near. Didn’t speak. So you walked past him without a word and went inside.

You couldn't say you always had a full pantry, but when people started talking about war and how soon Stannis’ army would come, you spent what you could to make  sure Maegin would be fed and warm. No one could tell how long it'd take before things were back to normal.

You cooked breakfast. Eggs, boiled potatoes, some leftover chicken. Maegin's highchair was broken, so you sat him on your lap and made sure he had breakfast. You'd usually eat when he was done.

With his belly full, you saw Maegin going to his room. You didn’t pay any mind to it, since mornings were always his playtime, and you were used to the soft thuds of wooden toys on the floor.

That man was still outside. You knew he was probably hungry and dehydrated due to his hangover, so you thought you could offer him some breakfast before asking him to leave. When you stepped outside, Maegin was already wobbling on his way there, to him.

The man was now standing up, his armor back on. Your eyes went wide as you saw Maegin, wearing the little tin helmet his uncle had gifted him, ambling up to the man with a stick on his hand and hitting him on the leg. The man did nothing but stare down at him, while Maegin hit him again, then again.

“Piss off.” He barked at your boy, but Maegin didn’t back out. He giggled as he hit the stranger again.

And then, the man snatched the stick from Maegin and snapped it in half, before throwing it far away. Maegin proceeded to punch his leg, just as far as a two-year-old could reach. The man growled, annoyed, and your son growled back, like the brave soldier he wanted to be. Maegin growled again, fiercer this time, gripping the man’s leg as if trying to wrestle him down. 

You rushed outside, scooping your son into your arms before Sandor could fling him aside like the stick. Clutching Maegin tight, you stepped back, eyes wide, pulse racing as though the battle had come to your very door.

The stranger scowled at you, and you stared back at him, trying to read his behaviour. When several seconds passed, none of you saying anything, you decided to break the silence. “You hungry?”

No answer.

More seconds passed and you grew tired of waiting. You turned around and went back inside, telling your son to go play with his toys. “He’s not like uncle Brenn” you warned, “he doesn’t want to play knights”. The thought of your brother not returning home weighed heavily on you as you watched your son walk into his room. Maegin couldn’t lose him, and neither could you.

Then, a moment later, the heavy thump of boots across the yard.

The stranger, tall and broad as he was, ducked under the low doorframe, straightening slowly once inside. He scanned the walls of old stone, the wooden coverings, ceiling low enough to nearly graze his head, wooden table worn smooth with years. Your son’s highchair broken, the counters old, their doors needing fixing.

He didn’t say a word.

He sat down, awkward in the chair that felt too small for him. His broad shoulders hunched and legs sprawled under the table like he didn’t know how to fold himself properly.

You set a plate in front of him. Bread. Eggs. Tea. A slice of cheese and the leftovers of the boiled potatoes. Then you served yourself and sat across from him. He ate like the brute he was.

When done, he leaned back slightly, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and muttered, “That supposed to mean I owe you something now?”

“Maybe,” you answered cautiously. He stared at you for a long moment. Then, with a slight grunt, he looked away. He knew you were about to ask questions non-stop. You set down your cup carefully. “You came from the city.” You guessed.

He didn’t respond.

“There was a battle.”

Still nothing.

“You were in it?”

He let out a sharp breath through his nose, not quite a laugh. “You always ask questions with answers you already know? Ask the right questions, dumb wench.”

“I want to hear it from you.”

His jaw worked slightly as he stared at the wall. The silence stretched.

“Fucking madness,” he said at last. “Fire everywhere. Screaming. Men burning like rats.”

You didn’t interrupt.

“I fought for gold. That’s all. That’s all it ever is.”

He stood up suddenly, the chair scraping loud against the floor.

“Wont bleed my stories across your table,” he muttered.

He didn’t thank you, he just turned toward the door, ducked under the frame again, and stepped outside like he owed nothing to either you or the world.

…

It was near dusk when you heard the knocking. Three heavy thuds. You paused at the hearth, your son Maegin playing quietly with wooden animals near the fire. It was past dinnertime, your brother was safe at home with his wife… Who could it be?

You sat down your spoon and crossed the room slowly, your fingers brushing the hidden dagger near the doorframe out of habit. Then you opened it.

And there he was.

That same stranger, from just a few weeks ago.

Dirt-smeared. Gaunt. His hair was damp with rain and sweat, longer and wilder than before, just like his beard. A crust of dried blood at his temple. He looked worse than he had the first time you’d found him in your garden, more exhausted now than drunk.  A man who looked as though he’d been chasing something with no end.

And beside him, half-hidden behind his cloak, was a girl. Thin, dirty, and glaring up at you with the hesitance only scared children ever managed. Your eyes shifted between them, taking them in. They were soaked to the bone, both of them. Pale with cold, hollowed out by hunger.

You didn’t ask why they were here, neither did you expect you’d be a safe place to him. He was big. Strong. And last time you’d seen him, he had a bag of gold dragons the size of his head. You, meanwhile, were nothing but a young widow, barely getting by.

You stepped aside. “Get in.”

They entered without hesitation, the man ducking under the doorframe again, the girl brushing past with her wary eyes scanning the room like a cornered cat. Maegin looked up from the floor, and growled playfully at the man, but didn’t stop playing with his toys. You closed the door behind them and turned back to the fire.

The man gave you a look and lowered himself onto the bench by the fire with a grunt. The girl followed slowly, eyes never leaving you. You ladled soup into two bowls and passed them around before going to check what you had in your pantry. You took half a loaf of bread to split between them.

As they ate in silence, the fire crackled. Rain tapped against the shutters. The girl devoured the soup like she hadn’t seen a warm meal in days. Sandor still ate like the brute he was.

“You didn’t say you were coming back,” You said finally.

“Didn’t plan to.”

“But you came.”

He looked up at her, the frown always present. “Ain’t dead yet.” You wondered if that meant he would come back again.

You didn’t answer, just watched as the little girl turned to look at the man, as if asking something with her gaze. You turned around to give them privacy. 

“You’ll have to help me fill the tub.” You said as you went after the buckets.

…

About an hour later, the cottage had gone quiet.

The storm outside passed, leaving the night calm and damp. The only sound now came from the low crackle of the hearth and the soft breathing of children behind closed doors.

You stepped out from the back room, drying your hands on your apron. You’d washed the girl’s clothes and hung them near the fire to dry, and now the girl was asleep in Maegin’s bed, curled up small and tight, like she didn’t know how to take up space.

You had settled Maegin in your own bed instead, and told him there were travelers staying the night, that the girl was tired and needed quiet. He fell asleep before he could even question anything. 

Now, with the fire burning low and the hour creeping toward deep night, only two remained awake.

The stranger sat at the edge of the table, as far from the fire as he could, elbows on his knees, staring at his hands. It was easy to guess why he avoided fire, you didn’t need more than a look to figure that much out. His hair was still wet from the bath, and he looked cleaner now. Less road-worn.

Still scowling, of course. But cleaner.

You stepped past him and poured two cups of wine, handing him one without a word. He simply took it.

You sat in silence for a time, the warmth of the fire a small comfort against the cold damp clinging to the windows. The wine was poor, but strong. It did what it needed to.

“She’s asleep?” he asked, not bothering to look at you.

“She is.”

He nodded once.

You took a sip of wine. “I don’t know who she is,” she said. “Or where you’re going. I won’t ask anything this time.”

“Good.” He downed half his cup in one swallow, and you stared at the way his Adam's apple moved. “Wouldn’t answer anyway.”

“I figured.”

You sat again in silence, but it didn’t feel as heavy this time.

“You’re taking care of her,” You said, more observation than question.

Sandor scoffed, but not harshly. “She’d gut me if she could.”

“Maybe. But she trusts you enough to sleep under your roof.”

“Ain't got a roof.”

“Then she trusts you.”

He didn’t answer. Just stared into the fire, jaw working.

“I’ve seen how some men would treat girls her age before, in Kings Landing,” You said softly. “Girls in collars. Chains. That’s not what this is.”

Sandor didn’t look at her. But he said, low and gruff, “No. It’s not.” You let that be enough.

He drained the rest of his cup and leaned back, stretching his huge legs out. “You’re still too big for this house,” you said with a bit of humor in your voice, for once.

“And you still talk too much.”

You smiled faintly and poured him another cup.

Outside, the wind had quieted. Inside, the fire settled to soft embers. You picked up some more sticks nearby to feed the fire.

You didn’t speak again, but sat there, for a long time, drinking in the quiet. And for the first time, you felt completely safe near him, and noticed that he didn't look as though he was desperate to leave.

…

The trees were heavy with the promise of snow, and so was the air. You were pulling herbs near the fence when you heard the hoofbeats. 

Slow. Steady. One rider. You looked up.

The man on the horse was slumped in the saddle, one hand on the reins, the other resting heavy on his thigh. Dust caked his boots. A dried smear of blood ran down the side of his face.

You recognized the man before he was close enough to speak. Not that he was a talker, anyway. 

He looked... older. More hollow. How many weeks had passed since the last time you had seen him?

Neither of you said a word.

You stood slowly. Didn’t drop your basket. Didn’t move toward him.

“You’ve got a habit,” you said finally as you stood “of showing up at my door half-dead.”

The man gave a sound that might’ve been a laugh. Or a grunt. Or something in between. He slid down from the saddle, slow, stiff.

“Seems to be a pattern”. he said. You studied him. His tunic was torn near the ribs, and there were fresh bruises across his knuckles. “I'm a big motherfucker. Hard to kill.”

“Where’s the girl?”

He hesitated, jaw flexed. He didn’t answer. You didn’t press. “I could take a look at those scratches.” you said.

“No need.”

You stepped toward the house. "I've got some wine.”

He didn’t thank you,  just gave a small nod before following.

…

Inside, the cottage was nearly unchanged, though now Maegin’s drawings were pinned up on the wall: birds and trees and monsters with square heads. At the sight of blood covering the stranger's face, you were thankful Maegin was at his uncle's for the night.

He sat on the bench by the fire, with a familiar grunt, his long frame folding awkwardly into the space once again.

You poured water into a basin and set it on the table with a clean cloth. And once again, you didn’t ask where he’d been or what he’d done.

Instead, you said, “You’re bleeding.”

He seemed to only remember that then, and he touched his forehead near his hairline, on the scarred side of his face. “Not enough to matter.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.” You got closer with the cloth now wet, and he pulled back, turning his scar away from you.

You stood there for a beat, half stunned at how sensitive he seemed to get. It's not like you haven't seen his scar before, given how big and obvious it is. “I won't hurt you”.

He grunted at the highest of his grouchyness. “Couldn't hurt me if you tried, girl.” He snatched the cloth from you and cleaned the blood in his own clumsy way.

You sat across the table.  “Bandits?” He nodded. “You killed them?”

He didn’t answer at first. Then: “Aye. They killed my friend.”

You didn’t ask more. He looked deeply troubled, and you were unsure if it was because of the girl, because of his friend, or if he just was like this and you never realized. Was the girl the friend he was talking about?

“I'm sorry for your loss” You offered the words sincerely, and aimed to squeeze his hand that was resting on the table, just to offer some comfort. As soon as your fingers touched he pulled back. 

“Shove your pity up your arse”.

The silence between you was different now. Hostile.

“I don't pity you. I'm just trying to offer some… solidarity.”

He stared at you for a beat, as if he was evaluating if it was worth arguing for. “You said you had wine.”

Was he mad at you, or at the world?

You poured wine. “You still don’t talk much,” you said after a long while.

“You talk enough for both of us.”

You siad nothing else, just enjoyed a cup of wine with that stranger, and even though the wind broke through the small cracks on the wood here and there, you felt somewhat… cozy.

…

The sun filtered through the shutters in warm stripes.

You woke to the scent of sawdust and damp earth, not smoke or breakfast, but something heavier, rooted. You sat up slowly, rubbed your eyes, and listened.

No child’s laughter yet. No knocking. But something was moving outside.

You wrapped your husband’s robe around your shoulders and stepped barefoot across the stone floor, the quiet and cold of the early hour wrapping around you like wool.

When you opened the door, the sight made you pause.

The stranger was in your yard. Shirtless, sweat on his brow, fixing the broken posts of your fence. The one you had meant to fix all spring.

He grunted, wiped his face on his sleeve, then crouched by the new lumber and began cutting a fresh beam with the small handsaw you kept by the shed. Too small for his huge hands, but he worked with it anyway.

It wasn’t the first time.

You remembered now how the last time he’d been here, the kitchen counter was magically fixed by morning. The time before that, it was the window latch. Always silent. Never asked. Was that his way of apologizing? Or was there a part of his heart, even if small, that was not bitter enough to give a helping hand? 

Did he pity you, being a widow and raising a child all by yourself? Or was he just thanking you for the food, drink and shelter? 

You never asked. You just watched how skilled he was with his hands and how he didn’t seem to mind the small wounds under the coat of thick hair on his chest.

He saw you, but kept his focus on finishing the work. You watched for a moment longer, then turned to make tea. You didn’t speak when he came to the door an hour later, dripping sweat and covered in sawdust, and dropped the broken fence board beside the threshold like a dog bringing back a kill.

He sat down at the table like he’d lived there for months.

You poured him tea like he had, too.

But before he could lift the cup, the door swung open, and your brother stepped inside with a sack of wrapped meat over his shoulder, Maegin behind him, Brenn's dark eyes scanning the room. He froze when he saw the man at the table.

“Seven hells,” Brenn muttered, jaw tightening. He dropped the sack onto the table and reached for the dagger at his hip. “Is that…? That’s the Hound.”

The stranger now had a name. A name you remembered hearing before, so far ago you couldn't remember. But you remembered getting chills when you first learned about ‘The Hound’.

He didn’t move. Just looked up, brow raised, his perpetual frown present.

Brenn turned sharply to You. “Are you mad? Letting him in your house?” His voice was low, hard. “Do you even know who that is?”

“I do now” You said quietly. Your eyes darted to Maegin, wobbling to you with his arms open, asking for uppies. You quickly scooped him up as you turned back to your brother.

“For how long has this been going on?” Brenn hissed. “Is that where Sam’s sword went? A dog?”

You only needed a glance at the Hound to know it was not a good idea to have your brother say all those things. 

“Brother… Can we speak in private?”

Brenn stepped even closer. “Fuck no! He’s a murderer. A deserter. There’s a bounty on his head in three kingdoms!”

“And yet here I am,” Sandor said flatly, finally speaking. He took a sip of his tea. “drinking your sister’s piss-water brew. In broad daylight.”

Your brother drew the dagger, and the Hound stood up, his broad frame pushing the chair backwards till it fell with a loud noise. Scared, Maegin clung to you and started to cry. 

“Brenn,” You said, firmly now. “Leave it.”

Your brother looked at you like he didn’t recognize you. “You’ve let him stay here? You’ve fed him?”

“I didn’t know who he was until now” you said, overwhelmed by your son's bawling and by the tension in the room. “He never asked for more than I could give.”

Brenn stepped back slightly, but his hand was still holding his dagger.

You looked between them, both tense and taut, divided between not wanting to startle you and  throwing the first punch. 

You couldn't even bear to think of what could happen if a man as big as the Hound started throwing fists. From the stories you've heard… he was probably the scariest man in Westeros, if not for his brother. Definitely the most skilled warrior. 

A weighted silence fell over the house. You'd be able to hear each other's heartbeat if not for Maegin scared cries. Your brother cut the silence by sheathing his dagger.

He looked at the Hound once more, shook his head, and muttered, “If he brings death to your door, don’t ask me to clean up the blood.”

He took Maegin from you forcefully, and the sight of the boy reaching for you broke your heart. Brenn turned and left, the door slamming shut behind him. You wanted to go after him and get your child back, but you knew you and the former stranger had to talk, and it'd be better without Maegin around. 

Sandor grunted. “Let him in again, and I’ll have words.”

You both knew your brother wasn't a threat to you. “You’ll have tea. That’s all I’ll serve.”

You sat in silence for a few minutes. Not awkward. Just careful. The kind of quiet that happens when people are thinking about the past and trying not to say too much.

The Hound broke it first. “This your husband’s house?”

You looked up. Nodded. “Was.”

Sandor grunted. “He died in the war?”

“Yes,” she said softly, then took a bite. “Didn’t even get far. They sent his things back in a sack. I never opened it."

The Hound looked at you in a way you couldn't quite decipher.

You sighed, thoughtful. “It wasn’t a love match,” you said, voice low. “We were best friends. Grew up together. He made me laugh. I think he asked me to marry him just so we wouldn’t have to stop spending time together.”

“Better than most,” The Hound muttered.

“It was easy,” she said. “Loving him. Not the kind of love they write songs about. No fireworks. No grand gestures. Just... quiet. Kind.”

Your eyes were teary, but you continued. “He never met Maegin. Died before I even knew I was pregnant.”

The Hound said nothing.

After a while, you tilted your head. “And you? Who are you?” You needed to hear it from him, that he was not a Hound anymore. 

His grip on his cup tightened just slightly.

“I only knew the name,” you continued carefully. “A few things people said. ‘He worked for the king. He is dangerous. He has a brother twice as bad’.” You bit your lip in thought. “They said he burned half your face.”

His jaw moved slowly, once, then stilled.

“I didn’t know what was true,” you added.

Sandor looked at you then, finally. His eyes were angry, hard and wary. He scowled. You wondered if you had not spoken each word with enough care. He was like a wild animal… any wrong movement and he'd bite, or run. Always on fight or flee. Always choosing to fight when you wanted nothing but peace, always fleeing when you least expected him to.

“I figured if I gave some answers, I might get some back.”

He stared at you a moment longer, then put down the cup.

“You think if you know what they call me, it makes a difference?” he asked. “I was the Hound when I killed for the Lannisters. I was Sandor when I was beaten by my brother and pissed on by lords. Doesn’t matter what name you use. Won’t erase any of the shit I’ve done. Won't change who I am.”

“What…what do you mean?” You managed to mutter, pressing further.

Sandor’s mouth twisted. “Fuck off.” He was clear, you had no right to his past. He was not letting you into whoever he is… or was.

You let that hang in the air, and watched the way he sat, the way his shoulders tensed, the scarred side of his face turned slightly away from you.

“Who are you now?”

No answer. 

Then he stood and headed to the door. You didn’t move. didn’t try to stop him. You just looked up at him and asked, “Will you come back?”

Sandor didn’t answer, just left.

Your hands were shaking when you picked up the empty cups. 

…

The sun hung high and golden over the village roofs when you heard the whispers.

The Brotherhood Without Banners, about fifty riders, rough-looking, with swords and worn sigils, had passed through the southern woods by midmorning. You’d caught the gossip from the butcher’s wife while handing off a bundle of lavender salves.

“They’re camping by the river tonight.” the woman said, taking a look at the products on your shelves. “Could’ve stayed in the village, we've got inns, but I heard they didn’t want trouble. Gendry’s down there. The smith’s boy. And the Hound, too. Can you believe it? Him, with them? You better lock your doors tonight, windows too, if you can. My husband said they're all thieves.”

You didn’t answer.

You just nodded, packed up the rest of your candle jars, and worked the rest of the morning with your head full of things you couldn’t say aloud.

By noon, you’d decided.

Maegin was dropped off at Brenn's with little explanation beyond, “He’s too restless today. He’ll wear me thin.” Brenn raised a brow but said nothing, only tugged Maegin inside with a grunt and a muttered complaint about the boy’s muddy boots.

You walked home slowly, past the herb garden, past the fence Sandor had repaired months ago, and into the quiet house where the silence buzzed louder than usual.

You lit a single candle. Sat at the table. Waited. Would he come, or had you driven him off for good, asking about the brother who scarred him, the names he hated, the past he refused to own?

You hadn’t meant to pry. But things had been quiet. Comfortable. And for a moment, it had felt safe enough to ask. You thought maybe he could trust you with his past, since he could trust you with his safety.

But maybe it meant you had overstepped.

Your hands busied themselves, folding herbs, straightening the shelf, brushing dust from corners that didn’t need cleaning. All the while, your ears strained for a sound outside. A voice, a footstep, a knock.

But there was only birdsong and the soft creak of the old house in the summer heat.

You poured yourself water. Poured it out again, untouched. You told yourself you weren't waiting.

That night, the door stayed shut, even though you’d left it unlocked. A foolish thing, maybe. Or maybe not.

But the candle you lit by the window stayed burning until it burned itself down to nothing.

…

The candle had burned down to a stump by the time you heard it, the uneven sound of boots crunching over the dry path, slow and heavy. You didn’t move at first. Kept lying still on your bed, heart thumping against your ribs.

A knock didn’t come.

Instead, the latch clicked open without a word.

Your bedroom door opened, but you still didn’t move. Sandor stood in the frame, the moonlight catching on the wild strands of his hair, the shape of him broader than you remembered. 

He didn’t speak, didn’t ask, just entered the room, unbuckling his armor with movements stiff and unpracticed. The breastplate clattered too loud against the floorboards, and you winced at the sound. Then his heavy boots were left on the floor as he climbed up the bed, lying beside you. 

His body was massive, warm and hard, a wall of heat close behind you. He didn’t pull you to him, didn’t wrap around you, didn’t even touch you. Just rested there, close enough that you could feel his imposing presence. You’d be lying to say you weren't somewhat attracted, apprehensive… You just wanted to turn around and look at him. And you wanted him to let you see him, for once.

You turned your head taking a glimpse of him. He left the scarred side of his face in shadow. Always in shadow. You didn’t move. Didn’t sit up.

“Sandor..” You breathed out, not even sure what you were going to say next, but you needed that night to not go blank. You needed something to happen, and that was all it took for him to roughly grab you, his hands sliding up your thigh from behind. Hesitant, then firm.

No words. No warning.

His hands were calloused and scarred from years of swordplay and combat. They pushed up the hem of your nightgown, exposing more of your skin to the cool night air. You gasped as his fingers found the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, tracing a path upwards until they brushed against your already wet cunt.

You shifted for him, giving his greedy hands better access to you. You didn’t even think. The touch of his hands, there in the dark, made you mind empty, brain foggy with expectation, but your body had never been so awake.

He didn't wait for permission or encouragement. He acted on pure instinct, driven by a desperate need that had been building for weeks. His touch was clumsy at first, unpracticed and hesitant, but it grew bolder and more insistent with each passing second.

You sat up, ready to kiss him, touch him back, eager for more. You could barely see him in the pitch black of midnight, curtains closed, no more candles lit, but at that moment you realized how attracted to him you were. 

You wanted to see him, touch him, feel him. You were desperate.

But when your hands touched him, he pulled them away. Your eyes searched for his, but his hands fell to your waist, turning you around, your face on your pillow.

Then you felt his hands pulling down your smallclothes. You were stunned. Not because you wanted to stop him, not because you didn’t want him. But because you felt so strongly how you craved him, how you wanted nothing more than to feel him inside of you. You wanted him so much you couldn't care less about doing anything properly.

He took mere seconds to undo his pants and bury himself deep inside of you with a grunt.You arched your back as he entered you, a strangled cry escaping your lips. He was large and hard, stretching you in a way that bordered on painful, his hips slamming against yours with each powerful thrust. It was fast and raw. His movements were uncertain, uneven but strong, driven by instinct, not practice. 

The headboardslammed against the wall, the sound of wood on wood echoing throughout the room. You gripped the sheets beneath you, knuckles turning white as you tried to anchor yourself against the force of his movements.

No kisses.

No eye contact.

But his hand gripped your waist like you might vanish if he let go.

So you just let him, not asking for more, not asking to stop. You’d die before you ask him to stop. You were needy, desperate after years of being without the touch of a man, and he wasn’t just any man. 

You’d had opportunities with others after your husband had passed. But you had never felt like this. Never felt the ache Sandor gave you. 

No one got you wet like he did. 

You were so sensitive you didn’t last more than a few minutes. It was the first time you ever came with your clothes still on. When your walls clenched around him, he came right after, his fingers hurting your hips from the force of his grip, but it felt delicious. 

Then, he was out of you, and you felt cold.

You didn’t speak, there was nothing you could’ve said. You knew it was no use asking for anything other than this, which was as far as he was willing to go. 

You wanted to get up and open the curtains, to let the moonlight shine on his face, but your legs felt shaky and weak, so you just pulled yourself up to sit near the headboard.

He sat up on the edge of the bed, with the scarred side of his face hidden from view.

A long silence settled between you. He didn’t reach for you, but he didn’t leave.

You sat still for what felt like forever, listening to the uneven rhythm of his breath, trying to regain control of your own. The room was warm, your bodies warmer still, but the space between you felt ice cold.

He didn’t speak, didn’t move, so you did.

“Are you not going to look at me?”

He stood up, and you feared he’d leave.

“You show up drunk. Don’t say a word. Don’t even look at me.”

His jaw flexed. Still, he said nothing.

“I’m a widow, not a whore.” You snapped. That landed. You noticed it in the way his breath caught. “Look at me, damnit!”

The wind blew harshly against the windows,  escaping through the cracks and jostling the curtains. You could see him better in the moonlight, his back to you. When he turned to look at you, he had the same troubled expression on his face, his eyes angry and melancholic. Your anger met his.

You leaned toward him, voice lower now, but no less sharp. “You’ll fuck me. But not kiss me. Not look at me.” Your brows furrowed. “Why?”

His throat worked, but no sound came out.

You watched him and for the first time you saw fear beneath all the roughness. Not fear of you, but fear of being seen. The way he stayed turned just so, keeping the ruined half of his face hidden. The way he’d touched you like he didn’t deserve it.

A few days ago, he made sure you looked at his face, as if he wanted you to think of him as a monster, but now… he hid.

Your anger softened, cooling into something sadder, something truer, as you reached out, slowly, and touched his jaw. He flinched, but didn’t pull away. So you did it again, fingers brushing along the side he always hid.

“I don’t care about this.” you whispered. “You act like it makes you something… evil, but it’s not the scars that insult me, it’s the way you hide behind them.”

“I didn’t ask you to give a shit,” he bit back. “Didn’t ask for anything.”

“No,” you said, “you didn’t. But you’re here.”

His eyes flicked toward yours then. Just briefly. But it was enough.

You shifted, pushing the straps of your nightshirt down, not allowing but demanding that he looked at you properly. You had never recognized hunger in his eyes - it’d hardly show, with the loose clothes you wore -, not until now. His gaze wandered over every inch of your body, and it made clear just how much he wanted you. 

Maybe he just wanted the raw relief, maybe it wasn’t about you. Not before. But now he's seen you, heard you, and you knew he wanted you. You had no intention to fool yourself or pretend that you didn’t want him too.

You kneeled on the edge of the bed and gripped the waistband of his half-undone pants, pulling him closer. He let you, and when you cupped his face, your hand on top of his scars, he didn’t pull away. Nor did he look away. But when you got close, when his breath touched your face and your nose brushed his, he looked away.

You didn’t give up, though, kissing his neck and jaw instead. His breathing heavy.

You’d never had to work hard to seduce a man before, but this didn’t feel like seducing or convincing, but something deeper. Something truly intimate.

You unbuttoned his shirt, already familiar with the scars on his torso, though it was the first time you touched the thick hair on his chest. As your hands traveled further down, peeking inside his pants, you looked back up, tilting your head backwards so your eyes could meet his.

“Look at me.” You had asked before, but now you commanded. He obeyed. “Keep looking at me while you fuck me.”

It took mere seconds for Sandor to push you against the mattress and climb on top of you. You had no doubt he wasn’t familiar with this type of intimacy - the type he didn’t have to pay for - but you didn’t feel discouraged in the least.  You welcomed his weight on top of you willingly, your toes curling when he pushed inside of you again.

This time, you were not shy to ask for more, nor to wrap your legs around him. When he came undone once more, it was your turn to push him down on the bed and climb on top of him, your hands on his chest for balance, his hands on your hips to guide your pace.

His eyes only left yours when the pleasure became too much and you had to shut them tight and throw your head back. You leaned down, pressing your forehead to his, your breath brushing his cheek. Then, you kissed him.

It wasn’t gentle, or tender. It was real and quick, just a brush of lips before you pulled back to bury your face on his neck, melting as you came, still on top of him. 

He didn’t kiss you back, not then. but by the end of the night, he was kissing your ankles, not as shy to voice his needs. 

When you were both fully spent, his heavy body fell by your side. Only then, he held your cheek and pulled your face to his. When he kissed you, it was messy and awkward, like he didn’t know what to do with his mouth. Like it was the first time. Maybe it was. But damn, you’d wanted this, wanted him, wanted it so much that you moaned at the feeling of his tongue on yours.

He didn’t pull away.

Not again.

…

He returned with the girl, weeks later. 

She wasn’t a little girl anymore, not really. She had the gait of a fighter now. The blank expression of someone who knew how to kill without flinching. Yet her eyes, as sharp as they were, still held something human. Still kind.

Maegin had always liked her.

You didn’t ask questions. Just watched.

Watched Sandor hover near the girl without quite looking at her. Watched him stay quiet when Maegin climbed into his lap at the table like he used to as a toddler. Watched as the girl met your gaze with something like understanding, though no one said it aloud.

Not until the girl rose after dinner, dusting her hands and announcing calmly, “I’m going to kill the queen.”

Not a queen.

The queen.

Cersei.

That’s when it all clicked. Your heart twisted with it. Sandor wasn’t just going to King’s Landing to take the girl there. She could get there on her own.

He was going for himself.

For his brother. To die.

No one said it. No one had to.

When Maegin eventually drifted off to sleep, Sandor put him to bed himself, the boy curled under a blanket and fast asleep. Sandor only came back to the kitchen to gather his things. He hadn’t unpacked.

You followed them quietly to the door. The girl nodded, a quick farewell, not quite a goodbye. You knew she'd kill the queen. You knew she'd come back. Then she turned and went to get their horses.

Sandor stayed, like he wanted to say something. So did you, even though you didn't know what to say.

You could’ve begged, but you didn’t. You knew it wouldn't be fair.

You looked up at him, your eyes full of all the words you weren't brave enough to speak. You knew you shouldn’t fool yourself with the expectations and promises he never made. Your hands curled at your sides. Your lips parted slightly, then closed.

'Don’t go. Don’t die. Don’t leave me.' But the words never left your lips.

He stared back.

Then he stepped closer. His hand came to your jaw, rough and unsure, and he kissed you. Not hard, not rushed, but as he simply… as he meant it. 

Like it was goodbye.

His mouth tasted of wine and salt. He lingered for just a breath, but you weren’t ready to let go. Your hands clutched to his tunic, keeping him close, knowing those seconds would be your last ones.

Then pulled back, eyes falling to yours.

No promises, no lies.

At that moment you realized he really had no intention of coming back. He thought there'd be nothing left for him after he got his revenge.

You wanted to scream to his face that you'd still be there, that he'd have you to come back to.

But you didn’t. He turned and left.

And you didn’t cry. Not until the door was closed, and the sound of his boots faded.

…

The sky had burned days ago.

You had seen it, just after dawn, a red haze stretching out from the direction of the capital. The dragonfire had lit the clouds from below like the world was ending behind the hills.

You stood outside your cottage that morning, your apron still damp from soap and herbs, staring toward the horizon as the air went still. No birds. No wind. Just the weight of heat and silence, pressing down.

You knew it was over.

Not the details, not how, but you knew something terrible had happened. Days later, the refugees still trickled through the village.

Soot-streaked, limping, empty-handed. Some with children strapped to their backs, others with nothing at all but rags and smoke in their lungs. Their stories came in pieces, half-muttered at the baker’s stall or passed between farmers hauling water.

“The Queen… the dragon queen… burned it all…”

“They say the Red Keep fell.”

“Bodies everywhere. Whole streets are just ash.”

“She’s dead now. The dragon queen. Killed. The other one too.”

You said nothing. You helped them when they came by, handed out what bandages and salves you could spare. Took nothing in return.

At night, you sat by the hearth long after Maegin had gone to sleep. You wouldn’t light the fire. Couldn’t bring yourself to. Not after the stories, not knowing he could have possibly…

Every time you stared into flame now, you saw him. How ironic.

You'd seen that last look in his eyes. The weight of it. The quiet, final choice of it.

He hadn’t intended to come back. You had known it.

But you hadn’t stopped him. There was only one thing keeping him alive, he'd said it before. And you knew it wasn’t you, but that it was hate. For the world, for his brother. 

Sandor wanted nothing but revenge, and to die with it. You felt it wasn't fair to try and stop him, not that he'd let you anyway.

Not with your hands. Not with your mouth. Not even with your tears.

Because you’d known there would come the moment when there was no way he’d ever leave his brother behind. Not alive.

Still, you waited. You told yourself you weren't. But you did.

Every sound at the door, every shape on the road… your heart leapt, and then dropped.

No word of the girl, either. Not a whisper.

You kept busy. The garden needed tending. Maegin needed feeding. Candles needed pouring. But your hands were slower now. Your eyes duller. The days stretched.

…

It was late afternoon when you saw the horse.

Rider cloaked, moving slowly, dust rising behind in lazy swirls. You stood at the edge of your garden, a basket of dried herbs forgotten in your hands, eyes narrowing against the sun. The figure dismounted with ease, fluid, familiar.

Arya.

She looked thinner. Older. Her face was sharper, hollowed. Her eyes were still kind, human, but also changed. That, you supposed, was something.

You met near the gate.

You said nothing at first. Just looked at her. Looked behind her, but there was no second horse.

She seemed to understand.

Absence.

You wanted to ask. The words clawed at the back of your throat. But you couldn’t.

“It's good to see you.” You finally said, hugging her tight.

She just nodded and, stepped inside. You both ate in silence.

Arya barely touched your stew. Her hand shook a little when she raised the spoon, and she blinked too long between each breath, like she hadn’t quite remembered how to rest.

You didn’t push her. She simply took smalls sips of the broth, set a small hunk of bread on the table, and let the fire do the talking.

When Maegin fell asleep, curled on your lap, head on your arm, that was when Arya finally spoke.

“He made me leave,” she said, voice quiet.

Your hands stilled over the table.

Arya didn’t look up. “Said the fire would get Cersei. Or the dragon. Or Daenerys. Said I didn’t belong there.” A pause. “He told me if I stayed… then I’d end up like him.”

Arya’s jaw clenched, voice tightened. “I didn’t want to go. I tried to get him to leave. But he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t even look back.”

The words felt heavy. 

“The Keep was coming down around us. I made it out. Just barely.”

Your eyes lifted, glassy and red-rimmed.

“I waited. A day. Maybe more. Watched the smoke settle. Searched the rubble.”

Your chest ached, sharp and sudden.

“I didn’t find him,” Arya finished.

Silence followed.

Not final, not definite, but empty.

You swallowed. Your hands tightened around your baby, all you had left, but still, you said nothing. What could you possibly say?

You looked at Arya again, at the set of her mouth, the grief clinging to her like dust. Not the grief of a comrade.

The grief of a daughter.

…

Arya left before breakfast.

She hugged Maegin without a word and promised to send word when she reached her home. She didn’t say where she was going, but you knew she had a home to go back to, in north. She wasn’t stuck waiting for someone who’d never come.

You watched her ride away from the garden gate, the morning sun just beginning to warm the garden. The wind carried the faintest smell of ash… days old, but still lingering.

That night, Maegin sat on the floor by the hearth, drawing shapes in the dirt with a stick.

He looked up at you suddenly. “Will Sandor come too?”

You didn’t answer. Not right away.

“You want him to?” You asked, brushing the hair from his brow. He nodded sleepily, clinging to your hand. 

You held Maegin throughout the night. 

…

The moon was high when you stepped barefoot into the garden.

The earth was cool. Dew already beginning to gather on the leaves. You walked the path slowly, trailing your fingers over the herbs, the old bench, the spot near the tree where you'd once found a man half-dead and stinking of wine.

He had barely spoken.

And now… he never would again.

You knelt beside the tree. The earth was untouched, the same crooked roots he once leaned against still splitting the ground. You pressed a hand to them, as if searching for warmth, for proof.

The tears came quiet. No sobs. Just the slow, relentless ache of… knowing.

But even as the grief swelled, something else stirred beneath it.

You remembered his hands. His silence. The way he fixed things around the house without ever being asked to. The way he looked at you, the night he finally did.

You were still standing in the garden, your husband’s robe clutched tight around your shoulders, when the wind changed.

It wasn’t loud.

No hoofbeats. No announcement. Just a shift in the night. The kind of silence that comes after fire dies, after screams have faded. The silence of what’s left.

Your heart jumped before your body even turned. You didn’t dare hope. You couldn’t. Not again. But you still turned, slowly, toward the edge of the trees.

And there he was.

Sandor.

No horse. No armor. Just a hulking silhouette at the edge of moonlight, walking the path as if his boots weighed twice what they should. He looked taller than you remembered. Or maybe just older.

You didn’t move.

He didn’t speak.

Closer now, you saw the soot on his skin, his clothes singed at the edges. His hair was tangled, and his beard was streaked with grey and ash. But his eyes…

They were still his. There and then you realized you loved them. 

He stopped a few feet away, breathing hard, like the walk had cost him more than it should have.

“Is it done?” you half asked, half whispered. It spilled from your lips like a sob that didn’t make it to your throat.

Sandor nodded just once.

Then, after a long pause, he said, “Burned the Keep.”

You blinked. “The Red Keep?”

He shook his head. “Clegane keep.”

Another pause. A chuckle escaped through your tears, and he showed you a hint of a smirk.

"How ironic."

You stared at him… At the years, the blood, the fire behind them.

“I didn’t think you’d come back,” she said quietly.

“Didn’t plan to.” he muttered, gaze drifting toward the house.

Your heart clenched. You stepped forward, closing the distance between them. “But you did.”

He looked at you and didn’t turn his face this time. Didn’t hide the scar. Didn’t lower his eyes.

“Aye,” he said. “I did.”

The words landed between them like a promise too late, or maybe just in time.

You stepped closer, rested your hand lightly on his chest, over his heart, a desperate caress, then your fingers curled around the fabric of his tunic. You felt the beat, steady, real.

“You hungry?” You asked, voice barely above a breath.

He grunted. “Aye.”

You almost smiled.

“Come home, then.”

Sandor looked back one last time toward the trees, toward the long road behind him, the fire now cold.

Then he followed you.

And he stayed.

----------------------

"Sunshine? Thank God you're here, honey. You’re a lifesaver." Dana’s voice was thick with relief as she used the nickname the entire unit called you—a tribute to your cheerful disposition and unwavering smile. "As you can see, we’re underwater, and it doesn't help that ICE detained Jesse. Between the firecracker injuries, the heat strokes, and the drunks... this holiday is driving everyone mad."

"You called, Dana, and I was going to be sitting down anyway. I might as well do it while keeping an eye on the baby," you replied with a weary smile. You adjusted your gray scrubs, which felt significantly tighter than usual; the curve of your eight-and-a-half-month belly strained against the elastic fabric.

"No, ma'am. You are only here to watch the little one," Dana insisted. "I’m not putting you to work when you’re practically in labor. Now go; she’s in Peds with Donnie."

You made your way toward the unit, your gait characterized by the unmistakable waddle of the final trimester. As you pushed open the glass doors, Donnie—a burly, towering nurse—looked up with an expression of pure amusement. He offered a sarcastic grin at your protruding stomach.

"Every time I blink, you’ve doubled in size, Sunny," he joked with the easy familiarity of a best friend. He stepped over to pull you into one of his signature bear hugs. "But I’m begging you... do not go into labor here. I’ll have to file for PTSD. Between the holiday rush and the system hack, we’ve had to revert to paper charts. It’s total chaos."

"Well, his father is a giant and I’m not exactly tall," you chuckled, pulling back from the hug. "The poor thing is fighting for space and I’m fighting to expand my lungs. How are the 'ducklings' handling the paper charts?"

"Some of them didn't even know what a fax machine was," Donnie sighed. "Imagine the disaster."

"I imagine the residents had a collective syncope when they realized they had to write by hand—and legibly," you murmured, thinking of the "ducklings" as you called them: the Grumpy one, the Clumsy one, the Adorable Nepo-Baby, and the Shy one.

You moved with slow, rhythmic steps toward the thermal bassinet. Donnie watched you closely, likely worried your shifted center of gravity might send you toppling; he had clearly just finished this stage with his own wife. You leaned against the edge of the methacrylate crib, the pressure in your lower back easing slightly. The little girl was a mere bundle wrapped in a hospital blanket, but seeing her made you forget the ache in your feet. Inside your own womb, your daughter kicked—perhaps outraged by the movement or simply waking from her nap.

"It honestly kills me that we had to call you," Donnie began, his voice dropping. "I wish ICE hadn't taken Jesse, and I wish this baby’s mother hadn't left her..."

"Things happen, big guy," you interrupted gently but firmly. "Would I rather be at home with my legs up, indulging in pregnancy cravings? Yes. But do I regret coming in so this sweet thing doesn't have to be alone in an ER box while Social Services moves at the speed of a quadruple-amputated turtle? Not for a second."

"You’re too good for this place, Sunny," he sighed, rubbing the back of his neck with the exhaustion only a sleep-deprived nurse practitioner and new parent could possess. "But you're right. We’ve been waiting hours for a placement. Pediatrics won't admit her because she’s technically 'too healthy,' despite the rhinovirus risk to other patients."

You watched the Jane Doe’s serene face. Her eyelashes were nearly translucent, and her rhythmic, light breathing was the only thing that felt sane amidst the roar of the hospital.

"It’s not about being good; I’m already sharing my body with one," you joked, patting your stomach and receiving another indignant kick in response.

Donnie snorted and pulled a chair closer to the bassinet. You sank into it carefully, feeling the sweet relief in your hips.

"She had a bottle a few minutes ago, so she’ll likely sleep for a while. Jesse gave her a dose of Tylenol before..." He trailed off, the bitterness of the situation hanging in the air, clashing with the brightly painted walls of the pediatric ward. He shook his head, trying to dispel the sour feeling Jesse’s arrest had left behind. "Anyway, the rhinovirus has her miserable. She’s irritable from the congestion, so when she wakes up, you’ll know—she’s got a very decent pair of lungs."

"Well, at least one of us has functioning lungs," you quipped, shifting to find a comfortable position. "Because right now, I’m sharing mine with a tenant who doesn't pay rent and has the kick of a Spartan warrior."

Donnie let out a short, tension-breaking chuckle and squeezed your shoulder. "Don't move from that chair unless it’s an absolute emergency, Sunny. I’ll check on you soon. I suspect Princess or Perlah will be by to see you... or the belly."

"As if I could move anyway, Donnie!" you called out softly as he disappeared into the corridor, which was teeming with doctors, orderlies, and the frantic energy of the Fourth.

The glass door hissed shut, muffling the din. The shouted orders and the frantic beeping of monitors faded into a distant hum. You were alone with the infant. You reached out, caressing her tiny, velvet-soft hand. She was so small, yet already abandoned. She reminded you of yourself—except no one had sat with you. The system had simply shuffled you from one place to the next until you were aged out at eighteen.

That pang of recognition hurt more than you’d ever admit to anyone—except your husband. That tall, formidable, overprotective man who could silence a room with a single glance. Everyone feared him; they called him Dr. Park, "The Shark," a title he secretly relished.

You remembered the day you gave him that navy blue surgical cap patterned with little white sharks. Brendon had looked at it as if it were a personal insult, his jaw clenched, his broad orthopedic surgeon’s shoulders casting a massive shadow in your living room. "Really, Doll?" he had growled in that deep baritone that made your skin tingle. But, of course, he had worn it during his very next surgery. Now, he wouldn't go into the OR with anything else. Seeing the hospital’s most feared surgeon operating with a parade of cartoon sharks on his head was your favorite victory—especially since no one but Gloria knew you were married.

Truth be told, Ahmad at the security desk had even started a betting pool about the identity of the husband you kept so strictly secret. Some bet on a heroic firefighter, others on a catalog model. You would laugh privately at the theories, but the reality was much more complicated.

More than a few people would lose their minds if they knew your husband worked just a few floors up. And he would be livid if he knew you had driven your old car here—a vehicle he had strictly forbidden you from driving in your condition.

You pulled out your phone, your fingers hesitating over the screen. You knew that the moment he saw a notification, he would abandon his professional stoicism and race down to find you. But it would be infinitely worse if he found out by accident.

"If he finds out I drove that old junker with this potbelly, he’ll put me under house arrest until you’re eighteen," you whispered to the baby in your womb, a smile of guilt and tenderness playing on your lips.

Just as you were about to hit 'send,' you were interrupted by Princess’s shrill, energetic voice. She swept into the room like a whirlwind of glitter, followed by the much calmer Perlah.

"Well, look! If it isn't our favorite pregnant nurse!"

You shoved the phone away, aborting the message. You couldn't delay it forever; Brendon had a sixth sense for when you were doing something "reckless," and you’d much rather tell him yourself before he spotted your car parked right next to his BMW X6.

"Hey girls," you said, forcing a smile.

"The Fourth is basically the apocalypse, but with more burst fingers," Princess blurted out, eyeing your stomach. "But look at you, Sunshine! You're radiant, even if that chair looks like a medieval torture device for someone with your... 'curvature of happiness.' By the way, I’ve got fifty dollars on the father being a firefighter. Come on, give me a clue!"

"Huwag kang mandaya, Princess," Perlah interrupted in Tagalog, reminding her not to cheat—though she had her own secret bet placed on the mystery husband.

You released a soft, breathy laugh, though the movement caused little Jane Doe to emit a faint groan, shifting as much as her swaddling would allow.

"I have no intention of breathing a word on the subject," you replied, raising your hands in a mock gesture of surrender. "If I gave you a hint, Ahmad would pin me to the board next to the 'frequent flyers' who only come in hunting for narcotics. Besides, a firefighter... really, Princess? Do you honestly see me with someone who spends his days scaling ladders and wrestling hydrants?"

"Hey, they’ve got wicked strength in those arms, and I’m sure they have a certain... rhythm in their hips." Princess left the thought hanging with a theatrical flourish, just before Perlah gave her a sharp, friendly nudge.

"Stop badgering Sunny; she’s already busy enough enduring the kicks of her own 'little fish,'" Perlah said. She used the nickname some of the staff had given the baby because of how restless she was during your shifts—none of them realizing how close that nickname hit to the truth. "Are you alright? You’ve gone quite pale all of a sudden," she added, her head tilting in clinical concern.

"It’s nothing, truly," you insisted, though a sudden wave of vertigo forced you to grip the armrests of your chair.

Perlah and Princess assessed you instantly, their veteran eyes catching the lack of color in your cheeks. You couldn't hide much from two seasoned nurses, especially two who knew your baseline so well.

"You need to eat. You're in the third trimester, Sunshine. I’m going to fetch you something to eat and drink. What are you craving?"

"Orange juice and a turkey sandwich, please," you conceded, your stomach let out a victorious growl at the prospect of actual sustenance. "Or anything, really—as long as it doesn't taste like standard hospital fare, Princess."

Princess nodded with the determination of a soldier on a high-stakes mission. Before disappearing out the door, she glanced back at Perlah.

“One feast for Sunshine and the little fish, coming right up. Tiyakin mong hindi ito makatakas (Make sure she doesn't escape).”

You were left alone with Perlah, who moved to the bassinet to check on Jane Doe. The rhythmic sound of the infant's breathing was the only thing filling the silence, but your mind was still anchored to the message you hadn't sent Brendon.

"Sunny, you're trembling," Perlah noted quietly. She didn't look up from the baby, but she could clearly see your hands shaking in her peripheral vision. "And I don't think it’s just a blood sugar crash. Did something happen with the 'secret husband'? Has he done something?"

"No, no—nothing like that. He would never hurt me," you said quickly, and it was the absolute truth. Brendon would sooner sever his own hands than lay a finger on you, a resolve born from growing up in the shadow of an abusive father. "Let’s just say... I’ve made a decision that isn't going to amuse him in the slightest. I drove here in my old car because he was already at work and couldn't give me a ride."

"Ah, the famous relic," Perlah chuckled, adjusting the baby’s blanket. "That car is a hospital legend. No wonder your man is a nervous wreck; if I were him, I’d want to keep you far away from that deathtrap, too. I know you’re sentimental about it, but you have to admit it’s ready for the scrap heap."

"I know, I know," you admitted with a guilty wince. "But it’s my car. It was the first thing I bought with my own savings after I aged out of the foster system—the only thing that has truly belonged to me from start to finish. To him, it’s just a pile of oil-leaking scrap metal, but to me... it’s a part of my history. I feel like if I let it go, I’m erasing a part of who I am."

Perlah sighed, reaching over to place a comforting hand on your shoulder.

"I understand the sentiment, Sunny. I really do. But that car is ancient and unsafe, especially in your condition. Letting it go isn't a loss; it’s making sure your story has many more chapters to tell."

Before you could respond, a sharp sound cut through the room. Little Jane Doe opened her eyes and let out a heartbreaking, jagged cry. Her congestion was severe; every time she tried to draw breath for a fresh wail, the mucus blocked her airway, sending her into a state of frantic discomfort.

"Oh, sweetheart, it’s alright... I’ve got you," you cooed, your maternal instincts flaring to the surface.

You stood up, ignoring the warning twinge in your lower back and your own daughter’s protest at the sudden movement. You leaned over the crib and lifted the tiny girl to your chest. She was so small that as you held her upright to clear her lungs, she practically rested on the shelf of your belly, leaning against her unborn baby girl.

You felt her tiny fingers hook into the collar of your gray scrubs—an involuntary reflex, a desperate anchor in the midst of her panic. In that moment, a profound, electric connection—one that defied medical protocols or nursing boundaries—seared through your chest.

"Sunny, I have to continue my rounds. Can you manage her alone?" Perlah asked, her eyes already darting toward the beckoning chaos of the nursing station.

"Of course. This little lady and I are just getting acquainted. Go on, Perlah. I’ll be fine."

Perlah gave you a skeptical look—the kind only a veteran nurse can give when they suspect a colleague is playing the martyr—but she nodded as Antoine signaled for her.

"Fine. But the moment Princess returns with that sandwich, you eat. That’s an order," she said, slipping out and closing the door to seal out the hallway noise.

Alone with the infant, you tried to suppress the realization of how dangerous it was to get attached. You knew the drill. You knew her future was likely a black hole of bureaucracy and shifting social workers. You had lived that life, bouncing from house to house, and seeing your past reflected in this sick, lonely baby was almost more than you could bear. It was profoundly unfair.

You sank back into the chair, your spine crying out in relief, though the weight of Jane Doe against your stomach triggered another indignant kick from your daughter. Space was becoming a luxury.

Jane Doe let out a wet hiccup against your shoulder, finally calming as she sought your warmth. With one hand supporting her, you awkwardly fished your phone from your pocket. The screen illuminated your pale face in the dim light of the room. No more excuses. You had to tell Brendon.

You opened the chat with <<Sharkhusband>>. His last message, sent at the start of his shift while you were still asleep, stared back at you:

"You looked beautiful this morning, Doll. Remember to rest, eat well, and stay hydrated. Do not go out unless it is absolutely necessary. It’s too hot and people are idiots; the ER is already crawling with drunks."

You smiled sadly. The nickname "Doll" always made you feel a little less like an overinflated balloon and a little more like the woman he had fallen for. It was so typical of him: hyper-protective, analytical, and forever bracing for the world's chaos.

You swallowed hard and typed quickly before your courage failed:

"I'm at the ED. NOT for me. Dana called; they needed help because ICE took Jesse. They have a Baby Jane Doe who needs a sitter while they wait for Social Services. Yes... I drove my car. Please don't be angry. I love you, Big Guy."

You didn't hesitate. Your fingers were trembling so much you nearly deleted the text, but you hit 'send' and immediately locked the screen. You let out a jagged sigh; you knew the moment he read that, the secret you had guarded so fiercely would be over.

You stroked the baby’s back as she drifted back into a congested sleep on your shoulder. The warmth of her tiny body and the weight of your own child created a strange, fleeting sense of peace.

“Well, little one... it looks like Ahmad’s betting board is about to be settled,” you whispered. “I hope someone put money on an orthopedic surgeon, because that’s exactly what’s about to come through that door.”

Less than fifteen minutes passed before you heard Dana’s voice outside. "Dr. Park? I was fairly certain there were no new ortho consults today—certainly none in Pediatrics."

Your heart skipped a beat. You could hear the suspicion in Dana’s tone; she was already connecting the dots. The silence that followed was deafening. You could envision the scene through the glass: Dana, chart in hand and eyebrow arched, blocking the path of a man who likely radiated the predatory energy of a Great White who had just scented blood in the water.

“I am not here for a consultation,” Brendon’s baritone rumbled, cold and unequivocal. “I am here for something that belongs to me.”

He didn't elaborate. He didn't have to. The possessive edge in his voice was enough to make the head nurse offer a small, triumphant smile. The mystery of the "secret husband" had just died a swift death in the middle of the hallway.

You watched him approach, but you didn't bother to stand. You simply continued to stroke the baby’s back as he entered the room. The pneumatic hiss of the door closing behind him marked the end of the rumors, the bets, and the whispers.

Ahmad’s bets and the frantic whispers of the staff—both in the ER and up in Orthopedics—no longer mattered. Dr. Park, "The Shark," had just marked his territory with the subtlety of a sledgehammer.

Brendon stopped a mere few inches from you, his massive frame looming over you like a shield of muscle and surgical scrubs. The silence in the room was heavy, broken only by Jane Doe’s soft snores, your own shallow breaths, and the ragged exhale of your husband as he processed the scene before him.

His ice-blue eyes—the ones that usually analyzed complex fractures with lethal precision—flickered frantically from your face to the infant in your arms, finally settling on the prominent curve of your stomach.

"Before you say a word... I couldn't just stay away. I wouldn't have felt right refusing Dana’s plea," you blurted out, trying to preempt the lecture you saw brewing behind his clenched jaw.

"Dana knows exactly which strings to pull to get what she wants, Doll. She knows you don’t have a 'no' in you for anyone—least of all a baby who needs us." His voice dropped an octave, losing its sharp professional edge to become purely, fiercely protective. This was just your husband now—a man who was clearly already planning to have your car towed to a scrapyard the second he was off the clock.

He moved closer, leaning down until your breaths intertwined. The scent of surgical soap and that woody citrus cologne you loved enveloped you, and for the first time since you’d stepped foot in the hospital, you felt you could finally let go and relax.

"But you are giving me the keys to that car," he continued. This wasn’t a medical suggestion; it was an order from a man who was half-distraught with worry. “You aren't driving that deathtrap anymore. If you're that sentimental, we can keep it in the garage, but you will not risk your life—or our daughter’s—in a rusted-out piece of junk that doesn't even have modern airbags.”

"Okay... I won't drive it again."

His hand, large and calloused, cupped your right cheek with an infinite tenderness he reserved only for you. His eyes narrowed, scanning the faint shadows under yours.

"You’re pale, Doll. When was the last time you ate?" The anger had vanished, replaced by a raw, singular need to care for you.

"Princess went to grab something... it’s felt like an eternity, honestly," you whispered, the fatigue finally winning now that you had him to lean on. "And with the combined weight of this little girl and the belly... I don't think I can actually get up."

Right then, the sliding door hissed open, shattering your romantic bubble. Princess sidled in, balancing a plastic cafeteria tray laden with orange juice, a wrapped chicken sandwich, and yogurt.

"I’m here! Sorry for the wait, Sunny, the queue was—" Princess froze, the words dying in her throat. Her eyes nearly popped out of her head at the sight of Dr. Park—the man who made residents weep just by breathing near them—leaning over you, one hand cradling your face while the other rested possessively on your pregnant belly.

The tray wobbled in her grip. She looked at Brendon, then at you, then at the wedding ring she had apparently never noticed on his finger before today. The hospital’s biggest puzzle had just been solved right under her nose.

"Oh... wow. That explains... a lot. A lot of things."

Brendon didn’t bother to move. The secret was out the moment he’d stared down Dana in the hall. He didn’t retighten his mask of coldness; he simply spared Princess a brief, acknowledging glance.

"Here you go, Sunny. Eat, for God's sake, before Dr. Shark sends me to scrub the OR floors with a toothbrush," Princess quipped, regaining her confidence despite Brendon’s imposing presence. "So... Dr. Park, huh? My God, Sunshine, you certainly like a challenge. How do you keep him from biting?"

"I actually happen to like it when he bites, Princess," you shot back with a mischievous grin. You took a long, cooling sip of the juice as you watched Brendon unwrap the sandwich with the surgical precision of someone repairing a tibia.

"Eat this, Doll. Now," he commanded, bringing the first bite to your lips. He completely ignored the nurse, who was practically vibrating with the gossip of the century.

You took a bite under Brendon’s watchful eye. He didn't pull his hand away until he was satisfied you’d chewed and swallowed. Princess let out a low whistle, a hand on her hip as she watched the most feared surgeon in the building play doting nursemaid.

"How did we miss this? It’s so obvious now," Princess murmured, shaking her head. "I never would have guessed Dr. Park had a domestic side. I just lost fifty bucks—I really thought you were married to a hot firefighter."

Brendon didn’t deign to look at her. He was too busy watching the color return to your cheeks.

"Speaking of the bet..." you said sarcastically, looking at Princess. "Since no one put money on an orthopedic surgeon, doesn't that mean I win the pot by default?"

Princess gasped in feigned indignation while a ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of Brendon’s mouth.

"The nerve! Sunshine, you are sitting on a gold mine of classified information, you're married to the 'Shark,' and now you want to take the pot? That’s insider trading!"

"Technically," Brendon interjected, his voice regaining that dry, authoritative tone he used with staff, though his eyes gleamed with amusement, "if no one bet on an ortho surgeon, the pot should be declared void. However, since my wife is the one who has had to endure the burden of secrecy, I believe she has every legal right to claim the funds."

"You are a total softie for her, Dr. Park!" Princess shouted dramatically as she backed out the door, racing off to find Perlah, Donnie, or anyone else who would listen.

"I think you just used my reputation to fleece your coworkers, Doll," he murmured, his blue eyes locking onto yours with a dark, animalistic glow. "I believe I’ll have to collect my share of the loot in 'bites,' just as you suggested."

"Don’t threaten me with a good time, big guy... even if I do feel like a whale right now."

Brendon let out a low, vibrant laugh that rumbled from deep in his chest—a sound that never failed to melt you. This wasn't the hospital’s "Shark"; this was your husband, the man who knew every one of your scars and looked at you as if you were the only thing on earth that mattered.

"You’re the most beautiful whale I’ve ever seen, and better yet, you’re absolutely mine," he growled, his voice dropping into a dangerous, possessive purr. "And believe me, I have a very detailed list of all the places I plan to collect my debt the moment we get home. Starting with that belly... and continuing with the 'pillows' this little one is currently using."

The door hissed open again, interrupting his wandering thoughts. Dana poked her head in, looking immensely smug.

"Sorry to break up the family reunion, Dr. Park," she said, her triumph poorly hidden. "But Social Services has arrived."

Brendon didn't flinch. He kept his hand anchored to your stomach, merely turning his head to acknowledge her. "They finally deigned to move their asses? Good. I’m here for my wife and my daughter. If you have no objection to me taking them home to rest, we’ll be leaving as soon as this little patient is settled."

"No objections at all. In fact, I insist," Dana replied, her eyes softening as she and the social worker entered. "You can go home, Sunny. Jane Doe is in good hands."

A pang of bittersweet sadness hit you as Dana reached for the baby. With Brendon’s steady hand supporting your back, you carefully transferred the infant. The baby let out a sleepy whimper but quickly settled against Dana’s chest. Suddenly, you felt strangely light—and exhausted to the bone.

Brendon didn't waste a second. The moment your arms were free, he slid his arm around your waist, anchoring you to his side as if he feared you might try to run off to help another patient.

"The keys, Doll," he demanded, holding out his palm with a look that brooked no argument.

You sighed, defeated by that alpha-predator intensity. You reached into your pocket and pulled out the old keychain—ironically adorned with a worn Great White shark. The metal jingled as it hit his palm. Brendon closed his fist over them tightly, stowing them away like a confiscated weapon.

"A tow truck is coming tomorrow. Not another word about that car," he said, turning back to the room. "It’s been a pleasure, but my wife has a date with her bed and a gallon of ice cream."

"Make it two gallons!" Princess shouted from the nursing station as you navigated the hall, leaning heavily on Brendon’s shoulder. "And remember, that betting money goes toward 'Baby Shark's' diapers!"

As you walked down the central corridor of the ER, you didn't care about the stares or the way the gossip was spreading like wildfire. Brendon walked with his head held high, his shark-patterned cap tucked into his pocket, his hand never leaving your hip.

Outside, the hot July evening air was punctuated by the distant boom of fireworks. Brendon stopped before you reached his gleaming BMW, pulling you against his chest with an urgency that took your breath away. He looked at you with an expression that made it clear the "debt" would be collected tonight.

"You drove me half-mad today, Sunshine," he whispered against your temple, inhaling the scent of your hair. "Don't ever scare me like that again. Not if Dana calls, not even if a meteorite hits a children's party. You and this baby are my world. I don't know what the hell I’d be without you."

"I get it, big guy," you smiled, resting your head on his shoulder as the car chirped unlocked. "But admit it—you liked being able to claim me in front of the whole department. No more secrets. Just you, me, and 'Baby Shark.'"

He simply growled, opening the passenger door with exaggerated gallantry.

You barely had time to brace your hands against the mattress. Your chin sank into the silk pillow as a rough hand seized your hair, shoving you mercilessly down against the bed.

“Sandor, he didn’t touch me!” you cried, voice muffled by the fine sheets. Above you, the towering form of the King's shield loomed large over your helpless body.

“He laid hands on your waist,” he growled, and his knees sank deep into the mattress on either side of your bare thighs.

“He was taking my measurements!”  You twisted and kicked backward as his free hand pushed your skirts higher. All to no avail, for his arm snaked around your middle and hauled you up so that your knees were left dangling in the air.

The motion only stoked your fury. You tried to drive your heels into him, as if you could hope to harm one of the deadliest men in the Seven Kingdoms, but the dark figure pinned you more firmly to the four-post bed and let out a mocking, cruel laugh.

“Let’s settle this like we always do, woman. By bloody fucking.”

That was your bond with Sandor Clegane.

Raw, primal, and savage. A connection forged not in silk or songs, but in need and flesh. 

In a court full of schemers, Sandor had become your loyal fighting dog. A strong and steadfast ally who, far beyond conventions and traditional forms of courtship, sought pleasure in the shadows of your chamber whenever his duties afforded him a respite. No honeyed words, no pleasantries to soften the edge, what existed between you neither of you had yet named, it simply burned.

But for all that he was fierce and deadly, he was just as damned insecure when it came to you. The man hated himself more than anything else in the world, and that festering self-loathing convinced him that he was unworthy of your attentions. You had lain together more times than you could count, yet every time he walked away from your door, the shadow of the thought that it might have been the last time he held you in his arms, tormented him.

Ironically, that self-contempt never drove him to step back and set you free.

Gods, no.

You were the best thing that had ever happened to him in all his wretched life, and the fear of losing you terrified him more than burning in the fires of the Seven Hells. For all of that, he had become fiercely possessive and aggressively hostile toward any man who dared to come near you.

Of course, you were well aware of it. You had confronted him about it on several occasions, but instead of the situation improving, it had only worsened. And there were many men now with broken ribs and noses, all for nothing more than offering their hand to help you down from a carriage.

That very afternoon, the court’s new tailor had come to your chambers to take your measurements for a new gown. Hours later, word reached you that the poor man had been found beaten in an alleyway. Three molars was he seen to spit out.

It was intolerable.

When Sandor came to your room later that evening, you raised your voice before he even stepped past the threshold. You would not endure another outburst of savage jealousy, no matter if he was the king’s dog.

The argument was fierce. One more among the countless ones you'd already had over the same matter. Gruff and scornful, he did not yield to your shouting, flinging back every reproach with twice the venom. Both of you said things you regretted the moment they left your mouths, and then, in an attempt to end the quarrel and set things right, Sandor resorted to what always worked for you both. He lifted your body mid-sentence, cutting you off in the roughest way and tossing you unceremoniously onto the bed.

You both enjoyed the fantasy of the helpless maiden being forced by a warrior. Every time, Sandor would ravage you with the fury of a charging beast, claiming every inch of you while the intense pleasure drowned your reproaches in gasps and moans.

But tonight, you weren’t having it.

As you kept fighting and begging him to release you, the hand gripping your head released you to shift behind your back. The metallic clinking you knew all too well told you he was unbuckling his belt. You kicked harder, striking his thigh. The attack only earned you another coarse laugh and a harsher grip on your hips.

“That’s it, woman,” came his vicious voice from above, “give me an excuse to get rough.”

Furious and with a fire rising uncontrollably in your chest, you braced your hands on the mattress, screaming and shoving hard to twist beneath him. So much rage must have poured from your throat that the man, startled, eased his weight for you to turn onto your back. You pushed up onto your elbows, and your hand shot upward in a wide arc aimed at his scarred cheek. The man caught your wrist with the swiftness of a wolfhound, stopping you just an inch from his face.

Something shattered between you.

You both were breathing hard from the surge of adrenaline. Your lips parted and trembled. In his eyes burned a storm of fury and endless sorrow in equal measure. He released your wrist roughly and tilted his burned chin upward.

“Go on. Slap me if that’s what you want,” he whispered hoarsely, offering you that terrible, ruined face.

You stared at him with a glacial glare, but the words you spoke next were colder still.

“Get out. If you cannot master yourself… if you cannot set aside your pride over this, then do not come back to me,” you said, heart thundering against your ribs as though the Smith himself were trying to shatter your ribcage from within.

Sandor’s dark eyes dimmed in an instant. He gave you the emptiest, deadest look as he straightened up. The space that opened between your body and his burned like a wound. He didn’t speak another word, only fastened his belt in silence, bowed his head, and turned toward the door with heavy, miserable steps.

The sound of the iron bolt slamming shut made you flinch, though that wasn’t why your hands were shaking.

-*-

An entire sennight passed without either of you speaking again. He didn’t come looking for you. And you spent your days surrounded by your ladies-in-waiting, distracting yourself as best you could with the tasks of daily life - reading, chatting, or embroidering. 

You would lie if you said you didn’t miss him terribly. Every morning, you woke to find your bed empty and cold, and the aching pain in your guts only grew with each passing day. 

Often, when you found yourself in the Great Hall and King Joffrey honored you all with his presence, your eyes would drift toward the space behind the throne. For just a few seconds, they would linger on the threatening shadow that always stood there - alert and vigilant. Yet you would barely catch a glimpse of his worn chestplate before your gaze quickly withdrew, fearing you would meet his eyes. 

Before you even realized, the week had turned to two. The court was immersed in preparations for King Joffrey’s name day. Banquets, royal hunts, tournaments... Everyone spoke eagerly about it, for an event of such caliber was always cause for joy and merriment. 

The ladies whispered among themselves at the imminent arrival of the handsome knights who would ride in the jousts. Most attention was on the Tyrell and Tarly houses, though some lesser houses like the Swyfts, Leffords, and Westerlings also drew interest. Such a display of beauty, wealth, and power left hardly anyone indifferent.

You, however, paid no mind to the ladies' gossip. Nor did you care in the slightest about the upcoming events. Dismissing your ladies-in-waiting, you spent most of your time in solitude, wandering quietly through the blooming gardens around the Red Keep.

Your mind wandered time and time again to Sandor Clegane. You missed his gravelly voice, the scent of metal, earth, and sweat after a day in the training yard. You missed his presence, feared by all, but comforting to you. You couldn’t understand how a man who had told you he was willing to lay down his life for you couldn’t set aside his pride if you asked him. Perhaps there were different kinds of courage? Perhaps you weren’t important enough to him?

Your thoughts caught in your throat as you fiddled with the peas on your silver plate. You didn’t even know why you had come to lunch in the Great Hall that day. Your stomach struggled to accept the food, and the frantic hustle and bustle of the servants, carrying banners of the houses for the next day’s tournament, was irritating. With a long sigh, you placed your ivory-handled fork on the table and made to rise.

A beautiful white rose greeted you as you stood, held by delicate hands that extended it gracefully before your eyes.

"For you, milady, if I may be so bold,” the bearer of the rose spoke. “I saw you admiring the flowers earlier in the gardens, and though none could compare to your beauty, perhaps this one might help soften the sadness in your eyes."

Your gaze focused on the young man. He was lovely as a maid, with a crown of chestnut curls and eyes like molten gold. The knight of flowers, you thought. Of course, the guests had already arrived for the festivities, and you had hardly noticed. He would likely be competing in the joust tomorrow.

“Thank you, Ser,” you said, taking the flower and smiling politely at him. He offered you a radiant smile of his own, full of perfect white teeth.

“Ser Loras Tyrell, at your service, my lady,” he said in a pleasant voice, then gently brought your hand to his lips.

Your smile seemed to please him, as he offered you his arm with an elegant movement that made his cloak flutter.

“It’s a splendid day. Will you walk with me? I promise to be an entertaining companion and keep you safe from... any possible bee stings we may chance upon in the garden."

His boldness, combined with his light sense of humor, made you laugh. It was a discreet laugh, but sincere and spontaneous. You realized then that you hadn’t laughed in a long time. After a brief moment of thought, you concluded that you could use some flattery from this man who seemed more than willing to make you smile and delight your ears.

“Of course,” you answered, taking his arm.

Loras Tyrell kept his promise to be a pleasant and courteous escort. He was everything Sandor Clegane despised. A man who set himself upon a pedestal, the very picture of all the virtues enshrined in the noble code of chivalry. In little more than an hour, he had boasted of his valor and piety more times than you cared to count. 

You had long since ceased to be a girl who believed in such fool’s tales of gallant knights. Sandor had seen to that. And far were you from being the swooning, starry-eyed damsel the famed Knight of the Flowers had taken you for.

But truth be told, you were enjoying yourself, and his knowledge of the different types of flowers that adorned the garden was quite impressive. You were both watching with interest the way the fruits of the trees had ripened, when the childish voice of King Joffrey came from behind you.

“Ah, Ser Loras, I see you are enjoying… the flowers of the court.”

“Your Grace,” you immediately turned and curtsied, lowering your eyes to the floor. The boy was vile and cruel, but for some reason, he seemed to take a liking to you. Who knew for how long.

He prompted you to lift your face. Behind him, his guard dog loomed like an imposing, dangerous black shadow. You didn’t look at him directly, but you felt his eyes first settle on Loras’s arm around yours, then on the white rose you held in your hand. The king’s fingers, laden with gold rings, gently brushed your chin. 

“And what better flower than my lady. Beautifully bloomed, but still not watered.”

“Indeed, Your Majesty,” Ser Loras replied, his caramel-colored eyes gazing at you.

Fortunately, you were an expert in the art of subtlety. But by the gods, it was hard to maintain your composure and not scoff at his words. Out of habit, your eyes searched for a hint of complicity in Sandor’s gaze. He would usually return your glance with a nearly imperceptible twitch or a roll of his eyes. 

But today, your gaze did nothing to change the unreadable face he wore. His eyes were fixed on a point behind you, and his mask of indifference felt like a thousand wasp stings to your already shattered heart.

The conversation between the two men continued, talking about the weather and the joust the following day. After an exchange of compliments, the king made his desire to continue his walk known. Ser Loras made a small bow and secured his arm around yours. You lowered your head as the little Lannister held your hand to kiss it.

The small royal procession resumed its march, and so did the metallic clinking of Sandor’s armor with every step. He stood more than a head taller than your escort as he passed by your side. His white cloak brushed your hip in passing, but his gaze remained fixed ahead, his brow set in a deep frown. On another occasion, he might have slipped a gauntleted hand over your skirt without anyone noticing. Impossible to do so now, with his fist tense and closed around the hilt of his sword.

Your walk with Ser Loras lasted little longer. Your guts were twisted into the world's tightest, ugliest knot, but you could not tell him so. The setting sun on the horizon provided the perfect excuse to retire to your chambers. Even so, he insisted on accompanying you.

Once in your room, your mind spun around the way Sandor had ignored you in the gardens. You collapsed onto the bed, still dressed and with your shoes on, and covered your face with your hands. 

Was it over? Was this how your encounters would end? 

You were angry with him for being unable to contain his possessive impulses. What were these terrible jealousies born of? Hadn't you shown him, time and time again, by dishonoring your name and risking your reputation, that you had no affections for anyone else? 

Affections, you thought. When had he ever shown you affection? Desire, yes. Lust and passion, too. But affection? Your body shuddered at the thought. It was true that The Hound was not a man of sweet words. But still, you longed for him to verbally express his feelings for you.

If he had any. 

Nothing would please you more than to hear from his lips what every lady dreamed of hearing from her chosen knight. A bitter and sad laugh escaped your chest. You were ashamed of longing for those words, but most of all, you knew he would never utter them in his life.

Your eyes wandered across your room until they landed on the upper frame of the door. You remembered your first kiss. The way you had stood on your toes in the hallway, tugging at his gorget to pull him down to you. He had pressed his lips to yours with inexperienced fervor as you stumbled blindly into your chambers, so enthralled that he forgot to duck upon entering and struck his forehead against the frame.

That night, you had been equals. 

For you, it was the first time you had a man between your thighs, his body starving for warmth as it entered yours, pressing into your maidenhead with a wildness you had never known before.

And for him? It was the first time he kissed, and was kissed in return. The first time he held a woman in his arms, chests bumping against one another as you looked him in the eyes - unafraid, and with no coin to be counted afterward.

Uncontrollable sobs shook your chest. You pulled your knees up to your chest, hugging them tightly in search of some comfort.

It never came. You slept poorly, on a pillow soaked with bitter, hot tears.

-*-

The next morning, the sound of hurried footsteps interrupted the little sleep you had managed to grasp. Heavy curtains were drawn apart, and the sudden, bothersome light that poured through the window fell cruelly upon your reddened eyelids.

“My lady, we must make haste. In less than two hours you are expected in the stands,” urged the sharp yet pleasant voice of your handmaid.

You let out a groan most unbefitting of a lady as the woman helped you sit up in bed. Without saying a word about why you had passed the night fully clothed, she unlaced your shoes and prompted another maid to bring a porcelain basin filled with cold water. At the far end of your chamber, two girls pulled your new dress from the wardrobe and brushed it with haste.

“My lady, your face looks weary. Are you unwell?” the same woman asked, frowning as she patted your cheeks with a damp cloth.

You shook your head, though you should have said yes, had you remembered your duties for the day.

“Thank the gods,” she added as she refreshed your neck and shoulders. “It would be a shame if you could not attend the tourney.” 

Your eyes widened at once. 

The tourney.

“Oh no.” You stared at her with round, tearful eyes. “No... I don’t want to go…” 

"You must go, my lady," she said, helping you to your feet. "The king expects you in the noble stands. The entire royal family is counting on your presence… and the lords." 

A short gasp escaped your lips as she stripped you down, leaving you as bare as on your name day. Behind you, the other girls whispered to one another about how handsome the knights might be. You cared for none of it. All you wanted was to return to your bed and weep.

While you put on fresh smallclothes, your handmaid held up two dresses, one in each hand. You shook your head, refusing to cooperate, but before you realized it, she had tossed them both on the bed and was pulling a tight corset over your head. You grasped one of the bedposts and let her lace the strings, too exhausted to protest.

“My lady, many knights will look at you today…” she tried to lift your spirits as she cinched the garment around your waist.

You exhaled, dry and mocking. You had not the slightest interest in any knight watching you. The maid mistook your contempt for mere doubt, and as she chose the more elegant of the two dresses you had dismissed, she went on, hopeful. 

“Perhaps one of them might even fight for you.”

You barely heard her. Your arms and legs had gone weak as the beautiful velvet gown slipped over your skin. 

Once fully clothed, you let your weight fall onto the chair before your vanity. Someone had left a silver tray with grapes and a honey-scented tea on it. As your handmaid undid the messy braid from the day before, you picked a grape and bit into it. Its juice burst across your tongue, far too sweet for the sadness that lingered within you. When the maid finished a hairstyle that highlighted your beauty and grace, she leaned slightly toward you and smiled at you through the mirror.

"The whole court is talking about how Ser Loras Tyrell was enchanted by you while you walked the gardens yesterday."

You sighed. The memory of your garden stroll brought with it a far more bitter one. Sandor Clegane, standing behind the king and ignoring you. The woman must have mistaken again your frailty for love’s weakness, for she carried on.

“He is a handsome man. All the ladies of the court envy you.”

“They’ve nothing to envy,” you said in a somber tone. The last thing you needed was all the women of the court against you.

Your handmaid smiled again, then held up a lovely pearl necklace between her fingers as she looked at you through the mirror. You shook your head, and she frowned when she saw you reach for a simple silk ribbon instead, tying it around your neck as an ornament. It was not the choice she would have made for such a dress, but given your mood, she let it be.

“You look radiant," she said in a last attempt to draw a smile from you. "They say Ser Loras always rides with a white rose tied to his lance. I’m certain he’ll ask for your favor and offer it to you.”

Her effort failed, for you froze.

Gods help you if the man were foolish enough to do such a thing.

-*-

No matter how quickly your maids worked, you were among the last ladies to arrive at the festivities. The master of ceremonies had already begun announcing the tournament. The knights who would face each other had been called, and their titles declared.

The noble stands teemed with color and silk, each house proud in its finery. Ladies whispered behind lace fans while their lords murmured wagers on the tilt below. It was crowded with spectators from all corners of the realm, and the seat you usually occupied had already been taken by another lady. As soon as she saw you, she rose and offered you your chair, but you motioned for her to stay, taking a seat lower down with a poorer view. 

More discreet, you thought. Much better.

Once settled, your gaze drifted to the royal stand, where the king and queen offered you a slight nod of acknowledgment. You did the same, with an elegant but brief curtsy. 

It did not escape your notice that Sandor Clegane was not behind the lions. Instead, two members of the Kingsguard stood on either side of the king. You found it odd that, on such an important and crowded day, the royal family had dispensed with their dog’s services. The king had many enemies, and many of them were fool enough to try to harm him even in broad daylight.

Then your gaze swept over the muddy jousting field. The earth had been compressed, but the rain had left the ground soft and unstable, unfavorable for heavier horses. Squires and stableboys ran from side to side adjusting saddles, sharpening lances, or preparing ornate armors. 

You leaned back in your seat with disinterest. The rasping, scornful voice of the Hound could almost be heard in your head, mocking the false fanfare of the knights and the fevered glances the perfumed ladies cast upon them. The man had infected you with his distaste for such a circus, though the little girl inside you still sometimes dreamed of romance.

Only sometimes, and always in embarrassment, for he was right. They were cunts, the lot of them, with coin and nothing better to do.

With little enthusiasm, you watched as several knights took the field. The stands roared with fervor when Ser Jaime Lannister unhorsed Lord Bryce Caron in a single tilt. You merely sighed under your breath and offered a brief, courteous clap. Then came Ser Balon Swann, Lord Renly, and Lord Beric Dondarrion, all of them as effective and victorious as they were boring to you.

The entrance of an elegant, grey mare, led by a young squire, confirmed that the next participant would be the Knight of the Flowers. The ladies in the stands gasped, and a great ovation arose from the spectators as Loras Tyrell, in his silver armor adorned with sapphires and black vines, appeared before the crowd. A white rose was indeed tied to his lance. You immediately lowered your eyes.

By the Seven, may he not see me and approach. 

Your eyes were still fixed on the ground when you heard a familiar neigh and the sound of heavy horse hooves sinking into the mud.

Your heart slammed against your ribs.

Stranger. 

The applause of the stands dwindled, and you immediately raised your head to look at Sandor Clegane, guiding his enormous, ill-tempered stallion across the tiltyard.

“Do not worry, my lady,” said a nearby lord. “Ser Loras is skilled with a lance and will defend himself.”

You barely heard him, so focused you were on the black steed and its rider. He wore the same battered, blackened armor as always. Unlike his opponent, he did not look at the crowd. His gaze was fixed on his nervous mount, which whinnied and resisted. 

You looked at the horse with a tightness in your chest. You knew him well. When you crossed paths with Sandor in the stables, the sullen animal would nudge you gently with its muzzle. Sandor often jested about this, reprimanding him for stealing all your attention. The black destrier was as strong and stubborn as they came, and the jousts made him nervous. That was why Sandor rarely participated in them. And that was why he was patting the beast affectionately as they were met with boos and jeers from the stands. 

Your blood boiled in your veins. Normally, no one would dare boo Sandor Clegane. But in tournaments, there were always favorites, and the anonymity of the stands gave rise to such things. In any case, as much as it enraged you, Sandor was used to not having the favor of the crowd. And he couldn’t give less of a damn.

Once he managed to calm Stranger down, he placed his dreadful, dog’s helmet on, put a foot in the stirrup, and mounted upon the warhorse in search of a lance. Meanwhile, Ser Loras Tyrell was helped into the saddle by his squire, more concerned with the mud staining his gleaming armor. Then, the Knight of Flowers spurred his mare into a slow trot, and wherever he rode, was met with applause.

From the other side, the Hound had already chosen any available lance to compete and was rotating his right shoulder to warm up. He then leaned forward in his saddle, whispered something to the horse and tightened the reins to urge it into a gallop across the tiltyard. 

“Whoa!” he bellowed, and the horse’s hooves sank into the mud as its rider brought it to a halt before the noble stands. The ladies gasped and squealed. The lords hissed. You watched the scene with wide eyes, unable to understand.

Sandor Clegane seemed confused. He looked this way and that at the crowd, angrily raising the visor of his helmet to get a better view. The horse, sensing its rider’s confusion, snorted nervously. Sandor yanked the reins to one side and urged the animal forward a few paces along the stands, his eyes still fixed on the crowd. Some women looked away as he passed directly before them, but he kept searching.

Searching.

Then you understood. He was looking for the place where you always sat. The spot that, due to your tardiness, was now occupied by another lady. 

In an almost involuntary act of compassion, you leaned forward and rested your arms on the wooden railing, making yourself stand out in the crowd. And just then, Sandor Clegane’s dark eyes fixed on you.

“Hyah!” he bellowed, and Stranger seemed to recognize you as well, for it trotted cheerfully up to stand right in front of you. 

The women around you held their breath as Sandor’s gloved hand reached for his helmet and yanked it upward, freeing himself from it before you. You felt your blood pulse strongly through your veins. The entire crowd fell silent as the man gazed at you wordlessly, with a seriousness that surpassed his usual sullen expression. His black eyes were locked onto yours like two dark prayers. Still, you could see the devotion behind the darkness. A devotion he had never failed to hold since the first time moment your paths crossed.

“Hey, dog!” you heard the impatient voice of the king shout from the royal stand, “your place is on the other side!”

At this, some in the crowd laughed. Yet Sandor did not avert his gaze from you, nor did you from him. Stranger took a step forward without any command from its rider, and in that moment, the man raised his voice, speaking before the entire kingdom the words he never thought he would say in all his miserable life.

“I ask for the lady’s favor!”

The crowd fell silent once more. The request was more a roar than a spoken plea, likely an attempt to impose his will over his own embarrassment. Your bewilderment kept your body from reacting, not even a breath of air entered your lungs.

Sandor’s deep eyes stared at you with intensity, waiting for your answer. His face was serious, but the unscarred side of his face betrayed a sadness. The soft chuckles returned to the stands, and you realized that your inaction was making a fool of him.

You snapped back to yourself. With a force that nearly made you jump from your seat, you stood up and said in the loudest, clearest voice you could muster.

“You have it, Sandor Clegane. May honor and victory ride with your lance.”

The last words came out somewhat hoarsely. No knight had ever asked for your favor, and you’d never rehearsed the scene. You didn’t know if your words had been the right ones, but what mattered was showing your support to him. And the way the harsh lines of his face softened made you think you had done it right.

Your lips trembled with emotion before curling into a beautiful smile. His eyes lit up at that, and the unburned corner of his mouth twitched upward into the grimace he often made when he saw something that pleased him. 

You thought that with that exchange, the man would turn Stranger and the tournament would begin. But he didn’t move. He stayed rooted in the sand, staring at you. Around you, whispers began to rise again in the stands. You looked at the people, confused, and Sandor’s voice made you focus your eyes back on him.

“The token, my lady…” he said softly, his brow quirked with slight amusement.

Oh! How could you be so foolish! You had to give him something! Stricken with the nervousness of feeling all eyes on you, your mind seemed too clouded to think clearly. 

You weren’t wearing jewelry, nor a veil. You weren’t wearing gloves, nor had you made a flower crown... Your hands fumbled clumsily over the sleeves of your dress, searching for a handkerchief, but finding nothing. Then they climbed up to your neck and, trembling, untied the simple silk ribbon you had chosen that morning. 

Sandor removed his leather glove and raised his hand to meet yours as you held onto the railing. Were it not dulled by blows, his spaulder might have nearly gleamed with the movement. He closed his hand around yours, and his thick thumb briefly caressed your knuckles. Your heart seemed to leap out of your mouth. The roughness of his hand felt incredibly sweet against your skin after so many days without his touch. The gesture was inappropriately intimate for such a moment, and even the horse seemed to notice, for from the royal stand they watched the animal wag its tail and bring its rider even closer to you.

“Dog!” the king called out with a mocking tone, “Your beast seems to be in love with the lady!”

Sandor grunted, making himself heard over the laughter that echoed through the stands.

“Aye!” He growled, then you heard his voice again, a rough whisper meant for your ears alone. “He loves her. Deeply… and more than his own damn pride.”

The warmth that spilled far beyond your chest made your heart swell, and you laughed, breathless and lowering your head to hide the flush that bloomed across your cheeks. In his eyes burned a desperate question he could not bring himself to ask, but the glimmer in your eyes when you looked up again, put an end to his torment. 

Reconciliation. 

You were granting him leave to come to you that night. 

Sandor drew his hand away from yours and carefully tucked the ribbon into a slit of his vambrace. Then, he dipped his head to you, and after you nodded, kicked his horse into a gallop to take his place upon the tiltyard.

-*-

Ser Loras proved to be a swift and skilled opponent on horseback, but Sandor Clegane won the tournament that day. 

How could he not, with you by his side? 

But that night, amidst tears and caresses and embraces in your chamber, he won something far more important than applause or a purse of coins. For as he made a commitment of restraint, he earned your forgiveness and your trust. He earned the delight of your smile, and the warmth of your laughter. And kissing you almost as a knight of old would, he earned the beats of your heart, sealing his bond to you with a promise of loyalty and eternal love.

...............

Thanks for reading! <3

The first thing you became aware of was not pain.

Pain had already come and gone through you in waves so large and merciless they had ceased to feel like anything as simple as pain. They had become weather, then war, then something older than either, something that tore through bone and blood and will and left no part of you untouched. What came after was stranger. A ringing stillness. A hollow, stunned quiet inside your own body, as though the storm had passed through a castle and now the walls stood shaking, every banner ripped loose, every torch guttering, while the people inside tried to understand that they were somehow still alive. Your skin was damp. Your hair clung to your temples and the back of your neck. The linen beneath you was warm in places and cooling in others. The room smelled of sweat and blood and crushed herbs and salt carried inland from the sea below Storm’s End. Outside, somewhere beyond the shuttered windows and the thick black walls, the wind worried at the fortress in its old familiar way, pressing itself against stone that had spent centuries refusing to yield.

And then you heard your child.

Not the first cry. You had heard that one through the haze while the midwives were still moving around you in a blur of hands and cloth and urgent practical words. That first cry had cut through everything, through the ringing in your ears, through the last of the labor pain, through the strange animal fear that had lodged under your ribs when your body seemed determined to split itself open and take you with it. No, this was the second cry. Softer. Indignant. Alive in a smaller, more offended way, like the child had now had a moment to consider the world and found its welcome less than acceptable.

You turned your head on the pillow.

The nearest midwife was wiping the baby’s face and shoulders with practiced gentleness, murmuring under her breath in that rhythm women used when soothing infants and half-shattered mothers alike. The babe looked impossibly small against the cloth, all flushed skin and damp dark hair and furious little life. The sight hit you with such force that your throat tightened at once. For months the child had been movement and weight, a rolling pressure under your ribs, a sharp heel under your hand in the middle of the night, a future that lived inside you but could not yet be seen. Now here that future was, red and wrinkled and loudly unimpressed.

“Lady Y/N,” one of the older women said, bending toward you with a smile lined by fatigue and relief. “Do you hear me?”

You swallowed and found your voice roughened into something almost unrecognizable. “Yes.”

“You did well.”

You almost laughed at that, because what sort of absurd thing was that to say after a woman had been dragged through the gates of death and spat back onto her own bed. You did well. As if you had embroidered something neatly. As if you had hosted dinner. But the midwife’s eyes were kind, and kindness after ordeal could feel like a knife to the chest if you were not prepared for it. Your eyes stung anyway.

“My child,” you said, and then had to stop because your voice caught.

The midwife understood at once. Women like her always did. She turned and gathered the baby carefully, drawing the blanket tighter, then brought the little bundle toward you with a reverence that had nothing to do with court and everything to do with blood surviving blood.

“A son, my lady,” she said softly.

The words settled into the room.

A son.

You had known it was possible, had known every day of your swelling belly that the child might be boy or girl and either one would come into a world ready to seize meaning from it. Yet hearing it spoken made something shift in your chest. A son for Storm’s End. A son for Lyonel. A son with Targaryen blood through you and storm blood through him, born into walls that had stood against gods, kings, and weather alike. You stared down as the baby was laid carefully against your breast, and the whole room seemed to contract around that single point of warmth.

He was not beautiful yet. No newborn truly was, no matter what liars and doting fools chose to say. He was raw from the effort of arriving, his features still unsettled, his tiny fists opening and closing as if he already distrusted the air. But his mouth searched blindly against the blanket, and a sound escaped you that was half laugh, half broken breath. His hair was dark. Not black, not yet perhaps, but dark enough to say Lyonel before it said anything else. His face was too small to know. His eyes were shut. His little body radiated heat. He was real. Gods, he was real.

You touched one finger to his cheek.

The baby turned his head with offended determination and let out another rough complaint.

“He already sounds like a Baratheon,” you murmured.

That finally did make one of the women laugh, quietly and with obvious caution, because there were certain truths in Storm’s End that could be spoken freely and others that needed to be dressed in softer fabric.

From somewhere beyond the chamber door came a rising roar.

Not battle. Not alarm. Not mourning either. Laughter. Male voices. The unmistakable, dreadful lift of celebration beginning before any reasonable woman had even been allowed time to stop bleeding properly. Your eyes closed for one exhausted heartbeat as you listened. Someone shouted Lyonel’s name. Someone else shouted something too muffled to make out. Then came the unmistakable crash of something large and breakable losing a fight with gravity.

You did not need anyone to tell you what had happened.

“Of course he has,” you said.

The younger midwife looked confused. “My lady?”

You opened your eyes again and stared at the canopy as though it had personally wronged you. “He’s already celebrating.”

The older woman pressed her lips together in an expression of heroic neutrality. “His lordship was informed the child lived and that you lived.”

“And that was enough,” you said.

Another crash sounded from beyond the door, followed this time by a cheer.

One of the women near the hearth muttered, “Saints preserve us,” before remembering too late that there were no saints in the Seven Kingdoms and correcting herself into, “Seven preserve us.”

You let your head sink deeper into the pillow. Even now, with your body still shaking in the aftermath, with blood drying on your thighs and your bones feeling as though they belonged to someone who had been beaten with hammers, you could see it clearly. Lyonel in some nearby hall, shirt unlaced or half-armored or entirely bareheaded because he never did anything with moderation if he could help it. Wine already in hand. Men around him feeding off his energy like fools warming themselves at a wildfire. A table being dragged where no table should be. A horn blown indoors by someone too drunk or too delighted to know better. Half the castle now aware that Lord Baratheon had a son because his happiness had no respect for walls.

The baby let out a small snuffling sound and rooted again. Instinct moved through you faster than thought. Your hand came up to steady him. One of the women helped guide him, practical and unembarrassed. When he finally latched, the sensation was so strong and strange that your breath caught. Not pain exactly. Or not only pain. It was another claim your body had not finished making upon you. Another reminder that the whole of you had been requisitioned for this new life and would go on being requisitioned now that he was here. Your eyes dropped to him again, to the little working jaw, the absurd seriousness of such a tiny face trying to feed as though he had already decided starvation was a personal insult.

A knock came at the outer door.

Every woman in the room froze.

Not because there was danger. Because men had the miraculous ability to behave as though doors were a decorative suggestion at the exact moment women most needed doors to be walls. One of the midwives rose with the stare of a woman prepared to murder a lord with a spoon if she had to and went to intercept whoever had decided to disturb the birthing chamber.

You heard the murmur of voices. Then the door opened only a fraction and one of Lyonel’s household guards leaned his head in as if he valued his life, which meant he had learned quickly.

“Lady Y/N,” he said, eyes very carefully fixed above shoulder height. “His lordship wishes to know if he may come in.”

A brittle little silence followed.

You stared at the bed curtains and considered the question in the full spirit it deserved. May he come in? As if he had not spent the last hour announcing your labor’s result to half the castle and likely a quarter of the Stormlands by now. As if he had not probably embraced three men, broken two cups, and frightened six servants with joy. As if politeness now might cover the rest.

“Is he drunk?” you asked.

The guard hesitated one beat too long.

Not fully drunk, then. Just happily on the road toward it.

“Has he washed?”

Another hesitation, shorter but equally damning.

The older midwife gave a tiny nod of approval as if to say, yes, exactly, make him suffer a little.

“Tell him,” you said, voice still rough but steady, “that if he comes in smelling like wine, horse, or another man’s sweat, I will have him thrown back out.”

The guard blinked, then bowed his head with the visible relief of a man grateful to leave with an answer instead of a corpse. “Yes, my lady.”

He vanished.

You looked down at your son again, at the shape of him nestled against you, and felt a new kind of exhaustion settle through your bones. It was deeper than labor. Labor ended. This would not. This was the beginning of a love so total it felt like a vulnerability sharpened into a weapon. This child could undo you. He could wreck you with one fever, one fall, one delayed breath. The world had just handed you a living hostage and called it joy.

And it was joy. That was the obscene part.

You bent your head enough to press your lips to his damp hair. Salt and linen and milk and the faint iron trace of birth. Your son.

By the time Lyonel was admitted, enough of the chamber had been restored to something like order that no one would die purely from the sight of it. The bloodied cloths were gone. Fresh linens had been drawn up over you. Your hair had been combed back enough to stop resembling the aftermath of shipwreck. The basin near the bed had been changed twice. The women still moved with brisk authority, but the worst of the crisis had passed.

The door opened, and Lyonel stepped in as though entering a holy place he only half believed he deserved.

He had washed, as commanded. Barely, perhaps, but enough. His hair was still damp at the temples from it, and someone had made him change his shirt, though not before he had probably argued the point. He smelled faintly of soap over sweat, and there remained just enough wine on his breath to confirm he had obeyed you in spirit more than discipline. His face, however, undid any annoyance you might have chosen to keep polished and ready. For once there was no swagger leading him, no easy Baratheon mischief, no gleeful appetite for spectacle. His joy had not left him, but it had gone quiet. It sat in him now like awe that had not found its shape yet.

His gaze found you first.

Not the bed. Not the women. Not the room. You.

“Gods,” he said, softly enough that the word nearly vanished in the chamber air.

You had never seen him look stricken by relief before. You had seen him furious, amused, reckless, triumphant, hungry, stubborn, infuriatingly pleased with himself, and once or twice shaken in battle’s immediate aftermath when men he loved had nearly not risen again. But this was different. This looked like a man who had spent the last hour moving too fast because if he stopped moving he might understand how close fear had come to his throat.

“I’m alive,” you said, because you knew him too well not to.

His mouth shifted, almost a laugh, almost a grimace. “You look offended that I noticed.”

“I am offended that I can smell the beginning of a celebration from my own bed.”

That finally made his real expression return. Not fully, not loudly, but enough. “I have a son.”

“You have a wife,” you said.

His eyes moved then, finally, down to the child at your breast.

Whatever remark he might have made died there.

You watched the moment take him. The first proper sight of the baby. The dark hair. The tiny moving mouth. The absurd smallness of a person who had already rearranged the castle simply by arriving in it. Lyonel stood still in a way that looked almost unnatural on him. As if motion would break the scene. As if noise itself had become dangerous.

“Seven hells,” he said quietly.

The older midwife, who had plainly decided Lord Baratheon was tolerable so long as he continued to speak like a human instead of a brass horn, said, “My lord, do mind your language.”

Lyonel glanced at her, then back at the baby. “He’s too new to understand me.”

“That has never stopped children from learning bad habits from their fathers,” she said.

You made a tired sound that could have been a laugh.

Lyonel came closer, slow enough to reassure everyone present that he had not forgotten he was large and unhelpfully enthusiastic. He stopped beside the bed and looked down at your son as if staring might explain anything. Then his gaze lifted to you again, and in it you saw a startling gentleness that no one outside a very small circle ever believed he possessed.

“How are you?” He asked.

Not how is the baby. Not what did the maester say. Not did I miss the best part, gods forbid. How are you?

The simplicity of it nearly hurt.

“Tired enough to kill you where you stand if you become too happy near me,” you said.

He nodded solemnly. “Understood.”

Then, after a beat, unable to help himself, “But I am extremely happy.”

“Yes,” you said dryly. “The entire fortress knows.”

A grin pulled at one corner of his mouth. “Good.”

“Something broke.”

“Several things, most likely.”

“There was cheering.”

“There should be.”

“There was also singing.”

He looked briefly pleased with himself. “That may have been me.”

The older midwife clicked her tongue. “If his lordship starts singing in this room, I’ll have him removed.”

Lyonel gave her a look of startled respect. “You’d try.”

“I would succeed.”

You watched him take that in, and some spark of mutual understanding seemed to pass between them. Storm’s End did not produce timid women. It barely tolerated timid men.

“Come here,” you said.

The words changed him immediately. The joking edge fell away. He stepped in close enough that you could see the red in his eyes from lack of sleep and too much feeling. He crouched beside the bed, one forearm braced carefully against the mattress as if it were somehow a battlefield requiring strategy, and looked down at the baby again.

“He’s very small,” Lyonel said, with the grave astonishment of a man reporting strange weather.

“He was inside me ten minutes ago.”

“That explains some things.”

You would have rolled your eyes if you’d had the strength. Instead you reached a hand and touched his cheek. His skin was warm, freshly scrubbed, roughened already by the day beginning to move across him.

“Do you want to hold him?” you asked.

Lyonel looked at you the way men looked at priests who offered them direct access to gods. “Can I?”

One of the midwives snorted softly. “No, my lord, she only asked to torment you.”

You almost smiled. Lyonel, however, ignored the jab completely. His entire attention had fixed on the possibility of holding his son, and the sight of that naked eagerness would have been almost embarrassing if it had not been so moving.

The women helped shift the baby from your breast and into waiting cloth. Then they guided Lyonel’s arms with the caution normally reserved for teaching a hound to carry an egg. He took the child as if he expected thunder to strike him personally for presumption.

For a man whose instinct toward any difficulty was usually to charge at it until it yielded or bled, the way he held the baby was astonishing. He became still all over again. His enormous hands supported the tiny bundled body with reverence bordering on disbelief. The baby squirmed once, made a faint grunting sound, and then settled under the new heat.

Lyonel stared.

You had seen lords look at heirs before. Assessing. Proud. Relieved. Proprietary. This was none of those exactly. There was pride, yes, and relief enough to fill a hall, but the thing that marked him most clearly was wonder, as if the world had finally produced something extravagant enough to surprise him.

“He has my hair,” Lyonel said in a low voice.

“At the moment he has the general appearance of an angry turnip,” you replied.

Lyonel huffed a laugh without looking away. “An excellent turnip.”

The baby opened one eye, or tried to, then frowned in a way that was offensively like his father’s.

Lyonel’s grin widened. “There. You see.”

“I see a child who has already inherited your disapproval.”

“He should,” Lyonel said. “The world’s a disappointing place.”

One of the younger midwives laughed outright at that before catching herself.

The door knocked again.

The older woman’s head turned with such lethal promise that the nearest servant nearly dropped the pitcher she was carrying. “What?”

A voice answered from outside, cautious. “Ser Duncan the Tall and his boy, my lady. His lordship invited them. They ask if they should wait.”

Of course he had invited them. Of course Duncan and Egg had somehow managed to arrive during the exact span between your labor and your first proper rest. It was such a perfect Storm’s End combination of affection and idiocy that you almost could not resent it.

Lyonel looked up, only mildly guilty. “I may have sent for them yesterday when the pains started. They were in nearby town.”

You stared at him. “Yesterday?”

He shrugged one shoulder, still cradling the baby with absurd care. “I was excited.”

“You summoned guests while I was in labor.”

“I summoned Dunk. That scarcely counts as a guest. He is too large and awkward to be formal company.”

“Egg?”

At that, some unmistakable amusement entered his face. “Egg absolutely counts as trouble.”

You let your head fall back against the pillow and laughed once, weakly and in disbelief. Pain answered the laugh immediately from your abdomen, which only made the whole situation feel more offensive.

“Let them in later,” you said. “Not now.”

The older midwife nodded approvingly as if you had passed some test of governance.

Lyonel looked as though he wanted to argue only because he wanted to show the baby to every soul currently drawing breath inside the castle. But he was not entirely stupid, only often committed to behaving otherwise. He glanced down at the child again and seemed to remember that the world could survive waiting another quarter hour.

“Later,” he agreed.

Then the baby hiccuped.

Lyonel froze in horror.

You laughed again, this time fully enough that tears sprang to your eyes from the effort. “Gods help us. He’s frightened you already.”

“He made a noise.”

“He’s a newborn. That is most of what he does.”

“He sounded offended.”

“He is offended. He’s been born.”

Lyonel’s gaze went from the child to you and back again with the beginning of paternal alarm. “Should someone do something?”

“He hiccupped.”

“Yes.”

“That is the thing.”

“And it’s normal?”

You looked at him blandly. “Do you want the maester summoned for every hiccup?”

He considered it with distressing sincerity. “Possibly.”

The older midwife intervened before you could answer with the contempt it deserved. “My lord, if noble fathers summoned maesters for every newborn hiccup, no child in Westeros would survive its first week because all the maesters would die of annoyance.”

Lyonel actually looked chastened by that.

You studied him there in the birthing chamber, great foolish storm-lord of yours, holding your son like a relic and looking one interruption away from declaring war on the very concept of infant noises. Something in your chest softened further than you had thought it could. Marriage to Lyonel had not gentled life. It had made it louder. More complicated. More public in some humiliating ways and more private in others. It had given you years of laughter, arguments, bruising kisses, hard rides along coast roads, late feasts, sudden tenderness, and the kind of companionship that did not ask you to become less yourself. You had not been reduced by marrying him. If anything, he had simply made more room for the self you already were, then occupied the room beside it with glorious, infuriating enthusiasm.

A son. Two years married. Storm’s End around you. The sea outside battering itself to pieces against rock because that was what seas did here. The whole world felt suddenly both very large and very close.

When Duncan and Egg were finally allowed in, the chamber had changed again from crisis to aftermath. A tray of broth had appeared near the bed, though you had only managed a few spoonfuls. Fresh candles had been lit. The baby had been fed and changed and had entered that miraculous state of newborn sleep in which he resembled a warrior who had fought a battle and decided everyone else could deal with the consequences. Lyonel had relinquished him only after fierce persuasion and was now seated beside the bed as though he meant to spend the rest of his life there policing the air.

Duncan entered first because it was impossible for him to enter second. He ducked through the doorway on instinct despite there being more than enough room, broad shoulders tense, expression stricken with the solemnity of a man entering sacred ground. He wore travel dust and the look of someone who had spent the ride to Storm’s End being informed repeatedly by Egg that he was breathing too loudly. Egg came behind him in simpler clothes than his birth warranted, shaved head shining in candlelight, eyes bright and observant in that aggravating way that had only sharpened with age. He had grown taller in two years, though not out of the habit of looking at everything as if he meant someday to own it or outwit it.

Dunk bowed awkwardly. “My lady. My lord.”

Egg bowed more gracefully, because of course he did. “Princess Y/N. Lord Lyonel.”

At the familiar address, one of the servants’ eyes flicked up before she caught herself. Even now, even married and in Storm’s End and bleeding from giving a Baratheon heir to the world, there were moments when your older life and your present one collided strangely.

Lyonel, who had a gift for making formality feel like something useful only when he wanted it, waved his hand. “Come and look at him.”

Dunk hesitated as if worried he might step on the child from three paces away. “Should we?”

Egg did not wait. He came forward at once, though with enough care not to earn murder from the women in the room, and looked down into the cradle beside the bed where your son now slept wrapped in storm-blue wool someone had produced with suspicious speed. Egg’s face changed in that quiet way his face always did when real feeling slipped through before he remembered to dress it in something stern.

“Well,” Egg said, very softly. “He’s real.”

You looked at him more closely. Not because of the words, but because of the note inside them. There was history in it. Not with your child, impossible as that was. With you perhaps. With all of you. Some memory of Ashford and mud and tournaments and that first riotous beginning. Egg had always been more than he seemed. The realm would learn that in its own time. For now you simply watched the prince-that-wasn’t-a-prince straighten and school his face again into mischievous composure.

Lyonel leaned back in his chair with all the pride of a man who had personally invented fatherhood. “He has my hair.”

Egg looked at the sleeping child. Then at Lyonel. Then at you. “That much is already a burden.”

Dunk made a strangled sound, caught between shock and laughter.

You smiled faintly.

Lyonel narrowed his eyes. “You arrive in my home, admire my son, and insult my bloodline.”

Egg clasped his hands behind his back. “I learned from the best.”

“That sounds like blame.”

“It is.”

Dunk stepped in before the exchange could become one of those stupid male games that ended in wrestling or furniture damage. “He’s beautiful, my lady.”

You spared him because he meant well. “He looks like a squashed berry.”

Dunk looked helplessly at the cradle as if unsure whether agreeing would be treason. “A very noble berry.”

Lyonel barked a laugh.

Egg, meanwhile, studied the child with that disturbing concentration that often meant he had decided something no one else had yet realized. “What are you calling him?”

The room quieted slightly around the question.

You and Lyonel had discussed names for months in the argumentative, playful, occasionally serious fashion of married people who both assumed themselves right by nature. Names from his side. Names from yours. Names that sounded too grand. Names that sounded too soft. Names that invited songs. Names that invited knives. Names for a storm lord’s heir. Names for a child who would carry more than one legacy whether he liked it or not.

You looked at Lyonel.

Lyonel looked at you.

Then he said it first, because for all his noise he knew when certain things belonged to solemnity.

“Orryn,” he said.

The name settled beautifully.

Storm’s End had known Orryn Baratheons before, men half lost to the long pile of storm-lord history, but that was fitting. The child was not beginning from nothing. He was entering a current that had been moving long before him.

Egg nodded once, approving in spite of himself. “A good name.”

Dunk smiled, relieved to have reached a topic he understood. “Strong name.”

Lyonel looked insufferably pleased. “It is.”

You glanced down at your son, at Orryn, and felt the name sink into him almost visibly. Not because infants cared for such things, but because mothers did. Mothers named the shape of the future and hoped the world did not use that name against their children.

From somewhere deeper in the castle came another rise of sound. Cheering again. Louder now. Followed by what was very clearly the beginning of drums.

You closed your eyes.

Lyonel looked instantly suspicious of your silence. “What?”

“You told them to start again, didn’t you?”

He had the decency to look almost sheepish. “Only after the babe was safely here.”

“Lyonel.”

“It’s not every day I have a son.”

Egg, traitorously amused, asked, “What exactly is happening down there?”

Lyonel brightened at once. “Celebration.”

Dunk muttered, “That word can mean many dangerous things in this castle.”

“It means there are three barrels open, someone found antlers, and I think one of the older men is trying to sing a victory song as if he personally gave birth.”

Egg’s grin grew. “I want to see.”

Dunk turned on him. “No.”

Egg ignored him. “I definitely want to see.”

The older midwife, who had remained because clearly no male in the room could be trusted to maintain a single sensible boundary, folded her arms. “No one is taking that baby into a hall full of drunk men.”

Lyonel looked scandalized. “I had not suggested that.”

“You were thinking it.”

He opened his mouth, then shut it.

Dunk, seeing an opportunity to finally be the most responsible person in the room for once in his life, said, “We can go look and report back.”

Egg stared at him. “Why would I want a report when I can have the event?”

“Because you are not sensible.”

“That has never been a compelling argument.”

You were too tired to laugh properly again, but amusement moved through you all the same. The room felt warmer for it, less like a chamber of blood and recovery and more like something you had built over the last two years without entirely noticing. A court of your own, in its way. Not made of flatterers and polished courtiers, but of storm-lords and hedge knights and hidden princes and women who could frighten noblemen with a look.

Lyonel rose at last and came to the bed again. He bent and kissed your forehead, then your temple, then the corner of your mouth with a tenderness so familiar now it struck you harder than passion often did. There was passion in him by nature. He burned with it. But this, this quiet claim in the aftermath, this soft gratitude after terror and relief, felt older than lust. More dangerous too.

“I should go keep them from toppling half the castle,” he said.

“You should fail at that more privately,” you murmured.

His smile bent. “Would you rather they drink to us in silence?”

“I would rather they not blow a hunting horn under my window.”

“That was one time.”

“That was an hour ago.”

He had the grace to laugh.

Then his gaze dropped to Orryn in the cradle, and some look passed through him again, half wonder and half the strange ferocity new fathers pretended not to feel because the world preferred men amused by children rather than undone by them.

“When he wakes,” Lyonel said, “send for me.”

“You’re in the same castle.”

“Send for me anyway.”

Egg made a small noise of mock sympathy. “You’re already ruined.”

Lyonel glanced at him with no offense at all. “Happily.”

That, more than anything, silenced the room for a brief second. Happily. No boast. No jest. Just the truth.

Then Storm’s End reasserted itself, as places always did. Somewhere another crash rang out. Someone shouted for more ale. Duncan looked like he regretted all roads that had led him here and yet not enough to actually leave. Egg looked ready to escape supervision and run straight toward whatever foolishness the hall promised. The women began rearranging trays and cloths again because life did not pause just because nobles had feelings. And you, propped against pillows with your body aching in ten places and your son asleep within arm’s reach, watched your husband turn toward the door with all the massive reckless life that had first caught your eye in a muddy tourney tent.

He paused there and looked back.

Not at the room. At you.

For a moment everything else softened. The wind against stone. The crashing below. Duncan’s unease. Egg’s mischief. The low murmur of servants. It all receded around the simple fact of him standing there with his joy still too large for his own skin.

“You did this,” Lyonel said quietly.

The words were not foolish enough to mean the child belonged more to him because he had planted the seed. They meant exactly what they should have meant. You endured it. You bore it. You brought the boy through danger into the world. You.

Exhaustion made you honest in a way pride might not have. “We did.”

He nodded once. That was enough.

After he left, the noise below only worsened. At one point you were reasonably certain someone had begun arm-wrestling on a table, because the pattern of roaring approval had that specific cadence men got when betting on stupidity. Duncan eventually allowed himself to be dragged away by Lyonel under the theory that his presence might prevent at least one disaster, which meant there would probably be two instead of six. Egg lingered longer, standing by the cradle and looking down at Orryn with the expression of someone trying to imagine a future only he could fully see.

When at last he turned to you, his face had lost some of its usual cleverness.

“He’ll be loved,” Egg said.

It was such a plain sentence that it took your tired mind a moment to understand why it mattered.

“Yes,” you said.

Egg nodded, satisfied and almost solemn. Then the look was gone, replaced by impish brightness. “That won’t save him from becoming impossible, of course. He has Baratheon blood.”

“And Targaryen,” you said.

Egg’s mouth twitched. “So he’s doomed from both sides.”

You smiled, very faintly. “Go on, then. Before your friend destroys the hall without royal assistance.”

“Dunk isn’t my friend,” Egg said automatically.

That was how you knew he cared for him.

Egg bowed and slipped out.

At last the room quieted. Truly quieted. The women withdrew to the edges of it. The castle’s deeper roaring became muffled by distance and walls. The wind remained, constant as old gods, brushing the fortress and moving on. You looked down at your son once more. Orryn Baratheon. Child of storms and dragons. He slept with his mouth slightly open, one fist by his face, utterly unaware that downstairs men were drinking to his existence as if it were a military victory and not the simple, miraculous result of a woman surviving enough pain to tear the world in two.

You laid your hand lightly over the blanket near his chest, not enough to wake him, only enough to feel the rise and fall.

Minutes ago, he had not existed outside you.

Now Storm’s End was louder because of him. Lyonel was happier because of him. The shape of every year to come had bent slightly around his arrival.

You were tired to the marrow. Your body would hurt for days. Your father, if he could see the downstairs celebration, would likely develop the kind of headache only princely dignity prevented him from naming aloud. Maekar, somewhere in the world or perhaps even under this very roof if Lyonel had managed to collect half the realm, would absolutely be grateful once again that this particular spectacle belonged to someone else’s line. Duncan would spend the night trying to keep peace in a castle that considered peace a dull interval between better stories. Egg would learn something he ought not know and carry it like a knife for later. And Lyonel, impossible lord of yours, would turn the birth of his son into a storm of music, drink, broken furniture, and terrible singing because that was how his joy insisted on living.

You should have found it exhausting.

You did find it exhausting.

But beneath the ache and the blood loss and the rawness of being newly made into something even more dangerous than a wife, there it was anyway. Contentment. Fierce and unsentimental and real. Not soft. Not simple. Never safe. But real.

Outside, the sea went on throwing itself against Storm’s End.

Inside, your son breathed.

By morning, the camp had the exhausted, bruised look of a place that had survived itself. The rain had left everything rinsed and slick, but it hadn’t cleaned anything that mattered. Ashford Meadow still smelled like wet leather and trampled grass and smoke that clung to canvas the way secrets clung to people. You woke in the royal encampment to servants moving quietly, to muffled voices beyond your pavilion, to the faint metallic ring of armor being buckled on somewhere nearby. The world had decided it was time to be respectable again, and that was almost worse than the chaos, because respectability required pretending nothing had happened the night before. You lay there for a moment staring at the tent roof while your mind replayed the Baratheon pavilion in flashes. Torchlight, laughter, the antlers wobbling on Dunk’s head like a curse, Lyonel’s eyes tracking you through the storm of bodies as if he’d learned your shape by instinct. You should’ve felt guilt. You should’ve felt caution. Instead you felt… awake. Like you’d been underwater too long and finally surfaced, lungs burning, heart hammering, mind painfully clear.

Your father’s presence was the first thing you felt when you stepped out. Not because he was looming like some tyrant, but because Baelor Breakspear made space around him without trying. Men stood straighter when he passed. Voices dropped. Even arguments seemed to find softer words. He was in plain riding leathers now, not the ceremonial armor, and he still looked like the kind of man people built songs around, the kind of prince who could be loved and feared in the same breath. Valarr was nearby, blade at his hip, face bright with that particular young-prince delight at being somewhere crowded and dangerous and public. He saw you and immediately looked like he was about to start teasing, because he had inherited the family talent for poking at wounds until they laughed.

Baelor’s gaze settled on you, calm and heavy. “You disappeared.”

You didn’t flinch. That was the trick, always. You never flinched first. “I rode ahead.”

“I noticed,” he said dryly, which was as close as Baelor came to sarcasm before he decided he didn’t like the taste. His eyes flicked over you, taking in your plain cloak and the mud-stained hem and the fact you looked entirely too comfortable for someone who’d been unescorted in a tourney camp full of drunk men. “You could have been recognized.”

“I wasn’t,” you said.

Valarr laughed under his breath. “That’s not the point.” Then leaned in, grinning. “Is it true you caused a riot in a Baratheon tent?”

You shot him a look. “It wasn’t a riot.”

“It was a spectacle,” Valarr corrected himself, clearly pleased by the word.

Baelor closed his eyes for a brief moment, the way a man did when he could physically feel a headache forming. “Tell me,” he said, voice still perfectly even, “that you did not attach yourself to anything involving Lyonel Baratheon.”

You lifted your shoulders in the smallest shrug. “I didn’t attach myself to him. He chased.”

Valarr made a choking sound like he’d swallowed laughter wrong. His grin widened to the point of cruelty. “Oh, Father.”

Baelor opened his eyes again and fixed you with that very specific Breakspear stare. Not angry. Not indulgent. Just… aware. “You’re not a child.”

“No,” you agreed, which was the worst thing you could say, because it meant you weren’t making excuses.

Baelor looked like he wanted to ask ten questions and couldn’t decide which one would do the least damage. “Where did you go?”

“Into a tent,” you said simply.

Valarr laughed outright. “That’s definitely not going to help. Which tent?”

You ignored him because you weren’t here to entertain your brother with your own choices. You met Baelor’s gaze straight on. “I went to see the camp. I wanted to be in it, not above it.”

Baelor’s mouth tightened, just slightly. “And you found… what?”

You considered. The answer wasn’t simple enough for a clean sentence. “People,” you said finally. “Real ones. Not court ones.”

Baelor exhaled through his nose like he was trying to keep his patience intact. “The tourney is about to begin. Stay close today.”

You didn’t promise, because promising would be lying.

That was when Duncan the Tall appeared at the edge of the royal space like a man stepping into a lion’s den while trying to pretend it was a garden. He was too big to move unnoticed, but he moved like he wished he were smaller, shoulders slightly hunched, gaze flicking around as if he expected someone to shout at him for breathing wrong. Beside him was his shaved-headed squire, small and watchful, the boy’s eyes scanning everything with a calm that didn’t match his age. You noticed the boy first, because there was something unsettlingly familiar in the way he looked at the world, like he’d seen it from better angles before. Then you looked at Dunk, and the memory of the antlers returned so vividly you almost smiled.

Baelor saw them too. Baelor saw everything.

Dunk swallowed hard as he came closer. He stopped at a respectful distance and bowed awkwardly, like a man who knew the gesture mattered but had never had to use it so carefully. “Your Grace.”

You watched your father’s face remain politely neutral. “Ser?”

“Ser Duncan,” Dunk said quickly. “Duncan the Tall.”

The name drew a few glances from nearby knights. A hedge knight, here, speaking to Baelor Breakspear. That alone was a small event.

“And what brings you to my pavilion, Ser Duncan?” Baelor asked, voice mild in a way that warned people not to assume it meant softness.

Dunk’s eyes flicked to you for the briefest second, then back to Baelor, and you saw him choose the safer path. “I… I have a message.”

Valarr looked delighted already, like he could smell trouble. He leaned on his heel, grinning. Baelor’s gaze didn’t shift. “From whom?”

Dunk’s throat worked. “From Lord Lyonel Baratheon.”

Baelor didn’t change expression. If anything, he became more still, as if he’d turned to stone to avoid reacting. “A message,” he repeated, carefully.

Dunk nodded, then made the mistake of looking at you again, as if begging for help from the very person who was about to make his life worse.

Baelor followed the glance. He finally looked at you, and there it was: that growing, slow headache he’d been trying to prevent. “For my daughter.”

Dunk’s face went a shade paler. “Yes, Your Grace. But, ah, Lord Lyonel told me to deliver it to her directly.”

Valarr made a sound like he’d been punched by laughter. His grin was basically feral now.

Baelor’s eyes closed again. Just for a moment. When he opened them, he looked at Dunk with a calm that could cut steel. “And you chose to obey.”

Dunk’s jaw tightened. “He… threatened to make me wear antlers in the lists.”

That got a snort out of nearby Kingsguard. Valarr coughed, trying to hide his laughter behind his hand and failing.

Baelor stared at Dunk as if he couldn’t decide whether to be offended or impressed by Lyonel’s creativity. “You are in an unfortunate position, Ser Duncan.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Dunk said sincerely, like he’d been waiting his entire life for someone to acknowledge that.

You stepped forward before this became a full execution. “Father.”

Baelor’s gaze flicked to you. “No.”

The word was quiet, not shouted, but it landed heavy. It wasn’t even refusal so much as warning.

You didn’t back down. “If Lyonel Baratheon sent a hedge knight as messenger, that says he didn’t want it to become a formal insult.”

Baelor’s eyes narrowed slightly. “That says he wanted to get around me.”

“Yes,” you agreed, because you weren’t going to pretend otherwise. “And he chose a man who looks like he’d rather fight a bear than speak to a prince, which is… almost courteous.”

Dunk looked offended and relieved at the same time, like he didn’t know whether he’d been praised or mocked.

Baelor’s mouth tightened. “Princess.”

The title in his voice was never affectionate. It was a reminder: remember who you are.

You met it anyway. “Let him speak. If it’s foolish, we’ll laugh about it and it dies. If it’s worse, you can stop it.”

Baelor stared at you for a long moment. Then, slowly, he looked at Dunk. “Speak. Here.”

Dunk looked like he might faint. His eyes darted around at the watching guards, the passing courtiers, your brother’s gleeful face. This was not what he’d wanted. You could practically feel his regret radiating off him.

“Your Grace,” Dunk began, then stopped, because the words weren’t meant for your father’s ears. He swallowed hard, then looked at you again, and something in his expression begged you to make it easier.

You did. You stepped closer, just enough to take the message into your space. “Tell me.”

Dunk exhaled, relieved to have permission. “Lord Lyonel says… he’s holding a place for you today. Wherever you want. The lists. The feast. He said you can walk in like you own it.”

Valarr made a low appreciative sound and his eyebrows lifted, impressed despite himself.

Baelor’s expression didn’t change, but you saw his fingers flex once at his side, the smallest sign of restraint.

Dunk continued, words tumbling now that he’d started. “He also said… if you wear your hood again, he’ll steal it and keep it.” Dunk grimaced like he knew how that sounded. “And… he said, if you want to keep winning, you’ll have to give him a fair chance to lose properly.”

Silence.

Not awkward silence. A stunned, suspended kind of silence where everyone in earshot understood they’d just witnessed a Baratheon courting attempt delivered through a terrified hedge knight, in front of the most respected prince in the realm.

Then Valarr laughed, because Valarr had never met a fire he didn’t want to poke. “That’s actually… brazen.”

Baelor looked like his headache had sprouted horns.

You didn’t laugh. You could have. It would’ve been easy. Lyonel had given you something theatrical enough to turn into a joke. But the message wasn’t crude. It wasn’t insulting. It wasn’t even safe. It was an invitation with teeth, offered in a way that implied he’d noticed exactly how you moved through the world, exactly how you hated being treated like a prize.

You felt your pulse quicken, unhelpfully.

You looked at Dunk. “And what does Lord Lyonel want in exchange for this ‘place?’”

Dunk blinked. “I… I don’t think he thought in exchanges, Princess.”

The shaved-headed boy shifted slightly behind Dunk, eyes bright with interest, and you caught his gaze for half a heartbeat. There was something in it that made your stomach twist, a strange sense of recognition. The boy looked away first, too quickly, like he knew he’d been noticed.

You turned back to Dunk. “He wants me to show up.”

Dunk nodded carefully. “Yes.”

You inhaled slowly, and then you made the decision that would ruin Baelor’s day and improve your own.

“Tell him I accept,” you said.

Baelor’s head turned toward you so fast it almost seemed a blur. “No.”

You didn’t even blink. “I already said it.”

“Y/N,” Baelor said, voice controlled, dangerous with restraint. “You will not be paraded in a Baratheon tent like—”

“It’s not a tent,” you cut in, calm. “It’s daylight. It’s public. It’s the lists. If he wants to make a fool of himself, let him do it where the realm can watch.”

Valarr muttered, almost reverently, “She’s going to kill him and enjoy it.”

Baelor’s eyes narrowed, and you could see the calculation in him now. Baelor Breakspear didn’t react like a possessive father. He reacted like a statesman. He weighed risks, outcomes, ripples.

“Maekar,” Baelor said without looking away from you, voice clipped.

Your uncle Maekar had been approaching, drawn by the commotion like a man drawn to the sound of someone else’s problems. He paused just outside the tight circle, arms crossed, expression flat in that famously unimpressed way of his. He looked from Dunk to you to Baelor, and you could practically see him decide he was grateful for one thing: none of this was his sons’ fault for once.

Maekar’s mouth twitched. “Yes?”

Baelor’s jaw tightened. “Your… squire.”

Maekar looked at the shaved-headed boy behind Dunk with a flicker of something unreadable. The boy’s face went very still, very careful.

Maekar’s eyes slid back to Baelor, and the faintest hint of amusement touched his expression. “Not mine.”

Which was technically true in the sense that Maekar liked to pretend half his life wasn’t happening.

Valarr coughed, hiding laughter.

Maekar’s gaze returned to you. “At least it isn’t Aerion doing it this time.”

Baelor’s eyes closed again. Headache, confirmed.

You turned back to Dunk. “Tell Lord Lyonel I will come. Tell him to keep his place warm.”

Dunk looked relieved and horrified, like he’d just been given permission and a death sentence at the same time. “Yes, Princess.”

“And,” you added, because you couldn’t help yourself, “tell him if he steals my hood, I’ll steal something of his and make him chase it.”

Dunk blinked. “Something of his?”

You smiled faintly. “Let him worry.”

The shaved-headed boy made a tiny sound that might have been a laugh. Dunk shot him a look like don’t, but it was too late. The boy’s eyes were gleaming again.

Baelor’s voice cut through, low and firm. “You will sit with us.”

You turned to him, meeting his gaze. “I will sit with you,” you agreed, because you weren’t stupid. “Until I stand.”

Baelor looked like he might actually pray for patience.

Maekar leaned slightly toward Baelor, voice dry. “Better you than me.”

Baelor didn’t even dignify that with a response.

By midmorning, the tourney grounds had become a living thing again. The lists were set, banners lifted and drying in the weak sun, horses prancing and snorting as knights in bright armor paraded like jeweled threats. The stands swelled with noble spectators, their pavilions arranged in a hierarchy that screamed power in silk and wood and gold cloth. You took your place beside your father because you’d agreed to it, because Baelor’s presence was both a leash and a shield. Valarr flanked you like he was guarding a treasure, but his eyes kept darting toward the Baratheon section with the eager anticipation of a man waiting for a fight.

You wore your plain cloak again.

Not because you needed to hide now. Everyone with sense knew who you were the moment you sat beside Baelor Breakspear. But you liked the cloak. You liked the hood. You liked the idea that even when they knew your name, they still didn’t get all of you.

When Lyonel Baratheon arrived, he did it like everything was a performance. He didn’t slink into his seat. He took it like he’d conquered it, laughing with men around him, gesturing broadly, alive with that restless storm energy. And the moment his gaze found you across the space, something in him tightened into focus. His grin shifted, slower now, more deliberate. Like he’d woken up expecting you to be a dream and instead found you sitting in daylight, real and dangerous.

You lifted your cup slightly, a small salute.

Lyonel’s eyes brightened, and he rose.

The movement drew attention the way lightning drew eyes. Men turned. Murmurs lifted. A Baratheon standing during the lists meant one of two things: either he was about to make a boast or start a problem.

He did both.

“My prince!” Lyonel called, voice carrying across the stands, perfectly clear. “Prince Baelor!”

Baelor didn’t move at first. He kept his posture composed, head turning only enough to acknowledge the address. “Lord Lyonel.”

The formal exchange was a thin layer of ice over deep water.

Lyonel grinned wider, unbothered. “Your daughter honors us with her presence.”

Baelor’s expression remained calm, but you felt the tension in him like a live wire. “She honors the tourney.”

Lyonel’s gaze flicked to you again. “And my place is warm, as promised.”

A ripple of laughter moved through the stands. A ripple of whispering too. People loved a public courting. They loved the idea of danger wrapped in flirtation.

Baelor’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.

You stood.

The movement was small but it carried. It shifted the air. It turned whispers into attention.

Valarr muttered, delighted, “Oh, here we go.” Then he leaned forward like he didn’t want to miss a single heartbeat.

Maekar, seated a few rows off, watched with a grim satisfaction that suggested he was genuinely grateful this chaos wasn’t being manufactured by Aerion for once.

You stepped forward to the edge of your pavilion, cloak hood still up, and looked across at Lyonel Baratheon like he was a question you intended to answer.

“My lord,” you called, voice clear, calm. “You made an offer. I accepted.”

Lyonel’s grin went wide and triumphant.

You continued, because the realm could have its spectacle, but it would be on your terms. “You said you wanted a fair chance to lose properly. Then lose properly.”

A beat of silence.

Then Lyonel laughed, loud and pleased, and the stands erupted into sound again, nobles leaning toward one another, hungry for more.

“How would you have me lose, Princess?” Lyonel called back, voice dripping amusement.

You pulled your hood back just enough to let him see your face fully, not hidden now, not a rumor in a tent, but Baelor Breakspear’s daughter standing in daylight like she belonged there.

“You’re going to enter the melee,” you said.

The crowd stirred at that. Lyonel’s eyebrows lifted, delighted.

“And,” you added, letting your gaze sweep his men, his proud posture, his cocky smile, “you’re going to fight without boasting first.”

That landed like a slap.

Lyonel’s grin faltered for half a breath, then returned even brighter because you’d just challenged his favorite habit and he loved you for it.

Baelor’s voice cut in, low, warning. “Y/N.”

You didn’t look at him. You kept your attention on Lyonel, because this wasn’t about your father’s control now. This was about choice, and you’d already chosen.

Lyonel put a hand to his chest theatrically. “Cruel.”

You smiled faintly. “Honest.”

Lyonel’s eyes glittered. “Fine. No boast. But when I win, I claim my prize.”

The stands erupted in laughter again.

Baelor’s headache visibly escalated into a full-blown political migraine.

You tilted your head. “If you win, you can ask for something.”

Lyonel’s grin sharpened into something hungry. “And if I lose?”

You didn’t hesitate. “Then you admit I was right to run.”

Lyonel laughed again, and the sound of it warmed the air between you like a fire. “Done.”

Baelor leaned toward you, voice quiet and lethal. “You are not bargaining with a Baratheon like he’s a sellsword.”

You leaned back slightly, just enough to keep your voice equally quiet. “He’s bargaining with me.”

Baelor stared at you, and you felt, briefly, the full weight of his fear. Not fear of Lyonel hurting you. Fear of the realm deciding your life for you. Fear of how quickly joy could become a cage.

Then he exhaled, slow. “At least do it where I can see you.”

You gave him the smallest nod, not quite obedience, but not cruelty either.

The melee became the obvious center of the day after that. Knights entered with renewed appetite, because now there was a Baratheon doing it for a princess’s attention, and men loved nothing more than being near a story. Lyonel stripped off his cloak, took up his weapon, and stepped into the ring with the kind of eager confidence that made reasonable men hate him on sight. You watched him move, watched how he carried himself even in armor, how he looked like he was built for impact. You watched him fight without the boast he wanted, and the restraint itself became its own kind of spectacle, because men like Lyonel rarely restrained anything.

He fought like a storm breaking on stone. He didn’t dance around danger. He ran straight at it and made it regret existing. He took hits and laughed like pain was a compliment. He drove men back with sheer force and fury, and the crowd roared his name until your ears rang. And the whole time, every time there was a break in the clash, his gaze flicked toward you like he needed to confirm you were still watching, still there, still real.

You didn’t cheer.

You didn’t have to. You stood, hands on the pavilion rail, calm as a blade, and let your attention be the thing that hooked him.

When the melee ended, Lyonel was still standing.

Of course he was.

He ripped his helm off, hair damp with sweat, face flushed with exertion and triumph. He didn’t raise his arms to the crowd. He didn’t turn to his men. He looked straight at you.

And then he started walking.

Not back to his pavilion. Toward yours.

The camp shifted around the movement. Men parted instinctively. Whispering rose like birds. Someone laughed nervously. Someone muttered about whether Baelor would kill him on the spot. The guards at your pavilion tensed, waiting for your father’s signal.

Baelor didn’t stand. He stayed seated, shoulders rigid, jaw tight, eyes fixed on Lyonel with the calm of a man who had survived battles and courts and knew which threats were real.

Maekar, somewhere behind, looked almost cheerful. Not joyful, but entertained in that grim way of his. Not my sons. Not my circus.

Lyonel stopped just short of the guard line, breathing hard, eyes bright, still burning with the aftermath of the fight. He looked up at Baelor first, because he wasn’t completely suicidal.

“My prince,” Lyonel said, voice roughened by exertion. “I fought. Without boasting.”

Baelor’s eyes narrowed. “I saw.”

Lyonel’s gaze slid to you then, and something raw and honest flashed in it. “And I won.”

You stepped forward before Baelor could block it. You didn’t descend to the ground like some obedient daughter. You stayed elevated, meeting Lyonel’s gaze from above, because you weren’t offering him humility. You were offering him attention.

“You did,” you said.

Lyonel’s mouth twitched. “So I get to ask.”

Baelor’s voice was quiet and dangerous. “Mind your ask.”

Lyonel didn’t look away from you. “I want her hood.”

Baelor blinked, thrown off by how small it was.

Valarr made a strangled noise, half laughter, half outrage and whispered, delighted, “That’s insane.”

You stared at Lyonel for a moment, feeling the absurdity of it, the childishness, the meaning hidden inside it. He didn’t want a kiss in front of the realm. He didn’t want to claim you like property. He wanted the symbol of your secrecy, your wildness, your refusal to be fully seen.

You smiled slowly. “No.”

Lyonel’s grin flickered, but he didn’t look offended. He looked intrigued. “No?”

You lifted a hand to the edge of your hood, fingers resting there. “You said you’d steal it.”

Lyonel laughed, breathless. “And I will.”

You leaned forward slightly. “Then steal it.”

Baelor’s eyes closed again, and when he opened them, the headache was fully formed. He looked like a man watching a battle he couldn’t stop because stopping it would only make it worse.

Lyonel took a step closer, just inside the boundary where guards could’ve stopped him if Baelor had signaled. He didn’t reach up yet. He waited, eyes on you, letting you decide whether this was war or play.

Your pulse beat hard against your throat.

You stepped down from the pavilion stairs, cloak brushing the steps, boots hitting damp earth. The crowd’s murmur followed you like a tide. You walked straight toward him, not fast, not hesitant, and stopped so close you could smell sweat and leather and the faint metallic tang of blood where he’d been grazed.

Lyonel’s eyes were bright, hungry, amused and something else underneath, something that looked too much like awe for a man like him.

“Princess,” he murmured, and the word sounded different now. Less title. More… threat.

You lifted your chin. “Lord Baratheon.”

His hand rose slowly, not grabbing, not forcing, just hovering at the edge of your hood like he was asking permission with restraint instead of words.

You should have stopped him.

You didn’t.

His fingers caught the fabric and peeled it back, the motion oddly gentle for a man who broke other men for sport. The hood slipped off your head, and cool air kissed your hairline. Lyonel held the hood for a second like it mattered more than it should, like he’d just stolen something intimate and wasn’t sure what to do with the weight of it.

Then he looked at you fully uncovered, and the amusement in his face faltered.

Because up close, in daylight, you weren’t just trouble in a tent. You were Baelor Breakspear’s daughter. You were power wrapped in a woman’s body, and the realm loved to pretend those two things couldn’t coexist.

Lyonel’s voice dropped, rough. “You really came.”

You watched his throat move as he swallowed, and you felt the moment pull tight around you, the crowd fading into a blur, the noise turning into distance. Something about the melee’s adrenaline still clung to him. Something about your own choice still burned in you.

“I accepted,” you reminded him quietly.

His eyes flicked to your mouth, then back to your eyes, as if he was trying to decide whether he was allowed to want what he wanted.

Behind you, Baelor shifted, and you felt it like a pressure at your back. The prince’s restraint was a wall. The realm’s eyes were a net.

Lyonel’s hand tightened on your hood. “If I keep this,” he murmured, “you’ll steal something of mine.”

You smiled faintly. “Yes.”

“What?”

You leaned in just enough to make him hold still, and you said, soft enough that only he could hear it, “Your composure.”

His grin flashed, wicked and helpless. “Already gone.”

And then the chaos you’d created finally snapped into its inevitable shape, because a Baratheon didn’t win quietly and a Targaryen princess didn’t step into daylight without consequences.

Lyonel moved before the world could reclaim you.

He reached out and caught your waist, not rough, not possessive, just urgent, like he needed to anchor himself to something real. You felt the heat of him through cloth and leather, felt the leftover violence in his muscles, felt the way he held you like you might vanish if he didn’t.

You should’ve pulled away.

Instead, you leaned into him.

The kiss wasn’t delicate. It wasn’t staged for court. It was a collision born of laughter and challenge and adrenaline and the stupid, irresistible honesty of two people who enjoyed setting fires. Lyonel kissed you like he’d been running since last night and finally caught what he’d been chasing, and you kissed him back like you’d been waiting to be caught by someone worth the risk.

The stands exploded.

Not literally, unfortunately, but the sound hit like a wave. Gasps, laughter, shocked shouts, delighted screaming from men who lived for scandal, outraged muttering from people who lived for control. You heard someone yell, “Seven hells!” and someone else laugh so hard they choked. You heard Valarr’s voice somewhere, bright with disbelief, “She really did it!” And he sounded like he was dying of laughter.

Baelor’s hand came up to his forehead as if he might physically hold his skull together through sheer force of will.

Maekar, gods bless his cold soul, looked satisfied in a quiet, vindictive way, as if he’d just watched someone else take a blow that had been meant for him for years. You could almost hear him thinking it: Thank the gods it isn’t Aerion making a spectacle. Thank the gods it isn’t Daeron drunk in a ditch. Thank the gods it isn’t my sons for once.

Lyonel broke the kiss first, breathing hard, eyes wild with triumph and something dangerously sincere. He pressed his forehead briefly to yours like he couldn’t stop himself, like he needed that fraction of contact to steady.

“You,” he murmured, voice rough with laughter and awe, “are going to get me killed.”

You breathed out a soft laugh, still too close to him, still held at the waist, still very aware of how the entire realm was watching you be exactly who you were. “You chose to chase.”

Lyonel’s grin returned, feral. “And I’ll chase again.”

Behind you, Baelor finally stood.

The simple act of it shifted the air. Guards straightened. Voices dipped. The crowd’s laughter thinned at the edges, because now the father was upright, and fathers were always the real danger in stories like this.

Baelor looked at Lyonel, and for a moment the world narrowed into two men measuring one another. Baelor’s gaze was calm enough to be terrifying. Lyonel’s posture didn’t fold, but it did sharpen, the way a man’s body did when he realized the game had become a battlefield.

“You have made my day,” Baelor said, voice even, “more complicated than it needed to be.”

Lyonel’s grin flickered, but he didn’t release you. He didn’t hide behind jokes. He held your hood in one hand like a stolen trophy and kept the other at your waist as if he’d decided he wasn’t giving up ground.

“My prince,” Lyonel said, voice respectful in the way a storm respected a mountain, “I’m willing to make it more complicated properly.”

Baelor’s eyes narrowed. “Properly.”

Lyonel nodded once, the smallest concession. “Properly.”

You felt Baelor’s gaze shift briefly to you, and in it was not just irritation, not just headache, but that deeper thing: the recognition that you had chosen this moment, chosen this chaos, chosen to step into the open and make the realm watch you do it.

Valarr’s voice drifted in, too cheerful. “Father, at least she didn’t set anything on fire. Yet.”

Baelor didn’t look away from you. “Y/N.”

You lifted your chin slightly. “Father.”

Baelor’s mouth tightened, and then, against all expectation, he exhaled slowly like a man deciding not to swing a sword when he could. “We will speak later.”

That wasn’t permission.

But it also wasn’t a command to end it.

Maekar’s voice cut in from behind, low and amused. “I’ll take ‘later’ over ‘now.’”

Baelor shot Maekar a look that could’ve curdled milk.

Maekar shrugged, unbothered. “What? I’m just happy it isn’t one of mine for once.”

Lyonel’s hand squeezed your waist slightly, grounding, and his mouth brushed close to your ear as if he didn’t care who watched him do it. “Tell me,” he murmured, voice private inside public chaos, “do you always kiss like you’re winning a war.”

You smiled, breath still unsteady, heart still hammering. “Only when I am.”

His laugh was quiet, thick with satisfaction. “Good.”

You left them in the rain on purpose.

Not in some dramatic, shouted way, not with banners snapping and your father’s men scrambling, just with a quiet decision made at dawn while the camp still smelled like wet wool and horse breath and the ashes of last night’s fire. Prince Baelor Breakspear moved through the world like a mountain moves: slow when he chose, unstoppable when he didn’t. Valarr was lightning compared to him, young and restless and loud in the way princes could afford to be. You loved them, in the way you loved a storm you’d grown up under, but you also knew what it meant to travel with them. It meant being seen. It meant being watched and weighed and remembered. It meant every step you took becoming a story someone else would tell with their own smug little additions.

So you rode ahead.

Your cloak was plain on purpose too, dark and heavy, the hood pulled low, the hem already spattered with mud. The horse beneath you was good stock but not one of the horses people would point at and whisper royal. You had no silver-gold braid spilling down your back, no obvious Valyrian ghost-lovely beauty that made men stare before they even decided if they hated you. You looked like your father, and that meant you could pass if you wanted to. Dark hair, sun-warmed skin, that hard, steady set to your face that made people assume you were someone’s capable daughter, not the sort of person songs got written about. You had a small escort at a distance, men who knew better than to argue with you when you spoke in the voice you inherited from Baelor, the voice that didn’t need to be loud to be obeyed.

Ashford Meadow came into view like a bruise spreading across the green. Tents and pavilions sat on the damp earth in swelling clusters, canvas bellies slick with rain, banners sagging under water weight. Smoke crawled low, reluctant, from cookfires that kept trying to die. The air tasted of wet grass, horse sweat, and frying fat, and even from the ridge you could hear it. The half-made roar of a tourney assembling itself. Hammers on stakes. Men shouting over one another. The shriek of a whetstone. Laughter that sounded too early in the day to be honest. It was chaos with purpose, and the thing about purpose-built chaos was that people stopped looking closely at what moved inside it.

You rode in like you belonged, because you did, and because nobody knew it yet.

Near the outer ring of tents, where the merchants set up under patched awnings and the smallfolk hovered like hopeful birds, you dismounted and handed your reins off without ceremony. The man who took them looked at your boots first, then your hands, then the way you stood, and decided you were trouble in the expensive sense. He didn’t ask your name anyway. People who lived by other people’s money learned fast when not to poke the knife and risk breaking the handle.

You walked through puddles and trampled straw, letting the noise wrap around you until it felt like a shield. Everywhere you looked, there were little wars being fought without blood: a washerwoman arguing with a knight’s squire over coin; a cook cursing a boy who dropped a sack of onions into mud; a hedge singer trying to convince a bored group of men that his ballad was worth a copper. You watched it all with the calm of someone raised in courts where the knives were polished and the smiles were more cutting than the steel.

A wooden dragon bobbed above a crowd, absurd and magnificent, its painted jaws open in a silent roar as a puppeteer worked it with practiced hands. The thing was carved with love, not money, all angles and crude menace, and children shrieked and ducked as if it might actually bite. You paused just long enough to feel something strange and prickly settle in your chest, because there was a kind of courage in building a dragon out of wood and string and making people believe in it for a moment. The puppeteer caught your eye, not with flattery but with that quick, measuring look artists had, like he was trying to decide what kind of story you were.

“Careful,” he said, voice rough as rope. “Dragons draw attention.”

You let your mouth tilt, almost a smile. “So do tourneys.”

He snorted. “Tourneys draw fools. Dragons draw trouble.”

You looked at the puppet’s teeth, the painted scales, the ridiculous pride in its posture. “Sometimes that’s the same thing.”

His laugh was loud and surprised, and you left him there with his dragon and his small kingdom of delighted children, moving deeper into the tent-city where the air got thicker with meat smoke and wet leather.

That was where you saw him.

Not because you were looking for him. Not because you cared about hedge knights and their noble dreams. You saw him because he was too damn big to miss, like someone had taken a man and stretched him upward without bothering to widen the world around him. He stood outside a modest little camp in the lee of some trees, his cloak patched, his boots muddy, his shoulders broad enough to make the men beside him look like boys. He was talking to his horses as if they were people who could answer him, and there was something in that that was both ridiculous and… honest.

A bald boy sat near the fire, small and watchful, peeling something with a knife like he’d been born with a blade in his hand. The boy looked up as you passed, eyes quick, and for half a heartbeat you felt that horrible little prickle again, the feeling of being noticed in the exact way you didn’t want. Not admiration, not lust, not the usual stupid cataloguing men did. This was different. This was a child looking at you like he knows you.

You kept walking as if you hadn’t felt it.

Up ahead, the great pavilions rose like ship sails, bright even under the low sky, each one a declaration. That one’s a Reachman. That one’s a Stormlander. That one’s a man with money who wanted everyone to know it. You drifted toward the loudest, the one where the laughter came in rolling waves, where the torches burned even in daylight because whoever owned the tent wanted warmth and light on demand.

Baratheon.

The antlered stag snapped on black and gold, proud as sin, and the men spilling in and out of the entrance looked like they’d been built to break other men’s bones for sport. A servant tried to stop you on instinct, saw your posture, reconsidered his entire life, and stepped aside without a word. That was the advantage of being raised by Baelor Breakspear: you learned early how to occupy space like you were entitled to it, because you were, and because entitlement was just confidence with better clothes.

Inside, the tent was a warm mouth. Smoke, spice, sweat, and wine hit you at once. The ground was layered with rushes and trampled straw, already damp from spilled drink. Trellised lanterns threw a honey glow over faces flushed with celebration, and someone was shouting a story at the top of his lungs while nobody listened properly because they were too busy laughing over him. There were women too, not courtly arranged and delicate, but present in the messy, human way that happened when men weren’t pretending they were gods. A musician scraped at a fiddle like it owed him coin.

At the center of it, lounging like he owned the air, sat Lyonel Baratheon.

He was younger than the old men liked to admit, all raw energy and restless amusement, built like a fighter and dressed like someone who enjoyed reminding the world he could afford velvet even when he didn’t need it. His hair was dark, his grin large, and on the table near him sat a ridiculous helm crowned with sprawling antlers, as if someone had decided to mount a forest on a man’s head for the sake of a joke.

You watched him watch the tent.

He wasn’t the kind of lord who stared at women like they were meat. He stared at everything like it was a possible weapon, possible entertainment, possible problem. His eyes flicked across faces, collecting reactions, weighing moods, and when he laughed it wasn’t polite. It was delighted, like he’d found a crack in the world and meant to pry it open.

You slid into the chaos like a knife into water.

A cup appeared in your hand because you took it. A man offered you a seat because he assumed you belonged somewhere near someone important, and you let him keep that assumption. Someone shoved a plate of bread and dripping meat toward you, and you took it too, because you hadn’t ridden through rain all morning to pretend you weren’t hungry. A group of minor lords were arguing loudly about who would unhorse whom in the lists, all swagger and certainty, and you listened just long enough to learn what kind of stupid they were.

“One pass,” one of them insisted, slapping the table hard enough to rattle cups. “One clean pass, and Fossoway will put Dondarrion in the mud. You’ll see.”

“Fossoway’s too eager,” you said, mild as cream.

They all turned.

You let them look you over and find nothing obvious to latch onto. No silver hair. No purple eyes. No jeweled collar screaming princess. Just a woman with mud on her hem and a voice that didn’t wobble.

The man closest to you narrowed his eyes. “And who are you to say?”

You tore bread with your hands, slow. “Someone who’s watched eager men overreach and die for it.”

A beat of silence, and then someone barked a laugh. Not at you. With you.

The argument shifted. You didn’t lecture. You didn’t play the clever court game where you “win” by humiliating someone. You just nudged. You redirected. You poured oil on the right fires and watched the whole table get louder and more entertaining.

Across the tent, Lyonel Baratheon’s gaze found you.

It wasn’t instant. He didn’t snap to you like a starving man to food. He noticed you the way a hawk notices movement: subtle, predatory, interested. His grin shifted as if he’d found a new toy.

The night leaned forward.

A man near Lyonel stood and raised a cup. “To Baratheon! To storms and strong backs!”

“To storms,” you echoed, lifting your drink without thinking, and the timing was perfect enough that heads turned again, laughter rising.

Lyonel’s eyes gleamed.

He stood suddenly, chair scraping. The room’s attention tilted toward him because men like him didn’t need to ask for it. He snatched up the antlered helm and held it aloft.

“New rule,” Lyonel announced. “Anyone who speaks a coward’s word tonight wears the stag.”

Cheering. Groans. Someone shouted, “What’s a coward’s word?”

Lyonel’s grin cut wider. “Anything I decide it is.”

More laughter. Someone threw a nut at him. He caught it in midair and tossed it into his mouth like he was born performing for a crowd.

Then his gaze speared straight through the tent again and landed on you like a hand.

“And you,” he called, voice carrying with easy arrogance. “Hooded trouble. Say something cowardly.”

You didn’t flinch. You took a slow sip of your drink, let the heat slide down your throat, and then said, loud enough for the nearby tables to hear, “I would never insult a man by calling him brave when he’s only loud.”

The tent went quiet for half a breath, the kind of quiet where people decide whether they’re about to witness a murder or a legend.

Then Lyonel laughed.

Not a polite chuckle. A full-bodied, delighted laugh that made the men around him grin too, because their lord was amused and amusement meant safety.

“Not cowardly,” Lyonel declared. “But you’ve earned the stag anyway.”

Someone hooted. Someone else shouted, “Put it on her!”

You lifted your hands in mock surrender. “If you want me wearing your symbol, my lord, you’ll have to catch me.”

And then you moved.

It wasn’t elegant. It wasn’t a dance. It was a slip between bodies, a twist past a bench, a laugh pulled from your own throat because for once you weren’t performing princesshood, you were just running. People shouted and reached for you, half helping Lyonel, half helping you because the chase was the best thing that had happened all day. A man tried to grab your cloak and got a fistful of wet fabric while you ducked away. Someone spilled ale. Someone cursed. A musician started playing faster like he sensed the mood shift and wanted to ride it.

Behind you, Lyonel Baratheon vaulted a bench with disgusting athletic ease for someone wearing that much confidence.

“Come back,” he called, laughing again. “Coward!”

You barked, “That word doesn’t work when I’m winning,” and darted toward the edge of the pavilion where the shadows clung.

You should have stopped there. You should have been smart. You should have remembered you were alone ahead of your father’s camp and that this was Westeros, where “fun” had teeth.

Instead, you doubled back straight into the center of the tent, right where the crowd was thickest, because the only thing better than slipping away was making the chase impossible.

Lyonel reached for you and missed by inches.

His hand grazed your sleeve, just fabric and heat, and something in his expression changed. Not anger. Not offense. Interest. He wasn’t chasing you because you were a woman. He was chasing you because you were a problem that laughed back.

You ducked under an arm, slid past a table, and then someone grabbed your wrist from the side and yanked you into a pocket of space.

You spun, ready to strike or scream or both, and found yourself face to chest with a man who was basically a walking wall.

Ser Duncan the Tall.

Close up, he looked even more out of place than he had outside. His clothes were too plain for this tent, his posture too wary, like he was afraid someone would realize he didn’t belong and throw him out. His hands were big enough to break a man’s neck, but he held you like you were something fragile he’d accidentally caught.

“Sorry,” he blurted, eyes wide. “I thought you were going to run into the table.”

You stared at him for a heartbeat, then laughed under your breath because of course the giant’s first instinct was to keep someone from getting hurt.

“Thank you,” you said, and slipped free before he could decide whether he’d done the right thing.

Lyonel skidded to a stop a few steps away, breathing a little harder now, eyes on Dunk and then back to you.

“What in the seven hells is happening?” Lyonel demanded, still smiling like he hoped it would get worse.

Dunk looked panicked. “Nothing, my lord. I just…”

Lyonel pointed at you with the antlered helm like it was a weapon. “Who is she?”

Dunk blinked, genuinely baffled. His gaze flicked to you as if he expected you to provide the answer.

You gave him nothing. Just that same calm you’d worn all day, hood still shadowing your face, lips curved like you’d swallowed a secret.

“I don’t know,” Dunk admitted, a little miserable. “I’ve never seen her before.”

The men around Lyonel leaned in, smelling gossip the way dogs smelled meat. A minor lord with a red nose squinted. “She’s not one of ours.”

Another said, “Not Reach. Not Stormlands. Not with that mouth.”

You tilted your head. “My condolences.”

Laughter burst again, and even Dunk’s mouth twitched like he was trying not to smile.

Lyonel watched you like you were a spark he wanted to see catch.

“You run like you’ve been chased before,” he said.

You met his eyes fully then, letting him see just enough of you to make him curious. “And you chase like you’re bored.”

His grin went feral. “True.”

A servant tried to wedge between you with a platter and nearly got knocked over when someone started chanting, “Stag! Stag! Stag!” because the crowd had decided your little game needed a ceremonial end. Lyonel shoved the helm toward you again, close enough that the antlers brushed your shoulder.

“You can’t dodge forever,” he said, voice lower now, meant for you. “Put it on.”

You stared at it like it might bite. “If I do, will you stop?”

He leaned closer, eyes bright. “No.”

“Honest,” you murmured, and then you took the helm.

The tent roared approval as you lifted it, tested the weight, and then, because you were apparently determined to be a menace tonight, you didn’t put it on your own head.

You turned and shoved it down onto Dunk’s.

The antlers wobbled. Dunk stiffened like he’d been sentenced to death. The sight of the huge, earnest hedge knight crowned like some ridiculous forest king made the entire pavilion lose its mind. Men howled with laughter, slapping tables, spilling drink. Someone shouted, “Stag knight!” Someone else shouted, “He looks like he’s about to apologize to the woods!”

Dunk’s face went red under the candlelight. “I… I didn’t… I don’t think…”

You stepped back, pleased with yourself. “There. Now nobody can accuse me of cowardice. I shared the burden.”

Lyonel Baratheon laughed again, but this time it sounded different. Not just entertained. Taken.

He clapped Dunk on the shoulder with a heavy hand. “Good news,” he told him. “You’ve been promoted to decoration.”

Dunk swallowed hard. “My lord, I…”

“Eat,” Lyonel said, waving him toward food like it was a command Dunk could actually understand. “Drink. Try not to weep into the stew.”

You watched Dunk stumble toward a table like a man walking into an ambush, antlers bobbing above the crowd. The bald boy you’d seen earlier slipped in at the edge of the tent, eyes sharp as ever, and for a brief moment his gaze flicked to you again, as if he recognized your shape in the chaos even if nobody else did.

Then Lyonel’s attention reclaimed you.

He offered you his cup without asking, as if sharing drink was inevitable. You took it because refusing would have been a different kind of admission.

“What are you?” he asked softly, not like a lord interrogating a subject, but like a man trying to name a storm by the feel of the wind.

You drank. “Tired.”

He snorted, delighted. “Not that.”

You handed his cup back. “Then you’re asking the wrong question.”

His eyes narrowed. “And what’s the right one?”

You leaned in just enough that he could smell rain on you, mud, smoke. “Why are you so interested?”

Lyonel’s smile grew into something almost boyish. “Because you walked into my tent like you owned it.”

“I did own it,” you said, deadpan.

He blinked. Then he laughed again, softer, like you’d just confirmed his favorite suspicion.

The music shifted into something faster, rougher. Someone dragged Lyonel toward the open space in the center where men were stomping and spinning in that aggressive, half-drunk way noblemen called dancing when they wanted to pretend they weren’t just burning off violence. Lyonel let himself be pulled, then turned and held out a hand to you as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

You stared at his hand.

Not because you were shy. Because you were calculating. Because touching a man like Lyonel Baratheon, even in jest, even in a tent full of witnesses, meant something in a realm that treated women’s bodies like battlegrounds.

He didn’t rush you. Didn’t cajole. He just kept his hand there and waited, eyes daring you to choose.

So you did.

You stepped into the circle and took his hand, and the moment his fingers closed around yours, something in him settled, as if he’d won a small victory he wasn’t sure he’d been allowed to want.

He pulled you into the rough rhythm of the dance, spinning you once, twice. You weren’t trained for courtly steps like your sisters would have been if you’d been born more obviously Targaryen. You weren’t a doll for some lord’s display. You moved the way you fought: instinctive, sharp, full of refusal to be led too gently. Lyonel matched you without effort, laughing when you almost tripped him, tightening his grip when you tried to break free just to see if he’d let you.

“You’re enjoying yourself,” you accused, breathless.

“I’m miserable,” he lied, eyes bright. “This is terrible.”

“Liar.”

“Yes,” he said easily. “And you love it.”

You should have denied it.

You didn’t.

Around you, the tent boiled with noise and smoke and spilled drink. Men shouted bets about the lists. A singer tried to start a ballad and got drowned out by someone chanting Dunk’s new title, Stag knight, stag knight, while Dunk himself tried to shrink out of existence under the antlers. The bald boy hovered near him like a shadow, looking far too pleased. Lyonel kept you moving, kept you laughing, kept you in the center of the storm as if he could trap you there by sheer momentum.

And the worst part was, it almost worked.

Hours blurred. Torches burned lower. The rain outside eased into a steady whisper on canvas. You forgot, for stretches of time, that you were supposed to be careful. You forgot that your father’s name carried weight that could crush men like Lyonel if it fell wrong. You forgot that Valarr would come looking, that Baelor would not be amused, that the court would turn even your laughter into a story harsh enough to bite you later.

Lyonel didn’t forget.

You saw it in the way his gaze kept flicking, checking entrances, gauging who watched you, how people reacted to you. He was having fun, yes, but he was also a Baratheon, and Baratheons survived by reading storms.

Near midnight, when the tent was thick with heat and bodies and the smell of too much wine, a shift rippled through the outer camp like wind hitting grass. The sort of shift that made men straighten and servants hurry and laughter turn cautious at the edges.

Arrival.

Royal arrival.

You felt it before you saw it, your spine tightening as if someone had tugged a string.

Lyonel noticed your change instantly. His hand stayed at your waist, but his grip eased a fraction, as if giving you space to bolt if you chose.

“What is it?” he murmured.

You didn’t answer, because you didn’t trust your voice.

Outside, horns sounded, not the rough braying of drunken men but something formal, controlled. The pavilion’s entrance flapped as people moved to see, and cold air spilled in with the scent of wet banners and polished steel.

Your escort appeared at the edge of the tent, one of your father’s men, eyes scanning until they found you. His face tightened with relief and irritation in equal measure.

“There you are,” he said, pitching his voice low but urgent. “Princess.”

The word landed like a thrown knife.

For a heartbeat, the entire world went quiet in your head even as the tent roared on around you.

Lyonel Baratheon went still.

Slowly, he turned his head toward you, and the amusement in his eyes didn’t vanish, but it turned into something new, something hungry and incredulous.

“Princess,” he repeated under his breath, like he was tasting it.

You closed your eyes for a fraction of a second, because of course it couldn’t just be a fun night. Of course it had to become politics the moment it became real.

When you opened your eyes again, Lyonel was smiling, but now there was an edge to it that hadn’t been there before.

“Well,” he said softly, leaning closer so only you could hear him over the noise. “That explains the way you walked in like you owned the tent.”

You exhaled through your nose, half a laugh, half a curse. “Don’t.”

He looked delighted by your warning, as if warnings were invitations in his world.

Outside, the horns sounded again, and you could already picture Baelor Breakspear dismounting in the mud with that calm, terrifying patience of his, Valarr at his shoulder like eager blade. The tourney grounds would shift around them like grass around a stone.

Your father had arrived.

And you had left fingerprints all over the night.

You stepped back from Lyonel, pulling your hood up as if fabric could undo what had just been spoken. Your escort moved closer, ready to shepherd you out before anyone else caught on. Around you, men were still laughing, still drinking, still chanting stag knight at the towering hedge knight who looked like he wanted the earth to swallow him.

Lyonel didn’t reach for you again.

He just watched.

Watched you retreat like you were a prize he’d nearly taken without knowing the rules, watched your escort close in, watched the entrance where the world outside waited with names and banners and consequences.

And then, as you turned to leave, his voice cut through the chaos one last time, low and pleased, meant only for you.

“Storms love dragons,” Lyonel Baratheon said. “Even the ones pretending they aren’t dragons at all.”

Morning at Ashford Meadow didn’t arrive politely. It crawled in under the tent flaps like a petty thief, stole the last of the night’s warmth, and left behind that damp, sour smell that always followed too much drink and too many bodies packed together pretending they were invincible. Duncan woke with the kind of headache that made you question every decision that led to your current existence, and if he’d been a smarter man, he would’ve blamed the gods, fate, or the general moral decay of tourneys. Instead he blamed himself, because that was his special talent. He lay there for a moment listening to the camp breathe. Horses snorting, men coughing, someone retching in the distance with heroic commitment, a few early hammers already going as squires hammered stakes back into the earth. The rain had stopped sometime in the night but the world still looked washed-out, like the sky couldn’t be bothered to pick a color.

Egg was already up.

Of course he was. The boy had that irritating, keen-eyed energy like he ran on spite and curiosity instead of sleep. He crouched by the fire, blowing on embers, hair mussed, face smudged, and still somehow looked more awake than Dunk felt after a full day of work. His gaze flicked toward Dunk the moment Dunk moved, and there was a glint in it that made Dunk wary. Egg had been watching last night like it was theater written specifically for him, and Dunk hadn’t liked the feeling of being on a stage.

“We’re going,” Egg said, like it was already decided and all Dunk had to do was keep up.

Dunk sat up, rubbing his face with both hands. “We’re going where?”

Egg’s mouth twitched. “To find the Baratheon.”

Dunk groaned without meaning to. “Why?”

Egg looked at him with the expression of someone watching a dog try to do sums. “Because he’s going to find you anyway. Better to get ahead of it.”

Dunk stared at him. “Why would he find me?”

Egg’s eyes flicked, quick and wicked. “Because you wore his stag antlers and didn’t die, and because he’s the kind of man who wakes up the next day and immediately wants to do it again.”

Dunk opened his mouth to argue, realized he had no good argument, and instead reached for his boots with a resigned sigh. He pulled on his clothes, stiff from yesterday’s rain and sweat, and felt his stomach turn a little at the memory of the antlered helm bobbing above him while an entire tent of drunk nobles laughed like hyenas. It wasn’t even the humiliation that bothered him most. It was the part where, for a moment, it had been almost… fun. That was the dangerous thing. Fun was how trouble got under your skin and stayed there.

They stepped out into a camp that looked like it had been fought over. Men stumbled through mud with blank, wounded faces. A knight sat on a stool outside his tent holding his head like it might fall off. Somewhere, someone was arguing with a cook about whether vomiting in the rushes counted as “a mess” if it was mostly liquid. The smell of stale ale hung in the air, and the ground was a patchwork of footprints, spilled wine, and trampled straw. A cart creaked past loaded with empty barrels, and a boy ran after it yelling about payment.

Egg walked beside Dunk like he owned the place, chin up, eyes scanning, absorbing everything. Dunk kept catching people glancing at them, and he didn’t like that either. Word traveled fast in a camp like this, and when you were a hedge knight with no name worth speaking, being noticed was a risk.

The Baratheon pavilion still stood proud in the morning light, stag banners damp but stubborn, guards posted at the entrance looking as if they’d spent the night trying to keep drunk lords from starting a war over a dice game. Inside, the noise was different now. Not roaring laughter, but a low hum of men nursing themselves back into being human.

A guard blocked their path with a bored look, then actually looked at Dunk properly and blinked. Recognition lit his face like a lantern.

“You,” the guard said, pointing. “Stag knight.”

Dunk’s ears went hot. “I’m not—”

Egg stepped in smoothly, voice bright and polite. “Ser Duncan the Tall. We’re here to see Lord Lyonel.”

The guard hesitated, then shrugged with the lazy certainty of someone who didn’t get paid enough to care about consequences. “Go on. He’s inside. He’s… awake.”

That “awake” sounded like a warning.

They entered.

The tent had been cleaned in the rough way. The worst of the spilled drink soaked up, the tables rearranged, new rushes thrown down to cover the stains that wouldn’t come out. But the air still held the ghosts of last night’s heat and chaos. There were men slumped on benches, cups of watered wine in their hands, faces pale and shiny with sweat. A servant moved between them with a tray like he was feeding injured animals. Someone had a strip of cloth tied around his head like it would keep his skull from cracking.

Lyonel Baratheon was in the center of it all like a sun that didn’t know how to dim.

He sat with his boots up on a table, cloak discarded, hair a mess, eyes bright even with exhaustion. He held a cup and drank like it was medicine. Two men were arguing quietly near him about something serious and political, and Lyonel looked like he was letting them make noise while he thought about entirely different things.

Then he saw Dunk.

His grin appeared instantly, sharp as a drawn blade.

“Well,” Lyonel said, voice carrying, “if it isn’t my forest king.”

Dunk stopped like he’d hit a wall. “My lord.”

Egg bowed neatly at Dunk’s side, all manners and innocence. It was a little too neat. It made Dunk suspicious, as it always did.

Lyonel waved a hand dismissively. “Don’t look so grim. You survived my tent. Most men don’t.” His eyes flicked down to Egg. “And who is this? Your squire?”

Egg smiled in that sweet, harmless way that meant he was about to cause trouble. “Egg, my lord.”

Lyonel’s brow lifted. “Egg?”

“Yes, my lord.”

Lyonel stared at him for a beat, then laughed once, short and pleased. “Perfect. The gods really do have humor.”

Dunk cleared his throat. “My lord, we didn’t come to—”

“You came because you’re sensible,” Lyonel cut in, grinning wider. “And because you want to keep your head attached. Sit.”

Dunk didn’t move.

Lyonel sighed theatrically. “Gods, you’re earnest. Fine. Stand. But listen.”

He leaned forward, forearms on his knees, eyes glinting with the kind of energy men got when they were about to do something stupid and knew it.

“I’ve decided,” Lyonel announced, “that I need a proper end to last night.”

One of the minor lords nearby groaned softly. Another muttered, “Seven save us.”

Lyonel ignored them. “I don’t like unfinished things, Duncan.”

Dunk swallowed. “My lord, about last night, I didn’t mean to offend—”

“You didn’t,” Lyonel said, cheerful. “You improved it.”

Dunk blinked.

Lyonel’s smile sharpened again, and then he said it, casual as if he were ordering another cup of wine.

“I want you to find her.”

Dunk froze. “Find… who?”

Lyonel’s eyes flashed with open amusement, like he couldn’t believe Dunk had the audacity to ask. “The hooded menace. The princess.”

The word rang in the morning tent like a bell. A couple men straightened. A servant paused mid-step like he’d heard something dangerous. Even the air felt tighter for a moment, as if the pavilion itself recognized the name.

Dunk’s stomach dropped.

“My lord,” Dunk said carefully, “you can’t just—”

Lyonel cut him off again, delighted. “I can do whatever I like. I’m a Baratheon.”

Egg made a small sound that was suspiciously close to a laugh. Dunk shot him a look. Egg’s face was innocent, but his eyes were dancing.

Dunk forced himself to keep his voice calm. “Princess Y/N is the daughter of Prince Baelor Breakspear. Anything regarding her should go through her father.”

Lyonel stared at him like Dunk had just suggested eating sand.

“Gods,” Lyonel said, leaning back. “You’re boring.”

Dunk’s jaw tightened. “I’m not boring, my lord. I’m careful.”

“You’re careful,” Lyonel repeated, like the word tasted bad. “Careful is what men are when they plan to die old and unhappy.”

One of the minor lords coughed, probably hiding a laugh.

Dunk pressed on, stubborn. “If you approach her improperly, Prince Baelor will—”

Lyonel lifted his cup. “Yes, yes, the great Breakspear will glare and make men feel small and honorable. I know. That’s why it’s more fun.”

Dunk stared, horrified by how lightly Lyonel held the idea of being crushed by one of the realm’s most respected princes.

Egg cleared his throat, stepping forward like he belonged in that circle of nobles. “My lord?”

Lyonel’s gaze snapped to him. “Egg.”

Egg’s mouth twitched. “If you want Princess Y/N to notice you… you shouldn’t chase her like she’s a hare.”

Lyonel blinked, intrigued. “Oh?”

Dunk’s eyebrows knit. “What are you doing?”

Egg ignored him, because of course he did. “She ran because you made it a game. She liked the game. But she won because she wanted to. If you chase again the same way, you’ll lose on purpose and not even realize it.”

The pavilion went quiet in that subtle way men got when a child said something too wise to be accidental.

Lyonel leaned forward, eyes fixed on Egg now like he’d found a new source of entertainment. “Go on.”

Egg clasped his hands behind his back, sweet as a septon’s sermon. “You should do something she can’t resist without making it about her being a princess. Something that makes her curious, not cautious.”

Lyonel’s grin crept back. “Such as?”

Egg’s eyes flicked briefly toward Dunk, and Dunk felt a chill that had nothing to do with the weather. The boy was planning. The boy was enjoying himself.

“Challenge,” Egg said simply. “Not her. You.”

Lyonel tilted his head. “Me?”

Egg nodded. “If you want her attention, give her a reason to watch you. Not because you’re loud, but because you’re clever. She likes clever. She likes people who don’t treat her like a symbol.”

Dunk’s mouth opened, then closed. He didn’t even know what to say to that, because it was… true, wasn’t it? From the little he’d seen. She’d moved through the tent like she was untouchable and untamed, like she’d been waiting all her life for someone to be interesting enough to bother with.

Lyonel looked delighted, like the boy had just handed him a knife and pointed at a target.

“That,” Lyonel declared, “is perfect advice.”

Dunk’s head snapped toward Lyonel. “My lord, it’s ridiculous.”

Lyonel waved him off. “Your opinion is noted and discarded.”

Dunk’s frustration flared. “You can’t just involve me in your… whatever this is.”

“Oh, I can,” Lyonel said cheerfully. “You’re going to help me. That’s an order.”

Dunk stared, dread settling into him like mud. “What order?”

Lyonel smiled like the sunrise had personally congratulated him. “You’re going to be my messenger.”

Egg’s eyes sparkled. Dunk shot him another look, sharper this time. Egg’s face was still innocent, which was offensive.

“My lord,” Dunk said, slow, “messenger for what?”

Lyonel sat up straighter, voice taking on that performative grandeur he’d had last night, the voice that made men want to laugh and cheer and follow him into dumb decisions.

“You,” Lyonel said, pointing at Dunk, “are going to deliver a gift.”

Dunk’s stomach tightened. “A gift?”

“Yes,” Lyonel said, as if this was obvious. “To Princess Y/N.”

Dunk looked like he might choke. “My lord, no.”

Lyonel blinked, surprised, then laughed. “You can’t just say ‘no’ to me.”

“I can,” Dunk said, because he was a big man and sometimes being big was all you had. “And I am. No.”

The tent went quiet again. Men watched with that hungry interest nobles had when they sensed a confrontation that wasn’t theirs. Lyonel’s eyes narrowed, not angry, but assessing.

Egg, traitor that he was, chose that moment to speak again.

“My lord,” Egg said, polite as anything, “it doesn’t have to be a real gift.”

Lyonel’s gaze flicked to him. “Explain.”

Egg smiled, small and smug. “A message can be a gift. Or… a dare.”

Lyonel’s grin returned instantly. “A dare.”

Dunk shut his eyes for half a second like he was praying for mercy. He wasn’t even sure who he was praying to.

Egg continued, because stopping would’ve been too kind. “Princess Y/N likes chaos. You should offer her chaos that’s controlled. Something she can choose to step into.”

Lyonel’s eyes gleamed. “Gods, I like you, Egg.”

Egg bowed his head slightly. “Thank you, my lord.”

Dunk looked at the boy like he was seeing him for the first time. “Egg,” he hissed under his breath, “stop helping.”

Egg whispered back without moving his lips much, “Stop being boring.”

Dunk’s jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached.

Lyonel slapped his hand on the table. “Done. Duncan, you’re delivering my dare.”

Dunk opened his mouth, but Lyonel steamrolled him with the ease of a man who’d been raised believing the world was something you could argue into submission.

“You’re going to find Princess Y/N,” Lyonel said, counting on his fingers like he was listing a hunt. “Not through her father. Not through a herald. You’re going to find her the way she found my tent. Through the camp. Through the mud. Through the real world.”

Dunk stared. “My lord, that’s… that’s insane.”

Lyonel smiled brightly. “And that’s why it’ll work.”

Dunk tried one last time, desperation creeping in. “Prince Baelor will kill me.”

Lyonel waved him off. “Breakspear won’t kill you. He’ll just lecture you until you wish you were dead.”

That wasn’t reassuring.

Egg added, helpfully, “If you die, at least you’ll die famous.”

Dunk’s head snapped toward him. “That’s not helping.”

Egg shrugged. “It’s true.”

Lyonel leaned forward again, voice dropping into something more focused, as if beneath the humor there was an actual hunger that had settled in him overnight and wasn’t going anywhere.

“You tell her,” Lyonel said, “that I’m holding a place for her tonight.”

Dunk blinked. “A place?”

Lyonel’s grin grew. “At the lists. At the feast. Wherever she wants to be. A place where she can walk in like she owns it.”

Dunk swallowed, because that sounded… dangerous in its own way. Not a crude proposition. Not a drunken demand. Something subtler. Something that admitted he’d noticed the way she moved through the world.

“And,” Lyonel continued, eyes gleaming, “you tell her that if she wears a hood again, I’ll steal it off her head and keep it.”

Dunk stared, appalled. “My lord—”

Lyonel held up a hand. “And you tell her… that if she wants to keep winning, she’ll have to give me a fair chance to lose properly.”

Dunk stood there feeling like the gods had personally appointed him the realm’s dumbest messenger.

Egg’s expression was openly amused now, the little bastard not even trying to hide it. “That’s almost poetic, my lord.”

Lyonel looked smug. “I can be poetic.”

Dunk muttered, “You can be dead.”

Lyonel laughed. “Not today.”

Dunk took a breath, steadying himself. “This is ridiculous. Anything regarding a princess should go through her father. Baelor Breakspear is not a man to be played with.”

Lyonel’s smile didn’t fade, but it sharpened, and for a moment Dunk saw the steel under the humor. Lyonel wasn’t stupid. He knew exactly what he was poking.

“That’s the point,” Lyonel said quietly. “It’s always going through fathers and brothers and councils and rules. I want her to have a choice that’s hers.”

Dunk stared at him, thrown off by the sudden sincerity.

Egg’s voice cut in, soft and smug. “She’ll like that.”

Dunk looked at Egg again, suspicion curling tight. The boy spoke like he knew her. Like he understood what she’d like. Like this wasn’t all just fun to him, but something personal.

Lyonel straightened and clapped his hands once, the moment of seriousness dismissed like a coin tossed aside.

“So,” Lyonel said brightly, “off you go. Forest king and his egg.”

Dunk grimaced. “My lord—”

Lyonel leaned back, eyes glittering with mischief. “If you come back without delivering my message, I’ll put the antlers on you again. And this time, I’ll make you wear them in the lists.”

Dunk’s stomach dropped.

Egg, traitorous creature, laughed.

Dunk turned slowly toward Egg, voice low and deadly. “If you laugh again, I’ll make you polish my armor with your tongue.”

Egg smiled sweetly. “You don’t have armor.”

Dunk exhaled through his nose, hard, and turned back toward the tent entrance, because arguing was pointless and the world clearly hated him.

As they stepped out into the gray morning, the air hit them cold and wet and honest. Dunk felt the weight of Lyonel’s ridiculous order settle on his shoulders like a yoke.

Egg walked beside him with far too much spring in his step.

Dunk glanced down at the boy. “You know something.”

Egg looked up at him, eyes bright. “I know a lot of things.”

Dunk frowned. “About her.”

Egg shrugged, the picture of casual innocence. “Maybe.”

Dunk stopped walking, forcing Egg to stop too. “Egg.”

Egg blinked up at him. “What?”

Dunk leaned down slightly, trying to look intimidating, which was hard when your head hurt and you’d been drafted into flirting on behalf of a lord. “Why are you so amused by this?”

Egg’s smile widened just enough to be infuriating. “Because it’s funny.”

Dunk narrowed his eyes. “That’s not all.”

Egg tilted his head. “Maybe not.”

Dunk stared at him, and Egg stared back, and for a moment Dunk had the unnerving feeling that the boy wasn’t just a boy at all, but something else, something with too much knowledge behind his eyes.

Then Egg’s expression softened into something almost normal, almost kind.

“She’s not like the others,” Egg said quietly, and then, as if he’d revealed too much, he added, “Don’t mess it up.”

Dunk’s throat tightened. “I’m not trying to mess anything up.”

Egg shrugged. “Men always mess things up.”

Dunk couldn’t argue with that. The world was basically built on men messing things up and then calling it destiny.

They started walking again, deeper into the camp, toward the tents that would belong to royalty, toward Baelor Breakspear’s orbit, toward the place where a princess who didn’t look like a princess had chosen to hide herself in mud and laughter for one night.

Dunk felt like he was walking toward an execution.

Egg looked like he was walking toward the best entertainment he’d had in weeks.